Cradock Nowell: A Tale of the New Forest. Volume 1 of 3

Whether it were a balled cartridge or a charge of loose shot at six feet distance, was the momentous issue. In the former case, there would be fair reason to set it down as an accident; for the place where Cradock had first been seen was thirty yards from Clayton; and he might so have shot him thence, in the dusk, and through the thick of the covert. But if that poor boy had died from a common charge of shot, “Murder” was the only verdict true men could return on the evidence set before them. For Cradock must have fired wilfully at the open throat of his brother, then flown to the hedge and acted horror when he saw John Rosedew. Where was Cradock? The jury trembled, and so did Rufus Hutton. The coroner repeated the question, although he had no right to do it, at that stage of the evidence.

“Since it occurred he has not been seen”, whispered Rufus Hutton at last, knowing how men grow impatient and evil when unanswered.

“Let us proceed with the rest of the evidence”, said his honour, grandly; “if the young man cares for his reputation, he will be here by–and–by. But I have ridden far to–day. Let us have some refreshment, gentlemen. Justice must not be hurried”.

CHAPTER XXIII

It will have been perceived already that the coroner was by no means “the right man in the right place”. The legal firm, “Cole, Cole, and Son”, had been known in Southampton for many years, as doing a large and very respectable business. The present Mr. Cole, the coroner, who had been the “Son” in the partnership, became sole owner suddenly by the death of his father and uncle. Having brains enough to know that he was far from having too much, he took at once into partnership with him an uncommonly wide–awake, wary fellow, who had been head–clerk to the old firm, ever biding his time for this inevitable result. So now the firm was thriving under the style and title of “Cole, Chope, and Co”., Mr. Chope being known far and wide by the nickname of “Coleʼs brains”. Mr. Cole being appointed coroner, not many months ago, and knowing very little about his duties, took good care for a time not to attempt their discharge without having “Coleʼs brains” with him. But this had been found to interfere so sadly with private practice, that little by little Cole plucked up courage, as the novelty of the thing wore off, and now was accustomed to play the coroner without the assistance of brains. Nevertheless, upon an occasion so important as this, he would have come with full cerebrum, but that Chope was gone for his holiday. Mr. Cole, however, was an honest man – which could scarcely be said of his partner – and meant to do his duty, so far as he could see it. In the present inquiry he had less chance of seeing it than usual, for he stood in great awe of Mr. Brockwood, a man of ability and high standing, who, as Sir Cradock Nowellʼs solicitor, attended to watch the case, at the suggestion of Rufus Hutton.

Both the guns were produced to the coroner, in the condition in which they were found, except that John Rosedew, for safetyʼs sake, had lowered the right hammer of Claytonʼs to the half–cock, before he concealed it from Cradock. Cradockʼs own unlucky piece had been found, on the following morning, in a rushy pool, where he had cast it, as he fled so wildly. Both the barrels had been discharged, while both of Claytonʼs were loaded. It went to the heart of every man there who could not think Cradock a murderer, when in reply to a jurymanʼs question, what was the meaning of certain lines marked with a watch–spring file on the trigger–plate of his gun, it was explained that the twins so registered the number and kind of the seasonʼs game.

After this, Mark Stote was called, and came forward very awkwardly with a deal of wet on his velveteen cuffs, which he tried to keep from notice. His eyes were fixed upon the coroner, with a kind of defiance, but even while he was kissing the book, he was glad to sniff behind it.

“Mr. Mark Stote”, said the coroner, duly prompted, “you have, I believe, been employed to examine the scene of this lamentable occurrence”?

Mark Stote took a minute to understand this, and a minute to consider his answer.

“Yees, my lard, I throwed a squoyle at ’un”.

The representative of the Crown looked at Mark with amazement equal at least to that with which Mark was regarding him.

“Gentlemen”, asked Mr. Cole, addressing the court in general, “what language does this man talk”?

“West Saxon”, replied Mr. Brockwood, speaking apart to the coroner; “West Saxon of the forest. He can talk plain English generally, but whenever these people are nervous, they fall back unconsciously upon their native idiom. You will never be able to understand him: shall I act as interpreter”?

“With all my heart; that is to say, with the consent of the jury. But what – I mean to say, how – ”

“How am I to be checked, you mean, unless I am put upon oath; and how can you enter it as evidence? Simply thus – let your clerk take down the original answers. All the jury will understand them, and so, perhaps, will he”.

The clerk, who was a fine young gentleman, strongly pronounced in attire, nodded a distinct disclaimer. It would be so unaristocratic to understand any peasant–tongue.

“At any rate, most of the magistrates do. There are plenty of checks upon me. But I am not ambitious of the office. Appoint any one you please”.

“Gentlemen of the jury”, said the coroner, glad to shift from himself the smallest responsibility, “are you content that Mr. Brockwood should do as he has offered”?

“Certain, and most kind of him”, replied the jury, all speaking at once, “if his honour was unable to understand old English”.

“Very good”, said Mr. Brockwood; “donʼt let us make a fuss about nothing. Mr. Stote says he ‘throwed a squoyle;’ that is to say, he looked at it”.

