The Revellers

She cast down her eyes.

“Mamma was very angry,” she simpered. “I have been kept at home for days and days on account of it.”

She glanced at Martin. That explanation was intended for him. As a matter of fact, Mr. Beckett-Smythe called at The Elms on Thursday morning and told Mrs. Saumarez that her child needed more control. He had thrashed Frank soundly the previous evening for riding off to a rendezvous fixed with Angèle for nine o’clock. He whispered this information to Mr. Herbert, and the vicar’s eyes opened wide.

The other non-professional witnesses, children and adults, did not advance the inquiry materially. Many heard Kitty shrieking that her sister had murdered George Pickering, but Kitty herself had admitted saying so under a misapprehension.

P. C. Benson raised an important point. The pitchfork was first mentioned about eleven o’clock, when Mr. Pickering was able to talk coherently, after being laid on a bed and drinking some brandy. Neither of the two women had spoken of it. And there were footprints that did not bear out the movements described in the dead man’s deposition.

“But Mr. Pickering’s first lucid thought referred to this implement?” said Mr. Stockwell.

“Neäbody was holdin’ him, sir.”

The policeman imagined the lawyer had said “loosened.”

“I mean that the first account he ever gave of this accident referred to the pitchfork, and his subsequent statements were to the same effect.”

“Oah, yes. There’s no denyin’ that.”

“And you found the fork lying exactly where he described its position?”

“Why, yes; but he was a desp’rate lang time i’ studdyin’ t’ matter oot afore he’s speak.”

“Do you suggest that someone placed the fork there by his instructions?”

“Noa, sir. Most like he’d seen it there hissen.”

“Then why do you refuse to accept his statement that an accident took place?”

“Because I f’und his footprints where he ran across t’ garden te t’ spot where he was picked up.”

“Footprints! After a month of fine weather!”

“It was soft mold, sir, an’ they were plain enough.”

“Were not a dozen men running about this garden at twenty minutes past ten?”

“Ay – quite that.”

“And you tell us coolly that you could distinguish those of one man?”

“There was on’y one man’s track i’ that pleäce, sir.”

Benson was not to be flurried. Mr. Jonas and a police sergeant corroborated his opinion.

Dr. MacGregor followed. He described Pickering’s wound, the nature of his illness, and the cause of death. The stab itself was not of a fatal character. Had it diverged slightly it must have reached the lung. As it was, the poison, not the knife, had done the mischief.

The county analyst was scientifically dogmatic. His analyses had been conducted with the utmost care. The knife was contaminated, the pitchfork was only rusty. The latter was a dangerous implement, but in no way responsible for the state of Pickering’s blood corpuscles.

Mr. Dane, of course, made the most of these witnesses, but Mr. Stockwell wisely forbore from pressing them, and thus hammering the main items again into the heads of the jury.

The Coroner glanced at his watch. It was six o’clock. Neither of the solicitors was permitted to address the court, and he made up his mind to conclude the inquiry forthwith.

“There is one matter which might be cleared up,” he said. “Where is Marshall, the groom?”

It was discovered that the man had left the court half an hour ago. He had not returned. P.C. Benson was sent to find him. The two came back in five minutes. Their arrival was heralded by loud shouts and laughter outside. When they entered the schoolroom Marshall presented a ludicrous spectacle. He was dripping wet, and not from rain, for his clothes were covered with slime and mud.

It transpired that he had gone to a public house for a pint of beer. Several men and youths who could not gain admittance to the court took advantage of the absence of the police and amused themselves by ducking him in a convenient horse pond.

The Coroner, having expressed his official annoyance at the incident, asked the shivering man if he followed Betsy into the garden.

No; he saw her go out through the back door.

“Then the threats you heard were uttered while she was in the passage of the hotel or in the kitchen?”

Yes; that was so.

“It is noteworthy,” said the Coroner, “that none of the children heard this young woman going toward the couple. She must have run swiftly and silently down the path, and the witnesses were so absorbed in the fight that she passed them unheard and unseen.”

Mr. Stockwell frowned. If this gave any indication of the Coroner’s summing-up, it was not favorable to his client.

Dr. Magnus showed at once that he meant to cast aside all sentimental considerations and adhere solely to the judicial elements. He treated George Pickering’s deposition with all respect, but pointed out that the dying man might be actuated by the desire to make atonement to the woman he had wronged. The human mind was capable of strange vagaries. A man who would slight, or, at any rate, be indifferent, to one of the opposite sex, when far removed from personal contact, was often swayed by latent ties of affection when brought face to face with the woman herself.

In a word, the Coroner threw all his weight on the side of the police and against Betsy. He regarded Fred Marshall and young Bolland as truthful witnesses, though inspired by different motives, and deemed the medical evidence conclusive.

Betsy sat sphinx-like through this ordeal. Her unhappy parents, and even more unhappy sister, were profoundly distressed, and Stockwell watched the jury keenly as each damning point against his client was emphasized.

“The law is quite clear in affairs of this kind,” concluded Dr. Magnus gravely. “Either this unfortunate man was murdered, in which event your verdict can only take one form, or he met with an accident. Most fortunately, the last word does not rest with this court, or it would be impossible to close the inquiry to-day. The deceased himself raised a pertinent question: Why did his wife escape blood-poisoning, although he became infected? But the solicitors present apparently concur with me that this is a matter which must be determined elsewhere – ”

“No, no,” broke in Mr. Stockwell. “I admit nothing of the sort.”

The Coroner bowed.

“You have the benefit of my opinion, gentlemen,” he said to the jury. “You must retire now and consider your verdict.”

The jury filed out into a classroom, an unusual proceeding, but highly expedient in an inquiry of such importance. Tongues were loosened instantly, and a hum of talk arose, while the witnesses signed their recorded statements. Kitty endeavored to arouse her sister from the condition of stupor in which she remained, and the girl’s mother placed an arm around her shoulders. But Betsy paid little heed. Her mind dwelt on one object only – a sheet-covered form, lying cold and inanimate in a room of the neighboring hotel.

Angèle sidled toward Martin when a movement in court permitted. Françoise would have restrained her, but the child slid along a bench so quickly that the nurse’s protest came too late.

“Martin,” she whispered, “you behaved beautifully. I was so angry with you at first. But it was not you. I know now. Evelyn Atkinson told.”

“I wish it had never happened,” said the boy bitterly. He hated the notion that his evidence was the strongest link in the chain encircling the hapless Betsy.

“Oh, I don’t find it bad, this court. One is all pins and needles at first. But the men are nice.”

“I am not thinking of ourselves,” he growled.

“Tiens! Of whom, then?”