The Trail of the Serpent

by Mary Braddon

  So there were private interests, as well as a public interest, among that swelling ocean of men and women; and Richard had but very few backers in the great and terrible game that was being played.

  In a corner of the gallery of the court, high up over the heads of the multitude, there was a little spot railed off from the public, and accessible only to the officials, or persons introduced by them. Here, among two or three policemen, stood our friend Mr. Joseph Peters, with his mouth very much on one side, and his eyes fixed intently upon the prisoner at the bar. The gallery in which he stood faced the dock, though at a great distance from it.

  If there was one man in that vast assembly who, next to the prisoner, was most wretched, that man was the prisoner’s counsel. He was young, and this was only his third or fourth brief; and this was, moreover, the first occasion upon which he had ever been intrusted with an important case. He was an intensely nervous and excitable man, and failure would be to him worse than death; and he felt failure inevitable. He had not one inch of ground for the defence; and, in spite of the prisoner’s repeated protestations of his innocence, he believed that prisoner to be guilty. He was an earnest man; and this belief damped his earnestness. He was a conscientious man; and he felt that to defend Richard Marwood was something like a dishonest action.

  The prisoner pleaded “Not guilty” in a firm voice. We read of this whenever we read of the trial of a great criminal; we read of the firm voice, the calm demeanour, the composed face, and the dignified bearing; and we wonder. Would it not be more wonderful were it otherwise? If we consider the pitch to which that man’s feelings have been wrought; the tension of every nerve; the exertion of every force, mental and physical, to meet those five or six desperate hours, we wonder no longer. The man’s life has become a terrible drama, and he is playing his great act. That mass of pale and watchful faces carries him through the long agony. Or perhaps it is less an agony than an excitement. It may be that his mind is mercifully darkened, and that he cannot see beyond the awful present into the more awful future. He is not busy with the vision of a ghastly structure of wood and iron; a dangling rope swinging loose in the chill morning air, till it is tightened and strained by a quivering and palpitating figure, which so soon grows rigid. He does not, it is to be hoped, see this. Life for him to-day stands still, and there is not room in his breast—absorbed with the one anxious desire to preserve a proud and steady outward seeming—for a thought of that dreadful future which may be so close at hand.

  So, Richard Marwood, in an unfaltering voice, pleaded “Not guilty.”

  There was among that vast crowd but one person who believed him.

  Ay, Richard Marwood, thou mightest reverence those dirty hands, for they have spelt out the only language, except that of thy wretched mother, that ever spoke conviction of thy innocence.

  Now the prisoner, though firm and collected in his manner, spoke in so low and subdued a voice as to be only clearly audible to those near him. It happened that the judge, one of the celebrities of the bench, was afflicted with a trifling infirmity, which he would never condescend to acknowledge. That infirmity was partial deafness. He was what is called hard of hearing on one side, and his—to use a common expression—game ear happened to be nearest Richard.

  “Guilty,” said the judge. “So, so—Guilty. Very good.”

  “Pardon me, my lord,” said the counsel for the defence, “the prisoner pleaded not guilty.”

  “Nonsense, sir. Do you suppose me deaf?” asked his lordship; at which there was a slight titter among the habitués of the court.

  The barrister gave his head a deprecatory shake. Of course, a gentleman in his lordship’s position could not be deaf.

  “Very well, then,” said the judge, “unless I am deaf, the prisoner pleaded guilty. I heard him, sir, with my own ears—my own ears.”

  The barrister thought his lordship should have said “my own ear,” as the game organ ought not to count.

  “Perhaps,” said the judge, “perhaps the prisoner will be good enough to repeat his plea; and this time he will be good enough to speak out.”

  “Not guilty,” said Richard again, in a firm but not a loud voice—his long imprisonment, with days, weeks, and months of slow agony, had so exhausted his physical powers, that to speak at all, under such circumstances, was an effort.

  “Not guilty?” said the judge. “Why, the man doesn’t know his own mind. The man must be a born idiot—he can’t be right in his intellect.”

  Scarcely had the words passed his lordship’s lips, when a long low whistle resounded through the court.

  Everybody looked up towards a corner of the gallery from which the sound came, and the officials cried “Order!”

  Among the rest the prisoner raised his eyes, and looking to the spot from which this unexampled and daring interruption proceeded, recognized the face of the man who had spelt out the words “Not guilty” in the railway carriage. Their eyes met: and the man signalled to Richard to watch his hands, whilst with his fingers he spelt out several words slowly and deliberately.

  This occurred during the pause caused by the endeavours of the officials to discover what contumacious1 person had dared to whistle at the close of his lordship’s remark.

  The counsel for the prosecution stated the case—a very clear case it seemed too—against Richard Marwood.

