Chapter 25

MR. JUSTICE BRANSCOMBE

For some days after Judge Bolitho had made his confession in court no further steps were taken in the trial of Paul. Another judge had to sit upon the case, and this meant delay. What took place in certain judicial circles I have no knowledge. It is for me simply to relate what actually resulted. Undoubtedly, the judge's unprecedented confession caused some stir in the realms of legal authority. Many forms had doubtless to be complied with, and, as a consequence, Paul had to wait one weary day after another without anything publicly taking place and without any knowledge of what was being done.

During this time not one of the three people whom he expected again came to see him. After the interview which I have tried to describe in the last chapter the judge, in spite of what he had said, failed to seek admission again to Paul's cell. As for Mary Bolitho or his mother, he had no knowledge concerning them. No word was sent to him, and as a consequence day succeeded day in the dull, dreary monotony of a Lancashire prison.

Not that he was without visitors. Two lawyers who had been friends of his came to see him, and each tried to change his mind in relation to the conduct of his own defence. They felt sure, they said, that they could do better for him than he had done for himself, and each pleaded with him to allow them to prepare his case and to place it in the hands of some leading counsel. But Paul persistently refused. He knew that if he trusted in them he must state certain facts which, although they might release him, would throw suspicion of the strongest nature upon his mother. He wanted to live in spite of everything. But even although the worst came to the worst, he would rather suffer the extreme penalty of the deed of which he was accused than that the mother who had suffered all for him and done all for him should be dragged before the eyes of the world as it had been his lot to be. The interviews with these lawyers were long and trying, and while he did not yield to them in the slightest degree, they were not without advantage to him. They helped him to arrange his plans with more clearness, and they let drop many hints which he felt sure would be of service to him. When he had entered upon the trial everything had been confused; he could not decide upon any method of procedure. But now things began to take shape. He felt as if he had had some experience, and that he would not enter upon the fight for his life without some knowledge of the weapons he had to use.

Presently the news came to him that his re-trial was to come on, and one morning he was taken from his cell, as in the first instance, accompanied by two policemen, who led him into the prisoner's dock.

His experiences had left their mark upon him. He was still scrupulously precise about his dress, and every detail of his person was attended to as carefully as if he had arranged to make a set speech in the House of Commons. But no one could help remarking on the change which had passed over him. He looked thin and haggard; in his eyes was an expression of weariness; his skin was grey and almost parchment-like; and, instead of seeming to be without nerves, as on the previous occasions, his hands trembled as they rested upon the rail in front of him. But no one could suggest that he asked for pity. There was still the same proud look upon his face, the same expression of defiance. He stood perfectly straight and upright, too, and seemed to regard both judge and jury with a feeling of contempt. In addition to all this there was something in his square jaw and set teeth which denoted a grim determination. Here was not a man who was going to deliver himself over to the butcher without a protest. Everyone felt that he would fight, and fight to the very last.

Although he had been told that it would be so, he did not realise until that moment that the trial would have to commence _de novo_. He looked at the judge with keen interest, and noted the difference between him and the one who had last sat there. He could not help remembering, too, what had taken place. The things he had heard had shaken his life to its very foundation; he who had regarded himself as fatherless had found his father, and this fact had altered everything. Perhaps, too, Judge Branscombe, who from his elevation looked at Paul, felt this. In any case, it was evident he had a keen interest in him. He noted his every movement, marked his every feature, and formed his impressions concerning the man who was there for trial.

Judge Branscombe was utterly different from his predecessor. As we have said, Judge Bolitho was florid, somewhat heavy featured, in spite of the fact that his face was cast in a classical mould. He was fresh coloured, too, and suggested a _bon vivant_. Judge Branscombe, on the other hand, was a little man, with small, watchful eyes and sharp-pointed features. He was a lawyer to his very finger-tips, keen, penetrating, and a master of detail. He was a judge who did not deal with broad issues. He dealt with facts, hard, incontrovertible facts, rather than what might lie beyond them. What might be called "internal evidence" had little weight with him. What any prisoner might be likely to do under a given set of circumstances had little or no weight with him. It was what the prisoner had been known to do that he fastened upon and held to with the tenacity of a terrier. Not a cruel man by any means, but in a sense a little man; a man of keen intellect but of narrow outlook; a man who followed out a certain set of circumstances to their logical issue regardless of all other probabilities which might appear. Such was the judge who sat to hear Paul's case that day. Such was the man who in time would have to advise the jury concerning their verdict.

