Complete works of hall c.., p.31
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 31
“None, none; never make any more botherment about it, Master Lawson,” said the third.
“The little tailor is safe. He can do no harm as a witness.”
“I’m none so sure of that,” rejoined the first speaker.
The door was thrown open and the three men stepped aside to allow the crush to pass them. One of the first to enter was Mrs. Garth. The uncanny old crone cast a quick glance about her as she came in with the rest, hooded close against the cold. Her eyes fell on one of the three men who stood apart. For a moment she fixed her gaze steadfastly upon him, and then the press from behind swept her forward. But in that moment she had exchanged a swift and unmistakable glance of recognition. The man’s face twitched slightly. He looked relieved when the woman had passed on.
Dense as had been the throng that filled the court on the earlier hearing, the throng was now even yet more dense. The benches usually provided for the public had been removed, and spectators stood on every inch of the floor. Some crept up to the windows, and climbed on to the window boards. One or two daring souls clambered over the shoulders of their fellows to the principals of the roof, and sat perched across them. The old court house was paved and walled with people.
From the entrance at the western end the occupants of the seats before the table filed in one by one. The first to come was the sheriff, Wilfrey Lawson. With papers in hand, he stationed himself immediately under the jurors’ box and facing the bar. Then came the clerk of the court, who was making an ostentatious display of familiarity with counsel for the King, who walked half a pace behind him.
The judges took their seats. As they entered, the gentleman of the rubicund complexion was chatting in a facetious vein with his brother judge, who, however, relaxed but little of the settled austerity of his countenance under the fire of many jests.
Silence was commanded, and Ralph Ray was ordered to the bar. He had scarcely taken his place there when the name of Simeon Stagg was also called. For an instant Ralph looked amazed. The sheriff observed his astonishment and smiled. The next moment Sim was by his side. His face was haggard; his long gray-and-black hair hung over his temples. He was led in. He clutched feverishly at the rail in front. He had not yet lifted his eyes. After a moment he raised them, and met the eyes of Ralph turned towards him. Then he shuffled and sidled up to Ralph’s elbow. The people stretched their necks to see the unexpected prisoner.
After many preliminary formalities it was announced that the grand jury had found a true bill for murder against the two prisoners.
The indictment was read. It charged Ralph Ray and Simeon Stagg with having murdered with malice aforethought James Wilson, agent to the King’s counsel.
The prisoners were told to plead. Ralph answered promptly and in a clear tone, “Not Guilty.” Sim hesitated, looked confused, stammered, lifted his eyes as if inquiringly to Ralph’s face, then muttered indistinctly, “Not Guilty.”
The judges exchanged glances. The clerk, with a sneer on his lip, mumbled something to counsel. The spectators turned with a slight bustle among themselves. Their pleas had gone against the prisoners — at least against Ralph.
When the men at the bar were asked how they would be tried, Ralph turned to the bench and said he had been kept close prisoner for seven days, none having access to him. Was he to be called to trial, not knowing the charge against him until he was ordered to the bar?
No attention was paid to his complaint, and the jury was empanelled. Then counsel rose, and with the customary circumlocution opened the case against the prisoners. In the first place, he undertook to indicate the motive and occasion of the horrid, vile, and barbarous crime which had been committed, and which, he declared, scarce anything in the annals of justice could parallel; then, he would set forth the circumstances under which the act was perpetrated; and, finally, he proposed to show what grounds existed for inferring that the prisoners were guilty thereof.
He told the court that the deceased James Wilson, as became him according to the duty of his secret office, had been a very zealous person. In his legal capacity he had sought and obtained a warrant for the arrest of the prisoner Ray. That warrant had never been served. Why? The dead body of Wilson had been found at daybreak in a lonely road not far from the homes of both prisoners. The warrant was not on the body. It had been missing to that day. His contention would be that the prisoners had obtained knowledge of the warrant; that they had waylaid the deceased agent in a place and at a time most convenient for the execution of their murderous design. With the cunning of clever criminals, they had faced the subsequent coroner’s inquiry. One of them, being the less artful, had naturally come under suspicion. The other, a cunning and dangerous man, had even taken an active share in defending his confederate. But being pursued by a guilty conscience, they dared not stay at the scene of their crime, and both had fled from their homes. All this would be justified by strong and undeniable circumstances.
Counsel resumed his seat amid the heavy breathings and inaudible mutterings of the throng behind him. He was proceeding to call his witnesses, when Ralph asked to be heard.
“Is it the fact that I surrendered of my own free will and choice?”
“It is.” “Is it assumed that I was prompted to that step also by a guilty conscience?”
Counsel realized that he was placed on the horns of a dilemma. Ignoring Ralph, he said, —
“My lords, the younger prisoner did surrender. He surrendered to a warrant charging him with conspiring to subvert the King’s authority. He threw himself on the mercy of his Sovereign, and claimed the benefit of the pardon. And why? To save himself from indictment on the capital charge; at the price, peradventure, of a fine or a year’s imprisonment to save himself from the gallows. Thus he tried to hoodwink the law; but, my lords,” — and counsel lifted himself to his utmost height,— “the law is not to be hoodwinked.”
