Read Ebook: The Heart of a Mystery by Speight T W Thomas Wilkinson

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Ebook has 1094 lines and 81143 words, and 22 pages

"I don't care for that--John Brancker is an innocent man," was the emphatic reply.

"In any case," said Mr. Prestwich, "I should like to put a few questions to the man Brill."

"I beg you will do nothing of the kind, at least not now," was all he got in answer.

After that Mr. Prestwich could say no more. To him Edward Hazeldine's pig-headedness, as he termed it in his own mind, was altogether inexplicable.

But more inexplicable was it to Edward that in the description given by Brill of the man who had bought the knife no one should have recognized the portrait of Mr. Hazeldine. He had recognized it in a moment, but all the others, having had their minds imbued with the idea that the description must of necessity apply to John Brancker, had failed to discover the other likeness--all except Ephraim Judd. Brill's account had given him a clue to something which had hitherto puzzled him not a little. "Now, I can guess it all," he muttered under his breath. "I wonder whether anyone suspects besides myself." Henceforward for him the tragedy had a double meaning.

Both Mr. Hazeldine and John Brancker belonged to the staid, old-fashioned school of bank officials. They were sober in their ways and sober in their attire. There was no great dissimilarity in their ages, and in the course of years John, without being consciously aware of it, had got into the way of copying his superior officer both in manner and dress: so that, under the circumstances, the mistake made not only by Brill, but by those who knew both the men, was hardly to be wondered at, however unfortunate it might prove to be for one of them.

There being no further evidence forthcoming, the Coroner proceeded to sum up the case. It was not his fault that nearly all the evidence seemed to point to one conclusion. He stated the facts as he found them, and strove in no way to bias the minds of the jury.

The jury retired at twenty minutes past five and were away forty minutes. Much eager whispered conversation went on during their absence, but no one attempted to leave the room. Everyone felt the intensity of the strain. John Brancker sat perfectly still, staring into vacancy, with his hands crossed over the knob of his umbrella. Edward Hazeldine sat like a man in a stupor, heedless of all that was going on around him. Mr. Prestwich took snuff and conversed with the Coroner in undertones. There was a momentary rustle, and then a dead silence fell upon the room as the jury filed back to their seats, and returned a verdict of wilful murder against John Brancker.

A ghastly pallor overspread John's face as the words fell upon his ears. They surely could not be meant to apply to him! His lips formed themselves to speak, but no sound came from them. Oh! to think--to think that anyone could for a moment believe his was the hand which had struck so foul a blow! Then he bowed his head and waited, while two or three scalding tears dropped unseen on his crossed hands.

Edward Hazeldine strode across the room and grasped John by the hand. "Mr. Brancker," he said, "I am profoundly grieved at what has happened here to-day. From the bottom of my heart I believe you to be an innocent man. This verdict seems to me a most monstrous one--one which will never be sustained by that higher tribunal to which your case will now be relegated. Believe me, I would stake my life on your innocence."

John grasped the hand that lay in his. His momentary burst of emotion had relieved his overcharged feelings. His courage was coming back to him. "Thank you, sincerely, Mr. Edward, for your kind words," he said as he stood up. "They have taken a great weight off my heart. The world can hardly believe me guilty when it knows that you have faith in my innocence."

At this moment Clement Hazeldine came pushing his way through the crowd. He had been unable to get there before. He was inexpressibly shocked at the news which had just been told him. He, too, grasped John by the hand, and assured him in warm terms of his thorough confidence in his innocence.

"Now I can face whatever has yet to come," said John, with the ghost of a smile on his quivering lips. "But who is to break the news to my sister, and--and to Hermia?"

"I will do that, if you will allow me," answered Clement, gently.

"Do--do. Poor Lotty! Poor Hermy!" He turned away; it was all he could do to keep from breaking down again.

Other friends crowded round him with sympathetic looks and cheering words. Mr. Avison had slipped quietly away without speaking to anyone.