Paul was not long in summing up the nature of Judge Branscombe, and he felt sure that under his guidance the trial would more than ever rest upon circumstantial evidence. This man was not a reader of character, not one who studied probabilities, therefore he felt his battle would be hard to fight.

The court was again crowded to its utmost capacity, and the excitement which had prevailed at the first trial had not lessened in the slightest degree. Everyone there knew of what had taken place and realised the reason for the change of judges. All sorts of rumours had been afloat concerning what had become of Judge Bolitho, what had been said in high places, and what the result would be in his future career. The whole affair had been the talk of the country. People had come from afar to witness the outcome of this strange case, and, as on the previous occasion, the atmosphere was tense with excitement and keen with expectation.

Again the clerk of the assizes rose and read the indictment, and again the judge turned to Paul and asked him whether he were guilty or not guilty.

"Not guilty, my lord," he replied.

Everyone noted that there was a tone of defiance in his voice which they had missed on the first occasion. He found himself examining the jurymen. As far as he could judge, they were of the same calibre--unimaginative, commonplace, and, to a large extent, self-satisfied men. He thought, however, that they looked toward him with an expression of sympathy which he had not noted before. Perhaps they, too, had been influenced by the happenings of the previous trial.

Then Mr. Bakewell rose and said, "I am for the prosecution, my lord."

"Who is for the defence?" asked the judge.

And again there was deathly silence.

"Have you not engaged anyone to defend you?" said Judge Branscombe, turning to Paul.

"No one," replied Paul. "I wish to defend myself."

The judge uttered an exclamation of surprise. It might seem as though he knew nothing of the previous trial. He was a lawyer of the very strictest class. What had been was nothing to him. He was there to begin the trial at the beginning, and he would act as though nothing had taken place and as though he were utterly ignorant of what had been discussed throughout the whole land.

"I strongly advise you to accept the service of someone to undertake your defence," he said; and he mentioned one or two names of those whom he felt sure would be willing to act for him. To Paul this seemed like a repetition of a formula. It was all artificial, unreal.

"No, my lord," he replied. "I intend to defend myself."

"Then you will know," said the judge, "that you have the right to cross-examine the witnesses."

"Thank you, my lord."

Again Mr. Bakewell rose for the prosecution. His speech was very nearly a repetition of the one he had delivered on the previous occasion, but for some reason or another it did not have the same effect as during its first deliverance. The jury were acquainted with the facts that had been discussed a hundred times in a hundred different ways during the last few days. Still, there could be no doubt about it, the case looked very black for Paul when it concluded. The long feud which was known to exist between Paul and the murdered man; the many threats which had been uttered; the quarrel which had taken place on the night when Paul was elected member for Brunford; the open insults which the murdered man had hurled at the prisoner; the scene which had taken place on the night before the murder, and the threat he had made to avenge the injury. Mr. Bakewell also dwelt upon the excited state in which Paul was when he returned to the house, as would be proved by the evidence of the servants; of his going upstairs to the landing outside the servants' quarters at midnight; of his going out into the night alone; of his return early in the morning, pale and haggard; then, as the crowning evidence of all, the knife, which was known to be Paul's, which had been lying in his office--an office which was always locked when the owner of it was not present--the sharp, murderous weapon was found in the body of the murdered man, struck from behind.

All these things Mr. Bakewell described, and spoke with telling emphasis on the main features of the case. Possibly he knew the character of the judge to whom he addressed himself, and he had so arranged his speech that the chain of evidence was apparently complete. When he sat down a great pent-up sigh arose, not only from the jurymen, but from the excited spectators. Although during the early part of what he had said the emotion was not so great as during the first trial, yet, as he summed up the case for the prosecution, fastened one link to another of the chain of events, and declared in solemn tones that the witnesses he had to call would prove everything he had said to the minutest detail, it seemed as though they expected the judge to put on the black cap and to utter the terrible words which have to be uttered on every condemned prisoner.

Paul, however, was not greatly moved by Mr. Bakewell's speech. He listened keenly, attentively, to all he had to say, made a note, and that was all.

