CHAPTER VII.
THE VERDICT.
The trial of Ronald Mervyn for the murder of Margaret Carne was markedby none of the unexpected turns or sudden surprises that notunfrequently give such a dramatic interest to the proceedings. All theefforts of the police had failed in unearthing any facts that couldthrow a new light upon the subject, and the evidence brought forward wasalmost identical with that given at the coroner's inquest; the counselasked a great many questions, but elicited no new facts of importance;the only witnesses called for the defence were those as to character,and one after another the officers of Mervyn's regiment came forward totestify that he was eminently popular, and that they had never observedin him any signs of madness.
They said that at times he got out of spirits, and was in the habit ofwithdrawing himself from their society, and that on these occasions henot infrequently went for long rides, and was absent many hours; he was,perhaps, what might be called a little queer, but certainly not in theslightest degree mad. Old servants of the family and many neighboursgave testimony to the same effect, and Dr. Arrowsmith testified that hehad attended him from childhood, and that he had never seen any signs ofinsanity in his words or actions.
Ruth had escaped the one question which she dreaded, whether she hadseen anything in the room that would afford a clue to the discovery ofthe perpetrator of the crime. She had thought this question over ahundred times, and she had pondered over the answer she should give. Shewas firmly resolved not to tell an actual lie, but either to evade thequestion by replying that when she recovered her senses she madestraight to the door without looking round; or, if forced to replydirectly, to refuse to answer, whatever the consequences might be. Itwas then with a sigh of deep relief that she left the witness-box, andtook up her station at the point to which the policeman made way forher. As she did so, however, he whispered:
"I think you had better go out, my girl. I don't think this is a fitplace for you. You look like to drop now;" but she shook her headsilently, and took up her station in the corner, grasping in one handsomething done up in many folds of paper in her pocket.
The same question had been asked other witnesses by the counsel for thedefence, and he had made a considerable point of the fact that theconstable and Dr. Arrowsmith both testified that the candles werestanding one on each side of the looking-glass, and although the roomhad been carefully searched, no half-burnt match had been discovered. Inhis address for the defence he had animadverted strongly upon thispoint.
"It was a dark night, gentlemen. A dark night in November. You willremember we had the evidence that whoever committed this murder musthave moved about the room noiselessly; the evidence shows that themurderer drew down the clothes so gently and softly that he did notawaken the sleeper. Now, as intelligent men, you cannot but agree withme that no man could have made his way about this absolutely dark roomwith its tables and its furniture, and carried out this murder in theway stated, without making some noise; it would be an utterimpossibility. What is the conclusion? He was either provided with alight, or he was forced to strike a match and light a candle.
"In the latter case he must have been provided with silent matches, orthe noise would have awakened the sleeper. Of one thing you may be sure,Captain Mervyn had not provided himself with silent matches; but evenhad not the sound of an ordinary match being struck awakened thesleeper, surely the sudden light would have done so. I ask you from yourown experience whether, however soundly you might be sleeping, theeffect of a candle being lit in your room would not awaken you;therefore I think it safe to assume that in the first place, because nomatch was found, and in the second place, because had a candle been litit would assuredly have awakened the sleeper, and we know that she wasnot awakened, that no candle was lighted in the room.
"How then did the assassin manage after entering the room to avoid thedressing-table, the chairs, and other furniture, and to see tomanipulate the bedclothes so gently that the sleeper was not awakened?Why, gentlemen, by means of the implement carried by every professionalburglar, I mean, of course, a dark lantern. Opening the shade slightly,and carefully abstaining from throwing the light towards the bed, theburglar would make his way towards it, showing sufficient light to carryout his diabolical purpose, and then opening it freely to examine theroom, open the trinket-box, and carry away the valuables.
"The counsel for the prosecution, gentlemen, has not even ventured tosuggest that the prisoner, Captain Mervyn, was possessed of such anarticle. His course has been traced through every village that he rode,up to ten o'clock at night, by which time every shop had long beenclosed, and had he stopped anywhere to buy such an article we shouldsurely have heard of it. Therefore, gentlemen, I maintain that even ifthis fact stood alone, it ought to convince you of the innocence of theprisoner.
"In his reply, the counsel for the prosecution had admitted that someweight must be attached to this point, but that it was quite possiblethat whoever entered the window might have felt on the table until hefound a candlestick, and lit it, stooping down behind the table, or atthe bottom of the bed, and so shading it with his coat that its lightwould not fall on the face of the sleeper. As for the point made that nomatch had been found, no great weight could be attached to it; theprisoner might have put it in his pocket or thrown it out of thewindow."
