The Palliser Novels (383 page)

“I think you’ll find that they will console Mr. Finn with something less gorgeous than that. You have succeeded in seeing him, of course?”

“Plantagenet wouldn’t let me, but I know who did.”

“Some lady?”

“Oh, yes, — a lady. Half the men about the clubs went to him, I believe.”

“Who was she?”

“You won’t be ill-natured?”

“I’ll endeavour at any rate to keep my temper, Duchess.”

“It was Lady Laura.”

“I supposed so.”

“They say she is frantic about him, my dear.”

“I never believe those things. Women do not get frantic about men in these days. They have been very old friends, and have known each other for many years. Her brother, Lord Chiltern, was his particular friend. I do not wonder that she should have seen him.”

“Of course you know that she is a widow.”

“Oh, yes; — Mr. Kennedy had died long before I left England.”

“And she is very rich. She has got all Loughlinter for her life, and her own fortune back again. I will bet you anything you like that she offers to share it with him.”

“It may be so,” said Madame Goesler, while the slightest blush in the world suffused her cheek.

“And I’ll make you another bet, and give you any odds.”

“What is that?”

“That he refuses her. It is quite a common thing nowadays for ladies to make the offer, and for gentlemen to refuse. Indeed, it was felt to be so inconvenient while it was thought that gentlemen had not the alternative, that some men became afraid of going into society. It is better understood now.”

“Such things have been done, I do not doubt,” said Madame Goesler, who had contrived to avert her face without making the motion apparent to her friend.

“When this is all over we’ll get him down to Matching, and manage better than that. I should think they’ll hardly go on with the Session, as nobody has done anything since the arrest. While Mr. Finn has been in prison legislation has come to a standstill altogether. Even Plantagenet doesn’t work above twelve hours a day, and I’m told that poor Lord Fawn hasn’t been near his office for the last fortnight. When the excitement is over they’ll never be able to get back to their business before the grouse. There’ll be a few dinners of course, just as a compliment to the great man, — but London will break up after that, I should think. You won’t come in for so much of the glory as you would have done if they hadn’t found the stick. Little Lord Frederick must have his share, you know.”

“It’s the most singular case I ever knew,” said Sir Simon Slope that night to one of his friends. “We certainly should have hanged him but for the two accidents, and yet neither of them brings us a bit nearer to hanging any one else.”

“What a pity!”

“It shows the danger of circumstantial evidence, — and yet without it one never could get at any murder. I’m very glad, you know, that the key and the stick did turn up. I never thought much about the coat.”

On the Wednesday morning Phineas Finn was again brought into the Court, and again placed in the dock. There was a general feeling that he should not again have been so disgraced; but he was still a prisoner under a charge of murder, and it was explained to him that the circumstances of the case and the stringency of the law did not admit of his being seated elsewhere during his trial. He treated the apology with courteous scorn. He should not have chosen, he said, to have made any change till after the trial was over, even had any change been permitted. When he was brought up the steps into the dock after the judges had taken their seats there was almost a shout of applause. The crier was very angry, and gave it to be understood that everybody would be arrested unless everybody was silent; but the Chief Justice said not a word, nor did those great men the Attorney and Solicitor-General express any displeasure. The bench was again crowded with Members of Parliament from both Houses, and on this occasion Mr. Gresham himself had accompanied Lord Cantrip. The two Dukes were there, and men no bigger than Laurence Fitzgibbon were forced to subject themselves to the benevolence of the Under-Sheriff.

Phineas himself was pale and haggard. It was observed that he leaned forward on the rail of the dock all the day, not standing upright as he had done before; and they who watched him closely said that he never once raised his eyes on this day to meet those of the men opposite to him on the bench, although heretofore throughout the trial he had stood with his face raised so as to look directly at those who were there seated. On this occasion he kept his eyes fixed upon the speaker. But the whole bearing of the man, his gestures, his gait, and his countenance were changed. During the first long week of his trial, his uprightness, the manly beauty of his countenance, and the general courage and tranquillity of his deportment had been conspicuous. Whatever had been his fatigue, he had managed not to show the outward signs of weariness. Whatever had been his fears, no mark of fear had disfigured his countenance. He had never once condescended to the exhibition of any outward show of effrontery. Through six weary days he had stood there, supported by a manhood sufficient for the terrible emergency. But now it seemed that at any rate the outward grace of his demeanour had deserted him. But it was known that he had been ill during the last few days, and it had been whispered through the Court that he had not slept at nights. Since the adjournment of the Court there had been bulletins as to his health, and everybody knew that the confinement was beginning to tell upon him.

