Dead Man's Quarry (14 page)

“That matter has been settled, I think, to the satisfaction of the jury?” said the coroner, looking at his twelve good men and true, who answered with solemn nods and murmurs of assent.

“Now, Superintendent,” went on the coroner, and to John his grave, quiet voice seemed suddenly to take on a portentous note, “I understand that the bullet with which deceased was killed passed through the head without lodging in the brain. Has your search for the bullet met with any success?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Lovell, and produced a small folded envelope. “I found the '32 bullet, enclosed in this envelope, in the quarry field, at a distance of about eight feet from the quarry edge, yesterday morning.”

There was a subdued noise of rustling and creaking as every listener sat up and craned forward to try and get a view of the envelope which Lovell passed to the coroner. John, watching the three Prices, saw Felix flinch as Lovell spoke, glance quickly at his father, and then fold his arms and sit hack in his chair, as if determined to imitate that gentleman's pose of haughty impassivity. The coroner shook out the bullet on to the palm of his hand, scrutinized it and passed it to the foreman of the jury, who, after examining it with an expert air for a moment or two, passed it along to his neighbour.

“Also,” went on Lovell in his quiet, rather dreary voice, “I found this revolver in a rabbit hole in the quarry field. Sergeant Dew and Constable Beaver were present when I found it, yesterday morning at about eleven o'clock.”

“Hullo!” murmured John to himself, and glanced again at the enigmatic family opposite. This time nothing was to be read in their four impassive faces but the determination that nothing should be read.

“A Smith and Wesson pocket pistol,” remarked the coroner, examining the small revolver, which still showed traces of earth from its sojourn underground. “Engraved with the initials M.R.P. Have you formed any conclusion, Sergeant, as to the ownership of this revolver?”

“It has been identified as his own, sir, by Sir Morris Price.”

There was a pause of sheer astonishment, and then a subdued whisper ran round the court, and every eye was turned upon Morris, who sat between Blodwen and Felix with folded arms, looking at the floor, as if immersed in his own thoughts. He had gone pale, though, with the unpleasant mottled pallor of a florid complexion.

“Silence!” said the coroner sharply, as the whispering went on, and addressed himself again to Lovell. “You say that Sir Morris Price has himself identified this revolver as his own?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It will be necessary to recall Sir Morris Price, but first I will take the remainder of your evidence. You say this weapon was discovered in a rabbit-hole in the quarry field. Whereabouts in the quarry field?”

“Very close to the common gate and the footpath leading towards this inn.”

“Are there any marks upon the weapon which might serve as clues?”

“None, sir, beyond the initials which helped us to discover its ownership.”

“Call Sir Morris Price.”

The tall man rose and took his place once more at the witness table. Once more his dark eyes swept the faces of the jurors with a sort of insolent indifference and came to rest with a look of inimical inquiry on the coroner's grave face. But this time, John noticed, he moistened his lips with his tongue before he spoke and his hand rested heavily on the red baize of the table-cloth.

“Do you recognize this revolver, Sir Morris?”

“Yes. It is my own.”

“When did you last see it?”

“I don't know. I should think, months ago.”

“Can you not make a more definite statement than that?”

“No. I can't remember when I last saw it. I didn't know I was going to be questioned about it. If I had known, I would have made a note of the date.”

Two small spots of red appeared in the coroner's cheeks at this coldly ironical reply, and he seemed about to remonstrate, but thought better of it. John distinctly heard Mr. Penrose, the solicitor, utter to himself: “Ts! Ts!” and saw him half shake his grey head with a reproachful glance at his client. Evidently he did not approve of Sir Morris's high-handed manner. Sir Morris added:

“A revolver isn't a thing one is constantly using. One may have it in one's house for years without ever seeing it.”

“I take it, then,” said the coroner coldly, “that this revolver has been in your possession for some time, Sir Morris?”

“Two or three years.”

“Can you remember when you last used it?

“I have never used it. I have had no occasion to. I like to keep a revolver in the house, for emergencies. But I hope to be spared the necessity of ever using it.”

“Where did you keep this revolver?”

“In a drawer in the library at Rhyllan Hall.”

“Did you keep it loaded?”

