Chapter XXI: The Result of the Trial

If fate was playing a joke upon Ralph Ashley, her humour erred upon the side of grimness. His friends met with no success in their endeavours to find some other possible culprit, and, on the other hand, a succession of small incidents occurred, all of which seemed to lead him on inevitably a little nearer to the gallows. Of these, the most important was the finding of a revolver in the gun-room at the Manor House and a quantity of bullets similar to that which had penetrated Sir Geoffrey's heart. At the trial this seemed to be the most conclusive point in the case for the Crown. There was no indication that it had been recently used, but the same remark applied to all the weapons in the little armoury, all of them being kept in perfect condition. The explanation of its existence was given frankly by Ralph and corroborated by Melville; it was one of two given years before by Sir Geoffrey to his nephews, but to which of the two it properly belonged neither of the brothers could declare; both averred they had not used them for a very long time, and the damning fact remained that the other pistol was missing. It had been thrown away, the prosecution suggested, after the tragedy, and that all the ammunition had not also been destroyed was due to that oversight of which every criminal is capable, and but for which many more murderers would escape conviction.

Ralph was haggard and pulled down by confinement and by want of sleep; if he were a criminal, he was, at any rate, no actor, and his obvious nervousness was interpreted by many as symptomatic of a guilty conscience. He listened attentively to the entire proceedings with visibly increasing consternation and dismay, and it was not until Melville took up his position in the witness-box that any gleam of hope appeared upon his face.

Melville once more engrossed the sympathy of a court; he was so distressed upon his brother's account, so anxious to testify to his integrity of character, so ready, and yet so concise, in his replies, that he made an ideal witness.

"Ralph was always my uncle's favourite," he said again, with a rather pathetic smile; "they were just like father and son." No, he had never heard of any difference of opinion between them, and was convinced they had never had any quarrel. It was impossible, he protested, that Ralph could or would have committed such a crime. His generous indignation warmed Ralph's heart, and was subsequently commented on with approbation by counsel for the Crown in his concluding address to the jury, although, as that great lawyer pointed out, it did not affect the issue. What was more important was the admission he was rather skilfully beguiled into making that on one occasion he had known his brother to be embarrassed by want of money. An apparently trivial question had been put as to his knowledge of Ralph's financial position, and Melville answered it candidly; both of them were absolutely dependent on Sir Geoffrey's bounty, both received a liberal allowance, and on one occasion Sir Geoffrey had paid a considerable sum in which Melville himself was indebted. Presumably, therefore, he would have done the same for Ralph, to whom he was, by common consent, more attached.

"In short, you are not aware that your brother has ever been in want of ready money?"

Melville hesitated, coloured, and was lost. Reluctantly, and only as the result of a long series of skilfully worded questions, he let out the fact that Ralph had once applied to him for an immediate loan of a hundred pounds. He was at Monte Carlo at the time, and Ralph wrote from Fairbridge. Yes, he supposed that Ralph might have applied to Sir Geoffrey, but it did not follow that he had done so and been refused. The inference was unwarrantable, he declared warmly, but his protest failed to have effect, and the harm was done. In reply to a few further questions, he accounted moodily for his own time on the day of the murder. He had gone out for a walk after a late breakfast, and in the afternoon had remained at home, owing to the storm. The telegram announcing his uncle's death was not brought to him at once, as his valet was off duty. The manager of the chambers brought it up with some letters when, on waking up from a doze, Melville rang for tea. He was obviously downcast by the information previously extracted from him, and when he finally left the box, it was felt that he had slipped the noose around his brother's neck.

Of the rest of the proceedings Melville had no knowledge at first hand. His nerves, strong and finely tempered as they were, could not stand the tension, and he hurried to the hotel, where he had engaged a private room. There he paced up and down like a caged beast, unable to think coherently, and only waiting with horrible anxiety for the verdict. In the still silence of the court, Gwendolen sat motionless, her whole attitude a prayer, and downstairs Ralph waited, glad to escape the observation of the hundreds of curious eyes. But to neither of them, to whom the verdict meant so much, did the time seem so appallingly long as it seemed to Melville, nor was their anguish any thing like his.

