Silence in Court

by Patricia Wentworth

  She was tiring, and he had taken her by surprise. She had a sort of black-out in which she lost the connection between the two questions. She stood there, groping for it in her mind, her eyes on Sir Wilbury’s face. She looked very young and very desolate. Jeff Stewart’s heart contracted. His hands clenched. To see her like that—to be able to do nothing—nothing at all—

  As the thought went through his mind, gripping it like cramp, she said, her voice still clear but a little shaken,

  “This wasn’t a real case. This was something you were supposing.”

  “I must ask you for an answer, Miss Silence.”

  “I don’t quite know what you are asking me.”

  Sir Wilbury raised his voice.

  “I will repeat my question. I said, ‘Then you were not going to marry Mr. Jefferson Stewart?’”

  “It is very difficult to answer a question like that. He had asked me to think about marrying him, and I was thinking about it. I can’t say what I should have done in a case which didn’t arise.”

  “Miss Silence, it is the contention of the Crown that that case did arise—that you found yourself in imminent danger of being turned out of Mrs. Maquisten’s house.”

  “No.”

  “And that in those circumstances you did not feel that you could count upon marrying Mr. Stewart.”

  “I knew that I could count upon him. I didn’t want to be hurried.”

  The questions went on, and on, and on. Every word that had been spoken on that Monday afternoon and evening, every movement, pulled out and twisted. The time she had spent with Honoria Maquisten between Ellen’s going out and Honor King’s coming in.…

  “There was plenty of time for you to go into the bathroom, wasn’t there?”

  “I didn’t go into the bathroom.”

  “There would have been plenty of time for you to go there, would there not?”

  “I don’t think so. Mrs. Maquisten was talking to me.”

  “That is what you say. If she hadn’t been talking to you, there would have been time for you to go into the bathroom?”

  “Yes.”

  “Time to dissolve those extra tabloids and to add them to the sleeping-draught?”

  She said in a sudden clear voice,

  “I didn’t do that.”

  “There would have been time for you to do it?”

  “No—Mrs. Maquisten was talking to me.”

  He went on to the time when she had gone into the bathroom to fetch the sleeping-draught. Like a picture interminably dragged out in slow motion the scene was once again unrolled. Why had she done this, and that, and the other? Why had she washed the glass? She was getting very tired indeed. It came to her that if she hadn’t been telling the truth she would have broken down long ago. It was only because she had nothing to hide that she could go on answering him.

  When he sat down at last and she turned to leave the box Hugo Vane called her back.

  “Just a moment, Miss Silence—I won’t keep you long. Mr. Jefferson Stewart had made his position quite clear to you—his financial position?”

  Her mind went back to the walk when he had teased her about a fur coat and a blonde who didn’t exist.

  “He said he had a lot of money.”

  “And his position as a suitor—he made that quite clear too?”

  “Yes—he asked me to think about marrying him. I was thinking about it.”

  “You were considering the question of marriage with Mr. Stewart. Were you in any doubt as to the serious nature of his feelings for you?”

  “No.”

  “You just wanted a little more time to make up your mind?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Miss Silence.”

  It was over. The court rose.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Jeff Stewart watched the court reassemble. People coming in, settling themselves, whispering. He felt as if he had known some of them for years. The press sitting up and taking notice, because it was possible, just barely possible, that they might get as far as the verdict before the court rose again. It wasn’t very likely—speech for the Crown, speech for the defence, summing-up by the judge, and time for the jury to consider their verdict. To this Jeff could add his own knowledge that there was to be another witness for the defence, and that the evidence to be given by this witness might have a quite incalculable effect.

  His eye moved on. Mark Aylwin, his face a heavy mask. Honor King, limp and untidy. She had taken off her gloves and was fidgeting with them, turning the fingers inside out and then poking them back again—black kid gloves with shiny fingers. Nora next, in her grey fur, very pale. She threw him an appealing glance as she sat down, and loosened the neck of her coat as if she needed air. Ellen Bridling was a little behind them. She kept her hands in their black thread gloves tightly folded in her lap, and she kept her eyes down.