The committal warrant, duly signed by the Coroner, was ready by this time. The Chief Constable touched his prisoner on the shoulder, and John followed him to the fly which was waiting to convey him to the gaol, a mile or more away, at the other end of the town. A last hearty hand-shake with several friends, and then the two men got inside, and were driven off. One by one the crowd congregated round the door of the "White Lion" melted away.

Next forenoon John was brought up before the loca Bench of magistrates, when the whole dreary business of the evidence against him was minutely sifted and gone through afresh, and after a couple of adjournments, John was committed to take his trial on the capital charge at the forthcoming winter assizes, held at Dulminster, the county town eight miles from Ashdown.

As has been already stated, it was about a year before Mr. Hazeldine's tragical end that Frank Derison had been made the confidant by his friend Winton of a secret which the latter was not justified in revealing to anyone. He had been told that there was a deposit of twelve hundred pounds standing to the credit of Hermia Rivers, in Umpleby's Bank at Dulminster, and the news had given a spur to his lagging affections, and had decided him to propose to Hermy with the least possible delay.

All his life Frank had been used to talk freely to his mother, and as soon as he reached home that evening, he did not fail to tell her what had passed between Winton and himself, as far as it related to Miss Rivers.

"What a dear, noble-hearted girl she is!" he wound up by saying. "I love her to distraction, and have done so for ever so long. Of course, twelve hundred pounds isn't to be despised, but if she hadn't a shilling I should love her just the same. She's the only girl in the world I could ever be happy with."

Mrs. Derison listened to the boy's rhodomontade with a smile which he took to be one of sympathy, but which in reality was one of bitterness. She had heard precisely the same sort of nonsense--in that case addressed to herself--from the lips of Frank's father a quarter of a century before; and at that time she had been simple and inexperienced enough to pin her faith to it. What had it resulted in as far as she was concerned? In Dead-sea fruit--in dust and ashes. And so would it be with any girl who might lend an ear to Frank's vows, and entrust her future to his keeping; for in him Mrs. Derison recognized an exact counterpart of his father; handsome, gay, not without a certain surface cleverness; lazy and good-natured, with a manner that rarely failed to charm, but with a heart that was thoroughly selfish at the core, although the owner of it was totally unconscious of the fact. With such natures self-deception--unconscious self-deception--is one of the primary laws of their being.

"Yes," said Mrs. Derison, with a somewhat dubious air, "I do not doubt that Miss Rivers is a very charming girl, nor that you fancy yourself very deeply in love with her; and certainly, as you say, in our circumstances a fortune of twelve hundred pounds is by no means to be despised. But, on the other hand, it is not always advisable for a very young man--which you still are--to tie himself down for life, unless his future, to some extent at least, is already mapped out for him, and he is in a position to form some idea how far it may be affected by an early and perhaps imprudent marriage. Your future, I am sorry to say, is anything but an assured one; still, it may contain hidden possibilities of which at present you and I know nothing." Then she went on to hint darkly at certain possible contingencies in connection with his position at the Bank. Mr. Avison, senior, was a very old man; there was little likelihood that Mr. Avison, junior, would ever marry; Frank was a relative--though a distant one--and if only he had the sense to play his cards properly, and to wait patiently, who could say what might not come to pass? In any case, it would be well to pause and consider before committing himself seriously with any young woman, however charming she might be.

But there came a day, two or three weeks later, when, not for the first time, Frank and Hermia found themselves on the river together. Frank pulled up stream till all the other boats that were out were left behind; then, in a quiet shallow, he fastened the painter round the root of an old tree, and prepared to enjoy a smoke. It was an afternoon in early winter. The sun was drawing towards the west, and in its softened radiance, Hermia sat like a creature glorified. Never had she seemed so lovely in Frank's eyes as then. For once the fervor of passion overcame him; for once he flung prudence and all care for his worldly advancement to the winds; for once his heart spoke without an afterthought. A couple of minutes sufficed for him to say what he had to say, and then he paused, leaning forward towards her, his eyes glowing as they had never glowed before, his whole being instinct with an emotion which was almost as great a surprise to himself as it was to the girl sitting opposite him: for Hermia, much as she liked Frank, had not thought of him as a possible lover. She was heart-whole and fancy-free, and the revelation came on her with the shock of a great surprise.

