The Detective Club: Dark Days & Much Darker Days

by Hugh Conway

  She sighed, but made no answer. Her silence was a joy to me. It told me that my specious argument carried weight. I took her hands and kissed them. I told her again and again that I loved her; that my life as well as hers depended on her yielding.

  It was long before she yielded. The thought of a fellow-creature lying in prison, perhaps for months, and tomorrow to stand in shame before his judges, on account of a deed which she herself had done, was anguish to her noble nature. Then, growing desperate at seeing the only plank which could save us from the wreck spurned for the sake of what, in my present mood, I was able to believe too finely-strained a scruple, I used my last and, as I rightly judged, my most powerful argument. I told her that it would be not only she who would suffer for that unconscious act, but that I, her husband, must pay the penalty due from an accessory after the crime.

  Heaven forgive me for the anguish my words caused that loving heart! Philippa, on whom the intelligence of my danger fell like a thunderbolt, sank back in her seat, pale and trembling. Had I ever doubted that my wife’s heart-whole love was my own, that look would have dispelled the doubt.

  She prayed and besought me to leave her at the next station; to let her finish the journey and make her avowal alone. My reply was short, but sufficiently long to put all hope of my consenting to such a course out of her head. Then, for my sake, she yielded.

  ‘On one condition—one only,’ she said.

  ‘Be guided by me in this. In all else you shall do as you like.’

  ‘I must be in the court, Basil. I must hear the trial. If the worst happens, there must not be the delay of a moment; then and there I must proclaim the truth.’

  ‘You shall be at hand—close at hand. I will be present.’

  ‘No! I must be there. I must hear and see all. If the man is found guilty, I must, before his horrible sentence is pronounced, stand up and declare his innocence.’

  ‘All that could be done afterwards.’

  ‘No; it must be done then. Basil, fancy—put yourself in his place! Nothing could atone for his anguish at hearing himself condemned to death for a crime he knows nothing of. I must be there. Promise me I shall be there, and for your sake I will do as you wish.’

  It was the best concession I could get. I promised. I concealed the fact that if, when sentence was pronounced, a woman rose in the body of the court, and asserted the prisoner’s innocence and her own guilt, the probabilities were she would be summarily ejected. This made no difference. Let Philippa be silent; let the man be found not guilty, and the next train could bear us back to Seville.

  Yes, even now there was hope!

  CHAPTER XIV

  THE CRIMINAL COURT

  WE reached Charing Cross at four o’clock on the morning of September 20th. The first train by which we could get to Tewnham was timed to leave Liverpool Street at seven, so that we had an hour or two to spare for such refreshment as we cared to take, such rest as we dared to allow ourselves. What with the fatigue of continuous travel, and the dread of what this day was to bring forth, it may be easily believed that we were thoroughly worn out. We were, indeed, more fitted to go to bed and sleep for a week, than to proceed upon the last stage of our dismal journey.

  But there was no help for it. If we meant to be in time, we must go on by the early morning train. I begged my wife to lie down, and endeavour to snatch an hour’s sleep. She refused firmly. Much of that calm which had characterised her since the moment when I broke the fatal news to her had vanished. Its place was now taken by an excitement, suppressed, but nevertheless clearly manifest to my eyes. The fear that we should not reach Tewnham in time for the trial seemed to haunt her unceasingly. It was for this reason she so peremptorily refused to lie down and court sleep. She feared lest, our eyes once closed, we should from sheer exhaustion, sleep for hours, and so miss the morning train. She was ever picturing the horror of that poor unknown man’s being led from the dock, with the death sentence ringing in his ears.

  So the time which elapsed before we started for Tewnham we spent in the hotel. I bespoke rooms by telegram, sent when we reached Folkestone. We made an apology for a meal; in fact, what we could get at that time of night was of itself little more than an apology. We sat all but silent, watching the hands of the clock, which told us how fast the precious moments were passing away. We saw the grey morning struggle with, and at last conquer, the yellow gas-light. We heard the hum of traffic growing louder and louder in the streets below us. Then we turned to make what may be rightly called our last adieus. Who could say that today my wife and I might not be parted for ever?

