At near eleven o’clock the deputy District Coroner, Mr Brabner, drove up in a fly. He was a small important-looking bewhiskered man, in large round spectacles of such strength as to impart to his whole face a solemn owlish look, very sapient and impressive. A hush fell upon the throng as he alighted with his clerk and, ushered by the landlord, entered the inn. But he had hardly disappeared when a more thrilling advent came, like Aaron’s serpent, to devour the lesser. This was of the arrested man, in the charge of a couple of officers from the County police-station. The unhappy little Gascon looked frightened and bewildered. His restless, vivacious, brown eyes glanced hither and thither among the people, seeming to deprecate, to implore, to appeal for pity from a monstrous terror which had trapped and was about to devour him. But his emotions had hardly found scope for their display when he was gone—hurried in by his escort.
Thereafter—the party from the house, with all necessary witnesses, being already assembled in the inn—no time was lost in opening the proceedings, which were arranged to take place in the coffee-room, the one fair-sized chamber in the building, though still so small that only a fraction of the waiting public could be allowed admittance to it, the rest hanging disconsolately about the passages and windows, and getting what information they could by deputy. The Coroner took his seat at one end of the long table provided; the jury—probi et legales homines to the number of twelve, good farm-hands and true, the most of them, and ready to believe anything they were told—were despatched to view the body; and the business began. Mr Redstall, a Winton solicitor, watched the case on behalf of Sir Calvin, the deceased’s family being unrepresented, and Mr Fyler, barrister-at-law, appeared for the police. A report of the subsequent proceedings is summarised in the following notes:
Evidence of identification being in the first instance required, Sergeant Ridgway, of the Scotland Yard detective force, stated that it had been found impossible so far, in spite of every effort made, to trace out the deceased’s relations. He had himself made a journey to London, whence the girl had been originally engaged, for the express purpose of inquiring, but had failed wholly to procure any information on the subject. All agencies had been communicated with, and the name did not figure anywhere on their books. An advertisement, appealing to the next of kin, had been inserted in a number of newspapers, but without as yet eliciting any response. He called on Mrs Bingley to repeat the statement she had already made to him regarding the deceased’s engagement by her, and the housekeeper having complied, he asked the Coroner, in default of any more intimate proof, to accept the only evidence of identification procurable at the moment. Further attempts would be made, of course, to elucidate the mystery, as by way of the deceased’s former employer, Mrs Wilson; but that lady, being gone to New Zealand, might prove as difficult to trace as Evans’s own connexions; and in any event a long time must elapse before an answer could be obtained from her. A search of the girl’s boxes and personal belongings, though minutely conducted by himself and the housekeeper, had failed to yield any clue whatsoever, and, in short, so far as things went, that was the whole matter.
The Sergeant spoke, now as hereafter, always with visible effect, not only on the jury but on the Coroner himself. His cool, keen aspect, his pruned and essential phrases, the awful halo with which his position as a great London detective surrounded him, not to speak of the local reputation he had lately acquired, weighted his every word to these admiring provincial minds with a gravity and authority which were final. If he said that such a thing was, it was. The Coroner’s clerk entered on his minutes the name of Annie Evans, domestic servant, age twenty-three, family and condition unknown; and the case proceeded.
Mr Hugo Kennett was the first witness called. He gave his evidence quietly and clearly, though with some signs of emotion when he referred to his discovery of the dead body. His relation of the event has already been given, and need not here be repeated. The essential facts were that he had entered the Bishop’s Walk on the fatal afternoon, shortly after three o’clock; had encountered and stood talking with the girl for a period estimated at ten minutes; had then continued his way to the house, which he may have reached about 3.15, and later, just as it struck four, had suddenly remembered leaving his gun in the copse, and had returned to retrieve it, with the result known. The body was lying on its face, and from its attitude and the nature of the injury it would appear that the shot had been fired from the direction of the road. He went at once to raise an alarm.
At the conclusion of this evidence, Counsel rose to put a few questions to the witness.
Q. You say, Mr Kennett, you left at once, on discovering the body, to give the alarm?
A. Yes.
Q. Leaving your gun where it was?
A. No, I forgot. I spoke generally, not realising that the point might be important
Q. You see that it may be?
A. Quite.
Q. You secured your gun first, then?
A. Yes, I did. I had to pass the body to do it, not liking the job, but driven to it in a sort of insane instinct to get the thing into my safe keeping when it was too late. You see, I blamed myself for having in a sort of way contributed to the deed by my carelessness. I was very much agitated.
Q. You mean that, in your opinion, the crime might never have been committed had not the gun offered itself to some sudden temptation?
A. Yes, that is what I mean.
Q. You are convinced, then, that the shot was fired from this particular weapon?
A. It seems reasonable to conclude so.
Q. Why?
A. I had left it with one of the barrels loaded, and when I saw it again they had both been discharged.
Q. You will swear to the one barrel having been loaded when you left it leaning against the tree?
A. To the best of my belief it was.
Q. You will swear to that?
A. No, I cannot actually swear to it, but I am practically convinced of the fact.
Q. Did you notice, when you took up the gun again, if the barrels, or barrel, were warm?
A. No, I never thought of it.
Q. Don’t you think it would have been well if it had occurred to you? Don’t you think you would have done better to leave the gun alone altogether, until the police arrived?
