Mr. Fransemmery at that moment could truly say that he and his fellow-jurymen brought open, unbiassed, and uninformed minds to that important enquiry. During the forty-eight (to be exact, fifty-two) hours which had elapsed since the discovery of Guy Markenmore’s dead body, nothing further had leaked out to the general public. Much had been going on. Police had been drafted into the usually quiet village in considerable numbers; they had been searching woods, towns, all the immediate6 surroundings of the crime. Blick, with two or three lesser7 satellites, had been pursuing enquiries all round the neighbourhood; there was scarcely a soul in a side area round Markenmore that had not been questioned for news.
But all through these investigations8 those who made them had preserved an unusually strict silence, and outside the police there was not a soul in the big dining-hall, now transformed into a court, who had the faintest notion of what was about to be revealed. Yet one thing was known. Mrs. Tretheroe had not been content with her denunciation of John Harborough before the brother and sister and the men assembled in the morning-room. She had denounced him again—to the Vicar; to the village folk; to other people; it was already well and widely known that she firmly believed that Harborough had killed Guy Markenmore. Naturally, therefore, she was the object of great interest as she sat near the big tables arranged in the centre of the room, attired9, somewhat theatrically10, in deep mourning. She was not alone; although her house-party had dispersed11 on the day of the tragedy, two of her friends had remained with her; one, a Mrs. Hamilton, a middle-aged12 woman of fashion: the other, a Baron3 von Eckhardstein, a handsome and well-preserved man of fifty who was said to be a great European financier. These two sat on either side of Mrs. Tretheroe; a little distance away Harborough sat, grave and imperturbable13, by the side of Mr. Walkinshaw, his solicitor.
Mr. Fransemmery and his eleven companions went automatically through the usual dismal14 preliminaries: and the gruesome duty of viewing the dead man’s body. They listened respectfully to the Coroner’s opening remarks, conscious all the time that this was routine—the real thing to be considered was the evidence. And suddenly the Coroner brought his remarks to an abrupt15 conclusion, and jury and spectators settled down to the real business—the hearing of what could be said towards clearing up, one way or another, the all-important problem: Who killed Guy Markenmore?
The first stages of the enquiry yielded little that was new or exciting. Harry16 Markenmore identified the body as that of his elder brother, Guy, who, he said, was thirty-five years of age. He was not aware if Guy was married or not. Guy had left Markenmore Court seven years before, and had never been seen or heard of by his family since, until the evening before the murder, when he had turned up unexpectedly. He detailed17 the doings of the short visit, and said that his brother had left the house at about half-past ten. He had spoken of having an appointment in the neighbourhood, and had mentioned that supper would be awaiting him where he was going. He had no idea whatever as to where Guy then went. He did not return to Markenmore Court—no one there ever saw him again until his dead body was carried in, early next morning.
Hobbs, the ploughman, gave evidence as to finding the dead man, whom he had at once recognized, and detailed what he had done to get assistance. He had seen no one about in that part of the downs, nor noticed anything suspicious near the scene of the crime.
The village policeman spoke18 as to the investigations made round about Markenmore Hollow: there was no sign whatever of any struggle, and there were no footprints—the turf, thereabouts, he said, was very wiry, close-knit, and full of spring: there had been no recent rain, and the closest examination had failed to yield anything in the shape of such prints. No weapon of any sort had been found near the place, nor in the adjacent undergrowth. This witness, too, gave evidence as to the examination of the dead man’s clothing, made when the body was brought down to the Court. There was a considerable sum of money in notes, gold, and silver. There was a gold watch, chain, and locket. There were three rings—two of them set with diamonds. There were several small items—a silver cigar-case, silver match-box, and so on; and there were two pocket-books. All these were now in possession of the police. He was sure that, when he was brought to the Hollow by the last witness, the body had not been interfered19 with in any way, and that the clothing, and the various objects he had just mentioned, had not been touched. From these facts and from the additional fact that the dead man had a large sum of money on him, he had at once formed the impression that the murder had not been committed for the sake of robbery.
There was more interest in the evidence of the police-surgeon. It was, he said, about twenty minutes to seven o’clock when he, with the Chief Constable20 and Detective-Sergeant Blick, reached Markenmore Hollow. He saw at once that Guy Markenmore had been shot dead, and his impression was that he had then been dead between two or three hours—nearer three than two. His opinion remained unaltered—he should fix the actual time of death at about four o’clock. Death had been instantaneous. From a subsequent post-mortem examination he had ascertained21 that the bullet—produced—fired, in his opinion, at close quarters from a revolver, had entered the head at the right temple, passed through the brain in a curving downward direction and finally lodged22 in the muscles a little below the left ear.
