Dorrien of Cranston

When the deceased had identified his brother he seemed less frightened, and soon they got to high words. Then there was a struggle, and in a moment the prisoner had thrown the deceased into the chasm. The witness lay quite still, and saw the prisoner go and look down into the chasm for a moment, after which he went away in the direction of Battisford. Then his statement before the magistrate, Mr Forsyth, was put in as in Johnston’s case.

Great sensation prevailed during this narrative. Those who had been consulting their watches with an eye to dinner – for it was getting late – elected to stay. The case might be finished to-night.

Then came Mr Windgate’s turn. His cross-examination was perfect. Every point in the witness’ past life, which he could colourably touch upon – and several which he could not – was raised. He made him admit – notwithstanding continued objections from the prosecution – that his own daughter would not live with him, even if the unfortunate girl had not been fairly driven from her home. He brought up against him former convictions for acts of ruffianism, and for poaching; and on the score of character, and by way of proving animus, he forced the witness to own that he had more than once expressed hatred of the accused, thus making him prove himself guilty of the blackest ingratitude, in that his situation with Colonel Neville had been procured through the prisoner’s good offices. But clever as he was, Mr Windgate could not get him to contradict himself or to swerve by a word from the main details of his story.

“Well, now,” he continued. “This took place two years and a half ago. That is to say, Mr Stephen Devine, that by witnessing this deed and not preventing it you made yourself an accessory after the fact? An accomplice – in short.”

The man looked rather scared.

“Please, sir, it was all done too quickly.”

“But why did you keep silence all this time?”

“Well, sir, you see, it was no affair of mine, and I was afraid I might get into trouble.”

“Indeed! Suspicious, to say the least of it. And how is it that, having held your tongue for so long, you should at last see fit to let it wag?”

“Well, sir, you see Johnston, he knew about it too, and he kep’ on a lettin’ me know that he did. At last he said that we should both get into trouble if we kep’ it dark any longer.”

“Quite so. When was this?”

“About five weeks ago.”

“And what did you do then?”

“Why, we went to Mr Forsyth and asked his advice, and he said we’d better make sure of our fax, and then we must make a – a – a – aspersion.”

“A what?”

“No, sir, that wasn’t it – it was a disposition.”

“Oh! A deposition?”

“Yes, sir, and we made it. And the next thing we heard was that Squire Dorrien was in gaol.”

“Where I trust those who richly deserve it will soon be in his place,” rejoined Mr Windgate significantly. “And I hope I shall be instrumental in bringing about this pleasant little change. And now, do we understand you to say you would have kept silence about this if Johnston had not known it too?”

“Well, sir, yes. It warn’t no business of mine.”

“Well!” said Mr Windgate in a tone which said, “Alter that – anything.”

“A very natural fear, my lord,” explained Mr Benham. “A poor man like the witness would naturally think a good many times before bringing a grave charge of this sort against a gentleman in the prisoner’s position.”

“Many more witnesses on your side, Mr Benham?” asked the judge. “It’s getting very late.”

“Only one, my lord. But I am willing to adjourn.”

But Mr Windgate was not. He argued that it was important to his client’s interest that this witness should be heard to-night. The judge ordered lights to be brought in – for it was becoming dark – and then Jem Pollock was recalled.

There was a seriousness and a gravity upon the seafarer’s weatherbeaten face which gave one the impression of a man there much against his will. Re-examined, he stated that he was returning home from Battisford on the night of the supposed murder, and took the short way over the cliffs to Minchkil Bay. As he approached Smugglers’ Ladder a man passed him walking rapidly in the direction of Battisford. There was something familiar about the stranger’s figure and gait, and when he, the witness, wished him good-evening, he seemed to recognise the voice as he replied.

A few days after the search for the deceased, the witness had taken the trouble to go and examine the chasm again, and not many yards from it he found a fragment of an old envelope. Nearly the whole name was still on it – “Roland Dor – don, W.,” but the address was almost entirely gone. The date of the postmark was January 19th. There was great excitement in Court as the envelope was produced and handed to the jury, and all eyes were bent on the prisoner to see how he would take it. But disappointment awaited. The accused seemed to manifest not the smallest interest in the proceedings.

