Collected works of j s f.., p.426
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 426
Here Mrs. Tretheroe paused. Her fingers began to tap the ledge before her; she looked at the Coroner and the jury with a slightly embarrassed expression.
“What happened, if you please?” asked the Coroner in matter-of-fact tones.
“Well — I wanted to see Guy!” continued Mrs. Tretheroe suddenly. “And so — not just then, but after a while — about half-past ten, I think — I put on a coat over my dinner dress and ran across the park to the Court — there’s a path, a short cut. I came here — I saw Braxfield, the butler, and Valencia Markenmore. I told Valencia that I’d heard Guy had come home. She said he’d gone. Then I thought that, perhaps, hearing I was at the Dower House, he’d come down there to see me, so I went away, thinking I might find him waiting for me.”
“Did you find him?”
“No — but — I met him. He had been to my house. I met him at the gate.”
“What happened then?”
“He went back to my house with me.”
“I believe you were entertaining a house-party, Mrs. Tretheroe?”
“Yes.”
“A large one?”
“Eight, altogether.”
“Did you introduce Mr. Guy Markenmore to your guests when you took him in?”
“No, I didn’t. They were playing bridge, some of them — some were playing billiards. He didn’t see any of them.”
“Where did you and he go, in your house?”
“We went up to my boudoir.”
The Coroner leaned still nearer.
“We have heard — from Sir Harry Markenmore — that his brother spoke of an appointment, which he hurried away to keep? Now — was that appointment with you?”
“No — certainly not!”
“Did he mention any appointment to you?”
“Yes — merely to say that he had one — close by.”
“Close by? Did he say with whom, or where?”
“No, he did not. He merely mentioned the fact — casually. I didn’t question him about it.”
“And — how long did he stay with you at the Dower House?”
Mrs. Tretheroe hesitated — obviously, not from uncertainty.
“The question is a highly important one,” said the Coroner.
“Well, he stayed until a quarter to twelve,” answered Mrs. Tretheroe.
“Then he was with you about an hour?”
“About an hour — yes.”
“Alone — all the time?”
“Yes.”
“Did any of your guests — or any of your servants — see him, coming or going?”
“No one saw him. He and I entered the house by a side door, of which I have the key always in my possession. We went straight up to my boudoir. I let him out of the house in the same way. No — nobody saw him.”
“You let Guy Markenmore out of your house, yourself, at a quarter to twelve. Did you notice which way he went when he left?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I walked down the drive with him, to the entrance gate. He went along the main road, towards the village.”
“And, after that, you never saw him again?”
Mrs. Tretheroe shook her head, and for a moment those about her thought that she was about to burst into tears. But she suddenly controlled herself, and there was an almost defiant expression in her eyes as she answered the last question.
“I never saw him again — until I saw him yesterday dead — murdered!”
The Coroner drew back in his chair: clearly, he had got at what he particularly wanted to know: the glance that he gave the jurymen was obviously intended to remind them that they now knew that from half-past ten to a quarter to twelve o’clock of the night before his death Guy Markenmore had been with Mrs. Tretheroe, alone in her boudoir, unknown to any one. From the jury he turned to the men of law, sitting at the table beneath his raised desk.
The barrister who had been instructed by the police authorities slowly rose to his feet, and turned himself to the witness.
“I believe it is pretty well known, Mrs. Tretheroe,” he said in bland, half-apologetic tones, “that before your marriage to your late husband, you had a good many suitors.”
“Yes!” answered Mrs. Tretheroe readily. “At least — I don’t know what you mean by well known. But I had — certainly.”
“Mr. Guy Markenmore was one of them?”
“Yes.”
“A particularly favoured one?”
“Well — yes, I think so.”
“There was, in fact, at one time, some prospect of marriage between you?”
“We were certainly very fond of each other.”
“We will pass from that for the moment — nothing came of it then. You married Colonel Tretheroe. But, I may take it, you — you still retained some of the old feeling for Guy Markenmore.”
Mrs. Tretheroe hesitated. When she spoke again, her voice was lower in tone.
“I — I didn’t know of it until — until I met him again, the other night,” she said.
“But, you realized it then?”
“I suppose I did. I was very pleased to see him.”
“And he to meet you again, I suppose?”
“Yes — indeed he was.”
“Now, Mrs. Tretheroe, in the interest of justice, we want to get at the truth. When Guy Markenmore was with you alone, in your house, on Monday night, did he ask you to marry him?”
“Yes — he did.”
“And you replied — what?”
“I promised him that I would,” answered Mrs. Tretheroe.
CHAPTER VII
MRS. BRAXFIELD SUPPORTS
AMIDST THE RIPPLE of murmured interest that ran round the room, the questioner looked significantly at the twelve jurymen, as much as to tell them to keep their ears well open; from them he turned once more to his witness.
“You accepted his offer of marriage, then. Did you arrange when it was to be?”
“Yes, we did.”
“When?”
“Almost at once. For this reason — he told me that he was obliged to go over to New York on most important business within the next week or two. I decided to go with him. So we arranged that he should get a special license and we would be married straight off.”