“This,” suggested the Coroner, “could have been a self-inflicted wound?”
“Certainly,” replied the witness.
“But in that case, the weapon would have been found close at hand?”
“In that case, I should have expected to find him still grasping the weapon. The probability in such case is that a man who shoots himself grips his revolver very tightly in the act, and his fingers would tighten23 their grip as the shot took effect.”
“As there was no revolver near, you came to the conclusion that this was a case of murder?”
“Yes—murder!”
“Did you come to any conclusion as to how it was done?”
“Yes, I did. An opinion, that is, I think that the murderer and his victim were walking side by side, probably in close conversation, the victim on the left. I think the murderer brought his right hand, armed with a revolver, suddenly round across his own body, and shot his victim at literally24 close quarters, the victim being absolutely unconscious that he was to be attacked. The revolver must have been placed close to the temple—the skin and the fine hair about it were burnt.”
The Coroner looked round at the jury.
“The sun rises at about ten minutes to five, just now,” he observed. “At four o’clock, then, it would be fairly light. This is an important point, gentlemen. You must keep it in mind, in view of what you have just heard.”
None of the legal practitioners25 had any questions to put to the police-surgeon; he stepped down, and a whispered consultation26 took place between the Coroner and one of his officials. Then came the moment for which the crowded court had waited with suppressed eagerness.
“Mrs. Veronica Tretheroe!”
Mrs. Tretheroe rose from between her supporting friends, and walked slowly forward to the witness-box. Evidently well coached as to what she was to do, she drew off the glove from her right hand and threw back her thick veil. Taking the Testament27 in her ungloved hand she repeated the words of the oath in a low voice, and turned a very pale, but perfectly28 self-possessed face on the Coroner, who bent29 towards her with an expression of sympathetic consideration. Amidst a dead silence he began his preliminary questions.
“Mrs. Tretheroe, I believe you knew the late Mr. Guy Markenmore?”
“Yes.”
“You knew him well, one may say?”
“Yes—very well—once!”
“How long had you known him?”
“I knew him from the time my father came to Markenmore, as vicar of this parish, when I was a girl of seventeen or eighteen, until Guy left this house, about seven years ago.”
“How old were you then, Mrs. Tretheroe?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Then your acquaintanceship with him at that period lasted about four or five years?”
“About that.”
“You were then Miss Veronica Leighton?”
“Yes.”
“I think you married the late Colonel Tretheroe just after Mr. Guy Markenmore left home—seven years ago?”
“Yes.”
“And went with your husband to India?”
“I did.”
“You have only recently returned from India—where Colonel Tretheroe, I think, died last year?”
“Quite recently.”
The Coroner leaned a little forward from his desk—sure sign, thought Mr. Fransemmery, that his questions were nearing a most particular stage.
“Now. Mrs. Tretheroe, during those seven years, did you ever see Guy Markenmore?
“Never!”
“Did you ever hear from him?”
“Never!—nor of him!”
“For seven years you neither saw him, nor heard of him, nor heard from him. When did you next see him again?”
“On Monday evening last—two—or three—days ago.”
“You met him—for the first time for seven years?”
“Yes, for the first time for seven years.”
“Just tell me, Mrs. Tretheroe, how the meeting came about?”
Mrs. Tretheroe folded her hands on the ledge30 of the witness-box and distributed her glances alternately between the Coroner and the twelve jurymen. By that time she had regained31 her colour; her eyes had begun to sparkle; she looked as if she was beginning to feel some extraordinary interest in the proceedings32.
“In this way,” she said, in quiet, even tones. “During Monday evening, after dinner, I had occasion to give some orders to my coachman, Burton. When he was going away, he mentioned that he had just seen Mr. Guy Markenmore; he had seen him, he said, going up to the Court. I thought Burton must be mistaken, but he was positive—and, of course, I knew he had known Guy since boyhood. So——”
Here Mrs. Tretheroe paused. Her fingers began to tap the ledge before her; she looked at the Coroner and the jury with a slightly embarrassed expression.
“What happened, if you please?” asked the Coroner in matter-of-fact tones.
“Well—I wanted to see Guy!” continued Mrs. Tretheroe suddenly. “And so—not just then, but after a while—about half-past ten, I think—I put on a coat over my dinner dress and ran across the park to the Court—there’s a path, a short cut. I came here—I saw Braxfield, the butler, and Valencia Markenmore. I told Valencia that I’d heard Guy had come home. She said he’d gone. Then I thought that, perhaps, hearing I was at the Dower House, he’d come down there to see me, so I went away, thinking I might find him waiting for me.”