This envelope Pollock had kept, waiting to be guided by events. But the stir attendant on Hubert Dorrien’s disappearance soon quieted down, and he decided to keep his own counsel. Then had come another exciting event – the rector’s daughter being cut off by the tide and narrowly escaping drowning. Witness had also taken part in the search for the young lady, and in her rescuer he recognised the man who had passed him on the cliff. At the same time he recognised him for Roland Dorrien.

This bit of romance turned the tide of public opinion quite in favour of the accused, for the story of Olive Ingelow’s narrow escape was well known. Surely, never was a criminal trial so redundant with romantic episode. Sympathetic murmurs began to arise in Court. But counsel’s inexorable voice recalled to prose again.

“Could you swear to the prisoner being the man who rescued Miss Ingelow?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the witness firmly, but very reluctantly.

“You saw his face distinctly?”

“Yes, sir. The lanterns was full upon it.”

“And you knew his voice?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, how is it you kept silence about your suspicions?”

“Well, sir, I’m not one o’ them as talks a lot. And then, I had no suspicions until the idea cropped up that Mr Hubert had met wi’ foul play. And I didn’t want to injure Mr Roland, and especially Madam,” he added with feeling; “but that there detective chap he seemed to get it all out o’ me like a blessed babby,” concluded he resentfully.

“Quite so. Very natural. That will do,” and Mr Benham sat down.

But the prisoner’s counsel realised that this witness was the most dangerous one of all. Any attempt to browbeat a man of Pollock’s known respectability could not but damage his cause in the eyes of the jury. So he assumed a tone at once conciliatory and deprecatory, as though he would convey the idea that Pollock, though incapable of a false statement, might be mistaken in his inferences throughout.

“Of course, Pollock, you know Mr Dorrien well now, but at that time you didn’t know him very well, did you?”

“Well, I’d often seen him, sir, and I knew him well enough by sight. There was something about his walk, too, that I couldn’t mistake.”

“Indeed? But that is not a very sure point to go upon, is it?”

“That’s as may be, sir.”

“Now, Pollock, you are on good terms with Mr Dorrien, are you not? You would not wish to injure him?”

“No, indeed, sir,” answered the witness earnestly. “He’s a kind landlord to us, is the Squire – and as for Madam, I’ve known her since she was a little maid not much higher nor my knee – bless her sweet face.”

Great applause. Mr Windgate began to look more and more confident.

“Quite so. Now, don’t you think you may be mistaken in identifying the man who saved Miss Ingelow with the one you met on the cliff on the night of the disappearance of Hubert Dorrien?”

“M’lord, I must take exception most strongly to my learned brother’s mode of cross-examination,” said Mr Benham. “He appeals most powerfully to the feelings of the witness, and then does what is tantamount to begging him to unsay what he has already stated on oath.”

“Hardly that, I submit,” rejoined the other. “My unfortunate client is placed in a very grave position. Surely then it behoves us to make certain as to our facts.”

“But the witness had already stated on oath his certitude as to the identity of the men.”

“A man may excusably think twice when such grave issues are at stake, Mr Benham,” said the judge.

“With the greatest respect I would submit that your lordship is laying down a somewhat dangerous precedent,” answered Mr Benham, undaunted.

Then the judge retorted, and after some triangular sparring between his lordship and the two counsel, Mr Windgate went on.

“What time would it have been when you met the stranger on the cliff that evening?”

“It was after nine, sir. Indeed, it was nearly half-past – for very soon after I heard the clock strike.”

“What clock?”

“The Wandsborough clock.”

“How far from – er – Smugglers’ Ladder was the stranger when you met him?”

“Maybe half a mile, sir.”

“How long would it take to walk from Smugglers’ Ladder to Battisford? Walking at one’s fastest?”

“About thirty-five minutes. It might be done in thirty minutes – not in less.”

“Then this man whom you met on the cliff, within half a mile of Smugglers’ Ladder, at nearly half-past nine, could not by any possibility have reached Battisford by five-and-twenty minutes to ten?”

“Not possible, sir – even if he ran all the way,” repeated the witness firmly.

“Quite so, thank you,” said Mr Windgate. “A – one more question. Did you ever mention to anyone – any of your neighbours, for instance – having recognised, as you thought, Mr Dorrien in this stranger?”

“Not a word of it, sir.”

“That’s the case for the Crown, my lord,” said Mr Benham, rising as the witness left the box.

With a sigh of relief, the judge rose and left the bench. It was past nine, and his lordship was very hungry and proportionately irritable, for judges are mortal – very much so too.

