The Bellamy Trial (American Mystery Classics)

by Frances Noyes Hart

  “It is, in fact, perfectly possible that the murder took place after ten o’clock, after the visit to the Bellamy home and the alleged search along the road to the Conroys. Only one thing is certain: If it was nine-thirty when Mr. Thorne walked up those cottage steps, and if at that time there was no car in sight, then the hour of the murder was not nine-thirty. It may have been before that hour, it may have been after it. It was not then.

  “So much for Mr. Lambert’s trump cards, the laugh and the car. There remains the theft of the note, which he claims Mrs. Ives had no interest in denying. Of course she had every interest in denying it. If she admitted that she had found the note, then she would be forced to admit to the jury that she knew positively that Mimi was waiting in the cottage, and that did not fit in with her story at all. So she simply denies that she took it. And there goes their last trump.

  “Stripped of glamor, of emotion, of eloquence, it is the barest, the simplest, the most appallingly obvious of cases, you see. There is not one single link in the chain missing—not one.

  “Unless someone came to you here and said, ‘I saw the knife in Susan Ives’s hand, I saw it rise, I saw it fall, I heard the crash of that girl’s body and saw the white lace of her frock turn red’—unless you heard that with your own ears, you could not have a clearer picture of what happened in that room. Not once in a thousand murder cases is there an eyewitness to the crime. Not once in five hundred is there forged so strong a chain of evidence as now lies before you.

  “There was only one person in all the world to whom the death of Madeleine Bellamy was a vital, urgent, and imperative necessity. The woman to whom it was all of this—and more, far more, since words are poor substitutes for passions—has told you with her own lips that at ten o’clock on that night she stood over the body of that slain girl and saw her eyes wide in the dreadful and unseeing stare of death. When Susan Ives told you that, she told you the truth; and she told you the truth again when she said that when you knew that she had stood there, she did not believe that it would be possible for you to credit that the one fact had no connection with the other. Nor do I believe it, gentlemen—nor do I believe it.

  “By her side, in that room, stood Stephen Bellamy. By his own confession it was he who closed the eyes of that slain girl, he who touched her hand. By his own confession he has told you that he did not believe it possible that you would credit that he stood there at that time and yet had no knowledge of her death. Nor do I believe it, gentlemen—nor do I believe it.

  “Mr. Lambert has told you that to him has fallen the most solemn task that can fall to the lot of any man—that of pleading for the gift of human life. There is a still more solemn task, I believe, and that task has fallen to me. I must ask you not for life but for death.

  “The law does not exact the penalty of a life for a life in the spirit of vengeance or of malice. It asks it because the flame of human life is so sacred a thing that it is business of the law to see that no hand, however powerful, shall be blasphemously lifted to extinguish that flame. It is in order that your wives and daughters and sisters may sleep sweet and safe at night that I stand before you now and tell you that because they lifted that hand, the lives of Stephen Bellamy and Susan Ives are forfeit.

  “These two believed that behind the bulwarks of power, of privilege, of wealth, and of position, they were safe. They were not safe; they have discovered that. And if those barriers can protect them now, if still behind them they can find shelter and security and a wall to shield them as they creep back to their ruined hearthstones, then I say to you that the majesty of the law is a mockery and the sacredness of human life is a mockery, and the death penalty in this great state is a mockery.

  “There was never in this state a more wicked, brutal, and cold-blooded murder than that of Madeleine Bellamy. For Susan Ives and Stephen Bellamy, the two who now stand before you accused of that murder, I ask, with all solemnity and fully aware of the tragic duty that I impose on each one of you, the verdict of guilty of murder in the first degree. If you can find it in your hearts, in your souls, or your consciences to render any other verdict, you are more fortunate than I believe you to be.”

  In the hushed silence that followed his voice, all eyes turned to the twelve who sat there unmoving, their drawn, pale faces, tired-eyed and tight-lipped, turned toward the merciless flame that burned behind the prosecutor’s white face.