  Ernest Flood came in and took his seat, passing in front of Ellen and finding a place quite a number of seats beyond her. He looked exactly as he had done on every other day of the trial. After him Dennis Harland, walking with a stick, not looking at anyone. Then Mr. Mordaunt, with the air of having had a good lunch and being very well pleased with himself. He nodded to Jeff as he went by—a rollicking here we are on the top of the world kind of nod.

  Counsel were coming in now—Sir Wilbury and Mr. Lanthony; the tall, thin Telfer; and Hugo Vane, boyish, rosy and smiling. The jury filed in, rather the worse for wear.

  Carey came up into the dock with the wardress at her elbow.

  Then the whole court stirred into life as the judge made his entrance. The age-old formalities began. Through the silence which had hardly had time to settle a voice said,

  “Call Janet Gwent!”

  Jeff looked along the line of faces for the face of Ernest Hood, and found it pale beyond its usual pallor. Even as he looked he saw the sweat come out upon the forehead and the mouth fall open. He glanced quickly back along the row and saw Ellen Bridling, unmoved and unmoving, black hands in a black lap, head poked forward under the shabby black hat, eyes hooded. His look passed to Mark Aylwin. Out of the heavy mask of the face the eyes watched Ernest Hood.

  Miss Gwent came up into the witness-box and took the oath. Carey looked at her and saw a big, shapeless woman with sandy hair worn very full under a plain black hat which looked too small for her. There was a lot of hair in front, and a lot more gathered up into a sort of lump behind. There was a lot of Miss Gwent altogether. She must have been five foot ten in her sensible low-heeled shoes, and she had the big bones which go with sandy hair. You couldn’t say that she was stout, but she was an odd shape, and her clothes, which had obviously been bought off a peg, did nothing to help her out. She was voluminously and adequately covered, but there it ended. As she raised her head after taking the oath, Carey saw a large face with a fair, freckled skin and a wide, generous mouth, eyes almost as pale and bright as forget-me-nots, very widely spaced and set between sandy lashes and under thick sandy brows. They had a kind of steady regard. They turned upon Hugo Vane as he addressed her.

  “Miss Gwent, will you tell the court when you left England.”

  Miss Gwent answered in rather a deep voice—a very pleasant voice.

  “I left London on the evening of November 16th. I left England early next morning.”

  “Mention has been made in this case of a letter left by hand at 13 Maitland Square on the afternoon of November 16th. It was addressed to the late Mrs. Maquisten. Can you tell us anything about this letter?”

  “Yes—it was I who left it.”

  There was a movement in the court.

  “Did you write this letter, Miss Gwent?”

  “No. It was written by my mother.”

  “Is your mother alive?”

  “No, she died on November 1st.”

  “Can you tell us a little more about the letter, and why it was not delivered until more than a fortnight after your mother’s death?”

  “Yes—I will try. My mo
ther was Mrs. Maquisten’s oldest friend. They played together as children, they went to the same school, they married in the same year, and they had kept up their friendship ever since. It was very close and very intimate. At the end of October I was preparing to go out to the Middle East in connection with plans for feeding the children in one of the occupied countries. I am connected with a society which handles these problems, and we had been asked to send a delegate. On October 30th I came in late and found my mother very much troubled on Mrs. Maquisten’s account. There was something my mother felt she ought to know, but it was of a painful nature and she was afraid it would upset her very much. Yet she felt it her duty to bring the matter to Mrs. Maquisten’s knowledge. I said, ‘Well, I shouldn’t do anything in a hurry,’ We talked for some time, and when I said goodnight I did not know whether my mother had come to any decision. She did not speak of the matter next day, and I went down into the country to spend the week-end with friends. That was on the Saturday. Very early on Sunday morning, November 1st, I was rung up and told that my mother had had a seizure. I returned to town at once, but I was not in time to see her alive. As I was to leave by air in a fortnight’s time I had a great deal of business to get through. My mother’s affairs were in the hands of the solicitor employed by Mrs. Maquisten—Mr. Aylwin, a life-long friend. I told him that I should probably be away six months, and that I should have to leave everything in his hands. There was a great deal to be done. On the morning of Monday the sixteenth one of the maids came to me with a letter addressed in my mother’s writing to Mrs, Maquisten—”

  “When you say ‘addressed,’ do you mean that it had Mrs. Maquisten’s name and address upon it?”