The Court room emptied fast, many turning to take a parting look at the prisoner as they went out, speculating and laying odds for or against his chances of acquittal. It was ominous, however, that public opinion leaned considerably towards a conviction. But then, the defence had yet to be heard.

And the wretched man himself? He was conducted back to his cell, another night of suspense before him. Outwardly, his proud self-possession remained unshaken, but once within those cold, gloomy walls, alone and unseen by any human eye, a groan of the bitterest anguish escaped him as he sank despondently upon his bed. The web of Fate was closing in about him; to battle with it further was useless.

Throughout that night, a dismal sound smote upon the ears of the dwellers in the neighbourhood of the gaol, a sound of weird and mournful howling, where, upright upon his haunches, in the open space before the frowning portcullis of the prison, sat a large dog – his head in the air and his eyes lifted to the pale, cold moon, pouring forth his piteous lamentations. The prisoner heard it too.

“Dear old dog,” he murmured to himself. “Dear, faithful old Roy!”

Chapter Forty Five.

“Is he Robert Durnford?”

When the Court met again next morning there was no abatement in the attendance of the public; if anything, it was increased, for it was pretty well known that the verdict would be given to-day.

Mr Windgate was in his place, smiling, cheerful, and cracking small jokes with the juniors, as if he would convince everybody – judge, jury, audience, and prisoner – that he considered his case already won and the remainder of the proceedings a mere formality, unhappily necessary to ensure his client an honourable acquittal.

As for the case for the Crown, he said, it was fortunate they had come to an end of it at last – but fortunate in this sense only, that from beginning to end it had been a sheer wasting of the time of the Court, and specially of the valuable time of the twelve intelligent gentlemen before him. That being so, he proposed, himself, to be as brief as possible. His defence would be very short, so short indeed as at first blush to appear inadequate. But what could be more inadequate than the case for the prosecution! He would simply remind the jury of two things. One was that his unfortunate client, actuated by the most considerate of motives – the delicacy of character of a true gentleman – had chosen rather to impair his defence than to drag into this Court friends or relatives to whom such an attendance must necessarily be most painful. The other was that the whole case turned simply upon a question of identity. He would hardly so much as mention such trumpery points, which were not even circumstantial, though they might seem to be. What are they? A matchbox, a time-table, and a bit of paper. However, to put such trivialities out of the account, we have left only this question of identity, and that I shall have no difficulty in disposing of, entirely to your satisfaction. I shall call —

“Joseph Grainger.”

The public, unaccustomed to the persuasive powers and self-confidence of forensic eloquence, began to think at the conclusion of Mr Windgate’s speech that the result of the trial was not such a foregone thing after all, and there was yet more exciting uncertainty in store for it. It, therefore, prepared itself to listen eagerly.

“You are head waiter at ‘The Silver Fleece Inn,’ at Battisford?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long have you held that position?”

“Nigh upon seven year, sir.”

“Look at the prisoner. Do you know him?”

“Yes, sir. It’s Squire Dorrien.”

“When did you first see him?”

“Well, sir, I can’t exactly remember that. It was shortly after the General’s death. Lawyer Barnes, he comes to our place, and he says to my guv’nor, says he – ”

“Tut-tut-tut. Not so fast, my good friend,” interrupted Mr Windgate smilingly, while a ripple of mirth ran through the public. “Never mind about Lawyer Barnes, but just tell us when you first saw Mr Dorrien?”

“Well, sir, as far as I can remember, it was soon after he was married – just about Christmas-time.”

“Ah!” said, Mr Windgate triumphantly, making a rapid note. “And you never saw him before he was married?”

“No, sir.”

“Will you swear to that?”

“To the best of my belief, sir.”

“Very good. And have you seen him often since?”

“Not very often, sir. You see, he don’t come much over to Battisford, and I don’t go much over to Cranston – ”

“Quite so. Now, do you remember a Mr Robert Durnford coming to stay at ‘The Silver Fleece’?”

“Yes, sir – well.”

“When did he come?”

“He came – let me see – it was on a Saturday evening. I remember it, because it was the day before Mr Hubert Dorrien was lost.”

“Now what sort of person was this Mr Durnford? Just describe him.”

