Beyond this place (36 page)

Excited by his own words, Oswald got up again, and began restively to tread the floor, with hunched shoulders and pale, swinging hands, reasoning with himself, in a loud and agitated tone.

A shiver went through Paul as he watched Oswald's agitation —

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a dark and tortured misery which grew with every passing instant. The wreckage of this human soul was horrible to witness, yet its desolation awoke in Paul a greater pity. He saw plainly that the man was out of his mind.

Suddenly from the mist outside, doubtless from the distant canal, there came the faint note of a boat's fog horn. This unearthly sound, like the plaint of a tormented spirit, seemed to pierce Oswald to the heart. A groan broke from his lips, he drew up stiffly, and with staring eyes and head stretched back, he exclaimed:

"The hour approaches. Sanctify thy servant."

On the final words, Oswald's voice broke. His features turned grey, his outstretched arms grew rigid, he stood like a man possessed. But gradually, after a few minutes, he relaxed, looked about him, came back slowly. Steadying himself against the edge of the table, he drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. Then, wanly, he smiled at Paul.

"My dear young man, again I thank you for your kind attentions. I shall be all right now, if you wish to leave me."

Paul hesitated, that strange glow of pity still unquenched within his breast.

"You promise me to go away?"

"I shall go away." Oswald smiled again and nodded, placing his arm upon the other's shoulder. "This has not been unforeseen. I have resources at my command. Goodbye and God bless you."

The pressure of his hand was icy. He opened the door for Paul to depart.

CHAPTER XVIII

NEXT morning, when the court opened, the atmosphere was electric. The crowd, compressed more tightly, overfilling the already sultry courtroom, spoke only in undertones. Strange whisperings were in the air. When it was seen that Sir Matthew was not in his place, curious rumours Hew, barely stifled when

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he arrived, late, hastening to his seat with a haggard, unslept

look, and a gash upon his chin, where he had cut himself while

shaving, o

When their lordships had seated themselves upon the bench, Nigel Grahame stood up, restrained as ever, yet with a new coldness in his manner.

"My lords," he announced, "with your permission I wish to resume my examination of the witness Louisa Burt."

A brief pause ensued while the requisite formalities were completed, then Burt appeared and took her place upon the stand.

"I trust," Grahame began, courteously but with a frigid note, "that you have had the opportunity to compose yourself overnight."

"I'm all right." Burt spoke without her ingratiating coyness, almost rudely. Her hesitation of the previous day was gone as though, in the intervening period, she had been admonished and fortified. She stood up in the box and boldly returned Grahame's gaze.

"We were speaking," said Grahame, "of your acquaintance with Edward Collins, the vouth who brought the laundrv to the murdered woman. You saw a good deal of him before, and during the trial?"

"How could I help it, we was together most of the time."

"Ah! You were too;ether. Then vou talked over the case with him pretty frequently?"

"No," Burt said quickly. "We never mentioned it once."

Grahame raised his brows slightly and glanced towards the Lord Chief Justice before remarking:

"That is a most surprising statement. However, we shall let it pass. Did you discuss the case with Collins after the trial?"

"No," Burt answered flatly.

"I must warn you," Grahame said steadilv, "that vou are upon oath and that the penalties for perjury are exceedingly severe."

"My lords, I protest against that insinuation." The Attorney-General half rose. "It is calculated to intimidate the witness."

"Did you and Collins never talk about the case?" Grahame insisted.

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"Well," for the first time Burt dropped her eyes, "I don't properly remember. I suppose we might have."

"In other words, you did?"

"Perhaps."

"And often?"

"Yes."

Grahame drew a long breath.

"On the night of the murder, when the man rushed past Edward Collins on the landing, he did not, even faintly, recognize him?"

"No," Burt answered loudly.

"And you? He was a total stranger to you?"

"Yes."

"You never told Collins that you felt you had seen the man before?"

"Never."

"You did not, in confidence, in a whisper, suggest a name to him?"

"No."

There was a fateful pause.