“Any particular date?”
“Yes. Next Monday morning — at Southampton.”
“We may take it, then, that you and Guy Markenmore, as old lovers, on meeting once more, and you being free, fell in love with each other again, and decided to marry without further delay?”
“Yes — I suppose so.”
“Very well. Now, Mrs. Tretheroe, I want you to let your mind go back to the days when you were Miss Leighton. You have admitted that you had a good many suitors. Is it not a fact that out of the many there were two young gentlemen of this neighbourhood who were specially favoured by you, and that one was Mr. Guy Markenmore, and the other Mr. John Harborough, of Greycloister?”
Mrs. Tretheroe showed no hesitation in answering this question.
“They came first — in those days — certainly,” she admitted.
“So much so, that it was commonly said, hereabouts, that you couldn’t make up your mind between them?”
“I daresay that was said.”
“Now, how was it that, in the end, you didn’t marry either, but did marry somebody else.”
“There were reasons.”
“What reasons? All this is important to the issue before the jury. What were the reasons.”
“Well — they became terribly jealous of each other. From being great friends they became bitter enemies. Or, rather, Harborough conceived a terrible, wicked enmity towards Guy. Harborough got an idea that Guy had poisoned my mind against him.”
“Had Guy Markenmore poisoned your mind?”
“No, he had not! But Harborough was always jealous and suspicious, and he became so — so violent about things that — well, I dismissed him.”
“And — what then as regards his rival?”
Mrs. Tretheroe began to finger her rings.
“Well,” she answered after a pause. “I — the fact is, I got a bit sick of the squabble, so I told Guy it wouldn’t do — and I accepted Colonel Tretheroe.”
“I see. You got rid of both the youthful suitors, and married one who was older and more sensible. Very good. But now, Mrs. Tretheroe, I think something had happened before that. You said just now that Harborough conceived a terrible, wicked enmity towards Guy Markenmore. Now, is it a fact that Harborough threatened his rival in your presence?”
“Yes — it is.”
“When? On what occasion?”
“It was one day when he met Guy and myself coming home from hunting. There was a scene — high words, Harborough lost his temper. He told Guy that he’d settle him. And I know for a fact that he afterwards threatened him again — he said he’d kill him.”
“How do you know that for a fact?”
“Because Guy told me of it.”
“Was he afraid of Harborough?”
“I think he was. Harborough had a very black, ugly temper — when crossed.”
“And he threatened to kill his rival because of — what, exactly?”
“Well, as I said just now, he’d got it into his head that Guy had said things about him to me, and that his chances with me had been destroyed by that.”
“Then I take it that Harborough, at that period, had asked you to marry him?”
Mrs. Tretheroe arched her eyebrows in a glance of surprise.
“Lots of times!” she answered. “He was always asking me to marry him.”
“And — did you give him any decided answer?”
“I don’t know about decided answer. At one time — perhaps I would: then I used to think that I wouldn’t. No — I don’t think I ever said I would or I wouldn’t, definitely.”
“And all this time, I suppose, Guy Markenmore was in the running, also.”
“Yes.”
“Was he asking you to marry him, too?”
“Oh, yes. They were always teasing me — both of them.”
“And in the end Harborough got the idea that his rival was undermining him?”
“Yes — he certainly did. He said so.”
“And later — you — shall we say, dismissed both, and accepted Colonel Tretheroe?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever see either of them again after becoming engaged to Colonel Tretheroe?”
“I never saw Guy Markenmore. I saw Harborough once. I met him one afternoon, near here, accidentally.”
“Anything take place?”
“Yes. He went into one of his passions. He reproached me bitterly. He said I’d led him on for three years and then thrown him aside. And he finished up by repeating that he knew he’d Guy Markenmore to thank for it, and that if he ever came across him again, however long it might be, he’d shoot him like a dog.”
When the sensation caused by this reply had died down, the questioner gave Mrs. Tretheroe a searching look.
“You swear that he said this — on your oath?”
“On my oath!”
“Harborough said — to you — that it was due to Guy Markenmore that he, Harborough, had lost his chance with you, and that if he ever met Guy again, however long it might be, he’d shoot him like a dog?”
“Yes. That is precisely what he said.”
“I take it, then, that at that time Harborough was passionately in love with you?”
“Madly, I believe!” murmured Mrs. Tretheroe. “He acted like a madman. I was afraid of him.”
“When this threat was made had Guy Markenmore gone away from here?”
“Oh, yes — some little time before.”
“And did Harborough go soon after?”
“He went away a few days before I was married.”
“Now, during the seven years of your marriage — six years, rather, I think — did you ever meet Harborough?”
“Never!”
“Ever hear from him?”
“No.”
“Or of him?”
“I heard — just once — from a friend of mine in Selcaster that he was still travelling abroad, and that Greycloister had then been shut up for some years.”
“Very well. In time your husband died, and you came back to England and took the Dower House here. And last Monday Mr. Harborough returned to Greycloister. Now, Mrs. Tretheroe, I want to ask you a most important question. Did you meet John Harborough last Monday?”
