CHAPTER XX.

GREAT ARGUMENT ABOUT IT

“Well, one thing is clear,” said Mr. Benson, “and that is--that it is simply impossible to table this in court.”

He spoke decisively, and the K.C., watching the determined face of the wonderful old man opposite him, there and then abandoned an idea to spring the whole story on a startled court. One of the characteristics of Sir Courtney Caldecott was a capacity to realize facts, accept them, and take them into consideration in his plans. He never relied on good fortune, to help him here, or luck, there. He made his own good fortune, he was in the habit of boasting; and luck he despised.

Now he saw that it would be impossible to use directly the amazing story which he had just heard; nevertheless, he determined to find out if it were the whole story.

“There is one important omission you have made in relating the most amazing story I have ever heard,” he said, “and that is the name of the actual murderer--or murderess.”

“I do not know,” said Mr. Benson. “All my information I have passed on to you, without reserving even a detail.”

“I suppose you have formed theories--you have your suspicions?” The K.C. looked into the eyes of the old lawyer. And, as he asked his question, he thought what a difficult subject Mr. Benson would be to cross-examine. But it did not appear that Mr. Benson was hiding anything.

He raised his eyebrows, knocked the ash off his cigar, and replied quite frankly.

“Certainly I have theories and suspicions strong enough to act upon if these were no ulterior considerations. I am quite convinced that the Dr. Laidlaw, I spoke of, is the murderer. All the evidence points to that.”

“What about the strange woman that none of you seems to know anything about?” asked the K.C.

“That I can tell you no more about than I have,” replied the lawyer. “Indeed, if it had not been that our young friend, Dr. Wilfred Barlow, says he saw her, together with his fiancee, I should have doubted that part of Laidlaw’s confession.”

“Forgive me if I speak perfectly frankly, without consideration of anybody’s feelings.” The K.C. frowned, paused a second, then proceeded. “What hold do you think Laidlaw has over Lady Evenden?”

“Oh, I think it is simply what the psychologist, Mr. Rushton Tring, says--the effect of a strong mind over a weak one. I am inclined to think that Laidlaw’s story in relation to that is substantially true. I think he treated her after the death of her first husband; and, by his methods, and those of his Viennese colleague, undoubtedly effected a cure. That, I am given to understand, would cause her to respond to his suggestions--in short, her will would be enslaved by his. It is a curious theory, but I am instructed by Mr. Rushton Tring, a man whose probity I cannot doubt.”

Mr. Benson looked across at the K.C., who nodded agreement. Then he continued. “I am assured by Tring that, strange as it is, those facts are true. She requires, actually requires, in her present mental condition, the services of Laidlaw, until they can be gradually replaced by some other, and more creditable, master of his craft, or science, or whatever you like to call it.”

“If you say that Tring backs that theory, then I am inclined to agree, at any rate, to its possibility. But, look here, Mr. Benson, here is the crux.”

The K.C. leaned forward, and his face wrinkled into lines which strangely contorted it. “As I see it, my friend, this is the crux. Laidlaw has told his story. That is checked by the story my client had heard from his brother John, who in turn had heard it from his messmate. All this is true, and entitles Laidlaw to a certain amount of credence. But what shall we say of our unfortunate and bereaved client; I refer to Lady Evenden? Don’t you see she has absolutely refused to disclose a thing. Even the Loch Lomond story, she will not tell fully to you, and she absolutely refuses to say what happened that night. Laidlaw, give him his due, does make some sort of a statement. That about another man being there I frankly disbelieve off hand, for the simple reason that Laidlaw says he was knocked unconscious; and yet, the watchers downstairs in that crypt place did not so much as see him.”

“Do you infer that----”

“I infer nothing,” quickly interrupted Sir Courtney Caldecott. “Please, please, my dear Mr. Benson, do take this in an impersonal sense. I would be the last person to----”

“I do hate people interrupting me,” said Mr. Benson testily. “When you interrupted me, I was about to ask if you inferred that the possibility existed that Lady Evenden was the murderess? Do let me finish.” The K.C. had held up a deprecating hand, although he watched Mr. Benson with keen interest. “I personally have toyed with the idea as a possibility, but I am convinced the theory does not rest on any substantial fact. I know the trouble constituted by the obstinate silence of Dr. Barlow and his sweetheart, who certainly know something that would help us. I know the trouble occasioned by Lady Evenden’s own silence; but then, I account for that by her subjection to Laidlaw’s will. Obviously, he wants to make her believe all sorts of things with a view to blackmail. He may have made her believe that she killed her first husband.”