“Certainly not!”

“There is no need to answer so indignantly. These questions are necessary, I assure you. Was the drawer usually locked?”

“No.”

“Was anything else kept in this drawer besides this revolver?”

“My regimental badges and a few photographs and other relics.”

“Anything that would justify a second person in going to the drawer?”

“No, there was nothing there that would interest anybody but myself.”

“Did anybody but yourself know of the whereabouts of this revolver?”

“Really, how can I say? The drawer was unlocked. Any member of the household who had sufficient curiosity could have looked in. I don't remember ever speaking of the revolver, if that is what you mean.”

“Would the drawer be likely to be emptied when the room was cleaned?”

Morris uttered a short laugh.

“I don't know. My housekeeper may.”

“When did you first discover that the revolver was missing?”

“The evening of the day before yesterday, when Superintendent Lovell saw fit to search my house.”

Once again John saw the old family lawyer shake his head and sigh. And certainly the witness's manner was having anything but a favourable effect on the jury, to judge by their cold, embarrassed glances at him, their furtive, expressive looks at one another. An interesting relic of the feudal ages, this little Welsh squire; one might have imagined from his manner that he really supposed himself to be above the law and exempt from social obligations.

“Now, Sir Morris, do you recognize the writing on this piece of paper?”

A small piece of crumpled blue paper, charred at the edges, was laid on the red table-cloth under Morris's eyes. John saw Superintendent Lovell move a little closer to the witness and fix his eyes on that scrap of paper, as if holding himself ready for an emergency. Sir Morris glanced at the paper, half turned round as if to address his son, and then turning back towards the jury, replied with indignant surprise:

“Certainly I do! It is my own writing. This paper is part of a private letter to my son, and I should be obliged if you would kindly explain how it came into your possession.”

So saying he put out his hand to take the paper from the table. John fancied that in another moment it would have been torn indignantly to pieces, had not the Superintendent's hand proved the quicker of the two. Sir Morris turned on Lovell's imperturbable face a look of cold, outraged fury, drew his breath sharply, bit his lip, and then stood drumming his finger-nails on the table edge, as if trying to get control of his anger.

“I must point out,” said the coroner coldly, “that it is not in my province to make explanations. Quite otherwise. I will ask you to explain, however, in what circumstances you wrote the letter of which this piece of paper is a part, and to whom you refer in these terms:
‘Your cousin is a coarse, ill-mannered lout and, fond as I am of Rhyllan, I do not intend to endure his company very much longer.'
”

There was a moment of silence while these words, which the coroner read slowly out from the charred paper in front of him, sank delightfully into the scandalized consciousness of the few sensation-mongers present. A local newspaper man feverishly licked his pencil and gazed expectantly at Sir Morris, hopeful of Sensational Disclosures. He was disappointed. The
Western Clarion
had to be content instead with Sensational Behaviour of Witness.

“I will not,” said Morris Price loudly and clearly, “explain this letter, nor any part of this letter. It is a private communication from myself to my son. I consider it outrageous that I should be asked to explain it.”

“Sir Morris! Sir Morris!” remonstrated Mr. Penrose faintly, trying to catch his client's eye. He seemed to have aged ten years in the last five minutes.

“It's no use, Penrose,” said the big man obstinately. “I won't answer such questions.”

“You must surely see,” said the coroner with praiseworthy urbanity, “that it is better for your own sake that you should explain this letter, now that it has been produced. It is calculated, as it stands, to raise invidious questions in the mind of the jury. Will you not think better of your refusal? Your own legal adviser would, I am sure, urge you not to withhold an answer to this question.”

He glanced with a certain brotherly sympathy at his fellow-lawyer, who was sitting with his chin on his hand looking at his client with an air of profound despair.

“No,” said Morris Price, and glanced contemptuously at the twelve good men and true, as if he doubted their possession of minds capable of raising questions, invidious or otherwise. “I have said all I am going to say about this letter, and about my private affairs generally.” There was a moment's silence again, broken by the excited scratching of the journalistic pencil. The coroner adjusted his spectacles, looked silently at Price, and then turned his attention to some papers lying in front of him.

