The Queen Against Owen

CHAPTER X.

THE VERDICT

The secrets of the jury-room are little understood. Doubtless this is because all the more intellectual classes are exempted, by a beautiful provision of our law, from serving on juries, and the remainder have not yet produced a man competent to chronicle his experiences.

The Mynyddshire jurymen were very much like their brethren all over the country. They had sworn a solemn oath to well and truly try, and true deliverance make, between our sovereign lady the Queen and the prisoner at the bar, and they honestly tried to act up to their obligation.

Mr. Jenkins, the Queen Street stationer, was among them, and his first words, after the door was closed on them, were:

‘Well, I don’t know what you think, sir, but I couldn’t make out whether he was for her or against her.’

The person addressed was the foreman, a rich building contractor from a large seaport at the end of the county. He was a man of judicial mind, a model foreman, and wisely abstained from committing himself at this early stage. He turned round and asked his next neighbour, who happened to be the farmer from near Porthstone, whose remarks to Mr. Jenkins were given in the fourth chapter:

‘How did it strike you, sir?’

‘I thought he was against her,’ was the answer. ‘Didn’t you hear him say, “The prisoner must suffer by that line of defence”? And then he didn’t say nothing about reasonable doubts.’

‘No; but the young barrister did – the one that prosecuted,’ observed a tall, thin man, a tailor by trade.

‘He’s got nothing to do with it,’ said the farmer. ‘I thought him a fool all along. I know his whole family, and they’re all alike.’

‘What a terrible speech Mr. Tressamer made!’ ventured a fifth juryman, a short, stumpy watchmaker from Porthstone itself. ‘I believe he’s her lover.’

‘What!’ cried the foreman, losing his calm demeanour in the presence of this interesting revelation. ‘How d’ye know that?’

‘Oh, it was common talk in Porthstone,’ was the answer. ‘They knew each other ever since they was children, and he used to come down every summer and go about with her. That’s what made him so fierce against Mr. Lewis, you may depend.’

‘And did you know her?’ ‘What was she like, really?’ ‘What do you think of her?’ broke from several voices as the whole jury clustered round the little man.

But he drew in his horns at once.

‘Don’t ask me anything,’ he said. ‘I’ve mended her watch, and I always thought she was all right up to this, but the Lord only knows whether she did it.’ He paused, and then, as if there were some vague connection in his mind between this charge and a general disposition towards acts of dishonesty, he added: ‘She always paid me regular.’

Perhaps the jury scented an underlying distrust in this. At any rate, one of them said:

‘I watched the judge carefully all through, and I saw him frown at her several times. To my mind he meant us to say guilty.’

The word came with a little shock to the men. They instinctively realized its terrible gravity as falling from their lips. The tall, thin tailor put in his word again:

‘Anyhow, he said there was no evidence of motive.’

‘Except they jewels,’ corrected the farmer.

‘Ah, but there was nothing came out about them.’

‘Phoo! that there was. Didn’t you see how her counsel was fighting to keep it back? You may depend she knew all about them, and could tell us where they are now if she liked.’

‘You seem to have made up your mind,’ said another man, who had been talking aside to a little knot of three; ‘but for the life of me I couldn’t make it out one way or the other. What did you think he meant about that latchkey?’

This was offensive. It was reminding them of their weak point. It threw the whole room into confusion. Eight or nine of the jury all began to speak at once, and four or five could find no listeners.

When the hubbub had a little subsided, the foreman said:

‘Gentlemen, it’s no use talking it over in this way. We must argue it out one at a time. I propose that we all sit round the table, and the one that has anything to say stands up and says it properly.’

This suggestion was well received, but it had a fatal effect on three of the jury, who were wholly unable to attempt anything so much like a set speech as this course involved.

As soon as all were seated the foreman commenced:

‘Gentlemen this is a doubtful case, a very doubtful case. Talk of reasonable doubts, there’s nothing but reasonable doubts, so far as I can see, from beginning to end. Now, it would have been a great help to us if the judge had showed us which way he thought we ought to go, but I must confess I couldn’t tell which side he meant to lean. If any other gentleman thinks otherwise, we shall be glad to hear him.’

But no other gentleman thought otherwise. The man who had thrown out the suggestion about the latchkey, and who was a fishing-boat proprietor from a seaside suburb of Abertaff, murmured from his seat:

‘I call it a shame. I should like to know what a judge is for. We might as well try the case ourselves as this.’

‘So we are trying it, aren’t we?’ rebuked the man who had been the first to blurt out the fatal word, and who was a farmer from near the same place.

‘You may be, Mr. Rees,’ returned the boat proprietor, with what was intended for biting sarcasm.

