The Day of Judgment Part 58

"Ay, I'm certain."

"But you said it was dark, just now. How could you be certain who it was in the dark?"

"Well, it was noan so dark as all that, and as I had been walking four mile, my eyes had got accustomed to the darkness; and more than that, there was a break in the clouds just then, and I think there must have been a bit of moonlight. Anyhow, I can swear it were Mr. Paul Stepaside."

"Did he speak to you?"

"Nay; he never spoke to me. As I told you, he never seed me, but were looking straight on."

"Did he seem calm, self-possessed?"

"Nay; all t' other way. He looked like a man beside hissen."

"Did you hear him say anything?"

"Ay, I did. I heerd him say, 'My G.o.d! I never thought it would come to this,' or summat like that. I won't be sure as to the exact words, but it was summat like that."

"Did he stand beside you long?"

"Nay, not more than while one could count ten, perhaps. Then he rushed off, and he were muttering to hissen; but what he were saying aw could noan make out."

"And that was all?"

"Ay, that was all."

"But you did not tell this at the inquest."

"Nay; I didn't want to be dragged into it. Besides, I didn't know what it meant; but I did mention it to my missis, and my missis mentioned it to the wife of a policeman, who told it to her 'usband; and that's how it come out."

As may be imagined, the effect of this evidence was remarkable. It supplied a kind of link in the chain. It was now proved beyond question that Paul was in the vicinity of the murder very near to the time when it actually took place. And in the face of it all, all that had been said in his favour seemed to be as nothing. Not only was it Paul's knife that was found in Wilson's body, but Paul, although he had not been seen to strike the blow, had been seen close to the spot where the murder took place almost at the time of its actual occurrence, and he had been heard to utter words such as a guilty man would have been likely to utter.

At this time the court adjourned, and all felt that Paul's doom was sealed.

CHAPTER XXVI

PAUL'S DEFENCE

The next morning the trial was resumed, and to the surprise of many it did not come to an end that day. Many other witnesses were called which at first were unthought of, and thus the case was dragged out to what seemed to Paul an interminable length. On the third day, however, the examinations were concluded, and Mr. Bakewell rose to address the jury on the evidence which had been given. Some spoke of his speech afterwards as one of the finest that had ever been delivered in Manchester, while others declared it to be devilish in its cleverness, but that, in view of the fact that the prisoner would have no one to defend him, it was unfair. One eminent counsel, who would gladly have taken Paul's case, said that it was the custom of counsel for prosecution in the case of murder to seek to give absolute fair play to the prisoner, and to suppress nothing which might tell in his favour, but that it seemed to be the set purpose of Mr. Bakewell to secure a sentence of death for Paul, just as he would try to secure a verdict in favour of any client for whom he was trying to obtain damages. But this was mentioned in private, and could, of course, have no weight with the jury. Certain it is that he made a very strong case against Paul. He opened his speech with the usual remarks about the seriousness of the case before them and the difficulty he had in approaching it in the right spirit. He also admitted that Paul was a young man who bore a good character in the town, and had so far secured public favour as to be rewarded with the highest measure of confidence with which any town could reward him. But having said all that, it was his duty to deal with the facts which had been brought before them, and it was for the jury to say whether, in the face of that evidence, the prisoner was not guilty of the terrible deed of which he was accused.

He referred to the fact that the prisoner had chosen to defend himself, and as a consequence lessened hid chances of acquittal, but they had also to consider the inwardness of that fact. What was the prisoner's reason for being undefended? It was not that he could not afford to obtain the most eminent counsel at the criminal bar, or because he was not advised by the judge to secure such counsel. An innocent man had nothing to hide. It was only the guilty who sought to shelter himself behind silence. He would like to testify to the prisoner's ability in cross-examination and of his power to nullify the force of certain evidence which told against him. But they had not to deal with sophistries. They had to deal with the hard facts which had been submitted to them. These facts he enumerated one by one, dealing with the evidence which had been given in support of them. He admitted that there might be certain difficulties in their way, certain things hard to explain, and which could only be explained by the prisoner. Still, certain facts remained--facts upon which they would have to judge.

Presently came the summing-up of his speech, and it was here that Mr.

Bakewell justified the reputation he had won as one of the cleverest of criminal lawyers. Everything in Paul's disfavour was set before them in cold, clear, terse language. One point after another was emphasised with terrible precision, and so great was the impression made that it seemed as though both judge and jury could see only with his eyes. All the things which appeared as difficulties were apparently removed. The facts of the case pointed to one man as the murderer of Edward Wilson, and that one man was Paul Stepaside. Mr. Bakewell seemed to be under strong emotion, but that very emotion strengthened the impression which he had made, especially when he spoke of the sacredness of human life, spoke of the terrible responsibility of a jury in condemning a prisoner to death. Nevertheless, he seemed to make it impossible for them to do anything else. When he sat down it seemed as though the scaffold were already erected, and the ghastly rope swinging from it.

