It is scarcely to be wondered at that, to the Judge, the high-spirited Angus Peregrine was a yet more nettlesome figure: for, despite his sleek balding skull and porcine features, and the girth of his torso, he seemed but a beardless youth, of less than thirty-five years. How rich, how artfully modulated, his booming voice!—which quite outdid Hollingshead’s, and Judge Armbruster’s own: and therefore required, from time to time, “toning down” from the bench. (Indeed, through the course of the trial, Armbruster plagued Angus Peregrine more persistently than he did Hollingshead; though, as it began to seem, less out of a spirit of disapproval than out of a spirit of contentious play. As for the guilt or innocence of the defendant, and the actual substance of the case,—these were but peripheral matters; and, indeed, as Armbruster was said to have commented in private, he had, in the course of six decades on the bench, “encountered far worse.”)
Thus it was, the infamous trial of Valentine Westergaard on charges of murder in the first degree,—which, in those zealous days, carried with it a mandatory sentence of death by hanging—was an altogether different phenomenon to experience, either as a participant or as a spectator, than most accounts suggest: which is, of course, true of all court cases, regardless of how gripping, suspenseful, melodramatic, and the like, they are given out to be. This fact is commonplace to those familiar with the vicissitudes of the American criminal justice system; yet must needs be stressed, for the benefit of others. Otherwise, the reader will be perplexed to learn that the majority of the spectators (excepting always, or nearly always, Miss Mary-Louise Von Goeler,—inaccurately described by the more sensational of the newspapers covering the trial, as Mr. Westergaard’s secret fiancée; and the mysterious “Veiled Lady,” rumored to be a European noblewoman; and one or two other members of the female sex, smitten with adoration for the defendant) could not invariably retain their concentration, through the protracted hours of testimony, cross-examination, lectures by Judge Armbruster on abstruse points of law, and the like; but lapsed into daydreams; or essayed to doze, with their eyes open. And one is inclined even to comprehend, if not entirely excuse, the intermittent restlessness, fatigue, and outright ennui, exhibited by the accused man himself,—who had often to “pinch himself in surreptitious wise,” as he said, to be primed to a semblance of attention, even while hostile witnesses were giving testimony against him, of a most damning nature.
Poor Valentine! Totally unaccustomed to being confined in such a fashion, and, since earliest boyhood, indulged in, in his most wanton caprices, he found himself, of a sudden, both agreeably at the very center of everyone’s attention yet, disagreeably, virtually “imprisoned” there—! He fell into a pique, early on, that Angus Peregrine refused to grant him the privilege of taking the witness stand, whereby he might succinctly, and with withering contempt, deny the insulting charges laid against him; and, by simply informing the jurors that he was an innocent man, and sorely abused, bring the tiresome proceedings to an end. But, following the counsel of his grandfather, and one or two knowledgeable gentlemen, Valentine sullenly acquiesced to his attorney’s “strategy” and was obliged to sit, hour upon hour, in one or another of his superbly tailored, but somewhat warm, and close-fitting, costumes; leaning his delicate chin upon his knuckles (about which a handkerchief,—supplied fresh to him every half-hour, by his valet—was wrapped, that he might be spared the more noxious odors of the room); frequently sighing; and crossing and uncrossing his legs; his green gaze affixed to the countenance,—if it did not too greatly offend him—of whichever personage happened to be in the witness chair at a given time. (“Alas,” Valentine murmured into the bailiff’s unprepossessing ear, “it begins to seem that little Trixie, or Molly, or Emmie, or all three, or, indeed, all, have quite bested me, in exacting their revenge from beyond the grave in this odious wise!”)