When the defence was concluded, and the counsel for the prosecution roseto speak, the feeling in the court was still against the prisoner.
In all that had been said the evidence pointed against him, and himonly, as the author of the crime; no hint of suspicion had been droppedagainst any other person; and the manner in which the crime had beencommitted indicated strongly that it was the act of a person actuated byjealousy, or animosity rather than that of a mere burglar. This view ofthe case was strongly brought out by the counsel for the prosecution.
"The theory of the prosecution is," he said, "not that this unfortunategentleman, while in the full possession of his senses, slew this lady,to whom he was nearly related, and for whom he had long cherished asincere affection--the character you have heard given him by so manywitnesses would certainly seem to show him to be a man incapable of sucha crime. Our theory is that the latent taint of insanity in hisblood--that insanity which, as you have heard from Dr. Arrowsmith andother witnesses, is hereditary in his ancestors on his mother's side,and has, before now, caused calamities, almost if not quite as seriousas this--suddenly flamed out. We believe that, as has been shown bywitnesses, he galloped away many miles over the country, but we believethat at last, wrought up to the highest pitch of frenzy, he returned,scaled the wall, opened the window, and murdered Miss Carne. You haveheard that he was subject to moody fits, when he shunned all society;these fits, these wild rides you have heard of, are symptoms of adisordered mind. Perhaps had all gone happily with him, the malady wouldnot have shown itself in a more serious form.
"Unfortunately, as we know, there was sharp and sudden unhappiness--suchunhappiness as tries the fibre even of the sanest men, and might wellhave struck a fatal blow to his mind. It is not because you see him now,calm and self-possessed, that you are to conclude that this theory is amistaken one. Many, even the most dangerous madmen, have long intervalswhen, apparently, their sanity is as perfect as that of other people.Then suddenly, sometimes altogether without warning, a change takesplace, and the quiet and self-possessed man becomes a dangerouslunatic--perhaps a murderer.
"Such, gentlemen, is the theory of the prosecution. You will, of course,weigh it carefully in your minds, and it will be your duty, if you agreewith it, to give expression to your opinion in your verdict."
The judge summed up the case with great care. After going through theevidence piecemeal, he told the jury that while the counsel for thedefence had insisted upon the uncertainty of circumstantial evidence,and the numerous instances of error that had resulted from it, it washis duty to tell them that in the majority of cases of murder therecould be, from the nature of things, only circumstantial evidence to goupon, for
that men did not commit murder in the open streets in sight ofother people. At the same time, when circumstantial evidence alone wasforthcoming, it was necessary that it should be of the most conclusivecharacter, and that juries should, before finding a verdict of guilty,be convinced that the facts showed that it was the prisoner, and heonly, who could have done the deed.
"It is for you, gentlemen, to decide whether the evidence that has beensubmitted to you does prove, absolutely and conclusively to your minds,that the prisoner must have been the man who murdered Miss Carne.Counsel on both sides have alluded to the unquestioned fact that madnessis hereditary in the family of the prisoner; whether or not it isinherited by him, is also for you to decide in considering your verdict.You will have to conclude first whether the prisoner did or did notcommit this murder. If you believe that he did so, and that while he didso he was insane, and incapable of governing his actions, your duty willbe to find him not guilty upon the ground of insanity."
The general tenor of the summing-up certainly showed that in the opinionof the judge the evidence, although strong, could not be considered asabsolutely conclusive. Still, the bias was not strongly expressed, andwhen the jury retired, opinions in court were nearly equally divided asto what the verdict would be.
When he left the witness-box, Dr. Arrowsmith made his way to the cornerin which one of the policemen had placed Ruth after giving her evidence.She had done this with a steadiness and composure that had surprised thedoctor; she had fortunately escaped much questioning, for the counselsaw how fragile and weak she looked, and as she had but entered theroom, seen her mistress dead, fainted and left again, there was butlittle to ask her. The questions put were: "Was the jewellery safe inthe box when she left the room the night before? Did she rememberwhether the window was fastened or not?" To this her reply was negative.Miss Carne had shut it herself when she went up in the afternoon, andshe had not noticed whether it was fastened. "Was the blind a Venetianor an ordinary roller blind?"
"A roller blind."
"Then, if the window opened, it could be pushed aside without noise. Didyou notice whether the candlesticks were standing where you had leftthem?"
"I noticed that they were on the table and in about the same place wherethey were standing the night before, but I could not say exactly."
"I want you to go out, Ruth," Dr. Arrowsmith said, when he reached herafter the jury had retired. "They may be an hour or more before theymake up their minds. You are as white as death, child. Let me lead youout."