  The red-headed girl asked in a desolate small voice that sounded very far away, “Is it all over now? Are they going now?”

  “No—wait a moment; there’s the judge’s charge. Here, what’s Lambert doing?”

  He was on his feet, swaying a little, his voice barely audible.

  “Your Honor, a note has been handed to me this moment. It is written on the card of the principal of the Eastern High School, Mr. Randolph Phipps.”

  “What are the contents of this note?”

  Lambert settled his glasses on his nose with a shaken hand. “It says—it says:

  “MY DEAR MR. LAMBERT:

  “Before this case goes to the jury, I consider it my duty to lay before them some knowledge of the most vital importance that is my possession, and that for personal reasons I have withheld up to the present time, in the hope that events would render it unnecessary for me to take the stand. Such has unfortunately not been the case, and I therefore put myself at your disposal. Will you tell me what my next step should be? The facts are such as make it imperative that I should be permitted to speak.

  “RANDOLPH PHIPPS.”

  Judge Carver said slowly, “May I see the note?” Lambert handed it up in those shaking fingers. “Thank you. A most extraordinary performance,” commented the judge dispassionately. After a moment he said more dispassionately still:

  “The Court was about to adjourn in any case until tomorrow morning. It does not care to deliver its charge to the jury at this late hour of the day, and we will therefore convene again at ten to-morrow. In the meantime the Court will take the note under advisement. See that Mr. Phipps is present in the morning. Court is dismissed.”

  “I don’t believe that I’ll be here in the morning,” said the red-headed girl in that same small monotone.

  “Not be here?” The reporter’s voice was a howl of incredulity. “Not be here, you little idiot? Did you hear what Lambert read off that card?”

  “I don’t think that I’ll live till morning,” said the red-headed girl.

  The seventh day of the Bellamy trial was over.

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE red-headed girl had not realized how tired she was until she heard Ben Potts’s voice. He stood there as straight as ever, but where were the clear bugle tones that summoned the good burghers of Redfield morning after morning? A faint, a lamentable, echo of his impressive “Hear ye! Hear ye!” rang out feebly, and the red-headed girl slumped back dispiritedly in her chair, consumed with fatigue as with a fever.

  “Sleep well?” inquired the reporter with amiable anxiety.

  The red-headed girl turned on him eyes heavy with scorn. “Sleep?” she repeated acidly. “What’s that?”

  Judge Carver looked as weary as Ben Potts sounded, and the indefatigable Mr. Farr looked blanched and bitten to the bone with something deeper than fatigue. Only Mr. Lambert looked haler and heartier than he had for several interminable days; and the faces of Stephen Bellamy and Susan Ives were as pale, as controlled, and as tranquil as ever.

  Judge Carver let his gavel fall heavily. “The Court has given careful consideration as to the advisability of admitting the evidence in question last night, and has decided that it may be admitted. Mr. Lambert!” Mr. Lambert bounded joyfully forward. “Is the Court correct in understanding that Mr. Phipps is your witness?”

  “Quite correct, Your Honor.”

  “Let him be called.”

  “Mr. Randolph Phipps!”

  The principal of Eastern High School was a tall man; there was dignity in the way he held his head and moved his long, loose limbs,
but all the dignity in the world could not still the nervous tremor of his hands or school the too sensitive mouth to rigidity. Under straight, heavy brows, the eyes of a dreamer startled from deep sleep looked out in amazement at a strange world; the sweep of dark hair above the wide brow came perilously close to being Byronic; only the height of his cheek bones and the width of his mouth saved him from suggesting a matinee idol of some previous era. He might have been thirty-five, or forty, or forty-five. His eyes were eighteen.

  “Mr. Phipps, it is the understanding of this court that you have a communication to make of peculiar importance. You understand that in making that statement you will, of course, be subject to the usual course of direct and cross-examination?”

  “I understand that—yes.”

  “Very well. You may proceed with the examination, Mr. Lambert.”

  “Mr. Phipps, where were you on the night of the nineteenth of June?”

