The Mystery of the Skeleton Key

by Bernard Capes

  Mr Fyler began by reconstructing, so far as was possible, the history of the crime from the evidence already adduced, into the particulars of which it is unnecessary to follow him. In summarising the known facts, he made no especial point, it was observed, of bringing them to bear on the presumptive guilt of the prisoner, but used him rather as a convenient model or framework about which to shape his story. Indeed, when he sat down again, it might have been given as even odds whether the conviction or acquittal of the accused man was the thing foreshadowed. And what then? After two attempts, was the whole business to end in a fiasco? Incredible! Someone must have killed the girl. The very atmosphere of the Court, moreover, fateful, ominous—derided such a conclusion. ‘Attend and wait!’ it seemed to whisper.

  Counsel was no sooner down than he was up again, and calling now upon his witnesses to appear. They came one by one, as summoned—Mrs Bingley, Jane Ketchlove, Jessie Ellis, Kate Vokes, Mabel Wheelband; and there the order was broken. The examination of these five was in all essentials a replica of that conducted at the Inquest, but, to the observant, with one significant note added. For the first time Counsel showed, as it were, a corner of the card up his sleeve by suggesting tentatively, insinuatively, à propos the question of a guilty intrigue, that one or other of them might possibly have her suspicions as to the identity of the second party implicated in it. The hint was disowned as soon as rejected; but it had left a curious impression here and there of more to come, of its having only been proffered to open and prepare the way to evidence, the stronger, perhaps, for some such moral corroboration. Not one of the women, however, would own to the subtle impeachment, and the question for the moment was dropped.

  But it was dropped only tactically, in accordance with a pre-arranged plan, as became increasingly apparent with the choice of the next witness. This was Dr Harding, who had made the post-mortem examination, and whose evidence repeated exactly what he had formerly stated. It added, moreover, a detail which, touching upon a question of time, showed yet a little more plainly which way the wind was setting; and it included an admission, or correction, no less suggestive in its import. The question was asked witness: ‘At the Inquest you stated, I believe, that death must have occurred at 3.30 o’clock, or thereabouts. Is that so?’

  A. I said ‘approximately’, judging by the indications.

  Q. Just so. I am aware that, in these cases, a certain latitude must be granted. It might then, in fact, have occurred somewhat earlier or somewhat later?

  A. Yes. By preference, somewhat earlier.

  Q. How much earlier?

  Witness, refusing to submit to any brow-beating on the question, finally, at the end of a highly technical disputation, conceded a half hour as the extreme limit of his approximation; and with that the matter ended. As he stepped from the box the name of a new witness—a witness not formerly included in the inquiry—was called, and public interest, already deeply stimulated, grew intensified.

  Margaret Hopkins, widow, deposed on oath. She was landlady of the Brewer’s Dray inn at Longbridge. The inn was situated to the east of the town and a little outside it on the Winton Road. One afternoon, about five weeks ago, a lady and gentleman had called at her inn wanting tea, and a private room to drink it in. They were shown up to a chamber on the first floor, where the gentleman ordered a fire to be lighted. Tea was brought them by witness herself, and they had remained there shut in a long time together—a couple of hours perhaps. They were very affectionate with one another, and had gone away, when they did go, very lovingly arm in arm. The gentleman was Mr Hugo Kennett, whom she now saw in Court, and whom she had recognised for the male stranger at once. The name of the lady accompanying him she had had no means of ascertaining, but her companion had addressed her as Annie.

  Mr Redstall, rising to cross-examine witness, put the following questions:

  Q. Will you swear to Mr Kennett having been the gentleman in question?

  A. Yes, on my oath, sir.

  Q. You already knew Mr Kennett by sight, eh?

  A. No, I did not, sir. I had never seen him before, and have never seen him since till today. I hadn’t been settled in Longbridge not a two-month at the time he come.

  Q. You say the two appeared to be on affectionate terms. On companionable terms would perhaps be the truer expression, eh?

  A. As you choose, sir, if that means behaving like lovers together. (Laughter.)

  Q. What do you mean by like lovers? They would hardly have made a display of their sentiments before you.

  A. Not intentional perhaps, sir; but I come upon them unexpected when I brought in the tea; and there they was a’sitting on the sofy together, as close and as fond as two turtle-doves. (Laughter.)

  Mrs Bingley, recalled, reluctantly admitted having given deceased an afternoon off about the date in question. The girl had returned to the house before six o’clock.

  Reuben Henstridge called, repeated his evidence given on the day of the Inquest, omitting only, or abridging, such parts of it as bore on the movements of the Frenchman, and excluding altogether—by tacit consent, it seemed—those references to the butler’s approach which had brought such a confusion of cross-questioning about his ears. The following bodeful catechism then ensued:

  Q. You say it was ten minutes past two when you saw Cabanis break from the copse and go down towards the road?

  A. Aye.

  Q. And that, having hung about after seeing him, you eventually returned to the Red Deer inn, reaching it at about 3.30?

  A. That’s it.

  Q. At what time did you start to return to the inn?

  A. Three o’clock, or a bit after.

  Q. What had you been doing in the interval?

  A. (Sulkily) That’s my business.

  Q. I ask you again. You had better answer.

  A. (After a scowling pause) Setting snares, then. (Defiantly) Weren’t it the open downs?

  Q. I’m not entering into that question. We’ll assume, if you like, that the downs and your behaviour were equally open. You were setting snares, that’s enough. Did anything suddenly occur to interrupt you at your task?’