Ruth shook her head, and murmured, "I must stay." The doctor shruggedhis shoulders and returned to his seat. It was an hour and a half beforethe door opened and the foreman of the jury entered. As he wasunaccompanied, it was evident he wanted to ask a question.
"My lord," he said, "we are unanimous as to one part of the verdict, butwe can't agree about the other."
"How do you mean, sir?" the judge asked. "I don't want to know what youare unanimous about, but I don't understand what you mean about beingunanimous about one part of the verdict and not unanimous on the other."
The foreman hesitated. Then, to the astonishment of the court, theprisoner broke in in a clear steady voice:
"I will not accept acquittal, sir, on the ground of insanity. I am notmad; if I had been the events of the last two months would have drivenme so. I demand that your verdict be guilty or not guilty."
The judge was too surprised to attempt to check the prisoner when hefirst began to speak, and although he attempted to do so before he hadfinished, the interruption was ineffectual.
"Go back, sir," the judge then said to the foreman. "You must beunanimous as to the whole of your verdict."
The interruption of the prisoner had enlightened those in court as tothe nature of the foreman's question. Undoubtedly he had divinedrightly. The jury were in favour of the verdict not guilty, but some ofthem would have added on the ground of insanity. The interruption,although irregular, if not unprecedented, had a favourable effect uponhis hearers. The quickness with which the accused had seized the point,and the steady, resolute voice in which he had spoken, told in hisfavour, and many who before, had they been in the jury-box, would havereturned the verdict of not guilty on the ground of insanity, nowdoubted whether they would add the concluding words.
A quarter of an hour later the jury returned.
"We are now unanimous, my lord. We say that the prisoner at the bar isnot guilty."
A sound like a sigh of relief went through the court. Then every one gotup, and there was a movement to the doors. The policeman lifted the bar,and Ronald Mervyn stepped out a free man, and in a moment was surroundedby a number of his fellow officers, while some of his neighbours alsopressed forward to shake him by the hand.
"I will shake hands with no man," he said, drawing back; "I will greetno man so long as this cloud hangs over me--so long as it is unprovedwho murdered Margaret Carne."
"You don't mean it, Mervyn; you will think better of it in a few days,"one of his fellow officers said, as they emerged into the open air."What you have gone through has been an awful trial, but now that youare proved to be innocent you will get over it."
"I am not proved to be innocent, though I am not proved to be guilty.They have given me the benefit of the doubt; but to the end of my lifehalf the world will believe I did it. Do you think I would go throughlife to be pointed at as the man who murdered his cousin? I would ratherblow out my brains to-night. No, you will never see me again till theverdict of guilty has been passed on the wretch who murdered my cousin.Good-bye. I know that you believe me innocent, but I will not take yourhands now. When you think it over, you will see as well as I do thatyou couldn't have a man in the regiment against whom men as he passedwould whisper 'murderer.' God bless you all." And Ronald Mervyn turnedand walked rapidly away. One or two of the officers would have followedhim, but the colonel stopped them.
"Leave him alone, lads, leave him alone. We should feel as he does werewe in his place. Good Heavens! how he must have suffered. Still, he'sright, and however much we pity him, we cannot think otherwise. At thepresent moment it is clear that he could not remain in the regiment."
As soon as the crowd had turned away, Dr. Arrowsmith made his way to thepoint where Ruth had been standing. Somewhat to his surprise he foundher still on her feet. She was leaning back in the corner with her eyesclosed, and the tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Come, my dear," he said, putting his arm under hers, "let us be moving.Thank God it has all ended right."
"Thank God, indeed, doctor," she murmured. "I had hardly hoped it, andyet I have prayed so much that it might be so."
The doctor found that though able to stand while supported by the wall,Ruth was unable to walk. With the aid of a policeman he supported herfrom the court, placed her in a vehicle, and took her to an hotel.
"There, my dear," he said, when Ruth had been assisted up to a bedroomby two of the maids, "now you go to bed, and lie there till to-morrowmorning. I will have a basin of strong broth sent you up presently. It'squite out of the question your thinking of going home to-night. I haveseveral friends in the town, and am glad of the excuse to stay over thenight. I will call for you at ten o'clock in the morning; the train goesat half-past ten; I will have your breakfast sent up here. I will godown to the station now. There are lots of people over here fromCarnesford, and I will send a messenger back to your mother, saying thatyou have got through it better than I expected, but I wanted you to havea night's rest, and you will be home in the morning."
"Thank you, doctor; that is kind of you," Ruth murmured.
"Help her into bed, girls. She has been ill, and has had a very tryingday. Don't ask her any questions, but just get her into bed as soon asyou can."