Three hours dragged by, each one composed of sixty minutes of agony, and then the waiter brought a note to him. He tore it open, afraid to read its contents, yet unable to endure another second of suspense. The jury had been unable to agree, and the case was sent back to be tried again.

Melville groaned. So it all had to be gone through again, all the examination and cross-examination and re-examination, all the hypocrisy and ingenuity and deceit, and at the end perhaps another murder, or perhaps suicide; for Ralph's conviction would be equivalent to the one, and his acquittal might be procurable only by the revelation of the truth, which would involve the other. Melville had honestly expected his brother's acquittal, had been quite sincere in his words of encouragement to Gwendolen; and now there was this miserable, ineffectual conclusion to the solemn farce.

White lipped, wide eyed, with furrows scored across his brow, he turned to the waiter and forced a smile.

"Well, that's the end of it to-day. Order a fly to take me to the station. I'll go up by the next train," and writing a note to Mr. Tracy to say he could be got at at once in Jermyn Street if required, he presently returned to town.

In the cells below the court Mr. Tracy found a very different man awaiting him from the one he had last seen in the dock. The intolerant indignation with which Ralph had listened to the various suggestions of the prosecution, and the scorn with which he had heard the address to the jury, with its denunciation of his supposed ingratitude and treachery, were all gone. He was pale and exhausted by the long day in the crowded court, but he was also dignified and self-possessed. He turned to the solicitor with a whimsical smile.

"I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Since some of the twelve good men and true were not convinced of my innocence, I suppose I ought to be grateful that things are not worse than they are. Did I behave myself better to-day?"

"Much better," Mr. Tracy answered. "You know," he added seriously, "the circumstantial evidence was very strong, and although, as I have maintained all along, the probabilities are always against a miscarriage of justice, you are not out of the wood yet. Mr. Ashley, if the jury had convicted you we should only have had a matter of three weeks in which to discover new facts. I think you ought to be grateful that we have three months."

"That is true," said Ralph soberly. "But what a three months for me! Is there no chance of bail?"

Mr. Tracy shook his head.

"No. You must go through with it, but a great deal may happen in three months, and it won't be for want of trying if I don't get you out long before then. Now, Mr. Ashley, I have two questions to ask you. First, do you know who this is?"

Ralph looked at the photograph which Mr. Tracy showed him.

"To the best of my knowledge I've never seen this before, and I'm certain I don't know the original. Who is it?"

"I have an idea it is Lady Holt," Mr. Tracy answered, "but I dare say I shall find out soon. It is curious how everything seems to be in a conspiracy against you. The man who took that photograph retired from business a few years ago and is now dead. I hoped I might find out the name of the lady from him, but he's dead and the books can't be traced. Now the next point. The hundred pounds you asked your brother to lend you; what about that?"

Ralph's brows contracted.

"I asked him for it," he said curtly. "That's true enough; but I didn't get it."

"That don't matter," Mr. Tracy retorted. "The fact that you asked for it did you a lot of harm to-day."

"I don't see why Melville should have referred to it at all."

"Perhaps he couldn't help himself," the solicitor said. "Some of those fellows are marvellous at making you say more than you mean to say. Why did you ask him for it?"

"Because I was a silly ass," Ralph answered viciously, "and didn't like to ask Sir Geoffrey. I never did ask him for a sovereign in my life; goodness knows he gave me enough without that. Do you remember selling out some railway stock for me a little time ago?"

"Yes," said Mr. Tracy, "and advising you not to do it, but you would not listen."

"That was the time," Ralph said. "I had bought a yacht for Gwen and didn't want to give it to her not paid for, and you were slower than usual, and I was cleaned out, and only just engaged. And I asked Melville to lend me a hundred till you settled up. Of course, Sir Geoffrey would have given it to me if I had asked him, but he would have insisted on its being a gift, not a loan, and I wanted the boat to be my present to Gwen, not his."