There is no need to describe in detail the scene that followed. Frank combated Hermia's objections and scruples one by one, and, in the end, was provisionally accepted. The affair was to be kept a secret from everybody for twelve months, during which time they would hold themselves as being, to a certain extent, engaged to each other. At the end of that time, either of them who might so choose, would be free to break the compact; but should neither of them wish to do so, then the engagement should be formally ratified and made known to those whom it might concern. It was a foolish arrangement to enter into, but excusable on Hermia's part, on the score of her ignorance of the world and its ways, as well as of the possibilities of her own heart. She loved no one else, and it seemed to her that she never should. She thought to be the same always as she was at nineteen. She had known and had liked Frank for years, and would fain have had the relationship between them continue the same in the future as it had been in the past; but if it made Frank happy to love her, and if he was really sincere in wishing her to become his wife, why, in that case, she would try to love him a little in return. Yes, she actually told herself that she would try to love. Foolish girl! As if love comes by trying for! But she was soon to be made wiser, after that sweet old fashion which yet seems such a surprising fashion when first it makes itself felt and known.

Having given her word, Hermia would not revoke it; but the compact was one which, for her at least, had no element of happiness in it. She hated the secrecy which it involved, and as time went on she began to find that her heart, instead of being drawn closer to Frank by the bond between them, seemed rather to be repelled thereby. She felt like one who had sold her freedom and got nothing in return. Then Clement Hazeldine appeared on the scene, and Hermia slowly awoke to the fact that she had made a terrible mistake.

Meanwhile, Frank kept on in his old happy, careless way. He loved Hermia after a fashion, and probably as much as it was in him to love anyone, while the secret between them lent a piquancy to the feeling he had for her which he did not fail to appreciate.

John Brancker and his sister could not help seeing something of what was going on, and smiled and talked to themselves about it; and although, as time went on, they wondered a little that Frank did not speak out, they decided to take no apparent notice, but to let the affair develop of its own accord.

But now the year was hurrying to its close, soon the last of the twelve months would be here, and Hermia began to dread more and more the coming of the day when she would be called upon to decide whether her engagement to Frank should be broken off, or whether the bond that held them should be drawn still closer, and so merge at last into that closest bond of all. That Frank would hold to his part of the engagement she had no reason to doubt. What, then, ought she to do? She could no longer hide from herself that her heart belonged not to Frank, but to another; the awakening had come at last, but she would have found it hard to say whether the knowledge made her happy or the reverse.

Before this time, however, Clement Hazeldine had discovered that he, too, had lost his heart; but, as he told himself not once but a hundred times, he had found Hermia too late: she belonged to another; for that there was some sort of an understanding between her and Derison he felt nearly sure, although why there should be any secrecy about it he altogether failed to comprehend. As we have already seen, he was in the habit of going to John Brancker's house twice a week, ostensibly for the purpose of forming one in a musical quintets, but the magnet which really drew him there was something far different. Then, for two brief hours he could bask in Hermia's loveliness, he could gaze unrebuked into the depths of her violet eyes, and listen to the music of her voice, and steep his senses in the sweet fragrance of her presence. Frank, in whose ears the click of a billiard ball was far sweeter music than any discoursed by violin and piano, looked in occasionally on the musical evenings, when he played an indifferent second to Clem's first fiddle. He felt no jealousy at seeing the young Doctor so often at the Cottage; he was blessed with too good an opinion of himself to feel jealous of anyone. The limit of time would soon be reached to which he and Hermy had bound themselves by a conditional promise. He told himself that he still loved her as much as ever, and when the time should come for him to declare his intentions one way or the other, he felt nearly--but not quite--sure that he should say to Hermy: "I cannot live without you. Be my wife."