‘Come, gentlemen, gentlemen,’ said the foreman impressively, ‘let us remember that we are engaged on a case of life and death. We have got to come at the truth somehow, and we must do what we can by ourselves.’

‘They should have give us more evidence,’ objected Mr. Jenkins. ‘What did they want to make so much fuss about those jewels for?’

‘Aye, and there was another thing,’ said the Porthstone farmer; ‘did you notice that when Mr. Lewis wanted to say why he suspected her, the judge wouldn’t let un?’

‘Well, she’s an orphan,’ said the tailor, ‘and her father was Rector of Porthstone for thirty years, and I say we ought to let her off.’

‘For shame, John,’ said the watchmaker, who happened to be his next-door neighbour; ‘don’t you know we’ve got to decide according to the evidence?’

The tailor hung his head.

Then the foreman interposed again.

‘Really, gentlemen, I think it will save time if we go round the table, and let each man express his opinion in turn. Of course, I don’t say his final opinion, but just any remarks that strike him on the evidence. Will you begin, sir?’

Mr. Jenkins rose from his seat on the foreman’s right and cleared his throat.

‘Mr. Foreman and gentlemen, I think this is, as our foreman has told us, a case of very great doubt. At the same time, it is our duty to punish the guilty, and not let the prisoner off simply because she is a woman and good-looking, and that sort of thing.’ (Subdued applause. The foreman raises his hand for silence.) ‘Now, what I look at in this case is the motive, and that is, I take it, the jewels. I don’t believe she would have done it simply on the chance of getting something under the will. I don’t know whether you remember, but the judge said Miss Lewis might have parted with the jewels, because they weren’t found after her death. Now, it seems to me that that points just the other way. I mean, it looks as if she had been murdered for the sake of them. It seems to me the only question is, Who murdered her? Was it Mr. Lewis or was it Miss Owen? That’s my difficulty.’

He sat down. The farmer, who sat next him, stood up in turn.

‘I say what the judge said; let us decide according to the evidence. Now, what evidence is there against Mr. Lewis? Why, you say the judge didn’t speak out clearly, but he did say there wasn’t any evidence against him. All the evidence is against her, and we ought to act upon it.’

The next speaker was a rather young man, who occupied a position of superintendence in a large millinery establishment, exclusively patronised by ladies. With such associations he was naturally disposed to be chivalrous. He said:

‘I know a lady when I see her. Miss Owen’s a lady; anyone can see that with half an eye. As for Lewis, I didn’t like the looks of him at all. You know they’re a wild lot out in Australia. I heard that he came back for good reasons, if the truth was known. Then look how he lost his temper in the witness-box! And then, as Mr. Tressamer said, the very night he got there the murder happened. That looks as if he did it. He said she didn’t give him a latchkey, but I believe she very likely did, else why did the barrister ask him? And then look at the hand being cut off. No young lady would go and do such a thing as that, surely!’

The jury were impressed. The next man was of a shy and gentle disposition. He did not venture to get on his feet, but threw out a suggestion as he sat: ‘I suppose it must have been one of the two. There couldn’t have been somebody else, could there?’

A withering look from eleven faces rewarded this disconcerting query. The foreman expressed the general feeling:

‘Really, sir, I can’t think what ground you have for suggesting such a thing. The case is difficult enough as it is, without having fresh doubts raised.’

‘Ah, there should ought to have been a London detective brought down,’ muttered another juryman, who had taken little part hitherto. ‘One of them would have puzzled it out, you may depend.’

‘Well, I don’t see what more you would have,’ said the other farmer, Rees, rising in his turn. ‘Here is this young woman, sleeping in the next room, going out at night secretly, under some pretence of headaches – why didn’t she tell other people about them beside that chemist? – and here you have her mistress murdered, and the blood found on the door of her own room the next morning. What more do you want?’

He sat down. It was now the tailor’s turn.

‘And how do you know Lewis didn’t put the blood there?’ he asked. ‘I believe it’s Lewis myself. Anyway, one of them must have done it, that’s clear.’

But this was felt to be a weak defence, and the next two jurymen shook their heads, and professed themselves unable to throw any light upon the question. Then it was the turn of the boat proprietor.

‘Look here,’ he said, ‘what’s the good of our trying to come to a verdict when we’re none of us sure which of them did it? Better give it up, and tell the judge we can’t agree.’

But the foreman would not hear of this.

‘No, sir,’ he said, ‘we are here sworn to do justice between man and man and mete out punishment to the guilty, and we must not shrink from our task. We have heard the case through, and if we are not competent to give a verdict on it, who is?’

This was felt to be unanswerable. Not only were the foreman’s words worthy of attention in themselves, but he was a great man, the reputed possessor of twelve thousand a year; he wore a frock coat and a white waistcoat as well, and his word was, therefore, practically equivalent to law.