“Then,” he said evenly, “all the available evidence is before you, gentlemen. Now, in drawing your conclusion from the evidence you have heard, you must remember that it is your duty—”

On the whole, John thought, an admirably clear, well-balanced summing-up. The coroner was evidently determined not to allow himself to be influenced by the annoying idiosyncrasies of his chief witness. But the neatly marshalled facts made a formidable array.

“You must bear in mind the fact that it is impossible to fix the time of death with any accuracy. Deceased was, so far as we know, last seen alive at a quarter to seven. Dr. Browning examined the body at half-past eight on the following morning, and you have heard him say that death had taken place twelve hours or more previously. This fixes the time of death at between a quarter to seven and half-past eight on the evening of August the twenty-seventh. We have not been able to discover a witness who could testify to having seen the dead man after a quarter to seven, but you must remember that this is a lonely, thinly populated district, where a man might easily wander for more than an hour and three quarters without being seen by a soul.”

The fact remained that Morris Price had seen the dead man at a quarter to seven, in the neighbourhood of the quarry, and that nobody had seen him since.

“Then, as to the revolver. You must bear in mind the fact that this revolver was accessible to a great many people—to anybody, in fact, who may have entered the library at Rhyllan Hall within the last two years or so. It is not without precedent that a murderer should seek to divert suspicion from himself by using another man's revolver. It is, in fact, a common and obvious attempt to hamper justice. And the fact that the weapon was found hidden in a field suggests that its user dared not remain in possession of it, and had no opportunity of restoring it to its place.”

All the same, as Mr. Tredgold, the auctioneer, remarked afterwards to his fellow jurymen when they sat discussing the matter in the small parlour, the revolver was Sir Morris Price's revolver, and get over that who could.

“There remains the letter which you have seen, and which Sir Morris Price acknowledges as his own. It is not for me to offer possible explanations when the writer refuses to make them. But I would remind you that Sir Morris has said that he intended to leave Rhyllan Hall.”

“Not likely,” opined Mr. Tredgold later. Being an auctioner by profession, he was not slow to speech, and of all the voices in the small parlour, his was the most eloquent. What, leave Rhyllan Hall when he was so set on the place! Leave Rhyllan when it was, in a way, his own home, and he'd had the running of it for ten years! Old Sir Evan might have been Price of Rhyllan in name, but everyone knew it was Sir Morris as ruled the roost. Ah, a nasty thing it must have been for him, a sore thing, when this young man came back to take his place! He wouldn't have been human if he hadn't wished the young chap at the devil!

‘‘Mr. Tredgold,” gently remarked Lloyd of Linger-Hatch Farm, “please not to mention the evil one in the same breath as the dead. It ben't fitting.”

“Your pardon, Mr. Lloyd,” said Mr. Tredgold, handsomely making concession to the farmer's well-known methodist habit of mind.

“And,” pursued Lloyd mildly, fingering his patriarchal beard, “a chap might well wish a chap out of the way, without taking steps. Mr. Morris is hoity and he's toity, and a hard man when his will is set, not a doubt. But he's not the man to lower his family by taking steps.” Here the foreman, a prosperous builder, a free-thinker, and much respected as an educated man, remarked that it became an intelligent jury to consider the facts as put before them and not to air their preconceived notions of what a chap might or might not do.

“It's the facts, gentlemen, it's the facts that matter.” Lloyd of Linger-Hatch, who was not noticeably an educated man, shook his head. In his view, the unlikelihood of Sir Morris ever taking steps was a fact. But lack of eloquence hampered him, and he found no words to say so.

The jury considered their verdict for a slow three-quarters of an hour, while the court sat and awaited their return. A hum of whispering voices rose, sightseers began to wonder if they would be late for lunch, and the room grew intolerably stuffy. At the request of the coroner, a constable opened one of the windows, and a humble-bee came heavily in, and immediately, as if disconcerted by the crowd, shot out again. Sir Morris Price sat in stern silence, his arms folded, his eyes on the ink-stained table-cloth, and his thoughts, apparently, far away. Old Mr. Penrose, the lawyer, occupied himself with the papers in his despatch-box, looking up with a lack-lustre eye when the jury returned to their places. To him, at least, their verdict gave no shock.