by Sapper
“Unknown to me she sent for him – asked him to come at once – and he came. He was shown by the butler into the study, where I was still sitting at the desk, and he stopped motionless by the door staring at the body, which had not been moved. I was waiting for the doctor, and I got up surprised.
“‘The butler told me he had been shot,’ he said a little jerkily. ‘How did it happen?’
“‘I wasn’t expecting you, Sir Edward,’ I answered slowly. ‘But I’m glad that you’ve come. I’d like another opinion.’
“‘What do you mean?’ he cried. ‘Is there any mystery?’
“‘I’ll tell you exactly what happened as far as I know the facts,’ I said. ‘Lady Granger and her husband had a very bad quarrel tonight. Then she came to bed, and so did I. Shortly afterwards her husband came along into this room. Now, my bedroom is in the passage you have just come along, and about ten minutes after Sir Henry came in here, his wife followed him. I opened my door, because I was afraid they might start quarrelling again, and he had been drinking. I saw her come in; there was a pause, and then a revolver shot rang out.’
“‘Was this door shut?’ he snapped.
“‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘it was. I rushed along the passage and came in. I found her standing, with the revolver at her feet, staring at her husband, who was lying where he is now. She said: ‘There’s been an accident.’ And then she muttered something about a man and the window before she fainted. I went to the window, and there was no one there. I looked out; will you do the same?’
“I waited while he walked over and looked out, and after what seemed an interminable time he came back again.
“‘How long was it after the shot before you looked out?’ His voice was very low as he asked the question.
“‘Not a quarter of a minute,’ I answered, and we both stood staring at one another in silence.
“‘Good God!’ he said at length, ‘what are you driving at?’
“‘I’m not driving at anything, Sir Edward,’ I answered. ‘At least, I’m trying not to drive at it. But the man is dead, and the police must be sent for. What are we going to say?’
“‘The truth, of course,’ he answered instantly.
“‘Quite,’ I said slowly. ‘But what is the truth?’
“He turned very white, and leant against one of the old suits of armour, of which the dead man had a wonderful collection all over the house.
“‘Did Lady Granger see this man go out of the window?’ he asked at length.
“‘No, she only heard him open it. You see, she says he switched off the light. It was on when I rushed in.’
“‘A rope,’ he suggested.
“‘Impossible in the time,’ I said; ‘utterly impossible. Such a suggestion would be laughed out of court.’
“He came over and sat down heavily in a chair, and his face was haggard.
“‘Sir Edward,’ I went on desperately, ‘the doctor will be here shortly; the police must be sent for. We’ve got to decide something. This man didn’t go out by the door or I’d have seen him; only a fly could have gone out by the window. We’ve got to face the facts.’
“‘You don’t believe there was a man here at all,’ he said slowly.
“‘Heaven help me! I don’t,’ I answered. ‘It’s all so easy to reconstruct. The poor girl was driven absolutely desperate by what happened tonight, and by the last thing he said to her after their quarrel.’ I looked at him for a moment before going on. ‘He accused her of being in love with you.’ I said it deliberately, and he caught his breath sharply.
“‘Can’t you see it all?’ I continued. ‘She came in here, and she shot him; and when she’d done it her nerves gave, and she said the first thing to me that came into her head.’
“‘If you’re right,’ he said heavily, ‘it means that Ruth will be tried for murder!’ He got up with his hands to his temples. ‘My God! Stratton,’ he cried, ‘this is awful. Premeditated murder, too – not done blindly in the middle of a quarrel, but a quarter of an hour after it was over.’
“‘That’s how it would strike a jury,’ I answered gravely.
“‘Supposing she had done it suddenly, blindly’ – he was talking half to himself – ‘snatched the revolver off the table as he tried to make love to her, let’s say.’ And then he stopped and stared at me.
“‘Supposing that had happened, it would be better for her to say so at once,’ I said.
