MARIE BELLOC LOWNDES - British Murder Mysteries Collection: 17 Books in One Edition. Marie Belloc Lowndes
the Judge desired—indeed they all desired—to finish the case that day.
“Do you wish to stay on for the summing-up and for the verdict?” whispered Paxton–Smith to his client.
Again he hoped that Ivy would—well? have the decency to rise and say, “No, I will go home, now.”
But instead of saying “No,” she whispered, “Yes, I think I should like to do that.”
And then, in slow, impressive tones, the Judge began his summing-up.
Though Mr. Justice Mayhew took what seemed to be a considerable time, his was one of the shortest addresses to a jury ever delivered in an important trial for murder at the Old Bailey. The story he had to recapitulate was, in a sense, so very ordinary. It had been unfolded, in all its stark simplicity, by a tiny handful of witnesses, including of course the most important of them all, the young wife of the murdered man.
Even so, speaking himself with impressive clarity, the Judge went over the now well-known tale step by step. And finally his lordship directed the jury that the fact that a man has been what is loosely called “driven mad” by love does not mean that he is not capable of keeping command over his faculties. Why, at the very time this was supposed to have happened to the prisoner, he was in charge of a large medical practice, and carrying out all the responsible, anxious duties attached to such a practice in an admirable manner!
“We have here the not uncommon case of a strong man’s infatuation for a beautiful woman who gives him little, if any, encouragement,” he observed.
And there was a murmur of disapproval when one of Ivy’s women friends gave a sudden little cackle of laughter, to the shocked surprise of everyone in Court.
The Judge brushed aside with relentless logic any effect that might have been produced on the jury by Sir Joseph Molloy’s moving account of Gretorex as a wise, unselfish physician, a devoted son, and within the possible limit a generous landlord. No doubt all that was true. But the whole history of crime was there to prove that a person could be all these excellent things, while being also a cruel, callous, secret murderer.
In this case, assuming Gretorex was guilty, the man who had been slowly done to death had been the secret poisoner’s own familiar friend, his boon-companion in many a party of careless pleasure. Further, the man before them, the prisoner in the dock, had not even dared to go into the witness-box. The Judge pointed out in solemn, measured tones that he had the right to comment, and comment most seriously, on that omission.
As the afternoon wore itself away, every one became very weary. Even Ivy began to wish that she had gone away when Paxton–Smith had last suggested that she should do so.
She stole a glance at Roger Gretorex. He was looking straight at the Judge, with a thoughtful, measuring glance. He looked far more himself, his reserved, intelligent self, than he had done when Sir Joseph was engaged in making that dramatic, useless appeal to the jury.
Ivy Lexton gazed at the prisoner in the dock with a strange feeling at her heart. In a sense she was still proud of this man who had been her devout, adoring lover. He looked so brave, so cool, so completely self-possessed. The majority of those who now and again glanced his way to see how he was “taking it” thought him revoltingly callous.
And, at the same moment that Ivy was doing so, Roger’s mother stole a look at him. Her heart was full of such agony that she felt as if merciful death might suddenly intervene and end it all for her. And her agony was shared, one is tempted to say, almost to the full, by the girl who sat beside her.
At last the summing up was over. The prisoner was taken below, and then began the waiting for the verdict.
To many of those in Court the jury seemed to be away a long, long time. Yet as a matter of fact, it was only a bare half-hour before all those who had gone out to stretch their legs, and talk over for the hundredth time the only real point of mystery in the story, came swarming back into the Court.
Slowly, almost in a leisurely way, the nine jurymen and the three jurywomen filed in. Some of those present noticed that not a single juror looked at the prisoner, who had been brought back to the dock and now stood at ease between two warders.
Although the verdict was a foregone conclusion, every human being there looked strained, anxious; and Ivy Lexton again felt sick and faint. For the first time since she stepped into the witness-box no one was looking at her, for everyone was looking at the jury.
Everything being now ready, the Judge returned to the bench, all those who were seated in Court rising to their feet.
The Judge, having bowed to the Court, seated himself, and so, apparently, did everyone else there, except the three men, the prisoner and his custodians, standing in the dock.
Then the Clerk of the Court asked the fateful question:
“Members of the jury, have you agreed upon your verdict?”
There was a pause, but at last the foreman of the jury, a nervous, intelligent-looking man, who was evidently intensely relieved that his responsible task was now over, answered in a clear tone, “We have.”
“Do you find the prisoner, Roger Kingston Gretorex, guilty or not guilty of the wilful murder of Jervis Lexton?”
There was a scarcely perceptible wait, and then came the one word—“Guilty.”
And it was as if there swept a great sigh through the now lighted Court, followed by a sudden buzz of talk.
But this was instantly quelled when the ushers cried sternly, “Silence!”
All eyes were now fixed on the prisoner. He was standing far more stiffly to attention than he had done a moment ago, as the clear tones of the Clerk of the Court rang out:
“Roger Kingston Gretorex, you stand convicted of wilful murder. Have you anything to say for yourself why the Court should not give you judgment according to law?”
“Only that I am innocent.”
The five words were uttered in a cool, firm tone.
It was the second time during the whole course of the trial that anyone there had heard Roger Gretorex’s voice.
Ivy felt better now, and she watched everything that went on with eager, excited interest.
Sitting near the Judge was a young man to whom no one had before paid any special attention. But now every eye was fixed on him, for it was he who lifted a square of black cloth, and placed it, with careful deliberation, on the Judge’s wig.
Then solemn, slow, emphatic tones of admonition fell on the heavy air. They were not cruel words, for the Judge felt deeply sorry for the young man before him. He had heard, only last evening at a dinner-party, something of the quiet, kindly, useful life that Mrs. Gretorex and her son had both led since the death of the husband and father who had caused their financial ruin.
And then came the awful words—
“Roger Kingston Gretorex, the jury, after a careful and patient hearing, have found you guilty of the wilful murder of Jervis Lexton. The sentence of the Court upon you is that you be taken from here to a lawful prison, and from there to a place of execution; and that you be there hanged by the neck until you be dead; and that your body be buried within the precincts of the prison in which you shall have been last confined after your conviction; and may the Lord have mercy on your soul.”
As Ivy Lexton, supported by a number of her friends and acquaintances, left the Old Bailey by a back way, she chanced in the passage to meet Mrs. Gretorex face to face. The eyes of the two women crossed—and a stab of horrible pain flashed across the worn, yet even now calm, face of Roger Gretorex’s mother.
Chapter Seventeen
“I took Mrs. Gretorex a nice cup of tea at seven o’clock,