“God forfend else!” echoed Justice Millet, shifting in his seat and nodding his head with portentous gravity.
“I was loath to interrupt you,” said Justice Hide, speaking calmly and for the first time, “or I should have pointed out wherein your statement did not correspond with the facts of the prisoner Ray’s conduct as I know it. Let us without delay hear the witnesses.”
The first witness called was a woman thinly and poorly clad, who came to the box with tears in her eyes, and gave the name of Margaret Rushton. Ralph recognized her as the young person who had occasioned a momentary disturbance near the door towards the close of the previous trial. Sim recognized her also, but his recollection dated farther back.
She described herself as the wife of a man who had been outlawed, and whose estates had been sequestered. She had been living the life of a vagrant woman.
“Was your husband named John Rushton?” asked Ralph.
“Yes,” she replied meekly, and all but inaudibly.
“John Rushton of Aberleigh!”
“The same.”
“Did you ever hear him speak of an old comrade — Ralph Ray?”
“Yes, yes,” answered the witness, lifting her hands to her face and sobbing aloud.
“The prisoner wastes the time of the court. Let us proceed.”
Ralph saw the situation at a glance. The woman’s evidence — whatever it might be — was to be forced from her. “Have you seen these prisoners before?”
“Yes, one of them.”
“Perhaps both?”
“Yes, perhaps both.”
“Pray tell my lords and the jury what you know concerning them.”
The woman tried to speak and stopped, tried again and stopped.
Counsel, coming to her relief, said, —
“It was in Wythburn you saw them; when was that?”
“I passed through it with my two children at Martinmas,” the witness began falteringly.
“Tell my lords and the jury what happened then.”
“I had passed by the village, and had come to a cottage that stood at the angle of two roads. The morning was cold, and my poor babies were crying. Then it came on to rain. So I knocked at the cottage, and an old man opened the door.”
“Do you see the old man in this court?”
“Yes — there,” pointing to where Sim stood in the dock with downcast eyes.
There was a pause.
“Come, good woman, let my lords and the jury hear what further you know of this matter. You went into the cottage!”
“He said I might warm the children at the fire; their little limbs were as cold as stone.”
“Well, well?”
“He seemed half crazed, I thought; but he was very kind to me and my little ones. He gave them some warm milk, and said we might stay till the weather cleared. It did not clear all day. Towards nightfall the old man’s daughter came home. She was a dear fine girl, God bless her!”
The silence of the court was only disturbed by a stifled groan from the bar, where Sim still stood with downcast eyes. Ralph gazed through a blinding mist at the rafters overhead.
“She nursed the little ones, and gave them oaten cake and barley bread. The good people were poor themselves; I could see they were. It rained heavier than ever, so the young woman made a bed for us in a little room, and we slept in the cottage until morning.”
“Was anything said concerning the room you slept in?” “They said it was their lodger’s room; but he was away, and would not return until the night following.”
“Next day you took the road towards the North?”
“Yes, towards Carlisle. They told me that if my husband were ever taken he would be brought to Carlisle. That was why I wished to get here. But I had scarce walked a mile — I had a baby at the breast and a little boy who could just toddle beside me — I had scarce walked a mile before the boy became ill, and could not walk. I first thought to go back to the cottage, but I was too weak to carry both children. So I sat with my little ones by the roadside.”
The witness paused again. Ralph was listening with intense eagerness. He was leaning over the rail before him to catch every syllable. When the woman had regained some composure he said quietly, —
“There is a bridge thereabouts that spans a river. Which side of the bridge were you then?”
“The Carlisle side; that is to say, the north.”
The voice of counsel interrupted a further inquiry.
“Pray tell my lords and the jury what else you know, good woman.”
“We should have perished of cold where we sat, but looking up I saw that there was a barn in a field close by. It was open to the front, but it seemed to be sheltered on three sides, and had some hay in it. So I made my way to it through a gate, and carried the children.”
“What happened while you were there? — quick, woman, let us get to the wicked fact itself.”
“We stayed there all day, and when the night came on I covered the little ones in the hay, and they cried themselves to sleep.”
The tears were standing in the woman’s eyes. The eyes of others were wet.
“Yes, yes, but what occurred?” said counsel, to whom the weeping of outcast babes was obviously less than an occurrence.
“I could not sleep,” said the woman hoarsely; and lifting her voice to a defiant pitch, she said, “Would that the dear God had let me sleep that night of all nights of my life!”
“Come, good woman,” said counsel more soothingly, “what next?”
“I listened to the footsteps that went by on the road, and so the weary hours trailed on. At last they had ceased to come and go. It was then that I heard a horse’s canter far away to the north.”
The witness was speaking in a voice so low as to be scarcely audible to the people, who stood on tiptoe and held their breath to hear.
“My little boy cried in his sleep. Then all was quiet again.”