“And in what state did you find the ground”? was the coronerʼs next question.

“Twearable, twearable. Dwont ’e ax ov me vor gude now, dwont ’e”. And he put up his broad hand before his broad face.

“Terrible, terrible”, said the coroner, going by the light of nature in his interpretation; “but I do not mean the exact spot only where the body was found. I mean, how was the ground as regards dry and wet, for the purpose of retaining footmarks”?

“Thar a bin zome rick–rack wather, ’bout a sannit back. But most peart on it ave a droud up agin. ’Twur starky, my lard, moor nor stoachy”. Here Mark felt that he had described things lucidly and powerfully, and looked round the room for approval.

“Stiff rather than muddy, he means”, explained Mr. Brockwood, smiling at the coronerʼs dismay.

“Were there any footprints upon it, in the part where the ground could retain them”?

“ʼTwur dounted and full of stabbles, in the pearts whur the mulloch wur, but the main of ’un tuffets and stramots”.

“That is to say”, Mr. Brockwood translated, “the ground was full of impressions and footmarks, where there was any dirt to retain them; but most of the ground was hillocky and grassy, and so would take no footprints”.

“When you were searching, did you find anything that seemed to have been overlooked”?

“Yees, my lard, I vound thissom” – producing Cradʼs stubby meerschaum – “and thissom” – a burnt felt–wad – “and a whaile vurther, ai vound thissom”. Here he slowly drew from his pocket a very fine woodcock, though not over fat, with its long bill tucked most carefully under its wing. He stroked the dead bird softly, and set its feathers professionally, but did not hand it about, as the court seemed to anticipate.

“In what part, and from what direction, has that bird been shot”?

“Ramhard of the head, my lard, as clane athert shat, and as vaine a bird as iver I wish to zee. But, ahʼs me, her be a wosebird, a wosebird, if iver wur wan”.

Mark could scarcely control his tears, as he thought of the birdʼs evil omen, and yet he could not help admiring him. He turned him over and over again, and dropped a tear into his tail coverts. Mr. Brockwood saw it and gave him time; he knew that for many generations the Stotes had lived under the Nowells.

“Oh, the bird was shot, you say, on the right side of the head, and clean through the head”.

“Thank you”, proceeded the coroner. “Now, do you think that he could have moved after he touched the ground”?

“Nivir a hinch, I allow, my lard. A vell as dead as a stwoun”.

“Now inform the court, as nearly as you can, of the precise spot where you found it”.

It took a long time to discover this, for Mr. Stote had not been taught the rudiments of topography. Nevertheless, they made out at last that the woodcock had been found, dead on his back, with his bill up, eight or ten yards beyond the place where Clayton Nowell fell dead, and in a direct line over his body from the gap in the hedge where Cradock stood. Dr. Hutton must have found the bird, if he had searched a little further.

“Now”, said the coroner, forcibly. “Mr. Stote, I will ask you a question which is, perhaps, a little beyond the rules of ordinary evidence, I mean, at least, as permitted in a court of record” – here he glanced at the magistrates, who could not claim the rank of record – “which of these two unfortunate brothers caused, in your opinion, the death of – of that woodcock”?

Mr. Brockwood glanced at the coroner sharply, and so did his own clerk. Even the jury knew, by intuition, that he had no right to tout for opinions.

“Them crink–crank words is beyand me. Moy head be awl wivvery wi’ ’em, zame as if my old ooman was patchy”.

“His honour asks you”, said Mr. Brockwood, with a glance not lost on the justices – for it meant, You see how we court inquiry, though the question is quite inadmissible – “which of the brothers in your opinion shot the bird which you found”?

“Why, Meester Cradock, o’ course. Meester Cleaton ’ud needs a blowed un awl to hame, where a stwooud”.

“Mr. Clayton must have blown him to pieces, if he shot him from the place where he stood, at least from the place where Mr. Clayton fell. And poor Mr. Clayton lay directly between his brother and the woodcock”?

Mr. Brockwood in his excitement forgot that he had no right to put this question, nor, indeed, any other, except as formally representing some one formally implicated. But the coroner did not check him.

“By whur the blude wor, a moost have been naigh as cud be atwane the vern–patch and the wosebird”.

“Very good. That fern–patch was the place where Mr. Cradock dropped from the gap in the hedge. Mr. Rosedew has proved that. Now let us have all you know, Mark Stote. Did you see any other marks, stabbles you call them, not, I mean, in the path Mr. Rosedew came along, nor yet in the patches of thicket through which poor Cradock fled, but in some other direction”?

This was the very question the coroner ought to have put long ago. Thus much he knew when Brockwood put it, and now he was angry accordingly.

“Mr. Brockwood, I will thank you – consider, sir, this is a court of record”!

“Then donʼt let it record stupid humbug”! Mr. Brockwood was a passionate man, and his blood was up. “I will take the responsibility of anything I do. All we want to elicit the truth is a little skill and patience; and for want of that the finest young fellow I have ever known may be blasted for life, for this world and the other. Excuse me, Mr. Coroner, I have spoken precipitately; I have much reverence for your court, but far more for truth”.