There remained only the watchmaker. He felt a friendly feeling towards the prisoner, but he was troubled by real misgivings as to her innocence.

‘The judge said we oughtn’t to go against Mr. Lewis,’ he said, ‘and I stand by what the judge says. Besides, I look at what he said when he gave her in charge.’

‘What was that?’ said the foreman eagerly.

‘I’ll tell you, sir. It was in the paper at the time, and I happened to keep it by me, and so when I was summoned as a juror, thinks I to myself, “This may come in useful if I should happen to be on the jury that’s to try her,” so I just cuts it out and brings it in my pocket.’

The other men looked on keenly, as he slowly drew out his pocket-book and extracted a newspaper cutting, embracing some two and a half columns of the Southern Daily News. Everyone hoped that something of a decisive character would now be forthcoming.

The watchmaker ran his finger down the columns.

‘Here it is!’ he exclaimed, and read it aloud.

‘“On reaching the police-station, of which Constable Smithies was then in charge, Mr. Lewis said: ‘I charge Eleanor Owen with the murder of my aunt, Ann Elizabeth Lewis. I have made some money, and, please God, I’ll spend every penny of it rather than my poor aunt shall remain unavenged.’

‘“Constable Smithies at once summoned Sergeant – ” that’s it,’ concluded the watchmaker, looking up from his extract.

A murmur and shaking of heads followed, and the foreman again felicitously voiced the general feeling:

‘That doesn’t sound like guilt,’ he said, with emphasis. ‘May I see that paper? Perhaps it has some other things which we have forgotten.’

‘Certainly, sir. But I don’t know whether we ought to be reading this,’ hazarded its owner, handing the slip across.

‘Why not? We’re only doing it to refresh our memory.’

This reply was again felt to be worthy of its author. It had a fine flavour of legality about it too, which gave confidence to the other jurymen. They realized that they were fortunate in their foreman.

That gentleman meanwhile proceeded to glance down the document before him. Presently he stopped, frowned, pursed up his lips, and breathed a stern sigh. The others watched with anxiety. He proceeded to enlighten them.

‘Gentlemen, listen to this, and tell me what effect it has on your minds. Sergeant Evans said, “I arrested the prisoner on the morning of the second. I told her she was charged with the wilful murder of Ann Elizabeth Lewis. She turned pale and said, ‘It is impossible.’ I cautioned her. She said nothing more, and shed no tears.” Gentlemen, is that like innocence?’

He laid down the paper. The prisoner’s doom was sealed. The waverers among the jury went over at once, and even the friends of the prisoner no longer dared to hold out. The tailor would have resisted if he had dared, but his sense of social inferiority was too much for him. What was he, a humble little tradesman, to set himself against eleven men, headed by a wealthy contractor who wore three spade guineas on his watch-chain?

Then a solemn awe settled down over the faces of the twelve men. They did not hesitate in doing what they believed was their duty, but they felt some natural horror of the result. At last the foreman said:

‘Gentlemen, are we all agreed?’

And, as there was no reply, he led them back into court.

They had not been out quite an hour, but the interval seemed terribly long to those they left behind.

When they came in one by one, with drooping heads and set faces, the verdict was read before it was heard. Only the prisoner still held out, with that obstinate unbelief in the worst which is a part of strong natures. Only the prisoner and the prisoner’s counsel. He manifested no sorrow and no surprise. Prescott put his stoical calmness down to over-exhaustion, others of the Bar attributed it to his confidence in the point reserved. The public hardly noticed him. Their eyes were fixed upon the dock.

The clerk of arraigns stood up, and went as best he could through the tedious process of calling each juryman by name. Then followed the routine question, followed by the awful word, heavy with issues of death, pealing forth through the hushed, agitated hall:

‘Guilty!’

The prisoner neither moved nor answered, as the clerk formally summoned her to declare if there were any reasons why sentence should not be passed upon her. Some of the women whispered that she had gone mad, or that she was going to faint. The judge covered his wig with the sombre square of silk.

Suddenly she looked up, cast her eyes rapidly round the court, and fixing them full on Prescott, who was attentively watching her, she exclaimed:

‘I am not guilty.’

‘Eleanor Margaret Owen, the jury, after a long and patient hearing, and after taking time for careful deliberation, have found you guilty of the crime of wilful murder. What motive inspired you to commit such a crime I cannot say, and it may, perhaps, never be known. It only remains for me to discharge my very painful duty, which I do by declaring that the sentence of the court upon you is – ’

The details followed. The words are too familiar to need setting forth. They sounded in unconscious ears. Eleanor Owen had fainted at last, and was carried helpless and lifeless away from the scene of her long martyrdom.

CHAPTER XI.