Then the doctor went downstairs, ordered the broth and a glass of sherryfor Ruth, and a bedroom for himself, and then went off to see hisfriends. In the morning he was surprised, when Ruth came downstairs, tosee how much better she looked.
"My prescription has done
you good, Ruth. I am glad to see you lookwonderfully better and brighter."
"I feel so, sir. I went to sleep directly I had taken the broth and wineyou sent me up, and I did not wake till they called me at half-pasteight. I have not slept for an hour together for weeks. I feel as ifthere was such a load taken off my mind."
"Why, Ruth, you didn't know Captain Mervyn to speak to, did you, thatyou should feel such an interest in him?" the doctor said, looking ather sharply.
"No, sir, I have never once spoken to him that I know of."
"Then why do you care so much about his being acquitted?"
"It would have been dreadful if he had been found guilty when he wasinnocent all the time."
"But then no one knew he was innocent for certain," the doctor said.
"I felt sure he was innocent," Ruth replied.
"But why did you feel sure, Ruth?"
"I can't exactly say, sir, but I did feel that he was innocent."
The doctor looked puzzled, but at this moment the cab arrived at thestation, and the subject was not renewed, but the doctor afterwardswondered to himself more than once whether Ruth could have anyparticular reason for her assurance of Ronald Mervyn's innocence.
For another ten days the Mervyn trial was the great topic ofconversation throughout the country, and the verdict was canvassed withalmost as much keenness and heat as the crime had been before the trial.Now that Ronald Mervyn was no longer in hazard of his life, the feelingof pity which had before told so strongly in his favour was wanting. Ifa man so far forgets himself as to use threats to a woman, he must notbe surprised if he gets into trouble. Of course, now the jury had givena verdict of "Not guilty," there was no more to be said. There was nodoubt he was a very lucky fellow, and the jury had given him the benefitof the doubt. Still, if he hadn't done it, who had killed MargaretCarne?
Such was the general opinion, and although Ronald had still some staunchadherents in his own neighbourhood, the tide of feeling ran against him.
Two months after the trial, Mrs. Mervyn died, broken down by grief, andwhile this naturally caused a renewal of the talk, it heightened ratherthan otherwise the feeling against her son. The general verdict was thatit was his doing; whether he killed Margaret Carne or not, there was nodoubt that he had killed his mother. All this was doubtless unfair, butit was not unnatural; and only those who believed thoroughly in Ronald'sinnocence felt how hard this additional pain must be for him.
Immediately the funeral was over, the two girls moved away to London,and the house was advertised to let, but the odour of the recent tragedyhung over it. No one cared to take a house with which such a story wasconnected. A month or two later there was a sale of the furniture; thehouse was then shut up and lost to the county. Ten days after the trialit was announced in _The Gazette_ that Ronald Mervyn had retired fromthe service upon sale of his commission. No one had seen him after hehad left the court a free man. His horses were sold a week later, andhis other belongings forwarded from the regiment to an address he gavein London. His mother and sister had a few days later gone up for a dayto town, and had met him there. He had already written to them that heintended to go abroad, and they did not seek to combat his resolution.
"I can never come back, mother, unless this is cleared up. You must feelas well as I do, that I cannot show my face anywhere. I am surprisedthat I have got off myself, and indeed if it were not that I am sure Inever got off my horse that night, I should sometimes suspect that Imust for a time have been really mad and have done what they accuse meof. I have already sent down a detective to the village. There must besome clue to all this if one could only hit upon it, but I own that atpresent I do not see where it is to be looked for. I do not believe thatit was done by some passing tramp. I agree with every word that was saidat my trial in that respect.
"Everything points to the fact that she was deliberately murdered,though who, except myself, could have entertained a feeling of animosityagainst Margaret, God only knows. There is one comfort, mother, and onlyone," he said with a hard laugh. "I can set our minds at ease on onepoint, which I have never felt sure about before, that is, that I havenot inherited the curse of the Carnes. Had I done so, the last twomonths would have made a raving lunatic of me, whereas I have never feltmy head cooler and my reason clearer than I have since the day I wasarrested. But you mustn't grieve for me more than you can help, mother;now that it is over, I feel more for you and the girls than I do formyself. I have a sort of conviction that somehow, though I don't seehow, the thing will be cleared up some day. Anyhow I mean to go and leada rough life somewhere, to keep myself from brooding over it. The weightwill really fall upon you, far more than upon me, and I should stronglyadvise you to shut up the house, let it if you can, and either come uphere or settle in some place--either Brighton or Hastings--where thisstory will be soon forgotten and no one will associate your names withthis terrible business."