  A. Yes, it did.

  Q. What was that?

  A. The sound of a gun going off.

  Q. From what direction?

  A. From down among the trees near the road.

  Q. Quite so. Now will you tell the Bench exactly what time it was when you heard that sound?

  A. The time when I started to go home.

  Q. About three o’clock or a little after?

  A. That’s it.

  Q. You state that on your oath?

  A. Yes, I do.

  It was as if a conscious tremor, like the excitement of many hearts leaping in unison, passed through the Court, dimly foretelling some approaching crisis. The examination was resumed:

  Q. What makes you so certain of the time?

  A. The stable clock had just gone three.

  Q. And, following on the sound of the gun, you left your snare-setting and made for home?

  A. Aye.

  Q. For what reason?

  A. Because I thought they might be working round my way.

  Q. Whom do you mean by ‘they’?

  A. The party as was out shooting. I made sure at first it come from them.

  Q. What made you alter your opinion?

  A. I see them, as I went up the hill, afar off nigh Asholt wood.

  Q. Now, tell me: why didn’t you mention all this at the Inquest?

  A. Because I weren’t asked.

  Q. Or was it because you feared having to confess to what made you bolt, and from what occupation, when the shot startled you? (No answer.) Very well. Now attend to this. You have heard it propounded, or assumed, that the murder took place sometime between 3.15 and 4 o’clock. Do you still adhere to your statement that it was just after three when you heard the sound of the gun?

  A. Aye.

  Q. You are on your oath, remember.

  A. All right, master.
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  Q. And you adhere to it?

  A. Yes, I do.

  Q. That is enough. You can stand down.

  A sibilation, a momentary rustling and shuffling, as on the close of an engrossing sermon when tension is relaxed and the hymn being prepared for, followed the dismissal of the witness. A few glanced furtively, hardly realizing yet why they were moved to do so, at a rigid soldierly figure, seated upright and motionless beside the justices on the Bench. But the sense of curious perplexity was hardly theirs when the next witness was claiming their attention. This was Daniel Groome, the gardener, whose evidence, generally a repetition of what he had formerly stated, was marked by a single amendment, the significance of which he himself hardly seemed to realize. It appeared as follows:

  Q. You stated before the Coroner that this louder shot heard by you occurred at a time which you roughly estimated to be anything between three and half-past three o’clock. Is that so?

  A. No, sir.

  Q. What do you mean by ‘no’?

  A. I’ve thought it over since, sir, and I’ve come to the conclusion that my first impression was nearer the correct one.

  Q. Your impression, that is to say, that the shot was fired somewhere about three o’clock?

  A. Yes, sir.

  Q. What is your reason for this change of opinion?

  A. Because I remembered afterwards, sir, having heard the clock in the master’s study strike the quarter past. I had gone round by then to the back of the house.

  Q. And you had heard the shot fired while at the front?

  A. Yes, sir.

  This witness was stiffly cross-examined by Mr Redstall, who sought to shake his evidence on the grounds that he was, consciously or unconsciously, seeking to adapt it to what was expected of him. But the poor fellow’s honesty was so transparent, and his incomprehension of the gravity of his statement so ingenuous, that the only result of his harrying was to increase the impression of his disinterested probity. He said what he believed to be the truth, and he adhered to it.

  He went, and the usher, tapping with his wand on the floor, called in a loud voice on Vivian Bickerdike to appear and give evidence.

  A famous writer has asserted that there are two kinds of witness to whom lawyers take particular exception, the reluctant witness and the too-willing witness. To these may be added a third, the anxious witness, who, being oppressed with a sense of responsibility of his position, fears at once to say too much or too little, and ends by saying both. Bickerdike entered the box an acutely anxious witness. The trend of some recent evidence had left him in no doubt as to the lines on which his own examination was destined to run, and he foresaw at once the use to which a certain conversation of his with the detective was going to be put. Now it was all very well to hold the Sergeant guilty in this of a gross breach of confidence, but his conscience would not thereby allow him to maintain himself blameless in the matter. He should have known quite well, being no fool, that a detective did not ask questions or invite communications from a purely altruistic point of view, and that the apparent transparency of such a man’s sentiments was the least indication of their depth. By permitting pique a little to obscure that fact to him he had done his friend—for whom he had a real, very warm regard—a disservice, to which he had now, in that friend’s hearing, to confess. So far, then, it only remained to him to endeavour to repair, through his sworn evidence, the mischief to which he had made himself a party.

