CHAPTER XXVIII
WHICH TELLS OF AN UNEXPECTED TURN OF EVENTS
It seems that coroner and jury had not spent quite so much time overluncheon as the more or less interested spectators. When the crowdbegan to file back again into the seats, the coroner had alreadyexamined and dismissed one witness and was questioning another.
The past and present servants of the Grosvenor Square household wouldall have to pass before the coroner during the course of this longafternoon. It was only two o'clock and already the gas had to belighted--two incandescent burners just above the coroner'stable--hard, uncompromising lights, that threw a sickly green tinge onevery face and cast deep black shadows under every eye.
It was this light no doubt that made Luke's face seem positivelyghastly to Louisa: it looked almost like a death-mask, so deep andcavernous did the eyes appear, and so hollow the cheeks. He wassitting in his usual attitude, with arms folded, between Mr. Dobsonand one of the women in seedy black whose presence here had puzzledevery one.
Old Parker, ex-butler to Lord Radclyffe, was giving evidence. He had atale to tell, how Mr. de Mountford "went on awful" when he--theinnocent, well-drilled servant--had thought it his duty to introduceMr. Philip into his lordship's presence.
"Just think of it, your honour," he exclaimed, "his lordship'srightful heir."
Then he added with calm effrontery:
"Mr. Luke 'e give me the sack then and there! He was that wild!"
Just a paltry, silly, meaningless revenge. The death-mask on Luke'sface relaxed for a moment when he looked on the fat creature standingbefore the jury, vainly trying to look pompous and self-righteous, andonly succeeding in being a liar.
The evidence would have been of little worth, but for thecorroboration from other servants of the Grosvenor Square household.The present two--man and wife--wastrels and drunkards, counted fornothing: they had only entered Lord Radclyffe's service recently whenall visitors had ceased from calling at the inhospitable house, andthey had seen little or nothing of Luke; but the others--those whomPhilip's arbitrary temper had driven out of the house--they had many atale to tell of the dead man's arrogance, his contemptuous treatmentof his younger kinsman, and the bitter words that often flew betweenthe cousins, when doors closed and eavesdroppers were behind thekey-holes.
These witnesses--an ex-housekeeper, a footman, a maid--were tryingtheir best, poor things, to "do the right thing by Mr. Luke," littleguessing how ill they succeeded. They had been dragged into this muchagainst their will. As a class they hated the police and its doings,even though the cook might occasionally show a preference for thelocal guardian of peace and order. As for the detective in plainclothes, the man who wore a peaked cap instead of the familiarhelmet, him they hated and feared, especially since he seemed to meanmischief for Mr. Luke.
They gave their evidence unwillingly; every admission had to bedragged out of them, once they realized that the revelations of pastquarrels between "the gentlemen" would not be to the detriment of thedead, only perhaps to the undoing of the living.
The hours wore on wearily. The atmosphere now surcharged with the heatfrom the gas brackets had become intolerably oppressive. Opoponax andwhite heliotrope waxed faint to the nostrils. Through the badlyfitting window frame something of the outward fog had penetrated intothe room. It hung about in the air, round the gas that burned yellowand dim through it, and obscured the far corners of the place,throwing a veil over the twelve mutes in uniform overcoats withthreadbare velvet collars, over the eager and perspiring journalistswhose fountain pens had scraped the paper incessantly for so long.
Hot, tired, and oppressed humanity made its warm breath felt in theclose, ill-ventilated room. Smelling-salts would not dispel theunpleasantly mingling odours of damp clothes and muddy boots whichrose from the plebeian crowd in the rear.
But nobody stirred; no one would have thought of leaving before thelast act of this interesting play. The chief actor was not on thestage for the moment, but his presence was felt. It was magnetic inits appeal to excitement. Every question put by the coroner, everyreply given by the witnesses, had, as it were, Luke de Mountford forits aim: every word tended toward him, his undoing, the enmeshing ofhis denials in the close web of circumstantial evidence.
Then a diversion occurred.
The man in the shabby clothes, who looked like a beetle, and who hadmarshalled his companions into the court room early in the day, wascalled upon by the usher to come forward. His strange, poorly-cladfigure detached itself from the groups immediately round him, hislong, loose limbs seeming to swing themselves forward.
His four companions--the three women and the other man--were seizedapparently with great agitation and whispered eagerly amongthemselves. No one in the crowd could guess why these people had beencalled. They seemed so completely out of the picture which had itsinvisible frame in Grosvenor Square.