“A very nice, pleasant-spoken gentleman, and quite the gentleman,” and then the loquacious one launched into a voluminous description of the stranger, which made the audience laugh and the judge knit his brows and mutter impatiently.

“How long did he stay at ‘The Silver Fleece’?”

“Rather over a fortnight, sir.”

“Have you ever seen him since?”

“No, sir.”

“But if you did you would know him again – in a moment?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“Now look at the accused.”

Grainger complied. The eyes of the witness and the prisoner met. In those of the latter there was indifference – in those of the former there was no recognition.

“Is he the same man as the man you knew as Robert Durnford?”

The loquacious one’s homely features expanded into a broad grin.

“Law bless you, no, sir. He ain’t in the least like him.”

Mr Windgate could have danced with relief.

“He isn’t in the least like him,” he repeated emphatically, for the benefit of the jury. As for Roland himself, the first gleam of light since his arrest a month ago now darted in upon the rayless gloom of his soul. “Except – ” The witness checked himself suddenly and with an effort. He could have bitten his tongue out. For Mr Benham had looked up quickly and was now making a note. Mr Windgate thought it better to let him go on.

“Except what?” he said playfully.

“I was goin’ to say, sir, leastways I was only thinking, sir,” answered the witness, stammering with confusion, “except it might be the way in which he stands.”

Mr Benham went on making his notes. His opponent’s feeling of relief was dashed, and the prisoner could have groaned aloud in the revulsion.

Then the witness in his roundabout way gave a voluble account of how the stranger had gone over to attend Wandsborough church, and had returned earlier than he was expected; and how he had come in while he – Grainger – was dozing.

“What time did he return?”

“It was after half-past nine.”

“How much after?”

“Five minutes.”

“You are positive as to this?”

“Oh, yes, sir – I said to the gentleman as how he’d come back very quick, ’cos they don’t come out o’ church till after half-past eight, and it’s over an hour’s walk at least. I asked him if he’d come by the way of the cliffs, and he didn’t seem to know there was a way by the cliffs as was shorter.”

Mr Windgate frowned slightly, and internally anathematised the witness’ garrulity.

“Anyhow, you are ready to swear it was five-and-twenty minutes to ten when this Mr Durnford came in?”

“Yes, sir – quite certain. We both looked at the clock and remarked it.”

“But one of the servants, a” – consulting his notes – “a Jane Flinders, says it was later.”

The loquacious one shook his head with a smile of pitying superiority.

“Law bless you, sir! Them gals is always a-fancyin’ things. They ought to have bin a-bed and asleep. No, no, sir. It wasn’t any more than five-and-twenty to ten.”

“This gentleman stayed at ‘The Silver Fleece’ a fortnight, you say. Now, during all that time did you notice anything strange about him?”

“Well, sir, he used to go about with a little hammer, chippin’ off bits o’ stone from the cliffs and suchlike, and in the evenin’ he’d sit in his room and write a good deal.”

“Did you talk with him at all on the subject of Mr Hubert Dorrien’s disappearance?”

“Yes, sir. I was the first to tell him of it.”

“Oh! And how did he seem to take it?”

“Cool as a blessed cucumber, sir. And when I told him that the ghost had been seen on The Skegs, he laughed in my face outright and said it was all humbug.”

“Ha-ha! Of course. Thank you, Grainger. That’ll do. Er – one more question. Do you know the place called Smugglers’ Ladder?”

“Well, sir, I’ve been there.”

“How long does it take to walk there from Battisford?”

“Three-quarters of an hour.”

“Ah! Now, you mentioned a cliff path leading from Wandsborough. Would that lead one past Smugglers’ Ladder?”

“Oh, no, sir. Nowhere near it. Why, it turns inland before you come within half a mile of Smugglers’ Ladder.”

“Thank you.”

“Wait a moment, please,” said Mr Benham suavely, as Grainger was about to leave the box. “You say this Robert Durnford came to stay at ‘The Silver Fleece’ the day before Hubert Dorrien was lost. That was on a Saturday evening. Did you at any time between that and Sunday evening have any conversation with him about the Dorrien family?”

The prisoner’s head sank lower and lower. That devil of a counsel!

“Well sir, we did.”

“Kindly repeat it.”

“Well, sir, as far as I can remember, the gentleman said he’d known the old Squire, the General’s brother. First he asked whose the house was, an’ then we got talkin’, and I told him a little about the General – just quietly and between ourselves, like.”