“Did you find him?”
“No—but—I met him. He had been to my house. I met him at the gate.”
“What happened then?”
“He went back to my house with me.”
“I believe you were entertaining a house-party, Mrs. Tretheroe?”
“Yes.”
“A large one?”
“Eight, altogether.”
“Did you introduce Mr. Guy Markenmore to your guests when you took him in?”
“No, I didn’t. They were playing bridge, some of them—some were playing billiards33. He didn’t see any of them.”
“Where did you and he go, in your house?”
“We went up to my boudoir.”
The Coroner leaned still nearer.
“We have heard—from Sir Harry Markenmore—that his brother spoke of an appointment, which he hurried away to keep? Now—was that appointment with you?”
“No—certainly not!”
“Did he mention any appointment to you?”
“Yes—merely to say that he had one—close by.”
“Close by? Did he say with whom, or where?”
“No, he did not. He merely mentioned the fact—casually. I didn’t question him about it.”
“And—how long did he stay with you at the Dower House?”
Mrs. Tretheroe hesitated—obviously, not from uncertainty34.
“The question is a highly important one,” said the Coroner.
“Well, he stayed until a quarter to twelve,” answered Mrs. Tretheroe.
“Then he was with you about an hour?”
“About an hour—yes.”
“Alone—all the time?”
“Yes.”
“Did any of your guests—or any of your servants—see him, coming or going?”
“No one saw him. He and I entered the house by a side door, of which I have the key always in my possession. We went straight up to my boudoir. I let him out of the house in the same way. No—nobody saw him.”
“You let Guy Markenmore out of your house, yourself, at a quarter to twelve. Did you notice which way he went when he left?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I walked down the drive with him, to the entrance gate. He went along the main road, towards the village.”
“And, after that, you never saw him again?”
Mrs. Tretheroe shook her head, and for a moment those about her thought that she was about to burst into tears. But she suddenly controlled herself, and there was an almost defiant35 expression in her eyes as she answered the last question.
“I never saw him again—until I saw him yesterday dead—murdered!”
The Coroner drew back in his chair: clearly, he had got at what he particularly wanted to know: the glance that he gave the jurymen was obviously intended to remind them that they now knew that from half-past ten to a quarter to twelve o’clock of the night before his death Guy Markenmore had been with Mrs. Tretheroe, alone in her boudoir, unknown to any one. From the jury he turned to the men of law, sitting at the table beneath his raised desk.
The barrister who had been instructed by the police authorities slowly rose to his feet, and turned himself to the witness.
“I believe it is pretty well known, Mrs. Tretheroe,” he said in bland36, half-apologetic tones, “that before your marriage to your late husband, you had a good many suitors.”
“Yes!” answered Mrs. Tretheroe readily. “At least—I don’t know what you mean by well known. But I had—certainly.”
“Mr. Guy Markenmore was one of them?”
“Yes.”
“A particularly favoured one?”
“Well—yes, I think so.”
“We were certainly very fond of each other.”
“We will pass from that for the moment—nothing came of it then. You married Colonel Tretheroe. But, I may take it, you—you still retained some of the old feeling for Guy Markenmore.”
Mrs. Tretheroe hesitated. When she spoke again, her voice was lower in tone.
“I—I didn’t know of it until—until I met him again, the other night,” she said.
“But, you realized it then?”
“I suppose I did. I was very pleased to see him.”
“And he to meet you again, I suppose?”
“Yes—indeed he was.”
“Now, Mrs. Tretheroe, in the interest of justice, we want to get at the truth. When Guy Markenmore was with you alone, in your house, on Monday night, did he ask you to marry him?”
“Yes—he did.”
“And you replied—what?”
“I promised him that I would,” answered Mrs. Tretheroe.
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1
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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2
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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3
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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4
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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5
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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6
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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7
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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8
investigations
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| （正式的）调查( investigation的名词复数 )； 侦查； 科学研究； 学术研究 | |
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9
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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10
theatrically
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| adv.戏剧化地 | |
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11
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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12
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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13
imperturbable
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| adj.镇静的 | |
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14
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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15
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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16
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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17
detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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18
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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19
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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20
constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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21
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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23
tighten
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| v.(使)变紧；(使)绷紧 | |
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24
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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practitioners
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| n.习艺者，实习者( practitioner的名词复数 )；从业者（尤指医师） | |
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26
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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27
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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28
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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29
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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30
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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31
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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33
billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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34
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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35
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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36
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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