  “No, only her name.”

  “Will you go on, Miss Gwent.”

  “I asked the maid where she had found it, and she said it had just fallen out of the blotter on my mother’s writing-table. She said my mother had been writing there on the Saturday evening before she went to bed. I realized then that my mother had taken her decision, and that one of the very last things she had done was to write this letter to her old friend. In the circumstances I felt that it must go.” She paused for a moment, and then went on in a lower voice. “It may seem foolish, but I felt reluctant to complete the address—I didn’t want to add anything to what my mother had written. I was going to say goodbye to a friend not too far away from Maitland Square, and I made up my mind to leave the letter by hand. I didn’t want to see anyone—I really hadn’t time. I just slipped the letter in through the slit and went on to see my friend. I left London later in the afternoon, and took off from an airport early next day.”

  “When did you hear of Mrs. Maquisten’s death?”

  “Yesterday afternoon, when I arrived in London.”

  “Did you get no letters whilst you were away?”

  “None that referred to Mrs. Maquisten’s death. The posts were very irregular, and I was travelling about.”

  “You were not away as long as you anticipated?”

  “No. I was asked to come back and make a report.”

  “What did you do when you learned the circumstances of Mrs. Maquisten’s death?”

  “I rang up Mr. Aylwin, my solicitor, at his private house—it was after office hours—and told him that the letter which had been mentioned was written by my mother. He gave me the name and address of the solicitor for the defence and told me to get in touch with him.”

  Hugo Vane altered his position. He had been leaning forward a little upon his right foot. He withdrew it now and straightened up. The effect produced by this quite simple and natural movement was that a period had been reached, but that there was something still to come. His expression for once was grave as he said,

  “Miss Gwent—did you read your mother’s letter?”

  Miss Janet Gwent looked scandalized.

  “Of course not!”

  Jeff Stewart was watching Ernest Hood. As Miss Gwent made her reply, he saw him take a long, deep breath. It occurred to him that it might be a breath of relief. If so, it came too soon. Hugo Vane was asking,

  “Do you know what it was that Mrs. Gwent thought it her duty to report to her old friend?”

  “Yes—she discussed the matter with me very fully.”

  Ernest Hood’s mouth fell a little open. It remained like that. He took short breaths as if he had been running. Jeff looked along the row to Ellen. She hadn’t moved. He passed from that row to where Honor King was sitting. She was looking at the witness with an expression of vague surprise. He felt a certain relief.

  Hugo Vane was saying, “Your mother told you what she intended to say if she decided that she must write to Mrs. Maquisten?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you tell us what it was.”

  Miss Gwent’s homely face took on an expression of distress. She said,

  “I don’t like to—but I suppose I must.”

  “I’m afraid I must ask you to do so.”

  The distressed look persisted. She said,

  “My mother was very fond of going to the cinema. She and I were at a film together on October 29th. Whilst the picture was showing and the lights were low two people came in and sat down in the seats immediately in front of us. They behaved like lovers. It was impossible not to notice the terms they were on.”

  “Will you be a little more particular.”

  The fair freckled skin took on some colour. Miss Gwent looked extremely unhappy.

  “They held hands—they sat with their arms round each other—she had her head on his shoulder—”

  “Did you recognise these people?”

  “My mother and I both recognised them. It was very embarrassing.”

  “Did they recognise you, or know that you were there?”

