CHAPTER XXVII
AND PEOPLE WENT OUT TO LUNCHEON
And now it was Luke de Mountford's turn at last. A wave of excitementswept over the crowd, every neck was craned forward, every eye fixedon this next witness, as he rose from his seat and with courteouswords of apology to those whom he disturbed in passing made his way tothe centre table.
An absolute embodiment of modern London society, Luke stood there,facing the crowd, the coroner and jury, as he would have faced friendsand acquaintances in the grand stand at Ascot or in the stalls of aWest End theatre. There are hundreds and thousands of young Englishmenwho look exactly as Luke de Mountford looked that morning: dress isalmost a uniform, in cut, style, and degree of tone; hair and evenfeatures are essentially typical. Luke de Mountford, well-born,well-bred, behaved just as Eton and Oxford had taught him to behave,concealing every emotion, raising neither voice nor gesture. AnEnglishman of that type has alternately been dubbed hypocritical, andunemotional. He is neither; he is only conventional. Luke himself,facing the most abnormal condition of life that could assail any manof his class, was so absolutely drilled into this semblance ofplacidity that it cost him no effort to restrain himself, and none toface the forest of inquisitive eyes levelled at him from every side.And since there was no effort, the outward calm appeared perfectlynatural: an actor who has played one part two hundred times and moredoes so night after night until the role itself becomes reality, andhe in ordinary every-day life seems even to himself strange andunnatural.
Now Luke was given the Bible to kiss and told to take the oath. Fromwhere he stood he could see Louisa and a number of faces turned towardhim in undisguised curiosity. Mocking eyes and contemptuous eyes, eyesof indifference and of horror, met his own as with quick glance theyswept right over the crowd.
I don't think that he really saw any one except Louisa; no livingperson existed for him at this moment except Louisa. Hypocritical orunemotional nature--which? None could say, none would take the troubleto probe. All that the crowd saw was a man to all intents and purposesaccused of a horrible murder, confronted at every turn with undeniableproofs of his guilt, and yet standing there just as if he werewitnessing the first act of some rather dull play.
Hypocrisy or effrontery were the two alternatives which the idle andthe curious weighed, whilst anticipating the joy of seeing the masktorn from this wooden image before them.
The coroner was asking the witness his name, and Luke de Mountford'svoice was quite steady as he gave reply.
"You were," continued the coroner, "until quite recently and are againnow heir-presumptive to the Earl of Radclyffe?"
"It was supposed at one time," replied Luke, "that besides myselfthere was no other heir to my uncle's title."
"Deceased, I understand, arrived in England about six months ago?"
"So I understand."
"He made claim to be the only son of Lord Radclyffe's brother?"
"That is so."
"And to all appearances was able to substantiate this claim in theeyes of Lord Radclyffe?"
"Apparently."
"So much so that Lord Radclyffe immediately accorded him that positionin his household which you had previously occupied?"
"Lord Radclyffe accorded to the deceased the position which he thoughtfitting that he should occupy."
"You know that the servants in Lord Radclyffe's household haveinformed the police that in consequence of Mr. Philip de Mountford'sadvent in the house, you and your brother and sister had to leave it?"
"My brother, sister, and I now live at Fairfax Mansions, ExhibitionRoad," said Luke evasively.
"And the relations between yourself and the deceased have remained ofa very strained nature, I understand?"
"Of an indifferent nature," corrected Luke.
There was a pause. So far these two--the coroner and the witness--hadseemed almost like two antagonists going through the first passes of aduel with foils. Steel had struck against steel, curt answers hadfollowed brief questions. Now the combatants paused to draw breath.One of them was fighting the preliminary skirmish for his life againstodds that were bound to overwhelm him in the end: the other was just apaid official, indifferent to the victim, interested only in theissue. The man standing at the foot of the table was certainlyinteresting: the coroner had made up his mind that he was the guiltyparty--a gentleman and yet a cowardly assassin; he amused himselfduring this brief pause with a quick analysis of the high-bred,impassive face--quite Saxon in character, fair and somewhat heavy oflid--in no way remarkable save for the present total lack ofexpression. There was neither indifference nor bravado, neither fear,remorse, nor defiance--only a mask made of wood, hiding every line ofthe mouth, and not allowing even the eyes to show any signs ofvitality.
Beyond that the whole appearance was essentially English: the fairhair neatly groomed, with just a suspicion of curl here and there, anda glint of gold in the high lights, the stiff neck encased in itsimmaculate collar, the perfectly tailored clothes, the hands, largebut well-formed and carefully tended, which lightly interlaced, hungin marble-like stillness before him.