“I suppose you see the possibility of her having committed this crime under the influence and control of Laidlaw?” The K.C. spoke dispassionately, but his eyes were burning.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Benson. “I have even considered that, and there I am confronted by a complete absence of motive.”

“What about the will?” Sir Courtney Caldecott asked, lighting a fresh cigar.

“Oh, the will provides very satisfactorily for Lady Evenden,” replied the lawyer. “It is true that it was the intention of the late Sir Michael to make a more substantial provision for Frank, which was frustrated by his unexpectedly sudden death. But then, my dear chap, I had talked to John, and John was one of the most open-hearted and generous fellows in the world. There was no reason to doubt that he would have acted as his father would have expected him.”

“What about the remainder?” the K.C. inquired.

“Ah, that is rather involved,” said Mr. Benson. “We arranged some years ago that, in the event of the late Sir Michael out-living John--the war was on, you must remember--Lady Evenden and her heirs would succeed. Sir Michael had a great political pull, and letters patent were issued.”

“You see where this is leading us, don’t you?” asked Sir Courtney Caldecott. “According to this, if Sir Michael out-lived John, then Lady Evenden, and subsequently Frank, as the male heir, inherit. Very well, then, supposing Laidlaw had this control over Lady Evenden. Would there not be more funds for him if he got John out of the way? Had not John already manifested his detestation of the little doctor, and ordered him off the premises?”

“You are acting upon the assumption that Laidlaw knew all this?” the lawyer asked.

“Certainly,” replied Sir Courtney.

“I don’t think he could,” said Mr. Benson slowly. “I don’t believe that Lady Evenden herself knew exactly how she stood as far as money was concerned. I think she knew of the special remainder in her favor; but, she also thought that in any case she would be very well provided for, and that Frank would be, also. The temporary will, which unfortunately is the last will, and must be sent forward for probate, was only to meet the emergency of the baronet’s possible ruin, which seemed imminent some months ago. That all straightened itself out; and unfortunately the making of a new will was neglected.”

“Nevertheless,” argued the K.C., “she might have known, and in any case Laidlaw knew that John stood between him and control.”

“Two things remain still to be accounted for before, in my view, the theory that Lady Evenden murdered her stepson can be said to hold water,” said Mr. Benson decisively. “One is, supposing she had been acting under Laidlaw’s control, why should she not have murdered Frank, as well? He certainly would have been as great a thorn in the side of the doctor, as Jack.

“Then the other, and in my view the conclusive, argument is this: if Laidlaw wanted Jack out of the way, why the devil didn’t he murder him, himself? He was clever, he had a wonderful poison--I am proceeding on the theory now that he supplied that curious poison found in poor John’s brain. Why should he bother about having her do it for him? He could have done it quite simply; he had the run of the secret passages. There is always danger of a woman talking. And, no one would know better than Laidlaw that the control he exercised over Lady Evenden would relax with his absence, and might be substituted by some other, as, in fact, we are trying to do now, with Mr. Rushton Tring.”

“Sense,” said Sir Courtney Caldecott; “good, sound common sense, I quite agree, up to a point. But, my dear chap, logic does not necessarily govern the mind of a murderer. After all, murder is a terrible thing--even the most cold-blooded would hesitate to murder. It might be, it might possibly be, that he thought there would be difficulty in establishing the fact, in evidence, of his control over the unhappy woman, and that a buffer would stand between him and the consequences of his murder.”

“Nonsense,” said Mr. Benson. “Laidlaw is so diabolically cold-blooded that I predict that, if he is ever cremated, his coffin will come out of the furnace hanging with icicles. That man would stop at nothing, and as for intrusting his work, or his secrets, to a woman--pshaw! Dismiss it from your mind, my good chap!”

“I say,” said Sir Courtney Caldecott, “would it be possible for us to see the secret passages to-night?”

“Of course,” replied Mr. Benson. “I’ve still got Joe Litt and his friend sitting downstairs in the little crypt vestry, in case our friend turns up unexpectedly. Shall we go down now?”

The K.C. signified his consent, and the two men went to their rooms to get overcoats. Mr. Benson led his distinguished friend along the route which had lately become so familiar to him, along the front of the Priory, through the secret entry, and into the crypt. He was just lighting a candle when a stick struck the wall, close by his head.

“Hey, what the devil’s this?” shouted the indignant old man, while Sir Courtney Caldecott positively jumped in apprehension. The match revealed a determined-looking yokel about to wield the stick again, while behind him was Joe Litt, an old fowling-piece in his hand. Instantly, Joe apologized and began to upbraid his assistant, but the old lawyer would not have it. He chuckled at the incident, and blamed himself for not having a prearranged signal in case of his coming. The eminent K.C. examined the crypt, with interest. He was shown the ruined altar and the ancient candlesticks, the chest of vestments and several very wonderful old missals, all dating from pre-Reformation days.