On the present occasion the proceedings of the day were opened by the Attorney-General, who began by apologising to the jury. Apologies to the jury had been very frequent during the trial, and each apology had called forth fresh grumbling. On this occasion the foreman expressed a hope that the Legislature would consider the condition of things which made it possible that twelve gentlemen all concerned extensively in business should be confined for fourteen days because a mistake had been made in the evidence as to a murder. Then the Chief Justice, bowing down his head and looking at them over the rim of his spectacles with an expression of wisdom that almost convinced them, told them that he was aware of no mistake in the evidence. It might become their duty, on the evidence which they had heard and the further evidence which they would hear, to acquit the prisoner at the bar; but not on that account would there have been any mistake or erroneous procedure in the Court, other than such error on the part of the prosecution in regard to the alleged guilt of the prisoner as it was the general and special duty of jurors to remedy. Then he endeavoured to reconcile them to their sacrifice by describing the importance and glorious British nature of their position. “My lord,” said one of the jurors, “if you was a salesman, and hadn’t got no partner, only a very young ‘un, you’d know what it was to be kept out of your business for a fortnight.” Then that salesman wagged his head, and put his handkerchief up to his eyes, and there was pity also for him in the Court.

After that the Attorney-General went on. His learned friend on the other side, — and he nodded to Mr. Chaffanbrass, — had got some further evidence to submit to them on behalf of the prisoner who was still on his trial before them. He now addressed them with the view of explaining to them that if that evidence should be such as he believed, it would become his duty on behalf of the Crown to join with his learned friend in requesting the Court to direct the jury to acquit the prisoner. Not the less on that account would it be the duty of the jury to form their own opinion as to the credibility of the fresh evidence which would be brought before them.

“There won’t be much doubt about the credibility,” said Mr. Chaffanbrass, rising in his place. “I am not a bit afraid about the credibility, gentlemen; and I don’t think that you need be afraid either. You must understand, gentlemen, that I am now going on calling evidence for the defence. My last witness was the Right Honourable Mr. Monk, who spoke as to character. My next will be a Bohemian blacksmith named Praska, — Peter Praska, — who naturally can’t speak a word of English, and unfortunately can’t speak a word of German either. But we have got an interpreter, and I daresay we shall find out without much delay what Peter Praska has to tell us.” Then Peter Praska was handed up to the rostrum for the witnesses, and the man learned in Czech and also in English was placed close to him, and sworn to give a true interpretation.

Mealyus the unfortunate one was also in Court, brought in between two policemen, and the Bohemian blacksmith swore that he had made a certain key on the instructions of the man he now saw. The reader need not be further troubled with all the details of the evidence about the key. It was clearly proved that in a village near to Prague a key had been made such as would open Mr. Meager’s door in Northumberland Street, and it was also proved that it was made from a mould supplied by Mealyus. This was done by the joint evidence of Mr. Meager and of the blacksmith. “And if I lose my key,” said the reverend gentleman, “why should I not have another made? Did I ever deny it? This, I think, is very strange.” But Mr. Emilius was very quickly walked back out of the Court between the two policemen, as his presence would not be required in regard to the further evidence regarding the bludgeon.

Mr. Chaffanbrass, having finished his business with the key, at once began with the bludgeon. The bludgeon was produced, and was handed up to the bench, and inspected by the Chief Justice. The instrument excited great interest. Men rose on tiptoe to look at it even from a distance, and the Prime Minister was envied because for a moment it was placed in his hands. As the large-eyed little boy who had found it was not yet six years old, there was a difficulty in perfecting the thread of the evidence. It was not held to be proper to administer an oath to an infant. But in a roundabout way it was proved that the identical bludgeon had been picked up in the garden. There was an elaborate surveyor’s plan produced of the passage, the garden, and the wall, — with the steps on which it was supposed that the blow had been struck; and the spot was indicated on which the child had said that he had found the weapon. Then certain workers in leather were questioned, who agreed in asserting that no such instrument as that handed to them had ever been made in England. After that, two scientific chemists told the jury that they had minutely examined the knob of the instrument with reference to the discovery of human blood, — but in vain. They were, however, of opinion that the man might very readily have been killed by the instrument without any effusion of blood at the moment of the blows. This seemed to the jury to be the less necessary, as three or four surgeons who had examined the murdered man’s head had already told them that in all probability there had been no such effusion. When the judges went out to lunch at two o’clock the jury were trembling as to their fate for another night.