A. (The witness for the first time exhibiting a little irritability under this catechism) I dare say it would have been better. I was agitated, I tell you, and the situation was new to me. One doesn’t think of the proper thing to do on such an occasion unless one is a lawyer. I just took the gun with me, and chucked it into the gun-room as I passed, hating the infernal thing.
Q. Very natural under the circumstances, I am sure. Now, another question. The shot was fired, you consider, from the direction of the road. At what distance from the deceased would your knowledge as a sportsman put it?
A. Judging roughly, I should say about fifteen feet.
Q. About the distance, that is to say, between the tree against which you had leaned your gun and the spot where the body was found?
A. Yes.
Q. Then the inference is that the gun had suddenly been seized by someone from its position, fired, and replaced where it was?
A. I suppose so.
Q. You reached the house, you say, about 3.15, and left it again, on your way to the copse, just as it struck four. Would you mind telling us how you disposed of the interval?
A. (With some temper) I was in my own den all the time. What on earth has that to do with the matter?
Q. Everything, sir; touching on the critical movements of witnesses in a case of this sort matters. I wish to ask you, for instance, if, during that interval from 3.15 to 4 o’clock, you heard any sound, any report, like that of a gun being discharged?
A. If I had, I should probably have paid no attention to it. The sound of a gun is nothing very uncommon with us.
Q. I ask you if you were aware of any such sound?
A. Not that I can remember.
Mr Fyler was an
advocate of that Old Bailey complexion, colourless, black-eyebrowed, moist, thick rinded, whose constant policy it is to provoke hostility in a witness with the object of bullying him for it into submission and self-committal. With every reason, in the present case, to respect, and none to suspect, the deponent, his professional habit would nevertheless not permit him to cast his examination in a wholly conciliatory form.
Q. Now, Mr Kennett, I must ask you to be very particular in your replies to the questions I am about to put to you. You came upon Annie Evans, I understand, shortly after entering the copse, and put down your gun with the purpose of speaking to her?
A. With the purpose of lighting a cigarette.
Q. But you did speak with her?
A. Yes, I have said so.
Q. You placed your gun against the tree where you afterwards found it?
A. Yes.
Q. Was the deceased then standing near you, or further in by the tree where her body was found?
A. She was standing— (Some amazing purport in the question seemed suddenly here to burst upon the witness, and he uttered a violent ejaculation) —Great God! Are you meaning to suggest that I fired the shot myself? (Sensation.)
Q. I am suggesting nothing of the sort, of course. Will you answer, if you please, whether, after you had put aside your gun, she came towards you or you walked towards her?
A. (Recovering himself with obvious difficulty) She came towards me.
Q. So as to bring herself within view, we will say, of anyone who might be watching from the road, or thereabouts?
A. Just possibly she might, if the person had come inside the gate.
Q. Would you mind telling us what was the subject of your brief conversation with the deceased?
A. I asked her what she was doing there.
Q. Just so. And she answered, Mr Kennett?
A. O! what one might expect.
Q. Evasively, that is to say?
A. Yes.
Q. Did you twit her, possibly, with being there for an assignation?
A. Something of the sort I might.
Q. And she admitted it?
A. Of course not. (Laughter.)
Q. What else, would you mind saying?
A. I understood from her that she had come out to escape the company in the kitchen. It seemed there had been a row regarding her between Cleghorn our butler and the prisoner, and she wanted to get away from them both. She said that the foreigner had paid her unwelcome attentions, and had tried to kiss her, for which she had boxed his ears, and that ever since she had gone in fear of her life from him. (Sensation.) I took it more for a joke than a formal complaint, and did not suppose her to be serious. It did not occur to me that she was really frightened of the man, or I should have taken steps for her protection.
Q. And that was all?
A. All that was essential.
Q. Thank you, Mr Kennett. I will not trouble you any further.
Witness turned and retired. His evidence had yielded something of the unexpected, in its incredulous little outburst and in its conclusion. As to the first, it was patent that Counsel’s object in putting the question which had provoked it was to suggest maddened jealousy as a motive for the crime on the part of someone to whom the girl’s actions had become suddenly visible through her movement towards the witness, between whom and herself had possibly occurred some philandering passages. Such, at least, from the witness’s own implied admission of a certain freedom in his conversation with the deceased, would appear a justifiable assumption. His final statement—though legally inadmissible—inasmuch as it supplied the motive with a name, caused a profound stir in Court.
Mrs Anna Bingley, housekeeper to Sir Calvin Kennett, was the next witness called. Her evidence repeated, in effect, what has already been recorded, and may be passed over. Where it was important, it was, like the other, evidence of hearsay, and inadmissible.