  But could any reparation stultify now a certain issue, to which—he had seen it suddenly, aghast—that too-open candour of his had been seduced into contributing? What horrible thing was it which was being approached, threatened, in the shadow of his friend’s secret? The thing was monstrous, damnable; yet he could not forget how it had appeared momentarily adumbrated to himself on his first hearing of the murder. But he had rejected the thought with incredulous scorn then, as he would reject it now. Of whatever sinful weakness Hugh might be capable, a crime so detestable, so cruel, was utterly impossible to him. He swore it in his heart; but his faith could not relieve him of the weight of responsibility which went with him into the witness box. It was like a physical oppression, and he seemed to bend under it. Counsel took the witness’s measure with a rolling relish of the lips, as he prepared, giving a satisfied shift to his gown, to open his inquisitions:

  Q. You are on very intimate terms, I believe, Mr Bickerdike, with Sir Calvin and his family?

  A. With Sir Calvin’s permission, I think I may say yes.

  Q. You have seen the prisoner before?

  A. Many times.

  Q. Could you, as a guest, speak to his general character?

  A. It has always appeared to me quite unexceptionable.

  Q. Not a violent man?

  A. O! dear, no.

  Q. At dinner, on the night before the murder, did you notice anything peculiar about him?

  A. He appeared to me to be upset about something.

  Q. And you wondered, perhaps—having only arrived that afternoon, as I understand—what domestic tribulation could have discomposed so stately a character? (Laughter.)

  A. I may have. I had always considered Cleghorn as immovable an institution as the Monument.

  The laughter which greeted this sally appeared to reassure witness somewhat, as did the unexpected lines on which his rather irregular examination seemed to be developing. But his confidence was of short duration. The very next question brought him aware of the true purpose of this preliminary catechism, which was merely to constitute a pretext for getting him into the witness box at all.

  Q. Was your arrival that afternoon, may I ask, in response to a long invitation or a sudden call?

  A. (With a sudden stiffening of his shoulders, as if rallying his energies to meet an ordeal foreseen) A sudden call. I came down in response to a letter from my friend Mr Hugo Kennett, inviting me to a few days’ shooting.

  Q. Mr Hugo Kennett is a particular friend of yours, is he not?

  A. We have known one another a long time.

  Q. Intimate to that degree, I mean, that you have few secrets from one another?

  A. That may be.

  Q. And can depend upon one another in any emergency?

  A. I hope so.

  Q. There was a question of emergency, perhaps, in this case?

  A. I am bound to say there often is with Mr Kennett.

  Q. Will you explain what you mean by that?

  A. I mean—I hope he will forgive my saying it—that his imagination is a little wont to create emergencies which nothing but his friends’ immediate advice and assistance can overcome. He is apt to be in the depths one moment and on the heights the next. He is built that way, that’s all.

  Q. Was this a case of an emergency due to his imagination?

  A. I won’t go quite so far as to say that.

  Q. Then there was really a reason this time for his having you down at short notice?

  A. I may have thought so.

  Q. We will come to that. Had he mentioned the reason in his letter to you?

  A. No. The letter only said that he badly wanted ‘bucking’, and asked me to come down at once.

  Q. He gave no explanation?

  A. None whatever.

  Q. In the letter, or afterwards when you met?

  A. No.

  Q. You found him in an uncommunicative mood?

  A. Somewhat.

  Q. Kindly say what you mean by ‘somewhat’.

  A. I mean that, while he told me nothing definite about his reason for having me down, he did seem to hint that there was trouble somewhere.

  Q. What were his exact words?

  A. I can’t remember.

  Q. Were they to the effect that he was in a devil of a fix with a girl, and could only see one way out of it? (Sensation.)

  A. (Aghast) Nothing of the sort. Now I recall, he described himself as sitting on a barrel of gunpowder, smoking a cigarette and waiting for the explosion that was to come.

  Q. Thank you. Anot
her effort or two, Mr Bickerdike, and your memory may need no refreshing. Did you find your friend’s manner, now, as strange as his talk?

  A. It might often have seemed strange on such occasions to those who did not know him.

  Q. Answer my question, please.

  A. (Reluctantly) Well, it was strange.

  Q. Stranger than you had ever known it to be before?

  A. Perhaps so.

  Q. I suggest that it was wild and reckless to a degree—the manner of a man who had got himself into a hopeless scrape, and saw no way out of it but social and material ruin?

  A. It was very strange: I can say no more.

  Q. Would you have considered his state compatible with that of a young man of good position and prospects, who had entangled himself with a girl greatly his social inferior, and was threatened by her with exposure unless he, in the common phrase, made an honest woman of her?

  Mr Redstall rising to object, the Bench ruled that the question was inadmissible. It had created, however, a profound impression in Court, which from that moment never abated. Counsel, accepting their worships’ decision, resumed:

  Q. Had you any reason to suspect a woman in the case?

  A. It was pure conjecture on my part.

  Q. Then you did entertain such a suspicion?

  A. Not at that time. Later perhaps.

  Q. After the murder?

  A. Yes, after the murder.

  Q. When?

  A. The moment I heard it had been committed. I was told by a groom.

  Q. About the woman or the murder?

  A. About the murder.

  Q. When was that?

  A. When I returned from shooting that day.

  Q. You returned alone, I believe?

  A. Yes.

  Q. Mr Kennett having left you shortly before three o’clock?