CHAPTER XXI.

THE TRIAL

Tuesday morning dawned grey and cold for Frank Gough. Long before the light began to shine, through the uncurtained windows of the prison infirmary ward, he was awake. Often during the night had he seen the night warder, in charge, make his round of the half-dozen beds, to see that the patients were all right, stepping with silent steps, and looking, Frank thought, like a sinister figure from Dante’s inferno, ceaselessly watching that no victims escaped.

Frank, as is costumary in the case of men awaiting trial for murder, had been kept in the hospital, where he could be under constant observation, thus enabling the prison authorities to achieve the dual purpose of making certain that he did not attempt his life, and at the same time to enable the medical officer to give the court a perfect report of his state of mind.

At six-thirty, the day officer came on duty.

“Come on, the hospital wallahs!” he admonished them. “Show a leg, and let me take down what you want for breakfast.”

The rest of the prisoners laughed, except Frank. The officer was of the old brigade of prison officers and a good sort. His humor was crude and sometimes cruel; but, no sting was intended.

Having made his round, and got his men up, he came to Frank’s bed.

“Well, ole man,” he asked, “’Ow d’ye feel?”

“All right, thanks,” replied Frank with a slight smile.

“Don’t you worry?” said the warder. “You’ve got every chance of a walkover; I’ve got a bet of two bob that you’ll beat the hangman to a frazzle.”

The reference to the executioner made Frank wince. But, as he looked at the honest face of the old warder before him, he had to smile.

Breakfast was served. Frank drank a cup of tea and ate a small piece of bread. But, though he was offered bacon, he could not touch it. He bathed before he dressed, for there was a fairly well-appointed bathroom opening off the ward; and, though the majority of the patients fought shy of it, they had to endure its ritual, once a week.

Frank was given clean towels and allowed to have a bath every morning; he appreciated that kindness on the part of his warder.

At eight o’clock, he was taken along the corridor to the main reception hall of the prison; and there, standing in a row, were a dozen curiously-mixed types ready to proceed to Norwich, to take their trial at the assizes. Frank was known to them all, and as he joined the group they stared open-eyed at the star prisoner--the man “for the rope,” as one of them put it. While they stood there, the Governor of the prison approached, asked each man his name, his offense, and checked it by the record. Then each man was given his money, his property, and all with which he came into the prison.

Next came the doctor, a stethoscope hanging about his neck.

“Open your shirts!” shouted a warder, and all the party opened their shirt fronts.

Frank began to undo his tie.

“Not you!” said the medical officer, who had already examined Frank in the hospital.

For a second the doctor listened to each man’s heart; then, with a curt nod, he walked off. The men were fit for trial. Two warders approached now, with a handful of what looked like heavy steel bangles, hinged in the center. These were fitted on the wrists of the prisoners, and a chain was run through a loop in each bracelet, the end being locked with a key by the principal warder.

Frank was not attached to this train, but was now moved off to the gate of the prison. There a prison van and a motor car were waiting for the journey to the railway station. Frank was placed in the car, two warders with him, while another sat in the front, by the driver.

He was to travel by road at his own expense. The “body ticket” was handed to the keeper of the doors, and the journey to the assizes was begun.

A warder opposite him took out a flask and a cigarette case. “Have a pull at that--it’ll keep the cold out,” he said, handing the flask to Frank, who gratefully accepted the hospitality.

Meanwhile, in the old cathedral town, excitement was running high, and, long before the doors of the Assize court opened, a queue was formed for admittance. By the time the court opened there was barely standing-room.

Mr. Benson and Sir Courtney Caldecott, K.C., accompanied by a small army of juniors and clerks, occupied the defending counsel’s seats, while for the Crown, Mr. Assidell, K.C., and Mr. Graff Edwards, with their instructing solicitors, took their seats, opposite.

At half-past ten a fanfare of trumpets announced the approach of the judges, in state. Outside the court could be heard the hoofs of horses as the four horses in the state-coach dexterously were wheeled round, to bring the doors of the carriage opposite the judge’s entrance.

The crowd in the court rose respectfully, and stood silent, as the judges, accompanied by the high sheriff and other county dignitaries, entered. The senior judge, Mr. Justice Titterton, made a curt bow and sat down. By his side was Mr. Justice Hemingway. The commission was duly read and the grand jury charged; then Mr. Justice Hemingway left to take actions in the Civil Court, while Mr. Justice Titterton remained to preside over the Crown Court.

