The Revellers

“Away from the stackyard hedge.”

“This is a serious matter. You are on your oath, and there is such a thing as being an accessory after – ”

Up sprang Stockwell.

“I protest most strongly against this witness being threatened,” he shouted.

“I think Mr. Dane is entitled to warn the witness against false testimony,” said the Coroner. “Of course, he knows the grave responsibility attached to such insinuations.”

Mr. Dane waved an emphatic hand.

“I require no threats,” he said. “I have evidence in plenty. Do you swear that Mr. Pickering did not lurch forward from beneath the pear tree at the foot of the garden after being stabbed by your sister, who surprised him in your arms, or you in his arms? It is the same thing.”

“I do,” was the prompt answer.

The lawyer sat down, shrugging his shoulders.

“Any questions to put to the witness, Mr. Stockwell?” said the Coroner.

“No, sir. I regard her evidence as quite clear.”

“Will you – er – does your client Mrs. Pickering wish to give evidence?”

“My client – she is not my client of her own volition, but by the definite instructions of her dead husband – will certainly give evidence. May I express the hope that my learned friend will not deal with her too harshly? She is hardly in a fit state to appear here to-day.”

Mr. Dane smiled cynically, but made no reply. He declined to help his adversary’s adroit maneuvers by fiery opposition, though again had Mr. Stockwell succeeded in playing a trump card.

Betsy was duly warned by the Coroner that she might be charged with the wilful murder of George Pickering, notwithstanding the sworn deposition read in court. She could exercise her own judgment as to whether or not she would offer testimony, but anything she said would be taken down in writing, and might be used as evidence against her.

She never raised her eyes. Not even those terrible words, “wilful murder,” had power to move her. She stood like an automaton, and seemed to await permission to speak.

“Now, Mrs. Pickering,” said Dr. Magnus, “tell us, in your own words, what happened.”

She began her story. No one could fail to perceive that she was reciting a narrative learnt by heart. She used no words in the vernacular. All was good English, coherent, simple, straightforward. On the Monday morning, she said, she received a letter at Hereford from Fred Marshall, ostler at the “Black Lion Hotel.”

“Have you that letter?” asked the Coroner.

“Yes,” interposed Mr. Stockwell. “Here it is.”

He handed forward a document. A buzz of whispered comment arose. In compliance with Dr. Magnus’s request, Betsy identified it listlessly. Then it was read aloud. Apart from mistakes in spelling, it ran as follows:

“Dear Miss Thwaites. – This is to let you know that George Pickering is carrying on with your sister Kitty. He has promised to meet her here on Monday. He has engaged a bedroom here. You ought to come and stop it. I inclose P.O. for one pound toward your fare. – Yours truly, Fred Marshall, groom, ‘Black Lion,’ Elmsdale.”

The fact that this meddlesome personage had sent Betsy her railway fare became known now for the first time. A hiss writhed through the court.

“Silence!” yelled a police sergeant, glaring around with steely eyes.

“There must be no demonstrations of any sort here,” said the Coroner sternly. “Well, Mrs. Pickering, you traveled to Elmsdale?”

“Yes.”

“With what purpose in view?”

“George had promised to marry me. Kitty knew this quite well. I thought that my presence would put an end to any courtship that was going on. It was very wrong.”

“None will dispute that. But I prefer not to question you. Tell us your own story.”

“I traveled all day,” she recommenced, “and reached Elmsdale station by the last train. I was very tired. At the door of the inn I met Fred Marshall. He was waiting, I suppose. He told me George and Kitty were at the bottom of the garden.”

A quiver ran through the audience, but the police sergeant was watching, and they feared expulsion.

“He said they had been there ten minutes. I ran through the hotel kitchen. On a table was lying a long knife near a dish of grouse. I picked it up, hardly knowing what I was doing, and went into the garden. When I was halfway down Kitty saw me and screamed. George turned round and backed away toward the middle hedge. I remember crying out – some – things – but I do not – know – what I said.”

She swayed slightly, and everyone thought she was about to faint. But she clutched the back of a chair and steadied herself. Mr. Jones offered her a glass of water, but she refused it.

“I can go on,” she said bravely.

And she persevered to the end, substantially repeating her sister’s evidence.

When Mr. Dane rose to cross-examine, the silence in court was appalling. The girl’s parents were pallid with fear. Kitty sat spellbound. Mr. Stockwell pushed his papers away and gazed fixedly at his client.

“Why did you pick up the knife, Mrs. Pickering?” was the first question.

“I think – I am almost sure – I intended to strike my sister with it.”

This was another bombshell. Mr. Dane moved uneasily on his feet.

“Your sister!” he repeated in amazement.

“Yes. She was aware of my circumstances. What right had she to be flirting with my promised husband?”

“Hum! You have forgiven her since, no doubt?”

“I forgave her then, when I regained my senses. She was acting thoughtlessly. I believe that George and she went into the garden only to spite Fred Marshall.”

Mr. Dane shook his head.

“So, if we accept your statement, Mrs. Pickering, you harmed no one with the knife except yourself?”

“That is so.”

He seemed to hesitate a moment, but seemingly made up his mind to leave the evidence where it stood.

“I shall not detain you long,” said Mr. Stockwell when his legal opponent desisted from further cross-examination. “You were married to Mr. Pickering on Thursday morning by special license?”

“Yes.”

“He had executed a marriage settlement securing you £400 a year for life?”