When a man happens to be out in mid-winter with a stout stick in hishand, and he comes across a layer of ice on the top of a pool or atrough of water, he always--or nearly always--is at once a prey to thesilly desire to break that layer of ice. The desire is irresistible,and the point of the stick at once goes to work on the smooth surface,chipping it if not actually succeeding in breaking it.
The same desire exists in a far stronger degree when the ice is amoral one--one that covers the real nature of another man: the coldimpassiveness that hides the secret orchard to which no one but theowner has access. Then there is an irresistible longing to break thatcold barrier, to look within, and to probe that hidden soul, if notwithin its innermost depths, at any rate below the ice-bound surface;to chip it, to mark it and break its invincible crust.
Some such feeling undoubtedly stirred at the back of the coroner'smind. The hide-bound, red-tape-ridden official was more moved than hewould have cared to admit, by a sense of irritation at the placidityof this witness, who was even now almost on his trial. Therefore hehad paused in his questionings, afraid lest that sense of irritationshould carry him beyond the proper limits of his own powers.
And now he resumed more quietly, with his voice less trenchant and hisown manner outwardly more indifferent.
"When," he asked, "did you last see the deceased?"
"In the lobby of the Veterans' Club," replied Luke, "the night beforelast."
"You had called there to see him?"
"Yes."
"For what purpose?"
"To discuss certain family matters."
"You preferred to discuss these family matters at a club rather thanin your cousin's own home?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"For private reasons of my own."
"It would help this inquiry if you would state these private reasons."
"They have no bearing upon the present issue."
"You refuse to state them?" insisted the coroner.
"I do."
The coroner was silent for a moment: it almost seemed as if he meantto press the point at first, then thought differently, for after thatbrief while, he merely said:
"Very well."
Then he resumed:
"Now, Mr. de Mountford, on the night in question, you say you went tosee the deceased at the Veterans' Club. You were, I understand, showninto the smoking room?"
"Yes," was the simple answer.
"Your cousin was in the room?"
"Yes."
"Alone?"
"Alone."
"And how long did your interview with him last?"
"About an hour or less, perhaps."
"Was it of an amicable character?"
This question was identical to the one already put to Luke on theactual night of the crime, by the detective charged to elucidate itsmysteries. And Luke's reply was identical to his former one:
&nb
sp; "Of an indifferent character," he replied.
"There was no quarrel between you and the deceased gentleman?"
"Our interview was of a private nature," rejoined Luke withunalterable calm.
"But other witnesses," retorted the coroner sharply, "heard angryvoices issuing from the smoking room."
"That no doubt is for those other witnesses to say."
"You deny then that you quarrelled with the deceased on the night whenhe was murdered?"
"I deny nothing. I am not on my trial, I presume."
Again a pause. The coroner closed his eyes and stroked his heavy chin.He had not yet succeeded in chipping the smooth surface of the ice.
"At what precise hour then did you last see the deceased alive?" heasked, allowing his voice once more to appear harsh and his mannermore peremptory.
"At nine o'clock or thereabouts, the night before last."
"Where was that?"
"He was in the lobby of the Veterans' Club and I just outside."
"He made certain remarks to the hall porter at that moment, whichoffended you very deeply, I understand."
"Mr. Philip de Mountford was not always guarded in his speech when hespoke to servants."
"And his remarks offended you?"
"My opinion on this point is of no consequence, I imagine."
"You then left the door step of the Veterans' Club, and a moment laterthe deceased joined you in the street."
"I finally left the club soon after nine, but I did not again see Mr.Philip de Mountford alive."
"The deceased suggested that you should come with him then and thereto see Lord Radclyffe at Grosvenor Square; he hailed a taxicab and youentered it with him," insisted the coroner with sudden, slow emphasis.
"I last saw Mr. Philip de Mountford alive in the lobby of theVeterans' Club," reiterated Luke calmly, "soon after nine o'clock."
"He overtook you in the street outside the club?"
"It is not true."
"And hailed a cab?"
"He may have done so, but not in my company."
"You entered the cab with him, and he told the driver to follow alongPiccadilly."
"He may have done so," once more reiterated Luke in the same calm andeven voice, "but not in my company."
"You parted from him in the lobby of the club?"
"I have told you so."
"And you never saw him again after that?"
"Never."
"You were not with him when he came out of the club?"
"No."
"When he hailed a taxicab?"
"No."
"You were not with him when he entered the cab and put his head out ofthe window, telling the driver to go along Piccadilly until he wasstopped?"
"No."
The answers had come clear, sharp, and distinct, quick ripostes of thefoils against the violent attack. Now the adversary drew breath. Thepause was dramatic in its effect, far-reaching in its significance.The coroner with eyes steadily fixed on the witness made a quickmovement with his hand. He drew away the long narrow strip of greenbaize in front of him, revealing a snake-wood stick, with ferrulestained and tarnished.