Fatigued near to the limit of his endurance, by Dr. Dunn’s exacting three-hour report on the autopsy he had performed (the which caused, now and then, frissons of an indefinable nature to ripple through the courtroom); rendered glassy-eyed, by the slow, halting, lachrymose testimony of that shameless liar Mrs. Teal (who succeeded in wringing a tear from even the most devoted of Valentine’s admirers, and quite sidestepped Angus Peregrine’s thunderous accusations, by admitting her failures as a mother,—and her “wretched cowardice in accepting ‘bribes’ from Mr. Westergaard”); bored to distraction by the plodding testimony of Hiram Munck, and several of his officers, as to the “evidence” seized in the Hazelwit townhouse (which items were, with vulgar show, introduced into the trial,—and exhibited by Hollingshead, in scarcely concealed triumph, to the frowning gentlemen of the jury): Valentine succeeded in rousing a specious sort of admiration, amongst the more cavalier of the spectators, when, upon one singularly tedious occasion, he fell into a light doze!—and was severely chastised by the old fool Armbruster.
(Even at so vulnerable a moment, when another person might well react with surprise, confusion, or blushing embarrassment, Valentine behaved with impeccable composure: and, with a graceful wave of his hand, as if both thanking the Judge for his solicitude and, at the selfsame instant, dismissing him as one might a servant, Valentine murmured negligently: “Thank you, Your Honor: I am at fault, and you are most kind.” Whereupon the flush-faced Armbruster threatened to clear the courtroom, if such titters, giggles, and, not least, muffled handclaps, were repeated.)
Thus, a seemingly endless procession of witnesses,—of resolutely, and, most unkindly, hostile witnesses, under the District Solicitor’s tutelage—comprised of total strangers to Winterthurn society, like the alarming Dr. Dunn (whose “scientific” findings regarding bloodstains, semen, the condition of Eva Teal’s esophagus, stomach, duodenum, womb, and the like, Valentine found most aesthetically repulsive); and discomfitingly familiar persons, like certain “girl friends” of the deceased Miss Teal (who held stubbornly if agitatedly fast, in the barrage of Angus Peregrine’s examination, that, yes, indeed yes, they had seen Mr. Westergaard,—“the very gentleman seated at the table there”—with poor Eva, on thus-and-such occasion, and, again, on thus-and-such a day, and,—how wicked of them!—on the very afternoon of June 7): the while Valentine was constrained to sit, and sit, and bite his tongue, and endure with manly stoicism a sensation of vertigo and faint nausea provoked by the morbidity of the courthouse atmosphere.
(“This is unbearable! This is sheer torture! I cannot see why I, who am the principal of this harlequinade, am not allowed to cross-examine these ‘witnesses’ myself,” Valentine poutingly complained in Angus Peregrine’s ear, “—for I should dearly love interrogating one or another of these lying little girls, who simpered and preened enough for my attentions last year, and were savagely jealous of Eva’s ‘success’—!”)
It went neither unremarked nor unappreciated by the large contingent of Valentine’s supporters, nor by the more astute of the newspaper columnists, that the defendant, though on trial for his life, chose wonderfully not to conform to the trite custom of appearing in a uniform of virtue, to gull the jurymen, and to sway the sentiments of the vulgar crowd. (In accordance with this custom, hardened criminals costume themselves like clerics, or professional gentlemen of modest fortune; and infamous harlots, like convent-school girls, in somber grays, blues, and blacks, oft with white lace collar and cuffs.) But Valentine Westergaard, who had never done a vulgar thing in public in his life,—“nor a tasteful thing in private,” as he liked laughingly to emend—was defiantly not of that sort: for it was his intention to appear in a new outfit each day, in ascending order of sartorial splendor. Thus, on the opening day of the trial, when the garrulous District Solicitor and the yet more garrulous defense attorney presented their opening remarks, and the senile old fool of a Chief Justice sought to interfere, Valentine drew all eyes with the very simplicity, and perfection of cut, of his outfit: this being a silk-and-wool suit executed by his London tailor, in dove-gray and black pinstripes, the trousers gently tapered, and the coat fitting snug at th