A dead silence fell on the room. For Mrs. Tretheroe hesitated in her answer. Every neck was craned forward. At last she spoke.
“Yes!”
“Where? — and at what time?”
“Just outside his own gates, at Greycloister, about five o’clock in the afternoon.”
“Were you alone?”
“I was. I had gone out for a short walk by myself, with my dogs.”
“The meeting was accidental?”
“Certainly. I had no idea he’d come home.”
“Was there any — shall we call it embarrassment?”
“Well, yes. I was surprised. He seemed taken aback — agitated. Of course we shook hands and talked a little. Mere talk.”
“Any reference to your former relations?”
“No.”
“Just a mere polite exchange of — nothing in particular?”
“Just that. But he asked if — or, rather, when — he might come and see me.”
“And what did you reply?”
“I replied — well, that he might come whenever he liked. What else could I reply?”
“He knew that you were free? — that Colonel Tretheroe was dead?”
“Oh, yes — I mentioned that myself.”
“And then, I suppose, you parted?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you next see him?”
“On the following morning, in the morning-room here, when I came in to offer my condolences about Sir Anthony, and heard that Guy was dead.”
“And I believe that you immediately denounced John Harborough as his murderer?”
“I did.”
The barrister paused in his examination, hesitated a while; and then, as if satisfied, suddenly dropped back in his seat, and pulling out a snuff-box, tapped it thoughtfully before helping himself to a substantial pinch. A murmur of excitement had run round the spectators when Mrs. Tretheroe gave her last decided answer; it had scarcely died away before Harborough’s solicitor, Mr. Walkinshaw, rose at the table. He looked fixedly at the witness.
“I want to ask you a very pointed question,” he said. “And I want a very definite answer. Do you honestly believe that Mr. John Harborough killed Guy Markenmore? Think!”
“I have thought!” retorted Mrs. Tretheroe defiantly. “I do!”
“You believe that Mr. Harborough nursed his desire for revenge — if he ever really had any — for seven years, and took the first opportunity of gratifying it?”
“I think he shot Guy Markenmore,” said Mrs. Tretheroe, with some show of sullenness.
“You think that Mr. Harborough returned home still in love with you? Answer!”
“I think it’s possible. He used to swear that he could never love anybody else. And he certainly hadn’t married.”
“I will put this to you. Mr. Harborough met you on Monday afternoon. Let us suppose that all his old passion was revived at the mere sight of you — let us suppose, still further, that he made up his mind to once more become a suitor for your hand. Do you think it very likely that he would begin matters by shooting a man?”
“I’m not going to suppose anything. I believe he did shoot Guy. They met — accidentally — and Harborough shot him.”
“You are a ready hand at making assertions, Mrs. Tretheroe! You calmly assert they met. What! at four o’clock in the morning — at Markenmore Hollow?”
Mrs. Tretheroe looked round. Up to then she had confined her occasional glances to the Coroner and the jury, but this time she took a comprehensive view of the crowded room. And as she turned to face Mr. Walkinshaw again, it was with a smile that signified contempt for his insinuation.
“I know that John Harborough was up there at Markenmore Hollow at four o’clock that morning,” she retorted boldly. “And, I know, too, that he was seen!”
Walkinshaw paused, abruptly. He looked round at his client; so, too, did everybody in the room. Once more a murmur of surprise rippled round. Walkinshaw went back to Harborough, who sat unmoved and silent; the solicitor whispered rapidly to him; Harborough did no more than nod, almost unconcernedly. A moment later Mrs. Tretheroe had been dismissed from the witness-box and another witness had been called into it.
“Elizabeth Braxfield!”
Mr. Fransemmery and his eleven companions felt a new interest arise in their hearts as they stared at the ex-landlady of the Sceptre. Eleven of them were already wondering what she could tell. But Mr. Fransemmery, knowing what he did of Mrs. Braxfield’s early habits, began to anticipate.
The Coroner left the examination of this witness to the barrister who appeared for the police authorities. He lost no time in getting to the point.
“I believe, Mrs. Braxfield, that you were formerly Mrs. Wrenne, of the Sceptre Inn, and that before you were Mrs. Wrenne, you were a Miss Rawlings, a daughter of Thomas Rawlings, who kept the Sceptre Inn before your late husband, Peter Wrenne, had it?”
“Quite correct, sir,” answered Mrs. Braxfield.
“Then you have lived all your life in Markenmore, and know all the people in it?”
“Yes, sir — and for a good many miles round.”
“Do you know Mr. John Harborough?”
“Yes, sir — known him ever since he was a boy.”
“Did you see him on Tuesday morning last?”
“I did.”
“What time?”
“Ten minutes past four o’clock.”
“Where?”
“Near my house, sir.”
“Where is your house?”
“Up on the downs, sir — Woodland Cottage; about two hundred yards from Markenmore Hollow.”
“How came you to see him — or anybody — at that early hour?”
“Nothing unusual in that, sir. I often get up at four o’clock — that is when the mornings get light. I keep a lot of fowls, and I get up to attend to them.”