For an hour, Mr. Benson was in suspense as to whether or not the grand jury would find a true bill in Frank’s case, although Mr. Justice Titterton’s direction had seemed to him to incline in the direction of affirming the necessity for a trial. The grand jury presented the court with a true bill, and the clerk of arraigns swore a jury.

Mr. Justice Titterton watched the young man whose entry into the dock had caused such a sensation in court. His whimsical, humorous eyes blinked at him, behind his spectacles, as Frank pleaded “not guilty” in response to the charge.

Mr. Benson had met the judge on many occasions, and liked him. Indeed, in the confused state of the defense, it was the one thing that he had to congratulate himself on, that Mr. Justice Titterton would hear the action. The judge was not only scrupulously fair; but, he was, also, an exceptionally human type of man.

Mr. Benson carefully scanned the jury. He knew three of its members, the remainder were strangers to him. But his survey was interrupted. Mr. Assidell was on his feet.

The learned K.C. for the prosecution sketched the facts of the murder so far as they were known. He made great play with the fact, as testified by the footman, Thomason, of the quarrel between the stepbrothers, and the fact that Frank’s story of a reconciliation was unbacked by anyone.

The poison that was found in the dead man’s brain, he suggested, well might have been put there by the murderer, in an endeavor to drag a red herring across the trail. But, in any case, he maintained, the prosecution were not called on to say who put the poison there. They were called on to say who caused the death of the late Sir John Evenden.

Doctors would be called who would state that the blow itself was sufficient to cause death. He asked the jury to believe that a quarrel ensued between the two brothers--a very serious quarrel--a quarrel, he would show them, of vital interest to one of them--the man now standing in the dock.

This quarrel was not a fantastic story of the prosecution’s imagination, but emanated from the prisoner at the bar, himself.

The great man spoke eloquently for an hour; then, he sat down and called his witnesses.

The first man to be called was the valet, Roberto, and he repeated his evidence of finding the body of Sir John dead on the floor of the Prior’s Room. He was carefully examined by Mr. Assidell as to the position in which the body was lying. He agreed that it looked as though some one had knocked down the baronet, who had rolled over on the floor.

Sir Courtney Caldecott cross-examined. He checked every statement; then he asked unexpectedly:

“Are you the only valet in the Priory?”

The man replied affirmatively.

“Then why didn’t you go to valet Mr. Frank Gough?”

“I did,” replied Roberto, “I offered my services night and morning.”

“Why didn’t you valet him on the night before you found the dead body of Sir John Evenden?”

“I did, sir,” replied the valet.

“What time?”

“I just forget, sir. I think it was before dinner.” Roberto put his hand to his head, in his effort to remember.

“Come on, man,” said Sir Courtney. “Get your wits working. You only had two men to valet, and it would be the last occasion on which you valeted Mr. Frank; for, he was arrested the next day. Come along, now.”

“Oh, I remember,” said the valet. “I went to his room, but he was engaged. I was just going to open the door, but there were people talking. I heard Mr. Jack’s voice and I heard Mr. Frank’s. Then, when I went the next time, he had gone to bed. I looked in the room, but he was asleep.”

The whole court listened quite apathetically to this statement, but the actors in the drama were tense with excitement. Mr. Justice Titterton gave a quick look of surprise at the valet, took a pencil, and made a note in his book. He pursed his lips as he looked at Sir Courtney and Mr. Assidell. The latter also stared at the valet, and immediately made a note.

“Bravo!” said Mr. Benson in what was supposed to be a whisper to the silk-gowned leader in front of him. Sir Courtney grinned very faintly as he whispered “Sh-sh” under his breath.

“What were they talking about, Roberto?” asked Sir Courtney in honeyed tones.

“I don’t know,” replied the valet. “I never listen to conversations.”

“Quite right,” said the K.C. “You never listen to conversations. It was a conversation, then? An ordinary one?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A friendly conversation?”

“Yes, sir, I think so, sir. I heard them wishing each other a health--giving a toast, sir.”

“Now then,” said Sir Courtney. “I only want you to tell us one thing more, Roberto. What time was this?”