THE PRISONER’S STATEMENT

The day after the trial Tressamer went with confident mien to the prison for the purpose of having an interview with Eleanor as to the appeal of which he had given notice.

The governor at first hesitated about permitting this. The prison regulations forbid intercourse with a convict, except under certain rigorous limitations. But the name and function of counsel prevailed, and a warder was sent to fetch the prisoner.

Presently he returned alone, with the startling message that Eleanor positively refused to hold any communication whatever with her late advocate. Tressamer left the gaol with the air of a beaten man.

In his dismay he bethought himself of Prescott, and hurried to the court-house to find him and get his advice. He was there, but he was busy in a case then before the Nisi Prius Court, and it was not till late in the afternoon that Tressamer could get a word with him.

The case had been decided in favour of Prescott’s client, and he strode into the robing-room with a little natural elation. But no sooner did he catch sight of his friend, who was waiting for him there, than his whole manner changed, and a stern expression settled round the corners of his mouth.

It was their first meeting since the result of Eleanor’s trial. They were alone in the room, and Prescott at once addressed the other:

‘Tressamer, what have you to say for yourself? I told you yesterday that I should hold you responsible. You disobeyed my advice, and that of everybody else. You set the judge and jury against you, and the result is what you were told it would be. I gave you fair warning, and I tell you now that, unless you have some reason for your conduct of which I know nothing, I cannot look upon you as a friend.’

Tressamer pinched in his lips hard as he listened to this.

‘I might have expected it,’ he said. ‘We all know that love is stronger than friendship. The first woman that likes can break up the strongest attachments of some men.’

‘Silence!’ cried Prescott. ‘I am not going to bandy retorts with you. Ever since we were boys I have liked you and befriended you, and borne with your waywardness. You have outraged all your other friends long ago, but I bore with everything till now. But this is too much. Where a life is at stake, to indulge in your freaks of eccentricity! It is murder morally. What are you better than the man who killed that wretched woman?’

Tressamer shook with anger.

‘Be careful, Prescott! I will stand a great deal from you, but you are going too far now. You know as well as I do that her life is in no danger. What is old Buller’s opinion worth on a criminal case? Wiseman is worth ten of him, and he is in our favour. The C.C.R. will save her.’

‘Wretched man! Have you no heart, no moral sense, that you talk like that? As if a mere escape on a technical point could give any comfort to a woman like her! One would think you were wanting in some ingredient of human nature. What does Eleanor herself say?’

‘I haven’t seen her,’ was the muttered reply.

‘Haven’t seen her! Then go at once, and get her authority to appear.’

‘I have been to the prison, but she won’t see me. I suppose she is ill.’

A look of positive pleasure crossed the face of the elder man.

‘Ill – no, but innocent!’ he exclaimed. ‘I can understand her refusing to see you. You have played with her life for the prize of infamy, and you deserve that she should discard you. This is the best thing I have heard yet. Why, I could almost forgive you now for telling me. I will go this instant and offer my services: they will be those of a plain, honest man.’

And, flinging off his wig and gown, he rushed out of the place in a very unwonted state of excitement.

Tressamer was left, bewildered and enraged, to curse his own folly in betraying his defeat to a rival.

When Eleanor was summoned by the gaoler to see Mr. Prescott, she at first thought there must be some mistake.

‘Are you sure you don’t mean Mr. Tressamer?’ she asked.

‘No; he said Prescott.’

A faint smile rose in her face. She eagerly assented to the interview, and in a couple of minutes the two were closeted together.

At first there was a brief, awkward silence. Then Prescott broke it by speaking in calm, precise words:

‘It is nearly five years since we met, Miss Owen, but I hope you have not quite forgotten me.’

‘No, indeed,’ she answered; ‘but you should have forgotten me. I know I ought to thank you for this visit, and for dealing so leniently with the case yesterday, but I cannot find the right words. It is all so strange – so terrible and so strange.’

Prescott was afraid to look at her, lest the tears should come into his eyes.

‘Don’t thank me, please. I wish I could forgive myself for taking that wretched brief at all. I can only say I did so for fear it might fall into the hands of some abler and bitterer prosecutor. The solicitors were your enemies.’

‘Yes; I refused their services. I have wondered since if I was wise. It was Mr. Tressamer who advised me.’

‘And why? Why did you trust yourself so entirely to that man? But I forgot. I believe you are or were engaged.’

Eleanor raised her eyes, and looked long and searchingly at her questioner. Suddenly she said:

‘Before I tell you, why did you come here – for any special object, I mean?’

‘Yes. I came, hearing you had refused – and in my opinion rightly refused – to see Mr. Tressamer. I came, taking the privilege of an old friend of your father’s and your own, to ask if I might appear for you in the court to which your case is being taken.’

‘Ah, then there is a Providence. I am not quite deserted!’