  Whilst at the hotel I tried to obtain the file of the Times. I wanted to look back and see if I could find the account of magisterial proceedings against this unlucky William Evans. He must, of course, have appeared before the lesser tribunal, and could I see the account of his appearance, I should be able to judge as to the strength of the case against him. But the file was not forthcoming. Perhaps it did not exist; perhaps the sleepy-eyed Teutonic waiter did not understand what I wanted; so, still in the dark as to why suspicion should have fallen upon this innocent man, we left the hotel and drove to Liverpool Street Station.

  At nine o’clock our journey was ended. We stood on the platform of Tewnham railway-station. My poor wife wore a thick black veil, so her face I could not see; but I knew it was as pale as death. Now and again her hand, which rested on my arm, pressed it convulsively. I think we were the most unhappy pair on the earth!

  We were even denied the time for any more farewells or expressed regrets. The hour was chiming from the old cathedral tower. The business of the Courts, I knew, always began at ten o’clock, and, considering the crowd which would most surely be attracted by so interesting a case as this trial for a murder committed so many months ago, I felt sure that unless we proceeded at once to the Shirehall, our chance of gaining entrance would be but a small one. I hailed one of the closed cabs which were waiting outside the station.

  As I did so I felt a heavy hand laid upon my shoulder, and heard a rich, pleasant-sounding, and not unfamiliar voice exclaim, ‘Basil North, as I’m a sinner!’

  That anyone should at this moment address Basil North in a merry way seemed a positive incongruity. I turned round almost angrily, and found myself face to face with an old friend. He was a barrister named Grant; a man four or five years my senior, but one with whom, before I forswore the society of my fellow-men, I had been on intimate terms. I had not seen him for a considerable time; but had heard, casually, that he was making great strides in his forensic career.

  In spite of my distress, I returned his greeting, and grasped his hand warmly. After all it seemed a relief to find that I had a friend left in the world.

  ‘What brings you here?’ I asked.

  ‘The only thing that could bring me to such a place—circuit work. I have an important case on today. That’s the worst of a place so near London as this one. One is tempted to spend the nights in town, which means getting up at an unholy hour in the morning. But you! Why are you here? I heard you were as rich as Midas, and living abroad in luxury.’

  ‘I have been abroad for some time. I hope to go back again very soon.’

  ‘Happy man!’ he ejaculated. I could scarcely keep the bitter smile from my lips, as I thought how ill-applied were his words.

  As he spoke he glanced at Philippa, whose grace and beauty of form defied the concealment attempted by thick veil and sombre garments.

  ‘But what brings you to this sleepy old town?’ continued Grant.

  I hesitated for a moment. Then, thinking that truth, or at least half-truth, was the best, told him I had come down to witness the trial for murder.

  ‘I should doubt you’re getting into court,’ he said. ‘The morbid interest excited round about here is, I am told, very great. The sheriff is besieged by applications for tickets.’

  ‘Couldn’t you help me? The fact is, I have a particular reason, not mere curiosity, for wishing to be present at this trial.�
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  ‘I don’t think I can,’ said Grant. ‘Does your—the lady wish to go with you?’

  ‘My cousin—yes,’ I said, seeing that he expected an introduction. He raised his hat, and made some courteous and pleasant remark, to which Philippa, to my surprise, replied in a calm and fitting way.

  Grant knew I had no sister. I called her cousin because I had a wild hope that, if the worst happened, I might be able to conceal the true relationship in which we stood, and so be permitted to give evidence on her behalf. I trusted my wife would guess that I had a good reason for this deception.

  ‘Try and manage this for me, Grant,’ I said so earnestly that my friend made no further demur.

  ‘Take me in your cab, and I will see what I can do.’

  During our drive to the Shirehall I asked Grant what he knew about the impending trial.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said frankly. ‘I hate murder cases—hate even to read about them. Of course I know that Sir Mervyn Ferrand was killed, and hidden in the snow for days and days. But I know no more.’