e waist, with a delightful surprise of subtly pronounced, or lifted, shoulders,—the quintessence, as the press noted, of the “Anglo” and the “Latin,” in exquisite equilibrium. On the day following, Valentine took care to dress with appropriate sobriety, as Xavier Kilgarvan’s pathologist-hireling would present his tediously grim laboratory report, and quite sicken anyone who chose to listen closely: selecting for his costume a three-piece French silk-and-gabardine suit of so delicate a shade of powder gray, some of the ladies afterward disagreed amongst themselves whether it was not, in truth, an eggshell blue: the hand-embroidered vest, with its miniature pearl buttons, being a decided blue, of that lovely hue known as Mediterranean. As the third day dawned remarkably cold and drear, and testimony by yet more “hostile” witnesses loomed large, Valentine thought it necessary to brighten matters up, as it were, with an ascot tie of saffron-tinted Egyptian cotton, of a sort never glimpsed before in Winterthurn (or in Manhattan either, as a columnist for the Tribune duly noted), and, in his buttonhole, a carnation of identical hue; albeit his woolen suit, in a midnight blue that shaded discreetly to black, and his dazzling white starched shirt, possessed the propriety of any young banker’s outfit; and drew forth many an admiring comment, even from associates of Hollingshead’s. (The tradition of the “Cruel Suitor’s flower” dated from this occasion: by which is meant, ladies both identified and anonymous, including the mysterious “Veiled Lady,” who had taken an entire floor at the Winterthurn Arms, vied with one another in supplying Valentine with floral pieces for his buttonhole: so that the defendant had his choice, each morning, of carnations, rosebuds, lilies-of-the-valley, dwarf orchids, and the like. And, ah! did this not rouse envy in the other gentlemen associated with the trial—!)
Thus, Valentine’s shrewdly calibrated design: to make his début in court, in a manner of speaking, in comparatively conventional (though assuredly costly) attire: to evolve through wools and gabardines to silks, and satins, and velvets, and brocades, and furs; from high starched collars and cuffs, and “boiled” shirt fronts, to loose, flowing, open-necked shirts of East Indian or Moroccan styling; from the chaste dignity of solids, pinstripes, and the more subdued Scottish plaids, to the sybaritic delirium of paisley, and hand-painted Japanese fabrics, and needlepoint design, and Venetian openwork lace, and cotton chintz asquirm with floral figures—! From somber hues he would flare forth in rich lavenders and purples; in golds, lime greens, crimsons, silvers, and multitextured blacks. In readiness was a cape lined in gold brocade, along the lines of a Roman toga; and an aubergine (dyed) overcoat of otter fur; and, not least, his “mourning” overcoat, in Cossack style, with its splendid sable collar. With stealthy cunning he had timed his dramatic transformation from wool or gabardine to the surprise of velvet (this, a suit of so richly dark a green, it struck the untrained eye as black), to coincide precisely with the morning when his side of the sorry tale might begin to be told: which is to say, when at last, in the third week, Angus Peregrine launched his “aggressive defense,” as the strategy was called; and a magnificent procession of witnesses sprang forth, to take the stand, and swear on the Holy Bible, and declare all sorts of vehement, wholesome, and, withal, much-awaited, facts about Valentine Westergaard, so absurdly accused of murder.
And what sport it was, though assuredly an anxious thing for certain of the ladies, to see which flower Valentine would choose for his prized buttonhole—!
Yet, as Valentine freely complained to his counsel, he lay awake nights with the worry that he might miscalculate: nay, how could he not miscalculate?—not being able to determine very precisely how long the wretched trial would run; and dreading to appear in the same costume twice; or to ascend too rapidly to his most flamboyant apparel. Despite the Colonel’s disapproval,—ah, how tightly the old boy gripped the drawstrings of his purse, still!—Valentine deemed it far wiser to be in possession of too much finery than too little. “For instance,” Valentine mused, with a faint crinkling of his forehead, “suppose I am sentenced to hang, and have naught to wear: naught, that is, but a costume I have already worn, and which all the world has seen. Dear God, to go out in such a wise!—to cross the threshold into chill Eternity, so very humiliated! Nay, it is an intolerable thought; it is obscene; it shall not happen.”
Then, after a brief pause, noting, perhaps, Mr. Peregrine’s look of extreme discomfiture, Valentine lightly patted his hand, and gaily said: “But of course I shall not hang, shall I? You may be sure of it!”