“Quite so. And what else did you tell him?”

“Well, sir, I told him a little about the young Squire being in difficulties with his father – not meanin’ any ’arm to anybody,” went on the man piteously, and with a penitent glance towards the dock.

“No, no. Of course not. People do talk of these things,” said Mr Benham encouragingly – then waxing impressive. “Now, did you mention a girl named Lizzie Devine?”

“Oh Lord, sir,” cried poor Grainger, horror-stricken, staring open-mouthed at the placid face of the inquisitorial counsel and wondering how the deuce he had ferreted out all this. “I didn’t mean no harm, but we was just a-talkin’ quietly like.” Then little by little Mr Benham inexorably elicited from the unwilling and terrified witness, the whole of the conversation that had passed between himself and Robert Durnford on the subject, and how he had told the stranger that Hubert Dorrien had blackened his brother’s name for his own advantage.

“Now, when Mr Durnford returned from Wandsborough that evening, you were asleep?”

“Yes, sir. I had just dropped off.”

“Where?”

“In the coffee-room.”

“And where was Durnford standing when you woke up?”

“In the door.”

“The door of the coffee-room?”

“Yes.”

“You mention a clock in the passage. Where does it stand?”

“It stands – you’ve seen it, sir.”

“No matter, my friend. The jury haven’t.”

“Well, sir, it stands about half way between the front door and the door of the coffee-room.”

“So that Durnford, to reach the coffee-room door, would have to pass that clock?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you did not wake till he was standing in the coffee-room door?”

“No, sir.”

“How high is the face of that clock from the ground? Can you reach it without standing on anything?”

“Oh, yes. Quite easily.”

“Was Durnford a taller man than yourself?”

“Yes, sir. At least a head taller.”

“Does the face of that clock open easily?”

“Quite easily. I open it every few days to wind it.”

“Did that clock keep good time after that evening?”

“I don’t remember, sir,” answered the witness, after a moment of earnest thought.

“No matter. Jane Flinders swears it was a quarter-past ten by her watch, when she heard Durnford come in. You swear it was five-and-twenty minutes to ten. How do you reconcile the difference?”

“I don’t know. She must be mistaken.”

“But so may you be.” The witness was silent.

“Now, has it never occurred to you that that clock may have been tampered with? The hands put back half an hour or so, while you were asleep?” asked Mr Benham, bending forward and fixing a piercing glance on the witness’ face.

“Oh Lord! sir. No, it never did.”

“But still the thing might have been done – while you were asleep?”

“It’s not impossible, sir.”

“It’s not impossible. And now – look at the prisoner.”

The light was full upon Roland’s face, and again his eyes met those of the witness. Grainger started and stared. His face was a study. He looked like a man upon whom a new and unexpected light had irresistibly dawned.

“Oh Lord?” he ejaculated dazedly.

“Now,” went on Mr Benham, in his most inquisitorial tone, “will you stand there and swear that the prisoner is not the man who was staying at ‘The Silver Fleece,’ under the name of Robert Durnford.”

“M’lord!” cried Mr Windgate, “I have made a special note of the fact that the witness has already distinctly sworn to that very thing. I must protest emphatically against my learned brother trying to intimidate the witness into making a most unwarrantable contradiction of his former statement.”

“And I must equally protest against these repeated imputations,” retorted Mr Benham.

“The prosecution is quite in order, Mr Windgate,” ruled the judge. “Let us continue.”

“There is – there is a look of Durnford about him,” blunderingly admitted the witness.

“A very similar look? On your oath, mind.”

“Well – he stands like him, and – and – his head – is like him,” stammered the unfortunate man.

“Will you swear that he is not the men that you knew as Robert Durnford? Yes or no?”

“No, sir.”

“Thank you. By the bye, when did this Durnford leave ‘The Silver Fleece’?”

“It was the day after he and Miss Ingelow were cut off by the tide.”

“Did he leave suddenly?”

“Yes, quite suddenly. He just came in – packed up his things and caught the morning train for London.”

“Didn’t that strike you as rather strange?”

“Oh, no, sir. We didn’t know he had been out all night. It was only after he’d gone that we heard what happened. Dr Ingelow – that’s the rector o’ Wandsborough – he came over to ‘The Silver Fleece’ in the afternoon, and was in a great state because the gentleman had gone.”