The Queen Against Owen. Upward Allen
life and death with a friend like you. Shall I chuck up the case?’
Tressamer gazed at him gratefully at first, and then with a hesitating, pondering look. Finally he said:
‘You have read your brief, and, of course, you know the worst. Tell me, what do you think, honestly?’
‘Honestly, George, I see no defence. There is no doubt the old woman has been murdered. I don’t see how it could have been done by anyone outside the house; and then there is the blood on the door-handle. I may tell you that, even before I knew how you stood, in reading the brief I felt a sort of hesitation – that is, I couldn’t get that feeling of confidence that one generally has in one’s case when the evidence is clear. I felt as if I shouldn’t put much heart into the prosecution. But, still, I don’t see what defence there is.’
Tressamer listened in silence, and let a moment or two go by before he gave his decision.
‘I would rather you kept your brief. I would rather you did it. After all, you have merely a mechanical part to perform; it is only routine. Suppose I were to have a limb amputated, I should like it to be done by a man I knew. And this is something of the same sort. The evidence is there, and you will not make it any worse – or better.’
The other was shocked at the gloomy, resigned way in which he spoke.
‘Good heavens! you don’t mean that you too believe – ’
‘No, Charles. I believe she is innocent. But I do not expect her innocence will ever be proved in this world.’
‘Oh, come, you mustn’t give up now! All sorts of things may happen. The trial may go differently to what you expect. Half the time these witnesses don’t swear up to their proofs.’
‘They have given their evidence twice already – at the inquest and before the magistrates.’
‘Yes; but then they weren’t cross-examined. It is very different when they have a man like you to turn them inside out. You’re not nervous about it, are you?’
‘Nervous!’ He smiled grimly. ‘No; it was at my own request I received this brief. A breach of etiquette, you see’ – with another heavy smile. ‘If she can be saved, I shall save her. Shall I tell you my defence?’
‘No, don’t; I would rather be taken by surprise. I don’t want to shine in this case, Heaven knows! Take every advantage I can fairly give you. I know you don’t expect more.’
‘Thank you,’ was the answer.
There was a little pause, during which neither spoke. At last, returning to the only topic in either mind, Tressamer observed:
‘I have been deep in this ever since it occurred. I have been running up and down to Porthstone. I was at the inquest and in the police-court, but I thought it best to do nothing, and let the public think she was undefended. It may soften their feeling towards her. All these little things have to be thought of.’
‘Yes; don’t you remember that famous Shepherdsbury case? The man who acted for the prisoner – the solicitor, I think it was – made such a brilliant fight in the police-court that the magistrates hesitated to commit; but the result was that the Crown knew all about the defence, and when the real trial came, the man hadn’t a chance. Always reserve your defence.’
‘Yes; but you forget, the solicitor has got a splendid practice through it,’ was the bitter answer. ‘Few men in the West of England are doing better in that class of business. Did you know – but of course you didn’t – that I was down at Porthstone only two days before the thing happened?’
‘No; were you?’
‘Yes; and I was staying in Abertaff that very night. I intended coming up to town the first thing in the morning, but something detained me, and in a few hours the news arrived. So I went down at once, saw Eleanor at the police-station, and advised her what to do before any of those meddling Pollards got at her.’
‘Pollards? Why, they are briefing me for the prosecution!’
‘Yes, I know. Pollard conducted it in the police-court. At the inquest he represented that man Lewis, the nephew, and very bitter he was, too. But I made Eleanor choke him off before that. Wouldn’t have him at any price. I have got a quiet old chap in Abertaff now who won’t interfere – old Morgan.’
‘Do you know, I thought he was trying to press the case rather in my brief. This accounts for it. But what sort of a man is this Lewis?’
‘Oh, a big, coarse-looking fellow. Came back from Australia just before it happened. A brute! He’s egging on the Crown. She left him all her money – about twenty thousand – but the jewels are supposed to be worth nearly as much more, and he’s lost them, and so he’s savage.’
‘I say, George, I don’t know that I ought to say it, but has it occurred to you as at all curious that he should have returned the very night it was done?’
A gleam of furtive joy crossed the other’s face, and instantly vanished again.
‘Has that struck you?’ he said, and seemed about to add something more. But he restrained himself, and merely added: ‘The less you and I talk about it the better, perhaps. Coming out?’
And they left the chambers together.
But though Tressamer ceased to discuss the subject with his friend, he could not dismiss it from his mind. The sparkling wit, the wild, extravagant humour, for which he had been famous, seemed to have withered up in the furnace of his terrible grief. He lunched with Prescott in almost dead silence, and as soon as it was over got up hurriedly and disappeared.
He had truthfully described himself as having been deep in the case from its commencement. When the news of what had happened at Porthstone reached the town of Abertaff he was walking in the High Street alone. He saw the unusual excitement, and meeting an acquaintance, learned from him that Miss Lewis had been murdered.
‘And they say it was done by her companion, a girl named Owen,’ added the man.
Tressamer turned white, gasped for breath, and cried out loudly:
‘It’s a lie! I swear she is innocent!’
In another moment he had darted off to a cab-stand, and was on his way to the station.
There he had one of those sickening waits for a train which are inevitable on such occasions. Twice he was on the point of ordering a special, but each time he restrained himself by the thought that by the time it was ready the ordinary train would be nearly due. He shunned the gloomy waiting-room, and strode up and down the narrow platform with swift, excited strides.
The porters and newspaper-boys stared as he rushed to and fro, hardly heeding the piles of luggage with which railway servants seek to break the dull monotony of a platform promenade. There was French blood in Tressamer: short, dark, thick-necked, yet far from stout in figure, he possessed the strain of sombre passion which runs through the blood of the Celtic races. He could no more control himself in deference to the officials of Abertaff Station than a madman when his frenzy is on him can conceal it from his keepers.
At last the train drew up. He sprang into a carriage, and impatiently endured the journey down to the seaside. Arrived there, he proceeded instantly to the police-station and demanded an interview with Miss Owen.
At first there was some difficulty, but Tressamer was not to be checked.
‘I am her legal adviser,’ he announced. ‘I am a member of the Bar, and I consider it of vital importance that I should see the prisoner at once. If you refuse, I shall wire straight to the Home Office.’
This threat produced its natural effect. The police, in doubt as to their powers, gave way, and he was taken into the cell where Eleanor had been secured.
If Eleanor had not wept when she was accused of the terrible crime, neither was she weeping now. She was sitting in a dull, stony apathy, from which she was hardly aroused by the sound of the barrister’s familiar name. She looked up, it is true, and gazed at him with lack-lustre eyes. But she uttered no word.
He, on his