Then, accompanied by Joe Litt, they went up the staircase into the Prior’s Room. Very carefully did Sir Courtney Caldecott examine every inch of that much-examined chamber, but nothing new was found. Joe Litt stood by the wardrobe which gave entry to the secret staircase to the crypt, while Mr. Benson and Sir Courtney talked, in the middle of the room. The curtains were closely drawn over the windows. No one from outside could possibly tell that the place was lit.

Sir Courtney and Mr. Benson concluded their inspection, and the lawyer, having put the light out, was following the K.C., who in turn was following closely in the wake of Joe Litt, when there was a sudden explosion. A shot was fired which, in the confined passage, sounded like the discharge of a cannon.

Sir Courtney was so shocked that his feet flew from under him, and he slipped down, on the narrow stairs, in a most undignified manner. As he slipped, he inadvertently kicked the feet of Joe Litt from under him so that that worthy came down also, and, with him, their only candle.

Mr. Benson rushed on, and fell over the two, in front. It was nearly a minute before they picked themselves up and proceeded, as quickly as they could, to the crypt, where a strange sight met their eyes. The secret door at the end, through which the lawyer and Sir Courtney had come earlier that evening, was wide open, and the night breeze was blowing in. A candle was guttering on the floor; and, beside it, at full length, lay the yokel, who had been left to guard the crypt.

Quickly, the three men went over and examined him. His forehead was bleeding, and the gun was lying beside him.

Joe Litt lighted the other candle, and Mr. Benson stooped over the stricken man, while Sir Courtney Caldecott knelt by his other side. It was apparent that the man was not suffering from a gunshot wound. His forehead had been bruised, and partly cut, by some jagged thing.

They gave him some water, and presently he opened his eyes.

“Shot ’im, I did,” he declared, and went off into unconsciousness again. Mr. Benson examined the gun. It was double-barrelled, and one barrel had been fired.

“Laidlaw’s been,” announced Mr. Benson, “and Bill Harris here has shot him. Stay where you are, Joe. Come on, Sir Courtney.”

Mr. Benson was off, like a schoolboy. He ran up the secret staircase and stood on the lawn looking about him when the K.C., panting heavily, joined him.

“Can’t see him anywhere, can you?” asked the old man, and the K.C. looked excitedly around. There was not a sound. Presently a form moved towards them, and both men looked towards it. The man continued to approach, while Mr. Benson fingered the gun which he still held. On closer approach, however, it proved to be the form of Wilfred Barlow, who had heard the shot and thought, at first, it was fired by a poacher. To him it sounded far away; but, he had decided to come out when he had found the library windows open.

In a few words, Mr. Benson made him conversant with the situation. They looked about, but there was no sign of Laidlaw; and, after a few minutes of fruitless searching, the three went downstairs and rejoined Joe Litt. Wilfred minutely examined the wounded man and bandaged his head carefully, with a linen handkerchief.

Soon he was able to tell them what had happened. It appeared that some time after Mr. Benson, accompanied by the K.C. and Joe Litt, had gone upstairs into the Prior’s Room, Bill Harris had heard a sound, as if some one were seeking entrance to the crypt, from the lawn. After his experience earlier in the evening, when he had nearly hit Mr. Benson, he determined to be more careful; so, before he moved, he waited until the intruder had come right to the door and had struck a light. It was then, gun in hand, that he had rushed across the crypt. By the light of the candle, which the intruder had placed upon the floor, Bill could see the features of Dr. Laidlaw, while he thought he glimpsed another figure behind him.

The doctor had beaten a hasty retreat; and, as he fled up the staircase, Bill pulled the trigger of his gun. He said he knew that he had hit him, because the doctor had given a yelp of pain. Then some one had hit Bill with something hard, and that was all he remembered.

Mr. Benson was forced to curse his own stupidity in leaving only one man downstairs, if even for merely a few minutes. However, nothing could be done now. Bill was made quite comfortable with cushions, since he refused to go to bed, and insisted on finishing his watch out, with Joe.

Wilfred accompanied Mr. Benson and the K.C. to the library, where they spent a further hour, talking over the weird happenings of the night.

“Bless my soul!” declared the old lawyer a little later, starting up, “do you fellows realize it’s one o’clock? We have a lot to do to-morrow.”

“It’s to-day, my dear chap, it’s to-day,” said Sir Courtney Caldecott gravely. “This is the opening day of the trial.”