“I can’t remember, sir. It would be pretty late--perhaps ten o’clock. I know it was very late when I went the second time, but, as I said, Mr. Frank was in bed, sir,” said the valet.

“I want you to fix the time a bit better than that,” said Sir Courtney Caldecott. “Now, try to test your memory, Roberto. Think, now. It couldn’t have been early, you say. It couldn’t, for instance, have been before ten----”

“My lord, this is perfectly intolerable,” said Mr. Assidell, K.C. “My learned friend is asking leading question after leading question. I simply must protest.”

“But surely not necessarily so vehemently, Mr. Assidell,” said the judge with his blandest smile. “Sir Courtney has not put leading question after leading question. He has put one, his last one. He put it in such a sly way, if I may use the term, that it had slipped out before I saw it coming. He repeated with perfect truth what the valet had said--that it was not early. His words were--I’ve got them down here--‘It would be pretty late--perhaps ten o’clock,’ and Sir Courtney----”

“I most humbly beg your lordship’s pardon,” said Sir Courtney. “I thought the valet had said, ‘It would be pretty late--_after_ ten o’clock.’ Otherwise I should not have dreamt of putting my question in the form I did.”

“All right,” said the judge with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ll accept that. I only hope this ear trouble is not likely to lead you into any more similar errors.”

“I’ll put my question in another form,” said Sir Courtney. “Now, Roberto. You have said that you think it was about ten o’clock. You mean that?”

“Yes, sir,” said Roberto.

“Now be very, very careful about this. Might it have been later?” Sir Courtney’s face all wrinkled up again in his characteristic manner. The valet thought for a moment, then replied:

“I think it was about then, sir. I cannot remember the exact time.”

“Was it before ten?”

“I don’t know, sir. I think it was about ten, sir,” said the valet, now thoroughly distressed. Sir Courtney determined to get this point before he sat down.

“Is there nothing that will remind you. What time did you usually go to valet Mr. Frank at night? Not early, surely?”

“No, sir. It was because I did not see him downstairs in the library that I thought he had gone to bed, and then I went to the room where I heard him talking to Mr. Jack.”

“Then it would be at a reasonable time for going to bed?”

“Yes, sir,” said Roberto.

“Very well--late, about ten o’clock. That’s the nearest you can get, eh?” asked Sir Courtney in conclusion.

“Yes, sir,” said the valet, and Sir Courtney sat down.

Instantly the Crown leader was on his feet.

“How is it,” he asked, “that we have never heard of this visit of yours to Mr. Frank’s room until this morning?”

“Because I was never asked,” said Roberto, wonderingly.

“You were examined at the police court, and you were asked to say all you knew to the police. Why did you not tell them that?” Mr. Assidell bullied in his most terrifying manner. Roberto trembled, and his hand shook as he held the side of the witness-box.

“I never was asked,” he repeated. “I never knew it had anything to do with the murder.”

“You deliberately suppressed this evidence until now, and then you suddenly give the court a most valuable piece of information at the last minute. Are you sure that you are telling the truth?”

Roberto looked on the point of collapse.

“I am very sorry, sir,” he said. “I didn’t know it had anything to do with the case. They only asked me about finding the body, and if he was well the last time I saw him, and I told them the truth.”

“When did you tell the police you last saw Sir John. I mean, when they asked you when you had seen him last--what did you reply?”

“I forget, sir, but I told the truth,” said Roberto. “I think I said that I had seen him the previous evening.”

“Had you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What time?”

“About dinner time, sir.”

“Now you say that you heard him later than that?”

Roberto could merely repeat the statement he had made. He said he had not attached importance to his visit to Frank’s room, and all the storming and bullying of Mr. Assidell could not shake him. In the end Mr. Justice Titterton put an end to his sufferings.

“You have no right to impute dishonesty of motive to this man, Mr. Assidell,” he said coldly. “He performed a routine duty to which he attached no importance. That may be stupidity on his part; it may be stupidity on the part of the police in not extracting the information. It may be stupidity on the part of the defense for not getting it before--if they did not get it before” (this with a sly look in the direction of Sir Courtney and Mr. Benson). “But at present, at any rate, it is not necessarily dishonesty on the part of the valet.”

Turning to the valet, his lordship said:

“You may step down.”

“Call Thomason, the footman!” said Mr. Assidell.