Of course, the court was again crowded almost to suffocation. Mr.

Bakewell had spoken for more than two hours, and during the whole time the interest had been intense, the excitement almost overwhelming.

Whenever he paused it seemed as though they could hear the wings of the Angel of Death fluttering over them. Women sobbed aloud, strong men breathed forth quivering sighs. Even the barristers who sat watching the case, and who as a rule regarded murder cases with an air of nonchalance, could not hide their emotion. Everything seemed to be prejudged. No evidence had been adduced strong enough to save the prisoner, and each juryman, who sat with eyes fixed upon the eloquent counsel, looked as though there were only one thing to do, and that was to p.r.o.nounce the word "Guilty."

Paul had sat during the whole time of the delivery of this speech, listening to every word with breathless eagerness. Never until that day had he realised how near death was to him. Throughout the whole trial he had never really believed that the jury could find him guilty.

Now, however, it seemed as though they could do nothing else. Never had he felt his loneliness as he felt it then. The judge did not seem to be a man, but merely a legal machine, uninfluenced by great emotions, and considering his case only as a case. No one had been to see him since the trial had recommenced under Judge Brans...o...b.., save the warders and the chaplain. In one way he was glad it was so, but in another he longed for society, longed for comfort. Eagerly on each morning of the trial had he looked around the court, dreading yet hoping to see the face of Mary Bolitho, whom he still loved as a man should love the woman he hopes to marry, even although he knew her to be his sister. Each morning, too, he had longed to see the face of his mother, although he hoped she would not be there. And while he still declared that nothing could soften his heart against Judge Bolitho, he felt as though the sight of his face would have helped him.

What were they doing? he wondered, the man whom he had lately learnt was his father, and his mother, and his half-sister--no, he could not call her sister even now, and he wondered why it was. When Mr.

Bakewell had finished his speech he heaved a sigh of relief. At least the worst had been told. All that could be done to hang him had been done--at least, as far as evidence was concerned. And then there came back to him the old determination to fight to the bitter end. At least he had his chance to reply, and he nerved himself for the work he had to do. He had no idea of time. He had never thought of it. He knew it was at the beginning of the afternoon session when Mr. Bakewell rose to address the jury, but he had no thought of the time which had elapsed. He had been simply listening, listening, as if it were a matter of life and death--as in reality it was--to the address which had been made. He was expecting the judge to call upon him to make his speech for his own defence, and was arranging his thoughts in order to do so, when the judge turned towards him and asked him if his defence would take any considerable time.

"Yes," replied Paul, "it will."

"Then we will adjourn the court until to-morrow."

"Perhaps," added the judge, with a wan smile, "you will be glad of this. It will allow you some little time to make your preparations."

"Thank you, my lord," he replied.

And then he was led away to his cell.

When Paul entered the dock on the following morning he carried with him a sheaf of papers, the result of the previous night's work. When he returned to his cell he asked for writing materials, and then for several hours worked steadily. A strange calm possessed him while he was doing this, not without a certain sense of enjoyment, grim as the circ.u.mstances were. He was fighting for his own life, and there was a kind of intellectual pleasure in framing his arguments and in meeting the statements which Mr. Bakewell had so forcibly expressed in his final speech. He had always loved a battle of wits, and, terrible as the circ.u.mstances were, the pleasure which an intellectual struggle gave him was not absent even on this occasion.

When he had concluded writing he was utterly exhausted, but here his splendid physique came to his aid, and he slept several hours peacefully. At least he had one satisfaction. Whatever might be the issue of the terrible day which lay before him, terrible whatever might happen, he was an innocent man. He had struck no murderous blow, and he could go down to the grave with a clear conscience, knowing that he had tried to do what was right under the circ.u.mstances. Sometimes a shadow of doubt came into his mind as to whether his mother were really guilty of the terrible deed of which he was accused, but as he reviewed the circ.u.mstances, and remembered what she had said to him, it seemed as though a cold hand had gripped his heart, and it convinced him that it was she in spite of himself. Considering all the events, he could think of no one else who was likely to commit the deed; and so, while he determined to fight to the very last, he could at least do his utmost to keep any shadow of suspicion from falling on her.