"To return to your own observations on that momentous evening . . . even if the street lamp was not lit . . . even if you could not clearly discern the features of the fugitive, at least you saw what he was doing. He was running?"

"Yes. I've said so till I'm tired."

"Forgive me if I fatigue you unduly. Did the man run all the way?"

"All what way?"

"To the end of the street."

"Yes, I naturally suppose he did."

"You suppose so? He did not by any chance mount a bicycle, a green bicycle, that lay against the railings, and pedal out of sight?"

"No."

Grahame looked gravely at the witness.

"In the light of certain information now in our possession I must again caution you to be careful. I repeat — did he not dash off on a green bicycle?"

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Burt was shaken. She muttered.

"I've told you 'No.' I can't do no more." And she began to snivel into her handkerchief.

Once more the Attorney-General protested.

"My lords, I strenuously object to the means being employed to intimidate this witness."

A taint flush rose to Grahame's cheek. He answered spiritedly:

"Perhaps the Attorney-General feels that I am usurping his prerogative. There have been days, in this very court, when I have heard an agent of the Crown using witnesses as a terrier might use a rat, reducing them to such a state of agitation and confusion they simply did not know what they were saying. If only for that reason I am endeavouring to afford this witness the utmost consideration and I can assure your lordships that she will need it."

Dead silence followed these words. Sir Matthew Sprott glanced towards the bench, but for once the Lord Chief Justice did not intervene.

Grahame waited until Burt had dried her eyes.

"When the trial was over you came with Edward Collins to the Central Police Station to receive your joint reward of five hundred pounds."

"Yes we did, and you can't make no harm out of that."

"Of course not. When you arrived at headquarters you were asked to wait while the necessary formalities were completed."

"That's correct. We was always treated nice by the police, which is more nor I can say for you."

"Once again I must ask you to bear with me, and to turn your thoughts back to that half hour when you sat with Collins in the police waiting room. No doubt the trial had been a strain for both of you. Perhaps you were a trifle on edge, nervous and uncertain, which may have accounted for the conversation that took place between you."

"What conversation?"

"Don't you remember?"

"No, I don't."

"Then perhaps I can refresh your memory." Grahame picked

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up a slip from the sheaf of papers before him. "I suggest that the exchanges between Collins and yourself went like this:

Collins: Well, it's about over now, and I'm not sorry, it's really got me down.

burt: Don't worry, Ted. You know we acted right and proper.

collins: Yes, I daresay. All the same . . .

burt: All the same what?

collins: Oh, you know, Louisa. Why didn't you tell about . . . you know what?

burt: Because they never asked me, stupid.

collins: I suppose not. Will we . . . will we get the reward?

burt: We'll get it, Ed, don't worry. We might do even better.

collins: What do you mean?

burt: You just wait and see. I've got something up my sleeve.

collins: Mathry was the man, wasn't he, Louisa?

burt: Shut up, will you. It's too late to back down now. We didn't do no harm. With all that evidence they would have done for Mathry anyhow. And after all, he didn't get hung. Don't you understand, you fool, it don't pay to go against the police. Besides, things may come out of this better than you ever dreamed. I'll live like a lady yet before I'm through."

When Grahame finished reading, and before the Crown could interpose, he turned sternly towards the witness.

"Do you deny that this conversation, which was overheard and transcribed, actually took place?"

"I don't know. I can't remember. I'm not responsible for what Ted Collins said." Fearfully discomposed, Burt gave her answer in a flustered voice.

"When you had been paid the money by the police, what did you do?"

"I forget exactly."

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"Did you not go oft on a holiday to Margate with Edward Collins?"

"I believe I did."

"Did you and he occupy the same room at the Beach Hotel?"

"Certainly not. And I didn't come here to be insulted."

"Then perhaps you would rather I did not show the court the hotel register of that date."

"My lords," again the Attorney-General interposed, "I must protest these irrelevant allegations against the moral character of the witness."

"Yet when more damaging and less true allegations were made fifteen years ago against my client's morals the Crown raised no objection."

There was a silence. Grahame turned to Burt.