Such was the state of affairs when the peaceful current of events was broken by the tragic death of Mr. Hazeldine and the subsequent arrest of John Brancker. Then followed a terribly anxious time for Miss Brancker and her niece, during which both Clement and Frank called often at Nairn Cottage. It is in such seasons of trial that a man's real qualities are most conspicuously made manifest. Clement's sympathy was so evidently genuine and heartfelt; wherever it was possible to ease their cares, or transfer any portion of their trouble, however small, from their shoulders to his own, it was done so quietly and unobtrusively, that they could not feel otherwise than touched by so much devotion to them and their interests. On the other hand, Frank's sympathy was so obviously forced and unreal; the whole state of affairs was so palpably distasteful to him, that even simple-hearted Miss Brancker began to suspect that perhaps she and her brother had been misreading the young man's character all along, and had been attributing to him qualities very different from any which he really possessed. But Frank was essentially a creature of the sunshine, a being to whom sickness and trouble and the thousand-and-one anxieties to which our poor humanity is liable, were utterly alien. When the skies began to lower and thunder filled the air, he was as much out of his element as a butterfly on a rainy day.

It was a dark and anxious time for Edward Hazeldine. Knowing what he did, he felt bound to proclaim aloud his belief in John Brancker's innocence. There was no other course open to him, and for this reason it was that, without consulting anyone, he secured the services of Mr. Burgees, the eminent criminal advocate, for the defence.

It was indeed very bitter to him to think that he, who had always prided himself on his rigid sense of justice--one of the chief maxims of whose life had been to do unto others as he would have them do unto him--should allow an innocent man to be cast into prison and be too timid of soul to speak the word that would have set him free. But the day had now gone by for revealing to the world, except at the last extremity, that which his father's letter had told him. He had allowed the man to be brought in guilty by a coroner's jury, he had allowed him to be committed by the magistrates, he had, allowed him to linger through long, weary weeks in prison with an accusation the most terrible of all accusations hanging over his head, and yet he had not opened his lips. To do so now would be moral and social suicide. He had gone so far that to turn back would be worse than to go forward. He must take the risk, happen what might. If John Brancker were acquitted then might all yet be well, but should the verdict go against him, then--and only then--the dread secret must be told. Not for a thousand such secrets should an innocent man go to the gallows. After that, let ruin, hopeless and irremediable, be his portion.

The winter assizes at Dulminster were held early in December, so that John Brancker had not many weeks to lie in prison before being called upon to stand his trial for the murder of James Hazeldine. The grand jury found a true bill against the prisoner, and one crisp, sunny morning, John found himself in a sort of a pen in the centre of a densely crowded court, the one object on which several hundred pairs of curious eyes, some of them helped by opera-glasses, were focused. He was pale, but quite composed, and when called upon in the usual form to plead to the indictment, his low but emphatic "Not guilty" was clearly audible to everyone there.

His sister and his niece had been permitted to have an interview with him on the eve of the trial, and he had contrived to infuse into them some of the courage which he felt, or professed to feel, as to the morrow's result. They were staying with some friends in Close Street, and Clement Hazeldine, who had given his patients into the charge of a brother practitioner for a couple of days, had arranged to send them frequent messages from the Court during the progress of the trial. The prisoner's defence had been entrusted to the hands of the well-known Mr. Burgees, with whom was Mr. Timperly as junior. Mr. Mulgrave had been specially retained as counsel for the Crown.

It was none other than the murdered man's eldest son who had retained Mr. Burgees to defend the prisoner. This was a point which had been much commented upon by the good people of Ashdown, and one that had told strongly with them in John Brancker's favor. If a clear, hard-headed man of the world like Edward Hazeldine had such faith in his innocence, how would it be possible for any jury to bring him in guilty? Then again, was it not a well-known fact that the younger son, Clement, was a frequent visitor at Mr. Brancker's house, and among such of the wiseacres as made it their business to pry into every little matter in any way connected with the affair, there were not wanting whispers of an engagement between the young doctor and the accused man's niece. No, John Brancker must be an innocent man, they decided among themselves; and yet, on the face of it, the evidence against him seemed terribly conclusive, nor, so far as was known, had anything likely to shake it been brought to light since the date of the prisoner's committal. Strenuous efforts had been made to find the man and woman whom John stated that he had encountered, quarrelling fiercely, while on his way back from Strong's cottage, and one of whom, the woman, had flung a stone at him, which had contused his forehead. But nowhere could any traces of them be found, neither had the offer of a reward, if they would come forward and give evidence, been productive of any result.