Great as the excitement had been on the previous day's trial, it seemed, if possible, greater now, or rather it was an excitement of a different nature. Hitherto a sense of strangeness and wonder had predominated; a morbid curiosity and a desire for sensationalism had possessed the minds and hearts of those who had witnessed the trial.

But to-day another element was added--an element of terror. On the previous days there had been a suggestion of a stage trial. Many, although they had breathlessly followed the evidence given, did not seem to realise that it might end in death. But that was all over now.

The inwardness of everything, the ghastly issues of the scene, became tremendously real. All felt that now Paul Stepaside was indeed fighting for his life. The shadow of the scaffold rested upon him. A thousand unseen enemies seemed to be there trying to drag him to his doom. And he, unaided and alone, had to meet not only the terrible charge which was laid against him, but a kind of fiendish cleverness with which that charge had been urged. Men held their breath as he entered the dock; reporters forgot their duty as they watched his face; the jurymen, bearing in mind the terrible speech which Mr. Bakewell had delivered on the previous evening, and believing that nothing could remove the impression of that speech, looked on him with gloomy interest. Even the judge, legal machine as he appeared to be, showed more than ordinary interest and seemed to be wondering what he had to say for himself.

To all appearance, indeed, Paul was the most self-possessed man in the court. Pale he was, it is true, but upright, clear-sighted, determined. Unversed as he was in the intricacies of the law and possessing none of the experience which characterised the counsel for the prosecution, Mr. Bakewell felt that here indeed was a foeman worthy of his steel, and that had he been trained for the bar he would not have long remained an obscure member of that learned profession.

The formalities of the day were quickly gone through, and Paul rose to address the jury.

I cannot here give in detail the speech which he delivered, cannot describe the intensity with which he spoke, although I watched the trial from day to day. I can only convey a vague impression, not only of the speech which he delivered, but of the effect of his words. Even now I can see him standing in the dock, quietly arranging his papers with firm, steady hands, and then pushing them away as if they could be of no use to him. I can see the steady light in his eyes; the pale, clear-cut face; strong, determined features, upright form. I can feel, too, the tremendous emotion which seemed to overwhelm all present. But these things cannot be conveyed in cold print; they can only be hinted at.

He commenced by saying that he stood there accused of the most serious of charges. It had been urged that he was guilty of murder, and there could be no doubt that a murder had been committed. It was not a question of pleading for partial forgiveness. No question of mercy could be considered. Either he was guilty of murder or he was not, for undoubtedly the deceased man had been murdered. If he had been guilty of that murder, then the jury would do right to p.r.o.nounce that verdict; if not, then they took upon themselves the responsibility of condemning an innocent man to death.

"The counsel for the prosecution," urged Paul, "has mentioned something about giving me the benefit of a doubt. There is no matter of benefit in it, and I decline to accept the term. It is only a matter of justice. It is only justice I desire. My lord and gentlemen of the jury, I have refused to enter the witness-box, not because I desired to keep back anything in relation to the murder, for in truth I know absolutely nothing, but because I might be, probably should be, asked questions on matters on which I desire to remain silent. I appeal to your understanding in relation to this. There are secret matters--ay, and sacred matters--in everyone's life which one does not wish to be discussed by the world at large, and it is for this reason, and this reason only, that I have declined to go into the witness-box. If it were simply a matter of dealing with my connection with the death of the deceased man, I would gladly answer any question that may be asked, because, as I repeat, I know nothing.

"The learned counsel has also referred to my decision to be my own defender, and has admitted that I may possibly suffer some disadvantage because of it. I did so for more than one reason. The first I have just suggested. No counsel could be of any value to me unless I gave him my absolute and complete trust. Again I say, there are certain matters utterly and wholly removed from the crime of which I am accused which I do not wish to make known. Possibly this may tell against me; but, gentlemen, when you think of the happenings of the last few days, when you remember, my lord, the wonderful and unprecedented confession which was made from the chair you now occupy, a confession which vitally affects me, you can understand that there are other things in my life--perfectly innocent, yes, and in a vital sense very sacred--which I do not wish to confide to any man. More on that question I will not say. The other reason I have for defending myself is that while an abler man than myself might be obtained, a more eloquent man, a far more learned man, I could secure no one who is so certain of my own innocence as I am myself, and as a consequence no one could plead with the same earnestness, albeit haltingly, yet no one can plead with the same conviction that I can. For, my lord and gentlemen, at the very outset of what I wish to say I must again urge that I know absolutely nothing of this man's murder. I struck no blow, and am as far removed from his death as the little children who were born in this city last night!