  ‘Who is the accused?’

  ‘I don’t know. I thought, from your anxiety, you must know him.’

  ‘Will he be found guilty?’

  ‘I don’t know. Stay, I heard someone who ought to be well informed say yesterday that the case for the prosecution was most feeble. He seemed to doubt if the grand jury would return a true bill.’

  As I heard this I pressed Philippa’s hand secretly. I felt that she was trembling.

  The drive to the Shirehall occupied only a few minutes. We did not go to the public entrance, in front of which I could see a crowd of people nearly blocking up the street. We stopped at another door, and Grant, after looking round, caught sight of what appeared to be an inspector of police. He entered into a little conversation with him, the result of which was that we were given into his care.

  ‘This is a breach of the law,’ whispered my friend as he bade me good-bye. ‘You will have to atone for it by a handsome gratuity.’

  We followed our guide. Philippa, although walking with a firm step, leant heavily upon my arm. I scarcely know by what door we entered that palace of justice. The stalwart policeman led us through stone corridors and passages, which re-echoed with the tread of our feet, and at last we found ourselves before a double swinging plain oak door, over which in old English letters was written ‘Criminal Court’.

  I felt Philippa shudder, and knew that the sight of those words brought the horror of the situation fully home to her. Mechanically I pressed a sovereign in the hand of the venal inspector, or whatever he was; then, holding my wife’s hand, I passed through the noiseless swinging door into the all but empty court.

  A few policemen and other officials were lounging about. Two or three people, who had no doubt gained admittance in the same way as we had done, were seated in various coigns of vantage. I led Philippa up the broad steps, and pointed to one of the hard wooden benches provided for the accommodation of the general public. These benches were raised step by step, one above another. We chose our position about half-way up, on the right-hand side of the court. Philippa, with her thick veil falling down to her chin, and so defying recognition, sank wearily into her seat. I placed myself beside her; my hand crept under the cloak she wore and held her hand.

  Surely it was all a dream—a dreadful realistic dream! I should wake and find myself under the great orange tree in that courtyard in gay Seville, my half-smoked cigar and the book which I had been lazily reading lying at my feet; my mother opposite me, laughing at my somnolency, and Philippa’s grave dark eyes looking with calm everlasting love into my own. I should wake and find the cool of the evening had succeeded to the glare of the afternoon. We should walk through the merry streets, lounge in the Alameda, wander through the glowing Alcazar gardens, or drive out miles and miles over the fertile smiling plains. Or I should even wake and find myself nodding over my fire in my lonely cottage, the stolid William the only human creature within hail; Philippa’s return, the snowstorm, the dreadful discovery, the flight, Seville, the marriage, all, all a dream!

  In a kind of stupor—the temporary reaction, I suppose, consequent upon such fatigue and trouble—I gazed round me, and wondered where I was.

  What is this great empty building, lit from one side by large clerestory windows of ecclesiastical design? What are these dull grey vacant walls; that lofty ceiling, crossed and cut into small squares by dark rafters; this leaded floor, on which feet fall all but noiselessly? What are those raised boxes on either side of the building—those small railed platforms all but adjoining them, and all but adjoining that panelled oak structure at the end facing me? What is that rectangular box-shaped erection with overhanging carved cornice? Let us away from this dismal colourless place! Let me wake and find myself amid the flowers, orange trees, the fair sights and surroundings of our Spanish home.

  No! I have but to turn my dazed eyes to the centre of space in which we sat, to know that I am dreaming no dream; that we must wait here and learn our fates. That oblong wooden enclosure with high sides, topped by a light iron railing, brings reality back to me. It is the prisoner’s dock. In an hour’s time a man will stand there. He will be brought up those stone steps which lead to it from below, the topmost flag of which I can just see. He will stand there for hours. As he leaves the dock, declared innocent or guilty, so will our lives be declared happy or miserable.

