THE SHADOW OF DOOM
The trial of Roger Carling for the murder of Lady Rawson was drawing to an end. No case heard in the Central Criminal Court had ever created greater public interest, by reason of the sensational and unique circumstances of the crime, and the social status of the victim and of several of the persons involved.
Also, many of the callous and curious spectators, most of them fashionably dressed women, who waited for hours in the bitter cold of those grey winter mornings to gain admission to the court, fully expected a series of scandalous revelations; for rumours had been rife of some passionate intrigue between the murdered woman and Roger Carling, or Boris Melikoff, or both men; and circumstantial lies, invented by salacious minds, were broadcasted by malicious tongues from Mayfair and Belgravia to the far suburbs.
Those prurient anticipations were never satisfied. No fresh evidence was forthcoming; but as the case developed so the tension increased, the interest became cumulatively more poignant, more painful, concentrated on the prisoner, pale and worn but perfectly self-possessed, and his girl-wife, whose eyes never left his face, and who seemed utterly oblivious of every one and everything else in the world except during the brief interval when, in the witness-box, she gave evidence on the important episode of the sudden change of their honeymoon plans.
The opening indictment by counsel for the Crown seemed flawless. Inexorably, with consummate skill, and in absolutely passionless tones, he reconstructed and related the story of the crime, from the discovery of the theft of the secret papers to the arrest of the prisoner on the fourth day of his honeymoon. Calmly, relentlessly he wove the threads of circumstantial evidence and presented it as a complete web.
In imagination, those who listened saw Roger Carling enter on his hasty quest—“Bear in mind the importance that he attached, and rightly attached, to those missing papers—an importance so tremendous that his own wedding, the bride who was awaiting him at the very altar, became secondary considerations!”—followed him as in the increasing gloom he dogged the footsteps of his victim, watched him pass swiftly through the shop, unperceived by the other persons there, a circumstance that sounded almost incredible until its possibility was demonstrated by the model and plans of the place, which were duly passed to the jury for examination. Then the fatal stab in that obscure corner, a deed premeditated, if only for a brief minute before hand, as the weapon (counsel held up that little tortoiseshell knife) must have been ready in his hand. It was the work of a moment; it was done not in the heat of passion, but coolly, deliberately; and as coolly and deliberately, having achieved his immediate purpose and regained possession of the papers, he thereupon not only effected his own escape for the time being, but, with a resource amazing in its ingenuity, instantly got rid of his incriminating booty, the recovered papers, in the one way that might, and as a matter of fact did, effect their safe return to Sir Robert Rawson, by posting them in the letter-box close at hand!
“Is it probable—nay, is it possible or even conceivable—that any other person than the prisoner, the one man in England who at that moment knew the contents and the inestimable importance of those documents, would have acted in such a manner?
“The reaction came, naturally and inevitably. The prisoner’s demeanour, the agitation he exhibited when eventually he arrived at the church where his bride awaited him, were precisely what might be expected in a man who had come straight from the perpetration of an appalling crime, as they were far in excess of the physical and mental distress that any ordinary individual would suffer through the accidental inconvenience and delay experienced in consequence of the fog.
“Finally, there was a sudden change of plans and of destination effected after the prisoner and his bride had actually started on their honeymoon. Why did he not take his bride to the hotel where rooms had already been booked for them? Because he had begun to realize what the consequence of his crime would be—feared that he would be arrested that very night, sought to gain time, a few hours, a few days.”
Cummings-Browne sprang up.
“I protest! There is a complete explanation of the change of plans which will be given in evidence.”
“My learned friend says the change of plans will be completely explained in the course of evidence. It will be for you, gentlemen of the jury, to decide on its significance when you have heard the explanation, as it will be your duty to weigh the whole of the evidence.”
Hour after hour through that day and the next the succession of witnesses gave their evidence, and were subjected to searching cross-examination and re-examination by the respective counsel. Those in court, and they were many, who were familiar with the methods of the famous counsel for the defence discerned from the first that Cummings-Browne was on his mettle, fighting for his client’s life against most desperate odds; for the great mass of evidence provided corroboration on nearly every point of the theory formulated by the prosecution; and in refutation of that theory there was practically nothing except Roger’s own simple, straightforward statement of his movements, and Grace’s pathetic testimony regarding their change of plan, for which she insisted that she alone was responsible.