“‘But it didn’t happen,’ he answered; ‘it couldn’t have.’
“‘No,’ I agreed. ‘It didn’t happen; it couldn’t have. But supposing it had, Sir Edward, what then?’
“‘Stop, Stratton,’ he cried. ‘For Heaven’s sake, stop!’
“‘There’s no good stopping,’ I said. ‘We haven’t any time for argument. Your legal knowledge has suggested the same solution as occurred to me. If now, at once, when we send for the police, she says it was an accident – gives a complete story, chapter and verse–’
“‘Invents it, you mean,’ he interrupted.
“‘Call it what you like,’ I said, ‘but, unless she does that and substantiates the story, she will be tried for the premeditated and wilful murder of her husband. She’ll have to be tried anyway, but if she makes a voluntary confession – makes a story out of it that will appeal to sentiment – they will acquit her. It’s the only chance.’
“‘But it’s monstrous, man,’ he muttered – only now his eyes were fixed on me questioningly.
“‘Look here, Sir Edward,’ I said, ‘let’s discuss this matter calmly. Humanly speaking, we know what happened. Ruth came along that passage, opened this door, and shot her husband dead through the heart – that is the case as I should put it to the jury, the plain issue shorn of all its trappings. What is going to be the verdict?’
“Shoreham plucked at his collar as if he were fighting for breath.
“‘If, on the other hand, the shot was not immediate – and I am the only witness as to that; if I had heard his voice raised in anger; if he had sprung at her, tried to kiss her, and she blindly, without thought, had snatched up the first thing that came to her hand, the revolver, not even knowing it was loaded – what then? The servants can be squared. She was talking wildly when she mentioned this man – didn’t know what she was saying. And then, when she got back to her room she realised that the truth was best, and rang you up, a Judge. What better possible proof could any jury have of her desire to conceal nothing? And you with your reputation on the Bench–’
“‘Ah, don’t, don’t!’ he cried hoarsely. ‘You’re driving me mad! You’re – you’re – !’
“‘Why, Ned, what’s the matter?’
“We both swung round. Ruth had come in, unnoticed by us, and was staring at Shoreham with wonder in her eyes. Then, with a shudder, she stepped past her husband’s body and came into the room.
“‘They’ve just told me you were here,’ she said, and then she gave a little cry. ‘Ned, why are you looking like that? Ned! you don’t think – you don’t think I did it?’
“She cowered back, looking first at him and then at me.
“‘You can’t think I did it,’ she whispered. ‘I tell you there was a man here – the man who shot him. Oh! they’ll believe me, won’t they?’
“‘Ruth,’ I said, ‘I want you to realise that we’re both of us your friends.’ Which is the sort of fatuous remark one does make when the tension is a bit acute. She never even glanced at me as I spoke; with a sort of sick horror in her eyes, she was staring at Shoreham, and I blundered on: ‘When you talked about this man you were unnerved – distraught; you didn’t know what you were saying. We both realise that. But now we’ve got to think of the best way of – of helping you. You see, the police must be sent for – we ought to have sent for them sooner – and–’
“She
walked past me and went over to Shoreham.
“‘Do you believe I did it, Ned?’ she said quietly. ‘If I swear to you that I didn’t – would that convince you?’
“‘But, Ruth,’ he cried desperately, ‘it isn’t me you’ve got to convince – it’s the police. A man couldn’t have got out of that window in the time. It’s a physical impossibility. If you told it to the police, they’d laugh. Tell us the truth, my dear. I beseech you. Tell us the truth, and we’ll see what can be done.’
“She stood very still, with her hands clenched by her sides. And then quite deliberately she spoke to Shoreham.
“‘If you don’t believe there was a man here,’ she said, ‘you must think I shot my husband. There was no one else who could have done it. Well – supposing I did. You acknowledge no justification for such an act?’
“I started to speak, but she silenced me with an imperative wave of her hand.