"Well, I'll see that some of that comes out next time," said Mr. Tracy. "I could see that it made a very bad impression to-day."

"There's a continuation to the story," said Ralph, with a hard look in his eyes, "and since Melville has chosen to reopen it, I don't see why I should not tell you the rest. He did not answer my letter, did not send me the money."

"Well?" said Mr. Tracy.

"He came back from Monte Carlo broke to the world and fetched up at Fairbridge. I happened to go away that night and just missed him, but he saw Sir Geoffrey and asked for some money. Sir Geoffrey said he wouldn't give him another sixpence, and asked what he had done with two hundred and fifty pounds he'd had six weeks before. I'm blest if Melville didn't produce my letter and say he'd lent me a hundred of it."

"Oh!" said Mr. Tracy; "and what happened then?"

"The dear old chap begged his pardon and paid him the hundred pounds for me. If ever there was a rank swindle that was one. When I came home next day he began to pitch into me for asking Melville instead of him for help, and, of course, the whole thing came out at once."

"Yes," said Mr. Tracy. "What did Sir Geoffrey say?"

"He said rather a lot," Ralph answered grimly. "He was going to instruct you to take proceedings against Melville for getting money under false pretences, but I persuaded him to let me repay him the hundred pounds and take the matter up myself. He agreed--rather reluctantly--and that was the end of the matter, except that I had a bit of a rumpus with Melville, who owes me the money to this day."

Mr. Tracy was much more interested than he allowed Ralph to perceive; the story let in a flood of light upon much that he had not been able to understand.

"Then your brother is extravagant, I suppose?"

"Money runs through his fingers like water through a sieve," Ralph answered. "Just six weeks before that Sir Geoffrey wiped off all his debts, as he admitted to-day; he gave him two hundred and fifty pounds, and told him to go to the deuce; Melville blew the lot at Monte Carlo, came home, got that extra hundred out of Sir Geoffrey, and went away. And the very next day he turned up again at Fairbridge, had a long session with the old chap, and got round him so far that he stayed a week at the Manor House and began to tap him again, just as casually as ever. I couldn't understand it then, and I can't now. Sir Geoffrey never talked about him after we had that palaver about my supposed debt, but I am quite clear it was because of that swindle that Melville got himself disinherited. Sir Geoffrey didn't like his gambling, but he liked the other thing less--and I don't wonder."

"Why didn't you tell me something about this on the day of the funeral," Mr. Tracy asked, "when I read the will?"

"Oh, well," said Ralph, "I'm a slow-witted chap, you know, and you were in a hurry; and, besides, it's not a pretty story. I wouldn't have mentioned it now, only Melville brought it up so unnecessarily. You had better know the rights of it since you think what he said did me harm to-day."

For the time being, Ralph forgot the position in which he actually stood, and turned as if to accompany Mr. Tracy to the door when he rose to leave, but the sight of the warders, who had retired to the far end of the room, re-awakened him to the fact that he was a prisoner, and he flushed as he put out his hand.

"I'm awfully grateful, sir, for all you have done and are doing for me. If you succeed and clear my name, I may be able to show my gratitude practically."

"When I succeed, you mean," Mr. Tracy corrected him smilingly. "I must say good-bye now, but next time I come I hope I shall have good news for you. Don't brood over your grievance, Mr. Ashley. That may seem a counsel of perfection, but try to act up to it, if only for the sake of that charming young lady who is waiting for you. Faith in God and a clear conscience can make even prison tolerable, and nobody can rob you of those."

He put his bag down upon the table while he shook both Ralph's hands violently. Then he blew his nose with equal violence, seized his bag, and hurried away, scolding himself inwardly for being so upset by so commonplace an incident as an interview with a client. Not until he was in the railway carriage and on his way to town did he recover his usual equanimity. With his characteristic stare of mild surprise he surveyed the bag which reposed on the seat opposite to him, but the only remark which escaped his lips was when at length he removed his eyes from it, as if he had ascertained what was in it by some mental adaptation of the X ray process. His remark was brief and pregnant: "Well, I'm hanged."