"Go on, Jim!" whispered one of the young women, "they can't do nothingto ye."
And the beetle-like creature shambled forward, with arms ganglingbeside him, a humble, apologetic look on his care-worn face. He mighthave been any age from thirty to sixty; time and a perpetual strugglefor existence had wiped way all traces of actual age. The cheeks werehollow, and eyes, mouth, and moustache had a droop which added to thesettled melancholy of the face.
He was obviously very nervous and looked across at his own friends,who strove to encourage him by signs and whispers.
He nearly dropped the Bible when it was handed to him, and no onecould really hear the oath which he repeated mechanically at theusher's bidding.
At last he mustered up a sufficient amount of courage to state hisname and address.
"James Baker," he said in answer to the coroner's question."Bricklayer by trade."
"And where do you live?"
"At 147 Clapham Junction Road, sir," replied the man, scarcely above awhisper.
"Speak up, please," admonished the coroner, "the jury can't hear you.You came here, I understand, prepared to make a statement?"
"Yes, sir."
"Of what nature?"
The man shifted his position from one leg to the other. Heavy beads ofperspiration stood out on his pallid forehead.
"Go on, Jim; don't be afeeard," came from the body of the court.
"Silence there!" commanded the usher.
"I wished to say, sir," resumed the man, trying to steady his voice,"that the deceased whom I saw lying in the coffin yonder is my ownson, Paul Baker, sir."
"Your son!"
"My son, sir," asserted the man somewhat more steadily, "my son, and'is mother's, as is sitting over there. My son, Paul Baker, as left'ome two year ago come next Christmas. We all come 'ere, sir, to-day,me and 'is mother and sister an' Smith an' Jane--we all come 'ere toswear to 'im."
"Your son!"
The exclamation once more came from the coroner, but had any one elsedared, that exclamation would have been echoed and reechoed by everymouth in the court room, coupled with emphatic ejaculations ofincredulity.
It was as if in a new castle of some grim, sleeping monster a magicwand had touched every somnolent spirit. Smelling salts and scentedhandkerchiefs were forgotten: the jurymen leaned forward half acrossthe table, oblivious of their own dignity, in their endeavour toobtain a fuller view of this wielder of the magic wand: thebeetle-like creature with the sad eyes and pale, hollow cheeks. Eventhe reporters--accustomed to sensational events--gave up scribbling inorder to stare open-mouthed at the shabby figure standing by thetable.
At first, of course, the predominant sensation was one of sweepingincredulity. Coroner and jury had met here to-day in this stuffy roomin order to conduct an inquiry on the death of Philip de Mountford,heir presumptive to the earldom of Radclyffe. The crowd of fashionableand idle gapers had pushed and jostled in order to hear the ugly storyof how wealth and position are fought for and intrigued for even atthe cost of crime.
And now to think that the man who lay dead was just a bricklayer'sson! It was absolutely incr
edible. Not till a few moments later didthe spectators realize that, if the seedy man at the table spoketruly, then they were witnessing a drama even more poignant than thatof the original murder; a drama of deception and of fraud, and amystery far deeper than that which had originally confronted thesensation mongers.
Strangely enough, incredulity died down, and died down very quickly. Asubtle wave filled the murky atmosphere compelling every mind tobelief, long before the man's assertions were proved to be correct.The most indifferent became conscious of an overwhelming convictionthat the witness was speaking the truth.
This conviction was absolutely paramount in the minds of the chiefactors in the play. To them all, to Colonel Harris and to Louisa, toMr. Dobson and the solicitors, the truth of the statement was never inquestion. An unerring instinct forced them to believe: and suchbeliefs are as unconquerable as they are overwhelming. Truth that isan absolute, unquestionable truth finds its way to the mind, when thelatter is attuned to subtle or psychic impressions.
And as the truth was borne in upon these people, so did they realizethe fulness of its meaning, the deep significance of its portent.
To some of them it seemed as if in a brilliantly illuminated world,all the lights had suddenly been extinguished: to others, as if in adark and intricate cavern, full of black, impenetrable shadows,dazzling lights had been suddenly switched on.
Louisa, looking across at Luke, saw that to him it meant the latter,and that some of the new, dazzling light had illumined the darkness ofhis soul.
Something of the tense rigidity of his attitude had gone from him: notthe sorrow perhaps, but the blank hopelessness of a misery thatflounders in a sea of the unknown.