It is not my purpose to follow the trial step by step. Those who care to do so can turn up the files of the Manchester papers, where they can find it in every detail; but in this history I do not purpose dwelling at length upon the many examinations that were made and on the voluminous evidence given. As far as Paul was concerned, he did not endeavour to cross-examine many of the witnesses. As far as he could see, their evidence was in the main true. They had given a statement of facts, and he felt that it would be utter waste of time to deal with details which might show discrepancies, but which were, as far as he could judge, of but little importance. He wanted to fasten upon the main features of the case, and then, without in the slightest degree hinting at anything which would connect his mother with the murder of Ned Wilson, to prove how utterly improbable, if not impossible, it was, that he should be guilty of the deed of which he was accused.

Still, he did cross-examine some of the witnesses, and it was evident by the look in the judge's eyes that he appreciated the cleverness of the cross-examination. Indeed, so successful was Paul that on more than one occasion he made this keen-minded lawyer--more lawyer, indeed, than man--realise that circumstantial evidence might be false, and that a jury would assume tremendous responsibility in passing judgment of death upon anyone upon such evidence. Especially was this true in the case of the examination of the murdered man's father. He, as on the opening day of the first trial, was the most important witness, and after Mr. Bakewell had elicited from him practically the same admissions as had been given on the previous occasion, Paul rose to cross-examine him.

"Mr. Wilson," he said, "you have stated more than once that beside myself your son had no other enemy. Do you still adhere to this?"

"Certainly."

"Do you mean to say that during his life he has never gained the ill-will or the enmity of anyone besides me?"

"Not that I know of."

"You insist on this?"

"Yes. That is, no enmity of importance."

"What do you mean by importance?"

"I mean any enmity that would lead anyone to murder him."

"I want to ask you further questions about this. One of the witnesses who gave evidence concerning the quarrel between your son and myself on the night prior to his death is called Scott, is he not?"

"Yes."

"John Scott?"

"Yes."

"John had a son called Nick; is that not so?"

"Yes."

"Some three years ago he had a quarrel with your son?"

"Yes."

"It ended in Nick Scott being sent to prison. Is that true?"

"It is true that Nick Scott was sent to prison, but it had nothing whatever to do with his quarrel with my son. That was about a very trivial affair."

"But did not Nick Scott say that he'd pay your son out if he had to swing for it?"

"There was some such rumour, I believe. I paid no attention to it."

"I am taking this line, my lord," continued Paul, "because of the witness's evidence. He says that his son had no enemy in Brunford. I am going to prove to you that he had."

The judge nodded, while Paul again turned to the witness.

"You still adhere to the fact, then, do you, that your son had no enemy beside myself?"

"I did not think of Scott, because he was not in the country; besides, it was of no importance. Men often utter threats like that."

"It pains me to bring up another case," said Paul. "But please remember I am here accused of murder. Do you know a woman named Mary Bradshaw? She lives in Clough Street."

"I have heard of such a woman; yes."

"Your son was once very friendly with her. Had that woman no reason to hate him?"

"That was years ago."

Paul asked many questions concerning this woman which I will not set down here, because they were necessarily of a sordid nature, but which went to prove that although in neither case could these people have had anything to do with the murder, Ned Wilson was not universally beloved, as his father had stated, but bitterly hated.

"You have admitted to me," went on Paul at length, "that he was believed to have wronged two people, and that both of them had reason to bear him enmity. Might there not have been others of whom you never heard?"

"Of course my son was thirty years of age, and he lived his own life. At the same time it is universally admitted that he was respected in the town and beloved by practically everyone."

"With the exception of these people, who, as you have admitted, uttered dark threats against him?"

At this the witness was silent.

"We will now go on to the question of the knife," said Paul, "concerning which you have made so much." And he dealt with this question in a similar way to that with which he had dealt with it on the previous occasion. The tendency of his questions was to show how unlikely it was that he, whom the witness still called a clever, scheming, cold-blooded villain, should use a knife known to be his, a knife that had been seen on his office desk, and leave it in the murdered man's body, knowing that all the time it could be traced to himself.

"There is still something more important," said Paul. "From the evidence given it is known that I parted from your son at twilight on the night before the murder."

"Yes."

"On that occasion he struck me down when I was walking away from him. The blow almost deprived me of my senses, and I lay stunned for some seconds."

"Yes."

"When I rose I made no attack on him."

"No."

"But I uttered a threat that I would be even with him."

"Yes. I regard your words as practically a threat of murder."

"Do you know what your son was doing between that time and the time when he was supposed to meet with the person who murdered him?"

"No; I cannot tell."

"You say he came into the house where two letters awaited him; those two letters he read, and then threw them into the fire. Do you know what was in those letters?"

"No; I have no idea."