“‘Please, Bill – Well, Ned – I’m waiting. If I did shoot him – what then?’”
The Barrister paused to relight his cigar, and the others waited in silence.
“She was staring at Shoreham,” he went on after a while, “with a faint, half-mocking, wholly tender smile on her lips, and if either he or I had been less dense that smile should have made us think. But at the moment I was absorbed in the problem of how to save her; while she was absorbed in a very different one concerning the mentality of the man she cared for. And Shoreham – well, he was absorbed in the old, old fight between love and duty, and the fierceness of the struggle was showing on his face.
“There in front of him stood the woman he loved, the woman who had just shot her husband, and the woman who was now free for him to marry. He knew as well as I did that in adopting the line I had suggested lay the best chance of getting her acquitted. He knew as well as I did that the vast majority of juries would acquit if the story were put to them as we had outlined it. He could visualise as well as I the scene in court. Counsel for the defence – I’d already fixed on Grayson in my mind as her counsel – outlining the whole scene: her late husband’s abominable conduct culminating in this final outrage at her reception. And then as he came to the moment of the tragedy, I could picture him turning to the jury with passionate sincerity in his face – appealing to them as men – happily married, perhaps, but men, at any rate, to whom home life was sacred.
“I could hear his voice – low and earnest – as he sketched for them that last scene. This poor, slighted, tormented woman – girl, gentlemen, for she is little more than a girl – went in desperation to the man – well, he is dead now, and we will leave it at that – to the man who had made her life a veritable hell. She pleaded with him, gentlemen, to allow her to divorce him – pleaded for some remnant of decent feelings in him. And what was his answer – what was the answer of this devil who was her husband? Did he meet her halfway? Did he profess the slightest sorrow for his despicable conduct?
“No, gentlemen – not one word. His sole response was to spring at her in his drunken frenzy and endeavour to fix his vile attentions on her. And she, mad with terror and fright, snatched up the revolver which was lying on the desk. It might have been a ruler – anything; she was not responsible at the moment for what she did. Do you blame her, gentlemen? You have daughters of your own. She no more knew what she had in her hand than a baby would. To keep him away – that was her sole idea. And then – suddenly – it happened. The revolver went off – the man fell dead.
“What did this girl do, gentlemen, after that? Realising that he was dead, did she make any attempt to conceal what she had done – to conceal her share in the matter? No – exactly the reverse. Instantly she rang up Sir Edward Shoreham, whose views on such matters are well known to you all. And then and there she told him everything – concealing nothing, excusing nothing. Sir Edward Shoreham of all people, who, with due deference to such a distinguished public man, has at times been regarded as – well – er – not lenient in his judgments. And you have heard what Sir Edward said in the box…”
Once again the Barrister paused and smiled faintly.
“I’d got as far as that, you see, before Shoreham answered her. And he had got as far as that, too, I think. He saw it all, built on a foundation of lies – built on the foundation of his dishonour. No one would ever know except us three – but that doesn’t make a thing easier for the Edward Shorehams of the world.
“And then he spoke – in a low, tense voice: “‘If you shot him, dear,’ he said, ‘nothing matters save getting you off.’
“Some people,” pursued the Barrister, “might call it a victory – some people would call it a defeat. Depends on one’s outlook; depends on how much one really believes in the ‘Could not love you half so much, loved I not honour more’ idea. But certainly the murderer himself was very pleased.’
“The murderer?” cried the Ordinary Man sitting up suddenly.
“The murderer,” returned the Barrister. “That’s why I mentioned about my cigarette case this morning. He had been standing behind the suit of armour in the corner the whole time. He came out suddenly, and we all stared at him speechlessly, and then he started coughing – a dreadful tearing cough – which stained his handkerchief scarlet.
“‘I must apologise,’ he said when he could speak, ‘but there was another thing besides shooting Granger that I wanted to do before I died. That was why I didn’t want to be caught tonight. However, a man must cough when he’s got my complaint. But I’m glad I restrained myself long enough to hear your decision, Sir Edward. I congratulate you on it.’