The fresh evidence, however, had been completed, and on the return of the Court Mr. Chaffanbrass said that he should only speak a very few words. For a few words he must ask indulgence, though he knew them to be irregular. But it was the speciality of this trial that everything in it was irregular, and he did not think that his learned friend the Attorney-General would dispute the privilege. The Attorney-General said nothing, and Mr. Chaffanbrass went on with his little speech, — with which he took up the greatest part of an hour. It was thought to have been unnecessary, as nearly all that he said was said again — and was sure to have been so said, — by the judge. It was not his business, — the business of him, Mr. Chaffanbrass, — to accuse another man of the murder of Mr. Bonteen. It was not for him to tell the jury whether there was or was not evidence on which any other man should be sent to trial. But it was his bounden duty in defence of his client to explain to them that a collection of facts tending to criminate another man, — which when taken together made a fair probability that another man had committed the crime, — rendered it quite out of the question that they should declare his client to be guilty. He did not believe that there was a single person in the Court who was not now convinced of the innocence of his client; — but it was not permitted to him to trust himself solely to that belief. It was his duty to show them that, of necessity, they must acquit his client. When Mr. Chaffanbrass sat down, the Attorney-General waived any right he might have of further reply.

It was half-past three when the judge began his charge. He would, he said, do his best to enable the jury to complete their tedious duty, so as to return to their families on that night. Indeed he would certainly finish his charge before he rose from the seat, let the hour be what it might; and though time must be occupied by him in going through the evidence and explaining the circumstances of this very singular trial, it might not be improbable that the jury would be able to find their verdict without any great delay among themselves. “There won’t be any delay at all, my lord,” said the suffering and very irrational salesman. The poor man was again rebuked, mildly, and the Chief Justice continued his charge.

As it occupied four hours in the delivery, of which by far the greater part was taken up in recapitulating and sifting evidence with which the careful reader, if such there be, has already been made too intimately acquainted, the account of it here shall be very short. The nature of circumstantial evidence was explained, and the truth of much that had been said in regard to such evidence by Mr. Chaffanbrass admitted; — but, nevertheless, it would be impossible, — so said his lordship, — to administer justice if guilt could never be held to have been proved by circumstantial evidence alone. In this case it might not improbably seem to them that the gentleman who had so long stood before them as a prisoner at the bar had been the victim of a most singularly untoward chain of circumstances, from which he would have to be liberated, should he be at last liberated, by another chain of circumstances as singular; but it was his duty to inform them now, after they had heard what he might call the double evidence, that he could not have given it to them as his opinion that the charge had been brought home against the prisoner, even had those circumstances of the Bohemian key and of the foreign bludgeon never been brought to light. He did not mean to say that the evidence had not justified the trial. He thought that the trial had been fully justified. Nevertheless, had nothing arisen to point to the possibility of guilt in another man, he should not the less have found himself bound in duty to explain to them that the thread of the evidence against Mr. Finn had been incomplete, — or, he would rather say, the weight of it had been, to his judgment, insufficient. He was the more intent on saying so much, as he was desirous of making it understood that, even had the bludgeon still remained buried beneath the leaves, had the manufacturer of that key never been discovered, the great evil would not, he thought, have fallen upon them of punishing the innocent instead of the guilty, — that most awful evil of taking innocent blood in their just attempt to punish murder by death. As far as he knew, to the best of his belief, that calamity had never fallen upon the country in his time. The administration of the law was so careful of life that the opposite evil was fortunately more common. He said so much because he would not wish that this case should be quoted hereafter as showing the possible danger of circumstantial evidence. It had been a case in which the evidence given as to character alone had been sufficient to make him feel that the circumstances which seemed to affect the prisoner injuriously could not be taken as establishing his guilt. But now other and imposing circumstances had been brought to light, and he was sure that the jury would have no difficulty with their verdict. A most frightful murder had no doubt been committed in the dead of the night. A gentleman coming home from his club had been killed, — probably by the hand of one who had himself moved in the company of gentlemen. A plot had been made, — had probably been thought of for days and weeks before, — and had been executed with extreme audacity, in order that an enemy might be removed. There could, he thought, be but little doubt that Mr. Bonteen had been killed by the instrument found in the garden, and if so, he certainly had not been killed by the prisoner, who could not be supposed to have carried two bludgeons in his pocket, and whose quarrel with the murdered man had been so recent as to have admitted of no preparation. They had heard the story of Mr. Meager’s grey coat, and of the construction of the duplicate key for Mr. Meager’s house-door. It was not for him to tell them on the present occasion whether these stories, and the evidence by which they had been supported, tended to affix guilt elsewhere. It was beyond his province to advert to such probability or possibility; but undoubtedly the circumstances might be taken by them as an assistance, if assistance were needed, in coming to a conclusion on the charge against the prisoner. “Gentlemen,” he said at last, “I think you will find no difficulty in acquitting the prisoner of the murder laid to his charge,” whereupon the jurymen put their heads together; and the foreman, without half a minute’s delay, declared that they were unanimous, and that they found the prisoner Not Guilty. “And we are of opinion,” said the foreman, “that Mr. Finn should not have been put upon his trial on such evidence as has been brought before us.”