  “Oh, no, they had no idea—it was dark when they came in. My mother and I got up and went out very soon afterwards, when the picture we had come to see was over. My mother did not say very much at the time. It was the following evening that I found her in a great state of distress.”

  “You say that you recognised these two people. Will you name them.”

  Miss Gwent shut her eyes for a moment. Then she opened them and said,

  “They were Honor King and Mr. Hood.”

  With a gasp Honor slipped sideways against her cousin. Nora put an arm round her, looked to see if she was fainting, found that she was not, and held her up. She even administered a pinch.

  “For God’s sake, Honor!”

  But Honor remained a dead weight against her shoulder. Hugo Vane went on with his questions.

  “You know both these people?”

  “I have known Honor King all her life. I have known Mr. Hood fifteen years.”

  “Was it possible for you to have been mistaken as to the identity of the man and woman who were occupying the seats in front of you?”

  “No—they were between us and the lighted screen. Besides we could not help hearing some of their conversation. He addressed her as Honor. She called him Ernest.”

  “There was no possibility of a mistake?”

  “None whatever.”

  “You feel able to swear that it was Ernest Hood and Honor King you saw on this occasion?”

  “I do.”

  “Now, Miss Gwent, passing on to the conversation you had with your mother on the evening of the following day—did she acquaint you with her reasons for thinking that she ought to let Mrs. Maquisten know of the relations between Mr. Hood and Miss King?”

  “Yes. I said that I thought it was their own affair, and she was very much disturbed and said no, it was a great breach of trust on Mr. Hood’s part, as he owed everything to Mrs. Maquisten and she certainly had no idea that he was making love to her niece.”

  The judge leaned forward and said,

  “Mr. Vane—is this pertinent?”

  Hugo Vane turned with the expression of a respectful schoolboy addressing the headmaster.

  “I submit that it is, m’lud. I believe that this witness is a
ble to throw an important light upon the relations between two of the witnesses for the Crown, and upon the evidence which they have given in this court.”

  “Are you attacking the credit of these witnesses, Mr. Vane?”

  “Yes, m’lud. I propose to prove that not only did an undisclosed and hitherto unsuspected relationship exist between two of the Crown’s witnesses, but that they also had a very strong motive for desiring Mrs. Maquisten’s death before she could sign a new will.”

  A murmur ran through the court—sound without words, like the rustle among leaves.

  “You may proceed, Mr. Vane.”

  The judge sat back again. Hugo Vane turned to his witness.

  “What reason did she give you for considering that Mr. Hood’s conduct was a breach of trust?”

  Miss Gwent again closed her eyes.

  “She told me that Mrs. Maquisten had befriended Mr. Hood’s mother—that she had given him his education and introduced him into Mr. Aylwin’s office. She said that the whole affair had been kept a profound secret even from Mr. Aylwin, but she now felt that Mrs. Maquisten was being imposed upon, and that someone besides herself should know the facts.”

  “Did Mrs. Gwent impart these facts to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she acquaint you with Mr. Hood’s parentage?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  Miss Gwent paused, shut her eyes, took a long breath, and said,

  “She told me that he was Ellen Bridling’s son.”

  All over the court people stirred, moved, rustled. As if in answer to her name, Ellen got to her feet and began to push her way along the row in the direction of the door through which she had come in. Ernest Hood sat where he was, his pale face glistening, his eyes half hidden by the drooping lids. In that moment a likeness to Ellen stood out plain.

  Honor King gripped Nora by the arm and sat up straight. Her eyes looked wildly round, and on a gasping breath she could be heard to say,

  “Oh, no—no—no—no—no!”

  To Carey in the dock it seemed as if everything had stopped. Ellen and Ernest Hood—mother and son! Not strangers with no possible common motive for accusing her, but so intimately linked that Honor’s fifty thousand pounds must be of equal interest to them both. Every avenue of thought was blocked by this one tremendous fact. Afterwards she knew that a birth certificate was put in as evidence, but at the time she did not know what was happening around her. It was not faintness but withdrawal. The outside things went by.