"Is this your stick?" he asked curtly.
"It is my stick," replied Luke.
He had not flinched, yet there were many scores of pairs of eyes fixedupon him, when that green baize covering was removed. But not one ofthose who gazed so steadily upon him could boast that he or she hadseen the slightest tremor of the lids or the merest quiver of themouth. The voice sounded perfectly clear, the cheeks, though pale, hadassumed no grayish hue.
"Very well. That will do," said the coroner quietly.
What more was there to say? The dagger-stick, stained and rusty, toldthe most graphic tale there was to tell. Yet Luke de Mountford steppedquietly away from the table looking neither self-conscious nor dazed.He went back to his seat, beside Mr. Dobson, and leaning toward himanswered some whispered questions which the solicitor was putting tohim. He folded his arms before him and after awhile allowed his headto fall forward a little, closing his eyes as he did so. He seemed alittle tired, but otherwise unperturbed, even though the hall porternow was recalled and was busy identifying the stick which lay acrossthe coroner's table with the one which he himself had handed to Mr. deMountford's visitor at nine o'clock the night before last.
And the police too added its share to this work that was going on ofenmeshing a criminal. There was the constable who had found the stickinside the railings of Green Park and had taken it straight away tohis chiefs at Scotland Yard before the stains on it had been furtherdisturbed; and there was finally Doctor Blair, the district medicalofficer, also recalled, who examined the dagger which fitted into thatsnake-wood stick.
He had been shown it yesterday it seems and found how accurately itfitted the wound in the murdered man's throat. To this he swore now inopen court, for the _coup de theatre_, the production of thedagger-stick, had been kept back until now, in order that it shouldwork its fullest and most dramatic effect.
Colonel Harris, sitting near his daughter, would have given worlds toknow what she thought. He himself did not know what to think. Hissimple, unsophisticated mind was in a maze. The question of Luke'spossible guilt had suddenly loomed up before him, dissipating theformer blind impulse of partisanship and loyalty. Mr. Dobson toolooked puzzled, the old family solicitor who had seen Luke and hisbrothers and sister grow up, who a few hours, nay minutes, ago wouldhave sworn to his client's innocence before the entire world, he toonow was face to face with a hideous feeling of doubt.
Not one other person in the room either, believe me, who was notconvinced of Luke's guilt. Louisa knew that well enough as her achingeyes wandered over the sea of faces, meeting hollow compassion, morbidcuriosity, at best a certain sympathetic horror, in the glances round.She knew that every one here, the officials, the jury, the police, thepublic, believed that Luke struck his cousin in the dark; she knewthat Mr. Dobson had begun to doubt; and that her father had begun tofear.
And she, with all the fervour of unconquered Love, prayed in her heartthat she might understand. She prayed to Love to open the eyes of hermind, for it was her reason which did not understand, which yearned tounderstand.
Her heart cared nothing, cared for nothing except for the man sheloved and the bitter, bitter sorrow which he endured alone, shut awayfrom all, even from her.
There was general stir in the court room, the coroner had risen, alsothe jury. The journalists were holding agitated parlance with the boymessengers. Louisa--like one who had received a sharp blow on thehead--wondered what all this stir meant.
Was it all over? Had Luke irretrievably lost himself in that secretorchard of his, into which he was obviously determined that even sheshould not enter?
Then she found out that the stir only meant the luncheon hour. Allthese people were going to eat and to chatter. Heavens above! how theywould chatter!
Her father said something about getting a cab, and trying to find adecent hotel in which to have luncheon. But she scarcely heard. Shehad just seen Luke disappearing through the crowd in company with Mr.Dobson, and he had not even glanced back to look at her.
Every one whispered round her. Lady Ducies' nodding feathers worriedher almost to distraction. She allowed her father to lead her away,and to make way for her through the crowd.
Presently she found herself sitting near him in a cab. He was silentand would not look at her. He had begun to think that Luke had killedhis cousin; once she heard him repeating the word, "damnable!" twiceunder his breath. Thus she knew that his loyalty was on the point ofgiving way.
It seems that they had luncheon somewhere together. She did not takethe trouble to inquire where she was: an old-fashioned hotel somewherein Kensington, with table-cloths that looked as if they had been usedfor several previous luncheons, and foreign waiters who woreweird-looking shoes and trousers frayed at the edges.
To please her father she ate a little, though she thought that eatingmust choke her. But it wa
s wearisome to argue, and he--poordear--looked so miserable.
Time was precious and luncheon interminably slow: it was past twoo'clock when Louisa saw Luke again in the court room.
The Heart of a Woman Page 27