On the morning of the trial Edward Hazeldine drove over to Dulminster in his dog-cart, and put up his horse at the "Eagle" Hotel, which is exactly opposite the Court-house. His intention had been to find a seat near the counsel for the defence, but he abandoned the idea at the last moment. Happening to look at himself in the glass he started at the sight of his haggard visage, and this morning his hands trembled so much that not for a hundred pounds could he have signed his own name. He felt that he could not face the ordeal of the Court, that he could not bear the scrutiny of the crowd of coldly-curious eyes which would focus themselves on him as being the eldest son of the murdered man. He hired a private room on the first floor overlooking the entrance to the Court, and arranged for a messenger to bring him half-hourly tidings of the progress of the trial; and there he sat throughout the day, with a decanter of brandy at his elbow, he who, under ordinary circumstances, was one of the most abstemious of men. He had his father's letter buttoned up in the breast-pocket of his coat. It was not expected that the trial would extend over more than one day, and he had arranged that the moment the jury brought in their verdict its purport should be made known to him. Then, if the fatal word "Guilty" were pronounced, he would at once rush across to the Court, and before the Judge would have had time to assume the black cap, he would proclaim to the world the innocence of the man at the bar. His fevered imagination rehearsed the scene again and again, always with some fresh features or added details, but always he seemed to see the horror that would creep into the eyes of that vast crowd as he told his tale word by word, and proclaimed himself for the vile coward that he was.

There was one other person, Ephraim Judd, to wit, who had also made up his mind that, should the prisoner at the bar be adjudged guilty, he must at once crave leave to speak, and to tell all present certain things which were known to himself alone, but which would go far towards proving the innocence of John Brancker. He must relate how he saw the prisoner leave the Bank, when the latter went to fetch his umbrella, within five minutes of the time he entered it. He must explain all about the blood-smears in the prisoner's drawer, and the marks on the floor. He must confess to what he saw when he looked through the fan-light over Mr. Hazeldine's office door. He was fully alive to the fact that to do this would be to effect his own ruin, he was quite aware that he ought to have told all he knew at the first examination before the Coroner; at that time he had been deterred from speaking by a fear of the consequences which would accrue to himself, but should the worst come to the worst, no such fear should hold him back to-day. Be the consequences to himself what they might, John Brancker must not be condemned to die, until he, Ephraim Judd, had told all that which he had till now so carefully hidden. It was in no enviable frame of mind that he walked down to the court on the morning of the trial.

It is not needful that any detailed account should be given here of the progress of the trial. The evidence of the various witnesses was little more than a recapitulation of that given by them at the inquest. No fresh facts had come to light in the interim, neither did the cross-examination of the witnesses tend to elicit any further point which told materially either for or against the prisoner. As before, Brill, the man from whom the knife had been purchased by which Mr. Hazeldine had come by his death, would neither swear positively that the prisoner was the man to whom he had sold the weapon, nor that he was not. He, the prisoner, was like the man, and yet he wasn't like the man; he couldn't be positive, and he wouldn't take an oath one way or the other.

William Strong, the organ-blower, was still as positive as ever that he had not left home on the night of the murder, and that if the prisoner had knocked at the door of his cottage he could not have failed to hear him.

Ephraim Judd, Obed and Amanda Sweet, Doctor Barton and Mr. Mace, were each called upon in turn, and were each submitted to a cross-examination more or less severe, which, however, in no case brought to light anything of consequence tending to the exculpation of the prisoner.

Last of all, two people who had not been examined at the inquest were called and sworn. The first of them was a clerk from the Bank of England, who deposed to having changed notes for gold to the amount of twelve hundred pounds on the day of the murder, and who, on being shown a photograph of Mr. Hazeldine, recognized it as a likeness of the person for whom he had effected the exchange in question.