One point which Cummings-Browne elicited was, that while it was practically certain that the murderer wore gloves—a fact indicated by the smears on the bag—Sadler, the taxi-driver, swore positively that Roger Carling was not wearing gloves when he left the taxi.
“I noticed how cold his hands looked when he paid me, and wondered that a well-dressed young gentleman didn’t have his gloves on on such a raw day.”
Neither old Giulia nor any of the witnesses who were questioned concerning the time he arrived at the church, and his appearance when he did arrive, could give any definite information on this matter, while he himself admitted that he had gloves in his pocket, and very probably put them on while he was on his way to the church, though he had no recollection of doing so; but asserted that they were the same gloves—a pair of grey antelope—that he had worn on his journey back to Town when he was under arrest, and that were now among the “exhibits” in court. Those gloves were soiled, but with ordinary wear, and a microscopic examination proved that there were no incriminating stains on them, and that they had never undergone any process of cleaning.
That circumstance—so small in itself, but of such tremendous importance when a man’s life depended on it—was duly emphasized by Cummings-Browne in the course of his three hours’ speech for the defence—a speech afterwards acknowledged to be the most brilliant, the most impassioned, the most moving that even he had ever delivered; one that held his auditors enthralled.
There was dead silence for a few seconds after he sat down, then a wave of emotion swept over the crowded court, and a spontaneous murmur of applause, instantly and sternly suppressed by the ushers.
Austin Starr, sitting close to Grace, drew a deep breath of relief and flashed a smile at Roger. He believed, as many others did at that moment, that Cummings-Browne had triumphed once more—that Roger was saved.
Then, grim and relentless as Fate, counsel for the Crown rose to reply. Bit by bit, calmly, remorselessly he demolished that eloquent defence, exposed the slight foundation on which it was based compared with the mass of evidence that supported the case for the prosecution; dwelt on the atrocious nature of the crime—“a crime far worse than ordinary homicide, for which there was often the excuse that it was committed in the heat of passion; but this was assassination—the cool, deliberate assassination of a helpless, defenceless woman!”
After that cold, calm, implacable denunciation came the judge’s summing-up—grave, reasoned, meticulously impartial. Then the jury retired.
One hour, two hours dragged by, each seeming long as a lifetime. Would they never return? At last at the little movement that heralded the final scene, counsel and solicitors, Grace Carling and her friends came in and resumed their places, the judge took his seat once more, the prisoner reappeared in the dock. Roger stood with shoulders squared, head erect, lips firmly set, pale indeed, but apparently as self-possessed as was the judge himself.
The jury filed in.
“Guilty!”
With that one low-voiced word the Shadow of Doom seemed to descend; and above the subdued sound of sobbing the judge’s deep, solemn voice was heard asking the prisoner if he had anything to say before sentence was passed on him.
Roger looked at him full and fearlessly, and answered in tones that rang through the court:
“Only this, my lord, that I am absolutely innocent—innocent in thought as well as in deed—of this appalling crime!”
As he spoke Grace rose in her place, slowly, silently, till she stood at her full height, her hands clasped on her breast. There was a strange, ecstatic expression on her fair face, subtle and inscrutable as the smile of Mona Lisa, and her eyes were fixed on Roger’s, as, from the moment he ceased speaking, his were fixed on hers.
So those two lovers looked at each other while the dread sentence was pronounced that would part them for ever in this world. They did not even seem to hear the words of doom.
Many women, and some men, were sobbing hysterically, none were unmoved; but still Grace stood like a statue, scarcely seeming to breathe, gazing no longer at Roger—for he, with the two warders in attendance, had disappeared—but at the place where he had been.
Austin Starr slipped his arm round her on the one side, Winnie Winston, tearful and trembling, on the other.
“We must get her away,” sobbed Winnie. “Come, darling!”
She yielded to their touch, walking quite steadily, but as unconscious of her surroundings as a somnambulist.
Only when they reached the anteroom and a little crowd of friends and counsel clustered round her, she turned her head and looked at Austin, that faint unearthly smile still on her lips, and said, quite distinctly:
“It is not the end. There is still the light—the great protection!”
With that she swayed forward, and Austin held and lowered her gently to the floor.
“Oh, she’s dead!” cried Winnie, kneeling distractedly beside her. “Grace—Grace, darling!”
“She’s only fainted, thank God! It’s better for her,” said Austin huskily.