Sim shuddered perceptibly. He felt his flesh creep.
“The thought came to me that perhaps the man on the horse could give me something to do the boy good. If he came from a distance, he would surely carry brandy. So I labored out of the barn and trudged through the grass to the hedge. Then I heard footsteps on the road. They were coming towards me.”
“Was it dark?”
“Yes, but not very dark. I could see the hedge across the way. The man on foot and the man on the horse came together near where I stood.”
“How near — twenty paces?”
“Less. I was about to call, when I heard the man on foot speak to the other, who was riding past him.”
“You saw both men clearly?”
“No,” replied the woman firmly; “not clearly. I saw the one on the road. He was a little man, and he limped in his walk.”
In the stillness of the court Ralph could almost hear the woman breathe.
“They were quarrelling, the two men; you heard what they said?” said counsel, breaking silence.
“It’s not true,” cried the witness, in a hurried manner, “I heard nothing.”
“This is no suborned witness, my lords,” said counsel in a cold voice, and with a freezing smile. “Well, woman?”
“The tall man leapt off his horse, and there was a struggle. The little man was swearing. There was a heavy fall, and all was quiet once more.”
As she spoke the woman recoiled to the back of the box, and covered her face in her hands.
“What manner of man was the taller one?” “He had a strong face with big features and large eyes. I saw him indistinctly.”
“Do you see him now?”.
“I cannot swear; but — but I think I do.”
“Is the prisoner who stands to the left the man you saw that night?”
“The voice is the same, the face is similar, and he wears the same habit — a long dark coat lined with light flannel.”
“Is that all you know of the matter?”
“I knew that a crime had been committed in my sight. I felt that a dead body lay close beside me. I was about to turn away, when I heard a third man come up and speak to the man on the horse.”
“You knew the voice?”
“It was the cottager who had given us shelter. I ran back to the barn, snatched up my two children in their sleep, and fled away across the fields — I know not where.”
Justice Hide asked the witness why she had not spoken of this before; three months had elapsed since then.
She replied that she had meant to do so, but it came into her mind that perhaps the cottager was somehow concerned in the crime, and she remembered how good he and his daughter had been to her.
“How had she come to make the disclosures now?”
The witness explained that when she crushed her way into the court a week ago it was with the idea that the prisoner might be her husband. He was not her husband, but when she saw his face she remembered that she had seen him before. A man in the body of the court had followed her out and asked her questions.
“Who was the man?” asked the judge, turning to the sheriff.
The gentleman addressed pointed to a man near at hand, who rose at this reference, with a smile of mingled pride and cunning, as though he felt honored by this public disclosure of his astuteness. He was a small man with a wrinkled face, and a sinister cast in one of his eyes, which lay deep under shaggy brows. We have met him before.
The judge looked steadily at him as he rose in his place. After a minute or two he turned again to look at him. Then he made some note on a paper in his hand.
The witness looked jaded and worn with the excitement. During her examination Sim had never for an instant upraised his eyes from the ground. The eagerness with which Ralph had watched her was written in every muscle of his face. When liberty was given him to question her, he asked in a soft and tender voice if she knew what time of the night it might be when she had seen what she had described.
Between nine and ten o’clock as near as she could say, perhaps fully ten.
Was she sure which side of the bridge she was on — north or south?
“Sure; it was north of the bridge.”
Ralph asked if the records of the coroner’s inquiry were at hand. They were not. Could he have them examined? It was needless. But why?
“Because,” said Ralph, “it was sworn before the coroner that the body was found to the south of the bridge — fifty yards to the south of it.”
The point was treated with contempt and some derisive laughter. When Ralph pressed it, there was humming and hissing in the court.
“We must not expect that we can have exact and positive proof,” said Justice Millet; “we would come as near as we can to circumstances by which a fact of this dark nature can be proved. It is easy for a witness to be mistaken on such a point.”
The young woman Margaret Rushton was being dismissed.
“One word,” said Justice Hide. “You say you have heard your husband speak of the prisoner Ray; how has he spoken of him?”
“How? — as the bravest gentleman in all England!” said the woman eagerly.
Sim lifted his head, and clutched the rail. “God — it’s true, it’s true!” he cried hysterically, in a voice that ran through the court.
“My lords,” said counsel, “you have heard the truth wrung from a reluctant witness, but you have not heard all the circumstances of this horrid fact. The next witness will prove the motive of the crime.”
A burly Cumbrian came into the box, and gave the name of Thomas Scroope. He was an agent to the King’s counsel. Ralph glanced at him. He was the man who insulted the girl in Lancaster.
He said he remembered the defendant Ray as a captain in the trained bands of the late Parliament. Ray was always proud and arrogant. He had supplanted the captain whose captaincy he afterwards held.
“When was that?”
“About seven years agone,” rejoined the witness; adding in an undertone, and as though chuckling to himself, “he’s paid dear enough for that sin’ then.”
Ralph interrupted.
“Who was the man I supplanted, as you say — the man who has made me pay dear for it, as you think?”
No answer.