  My hand holds my wife’s yet closer; for the last minutes which may be ours to spend together are slipping by so fast, so very fast!

  See, the clock under the balcony marks half-past nine. The all but deserted court begins to assume the appearance of preparing for business. Policemen and other officials pass to and fro, some arranging papers, some replenishing ink-bottles, and placing quill pens ready for the barristers and solicitors who will soon fill those front seats. Someone, with what seems to me bitter irony, places a magnificent bouquet of flowers on either hand of the judge’s vacant chair. What have flowers in common with such a scene as this? Flowers, too, which are beautiful enough to recall to my mind the fair Spanish home which, may be, we shall see no more. Flowers in this den of sorrow! Rather should every seat, every beam, be draped in black.

  Now the doors on each side of the court open, and remain open. I hear a shuffling of many feet. People, in a continuous stream, pass through the entrance, and wend their way to the portion of the court allotted to the general public. So fast, so thick they come, that in ten minutes this space is thronged almost to suffocation. Philippa and I are pressed closer and closer to each other, as every inch of the bench on which we are seated is appropriated. The court is full.

  Crowded by respectable-looking, well-dressed people, who have gained admission, as I heard, by favour of the Sheriff. Yet, respectable as they are, each man, each woman, rushes in eagerly and strives for the best available seat. And for what reason? To see and hear a poor wretch tried for his life! In my bitter mood I look with hate on these sensation-seekers. I hate them even more when I think that their morbid craving for excitement may be satisfied with such food as they little expect; and I clench my teeth as I picture the scene at that moment when Philippa, in pursuance of her immovable resolution, rises, and makes her effort to proclaim her own guilt and the convicted man’s innocence. Although I strive to force the picture from my mind, by telling myself that justice cannot err, that the man will be acquitted, yet again and again the dread of the worst seizes me, and I hate every face in that crowd, which may by-and-by be gaping, with looks of wonder and curiosity, at the woman I love!

  As in a haze, I see some faces which are familiar to me. A number of gentlemen enter, and seat themselves on the benches which counsel usually occupy. Some few of these I knew by sight. They are country gentlemen from the neighbourhood of Roding, who are now called to serve on the grand jury. I see also the thin-faced, hawkish looking woman who calls herself Mrs Wilson. I am thankful that she takes a seat in front of us and does not see us. She, like ourselves
, must know that an innocent man is this day about to be tried.

  So for half an hour I sit, gazing now at the crowd of people, now at the empty dock and vacant bench in front of me; listening to the hum of conversation which rises from the packed court; longing for the moment to come when this dreadful suspense may end; yet all the same dreading and willing to put off that moment. And all the while Philippa, in her black garb, close to me and, unseen by our neighbours, holding my hand.

  Hush! The door at the back of the bench opens, and at ten o’clock to the minute the red-robed judge appears. He bows to the court, seats himself, and by his action signifies that he is ready to begin the business of the day. No trembling prisoner in the dock ever scanned a judge’s face with more anxiety than I scan his lordship’s at this present moment.

  An old man, too old, it seems to me, for such a responsible post; an amiable, pleasant-looking man—not, I venture to think, one who can bear the reputation of being a ‘hanging judge’. I breathe a prayer that he may this day be able to direct aright the course of justice.

  Hush! Hush! Silence in the court! Oh, my poor, sweet wife, let me grasp that hand yet closer, for the moment which for days and nights has never been absent from our minds has come! What will it bring us?

  CHAPTER XV

  THE BLACK CAP

  THERE is silence, or all but silence, in the court. The buzz of suppressed conversation sinks almost to nothing—absolutely to nothing as the judge’s marshal rises, and after gabbling through the mysterious proclamation which begins ‘Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!’ declares the court open.

  Philippa, still closely veiled, sits like a statue. Her hand, which ever grasps mine, scarcely responds to the pressure by which again and again I endeavour to bid her hope for the best. I would give much if even now I could get her to consent to my leading her away. I dare not suggest this. I know that doing so would be waste of words.