a
practised
criminal,” interrupted Lord Dancer impatiently.
And so it went on. Nonetheless, Mr. Byles did his best, and very good it was too. But the judge’s interruptions
did
flummox him and several times he had to pause and consult his notes, feeling that the sympathy of the jury had been lost.
When he finally sat down, Lord Dancer delicately cleared his throat and commenced his summing up. It was more like a speech for the prosecution thought the earl, gritting his teeth.
The jury of fifteen sat stolidly, staring up at the judge. It was impossible to know what they were thinking.
Lord Dancer’s cultured and charming voice went on and on.
“She’ll hang, as sure as eggs are eggs,” muttered Mr. Farquharson. The earl turned quite pale. Watching him out of the corner of his eye, Mr. Farquharson began to wish he had not brought his young friend to this trial. But who would have thought that Captain Peter Strange would be so squeamish?
Lord Dancer fingered the silk of his robes and turned his pale gaze on the jury.
“It may create the greatest reluctance in your mind to take any other view of the matter than that she was guilty of administering arsenic poisoning. Now the great and invaluable use of a jury, after they direct their minds seriously to the case with the attention you have done, is to separate suspicion from evidence. And, therefore, if you cannot say we find here satisfactory evidence that the poison
must
have been administered by her—whatever may be your suspicion, however heavy the weight and load of suspicion is against her, and however you may have to struggle to get rid of it, you perform the best and bounden duty as a jury to separate suspicion from truth, and to proceed upon nothingthat you do not find established in evidence against her.
“But,” he went on, leaning forward, his shoulders hunched up in his robes creating the illusion of a bird of prey, “if, on the other hand you return a verdict satisfactory to yourselves against the prisoner, you need not fear any consequences from any future, or imagined, or fancied discovery which may take place. You have done your duty under your oaths, under God, and to your country, and may feel satisfied that remorse you can never have.”
Then he placed the black cap conspicuously on the bench in front of him, as if wishing to remove any last lingering doubt from the minds of the jury as to what their verdict should be.
The jury of fifteen men retired, heads bowed. Not one of them looked at Maggie. “A bad sign,” Mr. Farquharson was about to say until the sight of the earl’s tense face stopped him.
Maggie Macleod, it was noted, refused to retire, preferring to stay in the dock and wait for the sentence.
Mr. Farquharson drew out his enormous cigar case. “Let’s step outside and get a breath of air and a smoke,” he whispered. The earl shook his head. “You go,” he said, and Mr. Farquharson, after a worried look at his friend, arose and shuffled his way along to the end of the bench.
Peter, Lord Strathairn, sat with his arms folded across his chest, waiting for the bell to sound which would signal the return of the jury. He was glad the Marquess of Handley was not present. Things were bad enough without that horrible individual, sitting waiting like a vulture.
At that moment, the Marquess of Handley, Lord Robey and Alistair Ashton were playing billiards in a saloon in West Princes Street. The marquess had been in fine form, chatting of this and that before the game. But when it was over and they were putting their cues up on the rack, Alistair Ashtonsaid suddenly, “Robey and I got to talking about the other night, Handley.”
“Indeed,” said the marquess with his foxy smile. “You mean the night of Strathairn’s downfall?”
“Exactly,” chimed in Lord Robey. “You didn’t make him go through with it, did you Handley?”
“A bet’s a bet,” said the marquess, shrugging his shoulders into his coat.
“But
practised
criminal,” interrupted Lord Dancer impatiently.
And so it went on. Nonetheless, Mr. Byles did his best, and very good it was too. But the judge’s interruptions
did
flummox him and several times he had to pause and consult his notes, feeling that the sympathy of the jury had been lost.
When he finally sat down, Lord Dancer delicately cleared his throat and commenced his summing up. It was more like a speech for the prosecution thought the earl, gritting his teeth.
The jury of fifteen sat stolidly, staring up at the judge. It was impossible to know what they were thinking.
Lord Dancer’s cultured and charming voice went on and on.
“She’ll hang, as sure as eggs are eggs,” muttered Mr. Farquharson. The earl turned quite pale. Watching him out of the corner of his eye, Mr. Farquharson began to wish he had not brought his young friend to this trial. But who would have thought that Captain Peter Strange would be so squeamish?
Lord Dancer fingered the silk of his robes and turned his pale gaze on the jury.
“It may create the greatest reluctance in your mind to take any other view of the matter than that she was guilty of administering arsenic poisoning. Now the great and invaluable use of a jury, after they direct their minds seriously to the case with the attention you have done, is to separate suspicion from evidence. And, therefore, if you cannot say we find here satisfactory evidence that the poison
must
have been administered by her—whatever may be your suspicion, however heavy the weight and load of suspicion is against her, and however you may have to struggle to get rid of it, you perform the best and bounden duty as a jury to separate suspicion from truth, and to proceed upon nothingthat you do not find established in evidence against her.
“But,” he went on, leaning forward, his shoulders hunched up in his robes creating the illusion of a bird of prey, “if, on the other hand you return a verdict satisfactory to yourselves against the prisoner, you need not fear any consequences from any future, or imagined, or fancied discovery which may take place. You have done your duty under your oaths, under God, and to your country, and may feel satisfied that remorse you can never have.”
Then he placed the black cap conspicuously on the bench in front of him, as if wishing to remove any last lingering doubt from the minds of the jury as to what their verdict should be.
The jury of fifteen men retired, heads bowed. Not one of them looked at Maggie. “A bad sign,” Mr. Farquharson was about to say until the sight of the earl’s tense face stopped him.
Maggie Macleod, it was noted, refused to retire, preferring to stay in the dock and wait for the sentence.
Mr. Farquharson drew out his enormous cigar case. “Let’s step outside and get a breath of air and a smoke,” he whispered. The earl shook his head. “You go,” he said, and Mr. Farquharson, after a worried look at his friend, arose and shuffled his way along to the end of the bench.
Peter, Lord Strathairn, sat with his arms folded across his chest, waiting for the bell to sound which would signal the return of the jury. He was glad the Marquess of Handley was not present. Things were bad enough without that horrible individual, sitting waiting like a vulture.
At that moment, the Marquess of Handley, Lord Robey and Alistair Ashton were playing billiards in a saloon in West Princes Street. The marquess had been in fine form, chatting of this and that before the game. But when it was over and they were putting their cues up on the rack, Alistair Ashtonsaid suddenly, “Robey and I got to talking about the other night, Handley.”
“Indeed,” said the marquess with his foxy smile. “You mean the night of Strathairn’s downfall?”
“Exactly,” chimed in Lord Robey. “You didn’t make him go through with it, did you Handley?”
“A bet’s a bet,” said the marquess, shrugging his shoulders into his coat.
“But
Similar Books