  “Here,” said the barrister, “is the case of a young man, who, after squandering a fortune, and getting deeply in debt in his native town, leaves that town, as it is thought by all, never to return. For seven years he does not return. His widowed and lonely mother awaits in anguish for any tidings of this heartless reprobate; but, for seven long years, by not so much as one line or one word, sent through any channel whatever, does he attempt to relieve her anxiety. His townsmen believe him to be dead; his mother believes him to be dead; and it is to be presumed from his conduct that he wishes to be lost sight of by all to whom he once was dear. But at the end of this seven years, his uncle, his mother’s only brother, a man of large fortune, returns from India and takes up his temporary abode at the Black Mill. Of course all Slopperton knows of the arrival of this gentleman, and knows also the extent of his wealth. We are always interested in rich people, gentlemen of the jury. Now, it is not very difficult to imagine, that through some channel or other the prisoner at the bar was made aware of his uncle’s return, and his residence at the Black Mill. The fact was mentioned in every one of the five enterprising journals which are the pride of Slopperton. The prisoner may have seen one of these journals; he may have had some former boon companion resident in Slopperton, with whom he may have been in correspondence. Be that as it may, gentlemen, on the eighth night after Mr. Montague Harding’s arrival, the prisoner at the bar appears, after seven years’ absence, with a long face and a penitent story, to beg his mother’s forgiveness. Gentlemen, we know the boundless power of maternal love; the inexhaustible depth of affection in a mother’s breast. His mother forgave him. The fatted calf was killed; the returned wanderer was welcomed to the home he had rendered desolate; the past was wiped out; and seven long years of neglect and desertion were forgotten. The family retired to rest. That night, gentlemen, a murder was committed of a deeper and darker dye than guilt ordinarily wears: a murder which in centuries hence will stand amongst the blackest chapters in the gloomy annals of crime. Under the roof whose shelter he had sought for the repose of his old age, Montague Harding was cruelly and brutally murdered.

  “Now, gentlemen, who committed this outrage? Who was the monster in human form that perpetrated this villanous, cowardly, and bloodthirsty deed? Suspicion, gentlemen of the jury, only points to one man; and to that man suspicion points with so unerring a finger, that the criminal stands revealed in the broad glare of detected guilt. That man is the prisoner at the bar. On the discovery of the murder, the returned wanderer, the penitent and dutiful son, was of course sought for. But was he to be found? No, gentlemen. The bird had flown. The affectionate son, who, after
seven years’ desertion, had returned to his mother’s feet—as it was of course presumed never again to leave her—had departed, secretly, in the dead of the night; choosing to sneak out of a window like a burglar, rather than to leave by the door, as the legitimate master of the house. Suspicion at once points to him; he is sought and found—where, gentlemen? Forty miles from the scene of the murder, with the money rifled from the cabinet of the murdered man in his possession, and with his coat-sleeve stained by the blood of his victim. These, gentlemen, are, in brief, the circumstances of this harrowing case; and I think you will agree with me that never did circumstantial evidence so clearly point out the true criminal. I shall now proceed to call the witnesses for the crown.”

  There was a pause and a little bustle in the court, the waves of the human sea were agitated for a moment. The backers of the favourites, “Guilty” and “Gallows,” felt they had made safe books. During this pause, a man pushed his way through the crowd, up to the spot where the prisoner’s counsel was seated, and put a little dirty slip of paper into his hand. There was written on it only one word, a word of three letters. The counsel read it, and then tore the slip of paper into the smallest atoms it was possible to reduce it to, and threw the fragments on the floor at his feet; but a warm flush mounted to his face, hitherto so pale, and he prepared himself to watch the evidence.

  Richard Marwood, who knew the strength of the evidence against him, and knew his powerlessness to controvert it, had listened to its recapitulation with the preoccupied air of a man whom the proceedings of the day in no way concerned. His abstracted manner had been noticed by the spectators, and much commented upon.

  It was singular, but at this most important crisis it appeared as if his chief attention was attracted by Joseph Peters, for he kept his eyes intently fixed upon the corner where that individual stood. The eyes of the people, following the direction of Richard’s eyes, saw nothing but a little group of officials leaning over a corner of the gallery.

  The crowd did not see what Richard saw, namely, the fingers of Mr. Peters slowly shaping seven letters—two words—four letters in the first word, and three letters in the second.

  There lay before the prisoner a few sprigs of rue;2 he took them up one by one, and gathering them together into a little bouquet, placed them in his button-hole—the eyes of the multitude staring at him all the time.

  Strange to say, this trifling action appeared to be so pleasing to Mr. Joseph Peters, that he danced, as involuntarily, the first steps of an extempore hornpipe, and being sharply called to order by the officials, relapsed into insignificance for the remainder of the trial.

  CHAPTER IX

  “MAD, GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY”

  The first witness called was Richard’s mother. From one to another amidst the immense number of persons in that well-packed courtroom there ran a murmur of compassion for that helpless woman with the white, anguish-worn face, and the quivering lip which tried so vainly to be still. All in Slopperton who knew anything of Mrs. Marwood, knew her to be a proud woman; they knew how silently she had borne the wild conduct of her son; how deeply she had loved that son; and they could guess now the depth of the bitterness of her soul when called upon to utter words which must help to condemn him.

  After the witness had been duly sworn, the counsel for the prosecution addressed her thus:

  “We have every wish, madam, to spare your feelings; I know there is not one individual present who does not sympathize with you in the position in which you now stand. But the course of Justice is as inevitable as it is sometimes painful, and we must all of us yield to its stern necessities. You will be pleased to state how long it is since your son left his home?”