Jane Ketchlove, cook to Sir Calvin, gave evidence. She had never seen the prisoner till the night of his arrival, though she had seen his master once or twice on the occasion of former visits. He, the Baron, had not at those times come accompanied by any gentleman. Mr Cabanis made himself quite at home like: he was a very lively, talkative person, and easily excited, she thought. He showed himself very forward with the ladies, and they remarked on it, though putting it down to his foreign breeding. On the night of his arrival the valet went up to lay out his master’s things about seven o’clock. Shortly afterwards Annie followed him with the hot water. She, witness, rather wondered over the girl’s assurance in going alone, after the way the man had been acting towards her. He had seemed like one struck of a heap with her beauty; for the poor creature was beautiful, there was no denying it. It was as if he claimed her for his own from the first moment of his seeing her, and dared anyone to say him nay. A few minutes later Annie came down, red with fury over his having tried to kiss her. She had boxed his ears well for him, she said. Mr Cleghorn was in the kitchen, and he flew into a fury when he heard. He said she must have encouraged the man, or he never would have dared. He was a great admirer of Annie himself, and it was always said among us that they would come to make a match of it. Annie answered up, asking him what business it was of his, and there was a fine row between the two. In the middle this Cabanis came down. His cheek was red as fire, and he looked like a devil. He said no one had ever struck him—man, woman, or child—without living to repent it. He and Mr Cleghorn got at it then, and the rest of us had a hard ado to part them; but we got things quiet after a time, though it was only for a time, Mr Cleghorn having to go upstairs, upset as he was. They simmered like, and came on the boil again the next day at dinner in the servants’ hall. Annie was not there, and that seemed to give them the chance to settle things in her absence. Mr Cleghorn began it, insisting on his prior claim to the girl, and Cabanis answered that, if he couldn’t have her, nobody else should; he would see her dead first. That led to a struggle, ending in blows between them; and at the last Cabanis broke away, declaring he was going out then and there to find the girl and put the question to her.
Q. What question?
A. Whether it was to be himself or Mr Cleghorn, sir.
Q. Did he utter any threat against the girl, in case her choice was against him?
A. Not in so many words, sir; but we were all terrified by his look and manner.
Q. They struck you as meaning business, eh?
A. That was it, sir.
Q. About what time was that?
A. As near as possible to two o’clock.
Q. And Mr Cleghorn followed?
A. After waiting a bit, sir, to recover himself. Then he got up sudden, saying he was going to see this thing through, and, putting on his cap and coat, out he went.
Q. At what time was that?
A. It may have been ten minutes after the other.
Q. Did you form any conclusion as to what he meant by seeing the thing through?
A. We all thought he meant, sir, that he was going to follow Cabanis and get the girl herself to choose between them.
Q. When did you see him again?
A. It was at half after four, when, as some of us stood waiting and shivering at the head of the path, he came amongst us.
Q. In his cap and overcoat?
A. Yes, sir. Just as he had gone out. We told him what had happened.
Q And how did he take it?
A. Very bad, sir. He turned that white, I thought he would have fallen.
Q. And when did the prisoner return?
A. It may have been five o’clock when I saw him come in.
Q. Did his manner then show any signs of agitation or disturbance?
A. No, sir, I can’t say it did. On the contrary, he seemed cheerful and relieved, as if he had got something off his mind.
Q. Did you tell him what had happened?
A. Yes, to be sure.
Q. And how did he take it?
A. Very quiet—sort of stunned like.
Q. Did he make any
remark?
A. He said something in his own language, sir, very deep and hoarse. It sounded like—but I really can’t manage it.
M. le Baron. (interposing) It was ‘Non, non, par pitié!’
Counsel. (tartly) I shall be obliged, sir, if you will keep your evidence till it is asked for. (M. le Baron admitted his error with a bow.)
Q. Was that all?
A. One of the maids told him, sir, that his master was asking for him, and he went off at once, without another word.
Q. And he has never referred to the subject since?
A. He would not talk of it. It was too horrible, he said.
Jessie Ellis, parlour-maid, and a couple of house-maids (they kept no male indoor servants, except the butler, at Wildshott), Kate Vokes and Mabel Wheelband, gave corroborative evidence, substantiating in all essential particulars the last witness’s statement.
Reuben Henstridge, landlord of the Red Deer inn, was the next witness summoned. He was a big cloddish fellow, unprepossessing in appearance, and reluctant and unwilling in his answers, as though surlily suspecting some design to ensnare him into compromising himself. He deposed that on the afternoon of the crime he was out on the hill somewhere, below his inn ‘taking the air’, when he saw a man break through the lower beech-thicket skirting Wildshott, and go down quickly towards the high road. That man was the prisoner. He parted the branches savage-like, and jumped the bank and trench, moving his arms and talking to himself all the time. Witness went on with his business of ‘taking the air’, and, when he had had enough, returned to his own premises. Later, Mr Cleghorn, whom he knew very well as a casual customer, came in for a glass. He did not look himself, and stayed only a short time, and that was the whole he knew of the matter.
Q. What time of day was it when you saw the prisoner come from the wood?
A. Ten after two, it might be.
Q. And he went down towards the road?
A. Aye.
Q. Did you notice what became of him?
A. No, I didn’t. I had my own concerns to look after.
Q. Taking the air, eh?
The Mystery of the Skeleton Key Page 8
