The Essential Writings of Marie Belloc Lowndes. Marie Belloc Lowndes

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СКАЧАТЬ can wears some sort o’ coat this weather!”

      A juryman who had been looking at a strip of newspaper, and apparently not attending at all to what the witness was saying, here jumped up and put out his hand.

      “Yes?” the coroner turned to him.

      “I just want to say that this ’ere witness—if her name is Lizzie Cole, began by saying The Avenger was wearing a coat—a big, heavy coat. I’ve got it here, in this bit of paper.”

      “I never said so!” cried the woman passionately. “I was made to say all those things by the young man what came to me from the Evening Sun. Just put in what ’e liked in ‘is paper, ’e did—not what I said at all!”

      At this there was some laughter, quickly suppressed.

      “In future,” said the coroner severely, addressing the juryman, who had now sat down again, “you must ask any question you wish to ask through your foreman, and please wait till I have concluded my examination of the witness.”

      But this interruption, this—this accusation, had utterly upset the witness. She began contradicting herself hopelessly. The man she had seen hurrying by in the semi-darkness below was tall—no, he was short. He was thin—no, he was a stoutish young man. And as to whether he was carrying anything, there was quite an acrimonious discussion.

      Most positively, most confidently, the witness declared that she had seen a newspaper parcel under his arm; it had bulged out at the back —so she declared. But it was proved, very gently and firmly, that she had said nothing of the kind to the gentleman from Scotland Yard who had taken down her first account—in fact, to him she had declared confidently that the man had carried nothing—nothing at all; that she had seen his arms swinging up and down.

      One fact—if fact it could be called—the coroner did elicit. Lizzie Cole suddenly volunteered the statement that as he had passed her window he had looked up at her. This was quite a new statement.

      “He looked up at you?” repeated the coroner. “You said nothing of that in your examination.”

      “I said nothink because I was scared—nigh scared to death!”

      “If you could really see his countenance, for we know the night was dark and foggy, will you please tell me what he was like?”

      But the coroner was speaking casually, his hand straying over his desk; not a creature in that court now believed the woman’s story.

      “Dark!” she answered dramatically. “Dark, almost black! If you can take my meaning, with a sort of nigger look.”

      And then there was a titter. Even the jury smiled. And sharply the coroner bade Lizzie Cole stand down.

      Far more credence was given to the evidence of the next witness.

      This was an older, quieter-looking woman, decently dressed in black. Being the wife of a night watchman whose work lay in a big warehouse situated about a hundred yards from the alley or passage where the crimes had taken place, she had gone out to take her husband some food he always had at one in the morning. And a man had passed her, breathing hard and walking very quickly. Her attention had been drawn to him because she very seldom met anyone at that hour, and because he had such an odd, peculiar look and manner.

      Mrs. Bunting, listening attentively, realised that it was very much from what this witness had said that the official description of The Avenger had been composed—that description which had brought such comfort to her, Ellen Bunting’s, soul.

      This witness spoke quietly, confidently, and her account of the newspaper parcel the man was carrying was perfectly clear and positive.

      “It was a neat parcel,” she said, “done up with string.”

      She had thought it an odd thing for a respectably dressed young man to carry such a parcel—that was what had made her notice it. But when pressed, she had to admit that it had been a very foggy night —so foggy that she herself had been afraid of losing her way, though every step was familiar.

      When the third woman went into the box, and with sighs and tears told of her acquaintance with one of the deceased, with Johanna Cobbett, there was a stir of sympathetic attention. But she had nothing to say throwing any light on the investigation, save that she admitted reluctantly that “Anny” would have been such a nice, respectable young woman if it hadn’t been for the drink.

      Her examination was shortened as much as possible; and so was that of the next witness, the husband of Johanna Cobbett. He was a very respectable-looking man, a foreman in a big business house at Croydon. He seemed to feel his position most acutely. He hadn’t seen his wife for two years; he hadn’t had news of her for six months. Before she took to drink she had been an admirable wife, and—and yes, mother.

      Yet another painful few minutes, to anyone who had a heart, or imagination to understand, was spent when the father of the murdered woman was in the box. He had had later news of his unfortunate daughter than her husband had had, but of course he could throw no light at all on her murder or murderer.

      A barman, who had served both the women with drink just before the public-house closed for the night, was handled rather roughly. He had stepped with a jaunty air into the box, and came out of it looking cast down, uneasy.

      And then there took place a very dramatic, because an utterly unexpected, incident. It was one of which the evening papers made the utmost much to Mrs. Bunting’s indignation. But neither coroner nor jury—and they, after all, were the people who mattered— thought a great deal of it.

      There had come a pause in the proceedings. All seven witnesses had been heard, and a gentleman near Mrs. Bunting whispered, “They are now going to call Dr. Gaunt. He’s been in every big murder case for the last thirty years. He’s sure to have something interesting to say. It was really to hear him I came.”

      But before Dr. Gaunt had time even to get up from the seat with which he had been accommodated close to the coroner, there came a stir among the general public, or, rather, among those spectators who stood near the low wooden door which separated the official part of the court from the gallery.

      The coroner’s officer, with an apologetic air, approached the coroner, and handed him up an envelope. And again in an instant, there fell absolute silence on the court.

      Looking rather annoyed, the coroner opened the envelope. He glanced down the sheet of notepaper it contained. Then he looked up.

      “Mr.—” then he glanced down again. “Mr.—ah—Mr.—is it Cannot?” he said doubtfully, “may come forward.”

      There ran a titter though the spectators, and the coroner frowned.

      A neat, jaunty-looking old gentleman, in a nice fur-lined overcoat, with a fresh, red face and white side-whiskers, was conducted from the place where he had been standing among the general public, to the witness-box.

      “This is somewhat out of order, Mr.—er—Cannot,” said the coroner severely. “You should have sent me this note before the proceedings began. This gentleman,” he said, addressing the jury, “informs me that he has something of the utmost importance to reveal in connection with our investigation.”

      “I have remained silent—I have locked what I knew within my own breast”—began Mr. Cannot in a quavering voice, “because СКАЧАТЬ