  “Seven years—seven years last August.”

  “Can you also state his reasons for leaving his home?”

  “He had embarrassments in Slopperton—debts, which I have since his departure liquidated.”

  “Can you tell me what species of debts?”

  “They were—” she hesitated a little, “chiefly debts of honour.”

  “Then am I to understand your son was a gambler?”

  “He was unfortunately much addicted to cards.”

  “To any other description of gambling?”

  “Yes, to betting on the events of the turf.”

  “He had fallen, I imagine, into bad companionship?”

  She bowed her head, and in a faltering voice replied, “He had.”

  “And he had acquired in Slopperton the reputation of being a scamp—a ne’er-do-well?”

  “I am afraid he had.”

  “We will not press you further on this very painful subject; we will proceed to his departure from home. Your son gave you no intimation of his intention of leaving Slopperton?”

  “None whatever. The last words he said to me were, that he was sorry for the past, but that he had started on a bad road, and must go on to the end.”

  In this manner the examination proceeded, the account of the discovery of the murder being elicited from the witness, whose horror at having to give the details was exceedingly painful to behold.

  The prisoner’s counsel rose and addressed Mrs. Marwood.

  “In examining you, madam, my learned friend has not asked you whether you had looked upon your son, the prisoner at the bar, as a good or a bad son. Will you be kind enough to state your impression on this subject?”

  “Apart from his wild conduct, he was a good son. He was kind and affectionate, and I believe it was his regret for the grief his dissipation had caused me that drove him away from his home.”

  “He was kind and affectionate. I am to understand, then, that his disposition was naturally good?”

  “Naturally he had a most excellent disposition. He was universally beloved as a boy; the servants were excessively attached to him; he had a great love of animals—dogs followed him instinctively, as I believe they always do follow people who like them.”

  “A very interesting trait, no doubt, in the prisoner’s disposition; but if we are to have so much charmingly minute description, I’m afraid we shall never conclude this trial,” said the opposite counsel. And a juryman, who had a ticket for a public dinner at four o’clock in his pocket, forgot himself so far that he applauded with the heels of his boots.

  The prisoner’s counsel, regardless of the observation of his “learned friend,” proceeded.

  “Madam,” he said, “had your son, before his departure from home, any serious illness?”

  “The question is irrelevant,” said the judge.

  “Pardon me, my lord. I shall not detain you long. I believe the question to be of importance. Permit me to proceed.”

  Mrs. Marwood looked surprised by the question, but it came from her son’s advocate, and she did her best to answer it.

  “My son had, shortly before his leaving home, a violent attack of brain-fever.”1

  “During which he was delirious?”

  “Everybody is delirious in brain-fever,” said the judge. “This is trifling with the court, sir.”

  The judge was rather inclined to snub the prisoner’s counsel; first, because he was a young and struggling man, and therefore ought to be snubbed; and secondly, because he had in a manner inferred that his lordship was deaf.

  “Pardon me, my lord; you will see the drift of my question by-and-by.”

  “I hope so, sir,” said his lordship, very testily.

  “Was your son, madam, delirious during this fever?”

  “Throughout it, sir.”

  “And you attributed the fever——”

  “To his bad conduct having preyed upon his mind.”

  “Were you alarmed for his life during his illness?”

  “Much alarmed. But our greatest fear was for his reason.”

  “Did the faculty apprehend the loss of his reason?”

  “They did.”

  “The doctors who attended him were resident in Slopperton?”

  “They were, and are so still. He
was attended by Dr. Morton and Mr. Lamb.”

  The prisoner’s counsel here beckoned to some officials near him—whispered some directions to them, and they immediately left the court.

  Resuming the examination of this witness, the counsel said:

  “You repeated just now the words your son made use of on the night of his departure from home. They were rather singular words—‘he had started on a dark road, and he must go on to the end of it.’ ”

  “Those were his exact words, sir.”

  “Was there any wildness in his manner in saying these words?” he asked.

  “His manner was always wild at this time—perhaps wilder that night than usual.”

  “His manner, you say, was always wild. He had acquired a reputation for a wild recklessness of disposition from an early age, had he not?”

  “He had, unfortunately—from the time of his going to school.”

  “And his companions, I believe, had given him some name expressive of this?”

  “They had.”

  “And that name was——”

  “Daredevil Dick.”

  Martha, the old servant, was next sworn. She described the finding of the body of Mr. Harding.

  The examination by the prisoner’s counsel of this witness elicited nothing but that—

  Master Dick had always been a wild boy, but a good boy at heart; that he had been never known to hurt so much as a worm; and that she, Martha, was sure he’d never done the murder. When asked if she had any suspicion as to who had done the deed, she became nebulous in her manner, and made some allusions to “the French”—having lived in the days of Waterloo, and being inclined to ascribe any deed of darkness, from the stealing of a leg of mutton to the exploding of an infernal machine, to the emissaries of Napoleon.

  Mr. Jinks, who was then examined, gave a minute and rather discursive account of the arrest of Richard, paying several artful compliments to his own dexterity as a detective officer.