“‘You scoundrel!’ began Shoreham, starting forward, ‘why didn’t you declare yourself sooner?’
“‘Because there’s another thing I wanted to do,’ he repeated wearily. ‘In Paris, in the Rue St Claire, there lives a woman. She was beautiful once – to me she is beautiful now. She was my woman until–’ And his eyes sought the dead body of Henry Granger.
“Ruth took a deep breath. ‘Yes – until?’ she whispered.
“‘Until he came,’ said the man gravely. ‘And God will decide between him and me. But I would have liked to look on her once more, and hold her hand, and tell her, yet again, that I understood – absolutely.’
“It was then Ruth Granger crossed to him.
“‘What is her name and the number of the house?’ she said.
“‘Sybil Deering is her name,’ he answered slowly, ‘and the number is fourteen.’
“‘Will you leave it to me?’ she asked.
“For a moment he stared at her in silence, then he bowed.
“‘From the bottom of my heart I thank you, Lady Granger, and I hope you will have all the happiness you deserve.’ He glanced at Shoreham and smiled. ‘When a man loves everything else goes to the wall, doesn’t it? Remember that in the future, Sir Edward, when they’re standing before you, wondering, trying to read their fate. Someone loves them, just as you love her.’”
The Barrister rose and drained his glass.
“And that is the conclusion of your suffering,” he remarked.
“Was the man hanged?” asked the Soldier.
“No, he died a week later of galloping consumption.
“And what of the other two?” demanded the Actor.
“They married, and are living happily together today, doing fruit farming as a hobby.”
“Fruit farming!” echoed the Doctor. “Why fruit farming?”
“Something to do,” said the Barrister. “You see, Sir Edward has never tried another case. Some men are made that way.”
Chapter 3
The Doctor’s Story, being Sentence of Death
“Sooner or later,” began the Doctor, settling himself comfortably in his chair, “it comes to most of us. Sooner or later a man or a woman comes to consult us on what they imagine to be some trifling malady, and when we make our e
xamination we find that it isn’t trifling. And occasionally we find that not only is the matter not trifling, but that – well, you all have seen Collier’s picture, The Sentence of Death.
“It’s a thing, incidentally, which requires careful thought – just how much you will tell. Different people take things different ways, and where it might be your duty to tell one man the half-truth, to another it might be just as much your duty to lie. But broadly speaking, I, personally, have always maintained that, unless the circumstances are quite exceptional, it is a doctor’s duty to tell a patient the truth, however unpleasant it may be. What would a man say if his lawyer or his stockbroker lied to him?
“Which brings me to the opening of my story. It was in the May before the war that a man came into my consulting room – a man whom I will call Jack Digby. I motioned him to a chair on the other side of my desk, so placed that the light from the window fell on his face. I put him down as a man of about three-and-thirty who was used to an outdoor life. His face was bronzed, his hands were sunburnt, and the whole way he carried himself – the set of his shoulders, the swing of his arms as he walked across the room – indicated the athlete in good condition. In fact, he was an unusual type to find in a Harley Street consulting room, and I told him so by way of opening the conversation.
“He grinned, a very pleasant, cheery grin, and put his hat on the floor.
“‘Just a matter of form, Doctor,’ he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. ‘I’m thinking of entering for the matrimonial stakes, and before saddling up I thought I’d just get you to certify me sound in wind and limb.’
“Now he spoke very easily and naturally, but something – I don’t quite know what – made me look at him a little more closely. The study of human nature is a vital necessity if the study of human ailments is to be successful – and one gets plenty of opportunity for it if one is a consulting physician. And I suddenly wondered if it was ‘just a matter of form’ in his mind. The ordinary young, healthy man doesn’t usually take the trouble to be overhauled by a doctor merely because he is going to be married.