About that time a stranger arrived at Carnesford. He announced that hewas a carpenter from the North, and that he suffered from weak lungs,and had been recommended to live down South. After staying for a week atthe "Carne's Arms," he stated that he liked the village so much that heshould settle there if he saw a chance of making a livelihood, and as ithappened that there was no carpenter in the village, the idea wasreceived with favour, and a week later he was established in a cottagethat happened to be vacant. As he was a man who seemed to have travelledabout England a good deal, and was well spoken and informed, he soontook a good position in the place, and was even admitted to form one ofthe party in the snuggery, where he would talk well upon occasions, butwas specially popular as an excellent listener.
When spring came there was a fresh sensation. The gardener at The Hold,in digging up some ground at the edge of the shrubbery, to plant somerhododendrons there, turned up the missing watch and jewellery ofMargaret Carne. It was all buried together a few inches below the soil,without any wrapper or covering of any kind. Captain Hendricks arrivedat Carnesford as soon as the news of the discovery reached him. ReginaldCarne was himself away, having been absent ever since the trial tookplace. Most of the servants had left at once; the old cook and a nieceof hers alone remaining in charge, and two stablemen from the gardenalso staying in the house.
Nothing came of the discovery; but it, of course, renewed the interestin the mystery of Margaret Carne's death, and the general opinion wasthat it was fortunate indeed for Ronald Mervyn that the discovery hadnot been made before his trial, for it completely demolished the theorythat the murder was the work of a burglar. It was possible, of course,that such a man, knowing the active hue and cry that would be set onfoot, and that it would be dangerous to offer the jewellery for sale,and still more dangerous to keep it about him, had at once buried it,intending to go back some day to recover it, for, as Reginald stated atthe trial, the missing jewels were worth fifteen hundred pounds.
But had they been so hidden they would assuredly have been put in a boxor some sort of cover that would protect them from the damp, and nothave been merely thrust into the ground. Altogether the discoverygreatly heightened, instead of diminishing, the impression that themurder was an act of revenge and not the outcome of robbery; and thecloud over Ronald Mervyn became heavier rather than lighter inconsequence.
Ruth Powlett had gained health and strength rapidly after the verdict"Not guilty" had been returned against Ronald Mervyn. She was stillgrave and quiet, and as she went about her work at home, Hesba wouldsometimes tell her that she looked more like a woman of fifty than agirl of nineteen; but her mind had been lightened from the burden of herterrible secret, and she felt comparatively happy. She spent much of hertime over at the Foresters', for the old man and his wife were bothailing, and they knew that there was little chance of their ever seeingtheir son again, for the gamekeeper who had been injured in the poachingaffray had since died, and as the evidence given at the inquest allpointed to the fact that it was George Forester who had struck the blowthat had eventually proved fatal, a verdict of "Wilful
murder" had beenreturned against him.
Ruth's conscience was not altogether free as to her conduct in thematter, and at the time of Mrs. Mervyn's death she suffered much. As forRonald Mervyn himself, she had little compassion for him. She would nothave permitted him to be hung; but the disgrace that had fallen uponhim, and the fact that he had been obliged to leave the country,affected her but little. She had been greatly attached to her mistress,who had treated her rather as a friend than as a servant; and that heshould have insulted and threatened Margaret was in her eyes an offenceso serious that she considered it richly deserved the punishment thathad befallen him.
Until she heard of Mrs. Mervyn's death, she had scarcely considered thatthe innocent must suffer with the guilty, and after that she felt farmore than she had done before, that she had acted wrongly in keeping thesecret, the more so since the verdict returned against George Foresterin the other case had rendered the concealment to some extent futile.But, indeed, Forester and his wife did not suffer anything like the painand shame from this verdict that they would have done had their son beenproved to have been the murderer of Miss Carne. Public opinion, indeed,ran against poaching as against drunkenness, or enlisting in the army,or other wild conduct; but it was not considered as an absolute crime,nor was the result of a fight, in which a keeper might be killed by ablow struck in self-defence, regarded as a murder, in whatever point ofview the law might take it. Still Ruth suffered, and at times toldherself bitterly that although she meant to act for the best, she haddone wrongly and wickedly in keeping George Forester's secret.
Three months later, to the regret of all Carnesford, the carpenter, who,although not a first-rate hand, had been able to do the work of thevillage and neighbourhood, suddenly left. He had, he said, received aletter telling him he had come into a little property up in the North,and must return to see after it. So two days later the cottage againstood vacant, and Carnesford, when it wanted a carpenter's job done, wasobliged to send over to the next village for a man to do it.