The second person who was called upon was Mr. Avison. He had no positive evidence to offer in the case, beyond the fact that the Bank had been robbed of an amount a little in excess of four thousand pounds; but what the Counsel for the Prosecution was desirous of eliciting from him was his opinion as to whether such a crime, considered in all its bearings, could have been perpetrated by anyone who was not well acquainted with the habits of the murdered man, as well as with the working of the inner machinery of the Bank. Mr. Avison was clearly of opinion that the crime was the result of a carefully arranged plan, the inception, if not the carrying out, of which was due to someone who had an intimate knowledge of certain details, such as it was next to impossible for any outsider to have.

The examination of Mr. Avison brought the evidence to an end. Then a number of witnesses were called to testify to the accused man's character, among the rest being Mr. Avison. This might have gone on for an indefinite time if the Judge had not at length expressed himself as being perfectly satisfied that it was impossible for any man's character to stand higher in the estimation of those who had known him intimately for years than that of the prisoner at the bar. Then, after the counsel on both sides had been heard, his Lordship proceeded to charge the jury.

This he did in a dispassionate and unbiassed manner, reviewing the evidence carefully, weighing each item in the judicial scales, and giving to each its just preponderance as it told for or against the prisoner. He was most careful in pointing out that the evidence was entirely of a circumstantial character. On the one hand, there was the certainty that the crime was committed some time between half-past ten o'clock and half-past eleven, and the fact that the prisoner entered the Bank by means of his pass-key about twenty minutes past ten and did not reach home till close upon midnight; and that the account he gave of having walked all the way to Strong's house during that interval of time, and of having knocked at his door, was, so far as regarded the latter part of the prisoner's assertion, emphatically denied by Strong himself.

Then there were the blood-smears in his private drawer at the office and on the floor, close by, for which he professed himself utterly unable to account. Then again, the facts of the case would seem clearly to indicate that the criminal was thoroughly acquainted both with the murdered man's habits as also with the interior economy of the Bank--that he knew where to look for the key of the strong-room, and on which day of the week the largest amount of gold was to be found there. He, the Judge, advised the jury not to attach too much importance to the evidence of Brill, the man who sold the knife. His experience had led him to the conclusion that it was impossible to be too cautious in accepting evidence as to personal identity, more especially after any considerable lapse of time; and Brill had very rightly declined to swear to a point as to which his memory was evidently at fault.

There were several points in the prisoner's favor, his Lordship went on to remark, to which the jury would not fail to give due weight in their deliberations. In the first place, there was the entire absence of any conceivable motive on the prisoner's part tending to the commission of such a crime. He and the murdered man had been friends and fellow-workers for years, and, as far as was known, they had always been on the best of terms towards each other. Further, none of the stolen property had been traced home to the prisoner; although, of course, it was no very difficult matter to hide away a large sum in notes and gold where it would be next to impossible for anyone to find it. Finally, the testimony they had heard given to the very high character borne by the prisoner, was a point which would doubtless receive due consideration at their hands.

It was five o'clock when the jury quitted the court, and it wanted twenty minutes to seven when they returned. As soon as Miss Brancker and Hermia heard that the jury had retired to consider their verdict, they left the house in Close Street, where they had been staying, and accompanied by Clement Hazeldine, made their way to the Court-house where, through Clem's influence, they were accommodated with seats in a private room. As the slow minutes passed without bringing any news, the strain upon them grew almost too intense to be endured.

Clement was utterly perplexed by the non-appearance of his brother. From hour to hour he looked for him, but in vain. Surely, Edward would have let nothing less than illness keep him away! Clem had felt very grateful to him for his outspoken championship of John Brancker, although, perhaps, knowing as he did something of the hardness of his brother's character, he had been a little surprised at the attitude taken up by him from the first day of the inquiry. Somehow, it scarcely seemed to harmonize with the idea of Edward, which had unconsciously formulated itself in his mind; but that, as he told himself, only served to prove what erroneous views one may form even of those who are closest to us, and whom we flatter ourselves we know and understand best.

His Lordship, the jury, and the prisoner being all back in their places, and silence having been proclaimed in Court, the Foreman of the Jury, in reply to the usual question put by the Clerk of Arraigns, said, in a voice which every ear there was strained to catch:

"We find the prisoner at the bar 'Not guilty.'"

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