"You saw the envelopes. In what handwriting were they--that of a man or a woman?"

"I did not take particular notice, but I thought one was written by a man and the other by a woman."

"Just so! and he threw these letters into the fire?"

"Yes."

"Did he seem to be pleased at seeing them?"

The witness was silent for a second, then he said: "It is difficult to tell."

"That is not an answer to my question. Did he not show anger, or at least annoyance, as he read one of these letters?"

"Well, perhaps he did."

"Thank you. Now then, I want to ask you this: You say he went out after dinner that night. Did he tell you where he was going?"

"No. I thought he was going to his club."

"You know, too, that he did not go to his club. That has come out in the evidence."

"I am told that he was not seen there."

"Now then for the question that I regard of such importance. Do you know of any woman likely to write to your son and ask him to meet her?"

Again the witness looked confused. "I think the question unfair," he said. "One might have all sorts of suspicions, but it would be wrong to give expression to them, as I have no definite knowledge."

"I must insist on the question, my lord," said Paul, turning to the judge.

"Certainly," replied the judge. "It has a strong bearing upon the case."

"Then I must repeat the question," said Paul, turning to the witness.

Whereupon Mr. Wilson admitted that he had more than once seen his son in company with a woman whom he did not know.

"Might it not have been her letter that night?"

"Of course, I cannot tell," replied the witness. "Everything I say upon the question is pure surmise, and I can substantiate nothing."

"Was the writing on the envelope that of an educated woman?"

"No, I should say not; but it might have been disguised."

"Thank you," said Paul. "You say you saw your son in company with this woman. Where did you see them?"

"At some little distance from the Coal Clough Golf Links."

"Did they seem on good terms?"

"I cannot say. I should not think so."

"Was the woman angry with him?"

"She might have been."

"You judged that she was?"

"Yes; I thought she was."

"Now to return to the night of the murder. You say that your son did not tell you where he was going?"

"No."

"That you thought he was going to his club?"

"I thought it probable; yes."

"Don't you think it probable that he went to meet this woman?"

"I don't know."

"You see how important the question is. You say your son left the house at ten o'clock that night, and that he was not seen until the following morning, when he was discovered by the policeman, murdered. According to the doctor's evidence he had been dead some little time before that. Thus there are several hours to account for. Have you no idea where he was during those hours?"

"None at all beside what I have told you."

This part of the examination continued for some time; though beyond what I have written nothing of importance was elicited. But the evidence given created an impression which could not be gainsaid.

Paul had made it abundantly evident that the murdered man was not without enemies, as had been so strongly insisted, and he had also raised doubts concerning what he had been doing between the hours when Wilson left his father's house and the time of the murder.

In this cross-examination, however, Paul was much handicapped. He dared not refer to the conversation which had taken place between himself and Ned Wilson during their quarrel, for fear of in any way bringing Mary's name into evidence. Up to the present, no one thought of connecting her with the matter in any definite way, and Paul was determined that, whatever took place, this must be avoided. Neither could he remove the difficulty of the knife without connecting it with his mother. As we have said, she was in his office on the morning of the day of his quarrel with Wilson, and was, as far as he could see, the only one who could have obtained possession of it. Still, he had made the most of his opportunities, and although on this murderous weapon the issues of the trial seemed largely to rest, he made more than one juryman feel that he was not the kind of man to use it in such a fashion and then leave it as evidence against himself.

During his cross-examination of the next witness, too, he further destroyed the statement that Wilson was a man without enemies.

John Scott was one of the two men who had witnessed the quarrel between himself and Wilson. Mr. Bakewell examined him very closely.

"You say," he said, "that you saw the prisoner and the murdered man together?"

"Yes."

"You heard angry words pass between them, but you could not tell what they were?"

"No."

"You saw the prisoner walk away, and as he was doing so, saw Mr. Edward Wilson strike him with a stick?"

"Yes; he knocked him down."

"Will you tell us what followed?"

"I saw Mr. Stepaside get up, and I thought he was going to attack Wilson. There was a look of murder in his eyes, as I thought, but he didn't do owt. He simply said that he'd pay him out for this, or summat of that sort. And I said to my mate, 'Stepaside'll kill Wilson for that.'"

This evidence, which was given in the rough Lancashire dialect, was nevertheless very impressive. The witness and Mr. Bakewell made the jury see, as if in a picture, the two men quarrelling, Wilson striking an angry blow, and Paul breathing out murder against him.