"When this vacation was over you returned to Wortley. You discovered that the atmosphere had changed and chilled. You were scarcely the popular heroine you had imagined you might be. Work was difficult to find. Yet it was precisely at this juncture that both Edward Collins and yourself were offered excellent situations, which you accepted, in a superior private house in Wortley. Is that correct?" •

"Yes."

"Who was the owner of that house?"

Burt's defiance was gone. She darted a furtive look at Paul. For a long moment it seemed to stick in her throat. Then, amidst complete silence, she brought out the name.

"Mr. Enoch Oswald."

"Am I correct in asserting that Mr. Oswald behaved with remarkable kindness towards Collins, married him to his head parlourmaid, then shipped him off to New Zealand?"

"I think he treated Ted handsome," Burt mumbled.

"And you?" queried Grahame suavely. "Were you not treated by him more firmly perhaps, yet with equal consideration? Given a good position in his household, then, in the fulness of time, married off and almost, but not quite, despatched, carriage paid, to that same remote continent?"

As Burt muttered a crushed assent a further stir passed through the court, a tightening of interest already stretched to breaking

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point. Every eye was fixed on Grahame as he put his next question.

"Can you account for the remarkable interest shown by Mr. Oswald in you and Collins, the two key witnesses of the Mathry case?"

Burt shook her head dumbly.

"Could it be, in any way connected with the fact . . ." Grahame queried temperately, "that Enoch Oswald was the landlord of the flat occupied by Mona Spurling, the woman who was murdered?"

Again Burt gave no answer. There was a mortal stillness in the court.

"Mr. Oswald was fairly regular in his calls at the flat, coming no doubt in the way of business, to collect his monthly rent, to see to the comfort of his tenant. Since he came of an evening, he might well have been noticed, vaguely, by Collins, who was frequently on the street at that hour."

"I ... I suppose so."

Then, like a knife thrust:

"Did Oswald use a bicycle to make these visits?"

"What if he did . . . and a green bike at that!" Burt moaned. "It had nothing to do with me."

Sensation in court.

"One last question," Grahame said casually, as a kind of afterthought. "We have heard considerable mention, yesterday and today, of a left-handed man. Is Mr. Oswald left-handed?"

A bated hush fell upon the court. Burt was at the end of her resources. She looked about her wildly and let out a gasp of terror.

"Yes, he is," she screamed. "And I don't care who knows it."

After that she went into hysterics. Immediately, the court seethed with excitement. Several of the reporters picked up their papers and hurried towards the telephones outside.

When Burt had been assisted from the stand there was a dramatic pause, then Grahame turned towards the bench to deliver his final address. His voice, which had for the most part been temperate and quiet, now took on a note of burning sincerity.

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"I must thank this court for its indulgence in bearing with me so long. Now I shall be brief. My lords, we, in our judicial system, pride ourselves upon the principles that any man is presumed innocent until he is found guilty. A person may be suspected, but the burden of proof rests upon the Crown.

"But what, my lords, if the Crown should fail to fulfill its function honestly! What if the officers of the law, having apprehended a suspected individual, should use every trick of the statutes, every device of oratory, every subtle and secret persuasion, every method of pressure and persecution, to show that they are right, that they have, in truth, brought to book the guilty party.

"The Crown, my lords, has great resources at its command — brains, money, and unquestioned authority. Its agents, being human, are anxious — not only to justify their legitimate suspicions — but to advance themselves, and to stand well in the public eye. The experts whom it engages, men of the highest quality, may nevertheless be influenced by the prevailing mood. The Chief of the Police Department, believing that he holds the guilty man, moves heaven and earth to secure a conviction. The police doctors, asked by the Crown to examine a knife, hammer or bludgeon, rarely say outright: 'There is no blood upon this weapon.' But rather: 'The material was inadequate for conclusive tests.' Or even: 'There were traces of a substance which might have been blood.' In short, my lords, once an unhappy wretch has become suspect, or by his own actions has made himself so, unconsciously, a biased attitude of mind develops, almost instinctively, an attitude hostile and prejudicial to the accused man.