"Now, my lord and gentlemen, the whole weight of the accusation brought against me depends entirely upon circ.u.mstantial evidence, and you, my lord, who are so learned in the law, know full well the value that can be attached to such evidence. You know that again and again it has proved to be false. You know one particular case especially, when a man, who was condemned to die on circ.u.mstantial evidence, was three times brought to the scaffold, and three times the rope broke, and then, because of what may be called the superst.i.tious feelings of the community at large, that sentence was reduced to penal servitude for life. I say you know, my lord, that although that circ.u.mstantial evidence seemed complete, when a renowned thief and murderer was brought to his trial and condemned to die, he confessed to this very murder. Moreover, you can see that when a man's life or death depends upon circ.u.mstantial evidence, that evidence must be complete. No link in the chain must be missing. If it is missing, then it would be a crime, and worse than a crime, to take away the life of a man because of it. And I shall show you, my lord and gentlemen, that not only is the chain of evidence incomplete in this case, but that many links are wanting in that chain, and therefore it has no strength whatever."

Paul paused here, and for a moment seemed to have forgotten his line of defence. He turned towards his notes, which he had placed beside him, as if with the intention of refreshing his memory, and then, like one angered at his seeming unreadiness, he appeared to make a mighty effort to gather together his scattered thoughts and to concentrate them. He gazed around the crowded court, watched the pale, set faces, not only of the jury, but of the spectators, noted the strained attention of the barristers and the steady scrutiny of the judge. He seemed for the moment like a man put upon his mettle and determined to play his part manfully.

"I would like," he said, "first of all to refer to the question of motive. The learned counsel has urged that I committed this murder because of personal hatred. The evidence which he sought to deduce, and upon which he dwelt almost to the point of tediousness, was that there was a long-standing feud between the murdered man and myself. He related incident after incident which went to show that, to say the least of it, no love was lost between us. I have no word to say against that evidence, no word to say against his methods of urging it against me. It was his duty as counsel for the prosecution. But I must ask you to examine this more closely. It is true that the murdered man had been my enemy for years. But should I be likely, because of his enmity, to murder him? Or, even if I belonged to the cla.s.s of criminals which he would make me out to belong to, should I have chosen such an hour to commit that murder? Should I not have committed it, not in my hour of triumph, but in my hour of defeat?

"It has come out in the evidence that at the first election at Brunford the deceased man did his utmost to ruin me. He not only tried to tarnish the name of my mother as well as my own, but he did his best to ruin me financially. This has been proved, proved beyond a doubt; and as a result of what he did I lost that election. I say, if I had intended to murder him, would not that have been the time when I should have done it? Or again, would it not have been likely that I should have done it while in the heat of pa.s.sion? As far as I can remember, the quarrel, which took place between us on the evening prior to the murder, has been correctly described. When I left him he struck me down. Gentlemen, I am not a weak man, but a strong man. If it was my desire to do him bodily harm, should I not be likely to do it then? We were there alone. As far as I knew, no eye was watching us, and naturally my pa.s.sions would be roused by the cowardly blow he struck me; but I did nothing. I, so it was said, uttered a threat that I would be equal with him for this blow which he had struck, and then went away. Then, the learned counsel has urged, after I had walked nearly two miles back to my own home, after I had dressed for dinner, I waited until midnight, and then, with cool calculation, went out to kill this man. Can anyone in his senses believe such a thing?

Besides, think of another thing. I was in a position to laugh at Wilson's enmity. I had won an eminent position in the town of my adoption. I had risen from obscurity to be a member of Parliament for that town. I had made a speech in the House of Commons which had attracted notice throughout the whole country. I was the subject of leading articles in newspapers. What was Wilson's enmity to me? I could have afforded to have left Brunford altogether. I could have lived in London, where I need never have seen him. Was I likely, then--not in a moment of mad pa.s.sion, mark you--not in resentment for a coward's blow which had been struck immediately before, but after seven hours--was I likely to go out into the dead of the night to kill him?

Forgive me for urging this matter, but the question of motive must come in, and to say that this deed was the outcome of a long personal feud is, under the circ.u.mstances, preposterous. Is this link in the chain strong enough to hold? Nay, is it a link at all? And does not the chain break in consequence?"

It was at this point that Paul held both judge and jury strongly. I know I altogether fail to convey the impression he made. In cold print, while his words may seem reasonable, and even forcible, they only give a hint at their power when they were uttered as he uttered them.

The next point with which he dealt was with that of the knife. This knife, known to be Paul's, was found driven through Edward Wilson's heart, driven from behind. And it had been used with great skill by the counsel for the prosecution. He had considered it from every standpoint, and it had seemed, at the time, that no one but Paul could have used it.