  “On the night of the nineteenth of June,” said Mr. Phipps, in the clear, carrying voice of one not unaccustomed to public speaking, “I spent about three hours on the Thorne estate at Orchards. Some things occurred during that time that I feel it my duty to make known to the jury in this case.”

  “What were you doing on the Thorne place?”

  “I suppose that I was doing what is technically known as trespassing. It did not occur to me at the time that it was a very serious offense, as I knew the place to be uninhabited—still, I suppose that I was perfectly aware that I had no business there.”

  “You had no especial purpose in going there?”

  “Oh, yes; I went there because I had selected it as a pleasant place for a picnic supper.”

  “You were alone?”

  “No—no, I was not alone.” Mr. Phipps suddenly looked forty-five and very tired.

  “Other people were accompanying you on this—this excursion?”

  “One other person.”

  “Who was this other person?”

  “A friend of mine—a young lady.”

  “What was the name of this young woman?”

  “Is it necessary to give her name? I hope—I hope with all my heart—that that will not be necessary.” The low, urgent, unhappy voice stumbled in its intensity. “My companion was quite a young girl. We both realize now that we committed a grave indiscretion, but I shall never forgive myself if my criminal stupidity has involved her.”

  “I am afraid that we shall have to have her name.”

  “I am a married man,” said Mr. Phipps, in a clear voice that did not stumble. “I am placing this information before the Court at no small sacrifice to myself. It seems to me to place too heavy a penalty on my decision to come forward at this moment if you ask me to involve another by so doing. The girl who was with me that evening was one of my pupils; she is at present engaged to a young man to whom she is entirely devoted; publicity of the type that this means is in every way abhorrent to her. I request most urgently that she shall not be exposed to it.”

  “Mr. Phipps,” said Judge Carver gravely, “you have been permitted to take the stand at your own request. It is highly desirable that any information, of the importance that you have implied that in your possession to be, should be as fully corroborated as possible. It is therefore essential that we should have the name of this young woman.”

  “Her name is Sally Dunne,” said Mr. Phipps.

  “Is she also prepared to take the stand?”

  “She is prepared to do whatever is essential to prevent a miscarriage of justice. She is naturally extremely reluctant to take the stand.”

  “Is she in court?”

  “She is.”

  “Miss Dunne will be good enough not to leave the courtroom without the Court’s permission. You may proceed, Mr. Phipps.”

  “We arrived at Orchards at a little after eight,” said Mr. Phipps. “Miss Dunne took the half-past-seven bus from Rosemont, left it a short distance beyond Orchards, and walked back to the spot where I had arranged to meet her, just inside the gate. We did not arrive together, as I was apprehensive that it might cause a certain amount of gossip if we were seen together.”

  “How had you come to choose Orchards, Mr. Phipps?”

  “Miss Dunne had on several occasions commented on the beauty of the place and expressed a desire to see it more thoroughly, and it was in order to gratify that desire that the party was planned. As I say, we met at the gate and walked on up the drive past the lodge and the little driveway that leads to the gardener’s cottage to a small summerhouse, about five hundred feet beyond the cottage itself. It contained a little furniture—a table and some chairs and benches—and it was there that we decided to have our supper. Miss Dunne had brought a luncheon box with her containing fruit and sandwiches, and we spread it on the table and began to eat. Neither of us was particularly hungry, however, and we decided to keep what remained of the food—about half the contents of the box, I think—in case we wanted it later, and to do some reading before it got too dark to see. I had brought with me the Idylls of the King, with the intention of reading it aloud.”

  “The book is of no importance, Mr. Phipps.”

  “No,” said Mr. Phipps, in a tone of slight surprise. “No, I suppose not. You are probably quite right. Well, in any case, we read for quite a while, until it began to get too dark to see, and after that we sat there conversing.”

  The fluent voice with its slightly meticulous pronunciation paused, and Lambert moved impatiently. “And then, Mr. Phipps?”