IT WAS GENERALLY ACKNOWLEDGED, even by Valentine’s supporters, and by those newspapers favorable to the defense, that the prosecution,—which is to say, Xavier Kilgarvan—had assembled a most formidable case against Valentine Westergaard: indeed, did it not begin to look like an open-and-shut affair—? How very hard, the “hard evidence”!—including the desecrated female undergarments found in Valentine’s Regency chest of drawers; and the alleged murder weapon; and the bloodstains on the walls, carpets, and floors; and, not least, the solemn report by police witnesses that a quantity of congealed blood amounting to several quarts had been discovered beneath the floorboards of one of the rooms in the Hazelwit house. And, too, the meticulous report of the Boston pathologist, though displeasing to the jurors because of its unremitting factual nature, struck a singularly lugubrious note.
The ladies sighed; and fretted; and fidgeted; and looked worriedly about; and longed for a recess; and the solace of hot chocolate and scones, at one or another of the neighborhood tearooms, that they might gauge the depth of the sentiment for, or against, Valentine. As old Miss Verity Peregrine observed, it was a problematic thing to cast out of one’s mind the spectacle of the Westergaard dagger, so luridly despoiled with blood; and those unseemly items of female apparel taken from the chest of drawers. And what on earth could the fastidious Valentine have meant, in squiring silly little mill-girls about town, and presenting them with gifts, and proposals of marriage? “I cannot think that, if he did do such things, Valentine was altogether himself,” Miss Peregrine falteringly said.
This attitude was taken up, generally; for everyone knew Valentine, and knew his childlike good nature; and how, when he said wicked things, he never meant them,—nay, not a tenth of them.
Then again, as Mrs. Harrier Von Goeler stiffly pronounced, if Valentine had been acquainted with one or two of the slain girls, in an innocent fashion, it was, after all, his business, and no one else’s.
It quite pricked their womanly, and even maternal, sympathies that so gracious a gentleman was so discourteously treated; so falsely and absurdly accused, of every sort of atrocity (not least, placing a Catholic trinket in the mouth of a dying girl!); forced to sit for hours on end beneath the rheumy gaze of old Armbruster (of whom it was said, he had sent near as many men to the gallows as Erasmus Kilgarvan, in his time); and, most distressing of all, as the days passed and the trial’s coverage widened alarmingly, made the subject of tasteless cartoons, jests, limericks, and ballads, across the entire continent. (Even England’s Punch took up the novelty of an “American gentleman,”—was not the very term paradoxical?—who aspired to the savagery of a Jack the Ripper.) It was thought, after the strain of the first seven or eight days, when the “surprisingly bellicose” Hollingshead was presenting his case, that Valentine began to look unusually pale; that one of his eyelids drooped; that his posture was not so much gracefully negligent as it was lax, and weary, and indifferent. Yet, even so, was he not handsome!—his eyes so penetrating a green, his skin so flawless, his lips so finely sculpted, his expression so poetical!—thus the ladies murmured behind their fur muffs, while settling themselves into their reserved seats; and staring avidly at their Valentine.
(It might be here remarked, by the by, that some of the prejudice against Xavier Kilgarvan was displaced by an intense dislike of Mr. Hollingshead: and by a mistaken notion that, as the detective did not take the witness stand, he had not so actively participated in assembling the case against Valentine, as all had supposed. In truth, Xavier knew it most pr
agmatical not to give testimony, as Angus Peregrine would mercilessly attack him, for having gained illegal entry into his client’s home; and make him out to be little more than a pilferer. He feared too that, if roused to anger by Peregrine’s sophisms, he might lose control of himself entirely, and begin accusing Valentine to his face of the heinous things he had done,—the which, even now, as day after day followed in the courtroom, and so much rhetoric was declaimed, seemed queerly unreal. Alas, in a court of law, when all is followed to rule, does not virtually everything,—whether past, or the very present—acquire the quality of unreality?)
Mysteries of Winterthurn Page 41