"John Scott," said Paul, when he rose to cross-examine him, "you've known me a good many years?"

"Ay; I've known you ever since you came to Brunford."

"You know the kind of man I am?"

"Ay; I think so."

"You say you saw me walk away from Wilson, who lifted his stick and struck me down?"

"Ay, I did."

"After I had been stunned for two or three minutes I rose to my feet?"

"Ay."

"We were in a lonely place at that time, and you say I was unaware of your presence?"

"Yes; that is so."

"Do you not think if I meant to murder Wilson that I should not have done it at the time when my anger was aroused, rather than wait several hours?"

"Weel, I should think so; but there's no knowing."

"Just so. Now I want to ask you another question. As you know, it has been stated many times that the murdered man had no enemy in Brunford beside myself: would you say that was true?"

"No, I shouldn't. My Nick hated him like he hated the devil. He were a kind-hearted lad, but Ned Wilson treated him terribly bad. Nick is out of the country now, but there's no doubt he has a grudge against Wilson."

"Do you know of any others in Brunford who have a similar feeling towards him?"

"Weel, I know that there was no love lost between Ned Wilson and lots of people."

This led to many more questions and answers which went to destroy the illusion that the murdered man had been universally popular. And for some time after that the trial seemed to go in Paul's favour rather than against him.

Then it seemed as though a bolt came from the blue. A man was called into the box who had not appeared in the previous trial. He was a collier, who appeared in a great state of nervousness.

"You were returning to Brunford on the night of the murder, and had to pass near Howden Clough?"

"Ay; I wur."

"What time did you pass near Howden Clough?"

"It must have been about five o'clock in the morning. But I'm noan sure, and it wur dark."

"What were you doing there?"

"I had been to see my lad, who lives over Rakes Royd. He wur married twelve months ago, and his missis sent me word that he were very poorly. I stayed wi' him most o' th' night, and then walked back so's to be in time for my wark."

"And you say you think it was about five o'clock when you passed Howden Clough?"

"Ay, it wur."

"Tell the jury what you saw."

"Well, I were going along th' road, when I thought I heerd somebody moaning. I wondered what it could be, and I stopped still. I wur in the lane not far from the big 'ouse, and I heerd footsteps."

"Was it a man's voice or a woman's voice you heard?"

"I thought it were a man's voice."

"Well, go on."

"I had not been standing still above 'aaf a minute when I see'd a man coming toward me. He come close to where I was, and then he stopped still."

"Did he see you?"

"Nay; he couldna see me, for I was standing close t' th' edge, and he was looking straight on."

"Did you recognise who it was?"

"Ay, I did. It were Maaster Paul Stepaside."

"You are certain of this?"

"Ay, I'm certain."

"But you said it was dark, just now. How could you be certain who it was in the dark?"

"Well, it was noan so dark as all that, and as I had been walking four mile, my eyes had got accustomed to the darkness; and more than that, there was a break in the clouds just then, and I think there must have been a bit of moonlight. Anyhow, I can swear it were Mr. Paul Stepaside."

"Did he speak to you?"

"Nay; he never spoke to me. As I told you, he never seed me, but were looking straight on."

"Did he seem calm, self-possessed?"

"Nay; all t' other way. He looked like a man beside hissen."

"Did you hear him say anything?"

"Ay, I did. I heerd him say, 'My God! I never thought it would come to this,' or summat like that. I won't be sure as to the exact words, but it was summat like that."

"Did he stand beside you long?"

"Nay, not more than while one could count ten, perhaps. Then he rushed off, and he were muttering to hissen; but what he were saying aw could noan make out."

"And that was all?"

"Ay, that was all."

"But you did not tell this at the inquest."

"Nay; I didn't want to be dragged into it. Besides, I didn't know what it meant; but I did mention it to my missis, and my missis mentioned it to the wife of a policeman, who told it to her 'usband; and that's how it come out."

As may be imagined, the effect of this evidence was remarkable. It supplied a kind of link in the chain. It was now proved beyond question that Paul was in the vicinity of the murder very near to the time when it actually took place. And in the face of it all, all that had been said in his favour seemed to be as nothing. Not only was it Paul's knife that was found in Wilson's body, but Paul, although he had not been seen to strike the blow, had been seen close to the spot where the murder took place almost at the time of its actual occurrence, and he had been heard to utter words such as a guilty man would have been likely to utter.

At this time the court adjourned, and all felt that Paul's doom was sealed.