  “Yes. I was trying to recollect precisely what it was that caused us to move from the summerhouse. I think that it was Miss Dunne who suggested that it was rather close and stuffy there, because of the fact that the structure was smothered in vines; she asked if there wasn’t somewhere cooler that we could go to sit. I said: ‘There’s the gardener’s cottage. We might try the veranda there.’ You could just see the roof of it through the trees. I pointed it out to her, and we started____”

  “You were familiar with the layout of the estate?”

  “Oh, quite. That was one of the principal reasons why we had gone there. I had once done some tutoring in Latin and physics with Mr. Thorne’s younger son Charles—the one who was killed in the war. We had been in the habit of using the summerhouse, which was his old playhouse, as a schoolroom.”

  “That was some time ago?”

  “About fifteen years ago—sixteen perhaps. I had just graduated from college myself, and Charles Thorne was going to Princeton that fall.”

  “But you still remembered your way about?”

  “Oh, perfectly. I was about to say that we did not approach it from the main drive, but cut across the lawns, pushed through the shrubbery at the back and came up to it from the rear. We had just reached the little dirt drive back of the cottage, and were perhaps a hundred feet away from the house itself, when we heard voices, and Miss Dunne exclaimed: ‘There’s someone in the cottage. Look, the side window is lighted.’ I was considerably startled, as I had made inquiries about the gardener and knew that he was in Italy.

  “I stood still for a moment, debating what to do next, when one of the voices in the cottage was suddenly raised, and a woman said quite clearly, ‘You wouldn’t dare to touch me—you wouldn’t dare!’ Someone laughed and there was a little scuffling sound, and a second or so after that a scream—a short, sharp scream—and the sound of something falling with quite a clatter, as though a chair or a table had been overturned.

  “I was in rather a nervous and overwrought state of mind myself that evening, and before I thought what I was doing I laughed, quite loudly. Miss Dunne whispered, ‘Be careful! They’ll hear you.’ Just as she spoke, the light went out in the cottage and I said, ‘Well, Sally, evidently we aren’t the only indiscreet people around here this evening. I’d better get you out of this.’

  “Just as I was speaking I heard steps on the main driveway and the sound of someone whistling. The whistling kept coming closer every second, and I whispered, ‘Someone’s
coming in here. We’d better stand back in those bushes by the house.’ There were some very tall lilacs at the side of the house under the windows, and we tiptoed over and pushed back into them. After a minute or so, we heard someone go up the steps, and then a bell rang inside the house. There wasn’t any sound at all for a minute; then we could hear the steps coming down the porch stairs again, and a moment later heard them on the gravel, and a moment later still they had died away.

  “I said, ‘That was a close call—too many people around here entirely. Let’s make it two less.’ We tiptoed out past the cottage to the main road and started back toward the lodge gates, walking along the grass beside the road in order not to make any noise. We were almost back to the gates when Miss Dunne stopped me.”

  “Do you know what time it was, Mr. Phipps?”

  “I am not sure of the time. I looked at my watch last when it began to get too dark to read—shortly before nine. We did not start for the cottage until a few minutes later, and it is my impression that it must have been between quarter to ten and ten. We had been walking very slowly, but even at that pace it should not take more than twenty minutes.”

  “It was dark then?”

  “Oh, yes; it had been quite dark for some time, though it was possible to distinguish the outline of objects. It was a very beautiful starlight night.”

  “Quite so. What caused Miss Dunne to stop you?”

  “She exclaimed suddenly, ‘Oh, good heavens, I haven’t got my lunch box! I must have left it in the bushes by the cottage.’ I said, ‘Perhaps you left it in the summerhouse,’ but she was quite sure that she hadn’t, as she remembered distinctly thinking just before we reached the cottage that it was a nuisance lugging it about. She was very much worried, as it had her initial stenciled on it in rather a distinctive way, and she was afraid that someone that she knew might possibly find it and recognize it, and that if they returned it, her parents might learn that she had been at Orchards that night.”