had left the house by the back door, but on returning with Mr. Lewis the party entered by the front. Simons stepped forward with his latchkey to open the door, but found the latch already lifted, and stuck fast in its raised position.
‘This was a thing which always occurred if the latch was lifted too high. The keyhole is shaped like an inverted T, and the members of the household who carried keys were generally careful not to push them too far upward, lest this result should occur.
‘Counsel will probably be inclined to see a sufficient explanation of the incident in the agitation and haste by which a criminal would naturally be overcome just after the commission of such a crime.’
(‘Yes; I suppose so.’ The barrister paused for some time, knitted his brows, and tried to think the matter out. ‘Yes, it would be a natural result,’ he admitted at length, and resumed his reading.)
‘The next discovery was equally important.
‘Miss Lewis’s bedroom window looked over the front garden. Immediately below it, under the dining-room window, was a grating over a window, which gave light to an underground scullery. This grating was surrounded by a bed of shrubs, which concealed it from the eye of visitors.
‘Sergeant Evans’s first move was to proceed to this spot. He was rewarded by finding blood-stains on the grating. The nearest shrubs had been roughly handled, and some of their leaves lay scattered about.
‘The inference which counsel is asked to draw is that the body – or a portion of it – was lowered down through the window, and thence carried away.
‘This would evidently be much easier for a young woman like the prisoner to do than to carry it downstairs.
‘Her second journey down, when she appears to have been bearing a load of some kind, may be accounted for by supposing that she returned for the jewels. These, as already stated, have disappeared.
‘During deceased’s lifetime she maintained great secrecy about these jewels. No one, not even the servants who had been with her longest, seems to have known anything as to their whereabouts.
‘It is suggested, therefore, that they were kept by deceased in a secret hiding-place. This secret must have been disclosed to prisoner, or found out by her.
‘Probably, had deceased’s nephew been home longer, he would have learnt something about the matter.
‘Counsel will doubtless have noticed the coincidence of the crime being committed on the very night of Mr. Lewis’s return. Probably this was to anticipate any communications between aunt and nephew which might have resulted in his obtaining access to the treasure hoard.’
(‘Coincidence, indeed! Some people might think it a d – suspicious circumstance,’ said the reader. Then, shrugging his shoulders, he added: ‘Of course, she’s guilty, and it’s my duty to get a conviction; but, upon my word, I never had a job to do that I liked less. It’s all Pollard’s fault for writing up the brief so desperately. He and his Lewis!’)
‘Sergeant Evans now proceeded to arrest the prisoner. When he charged her with the crime she turned pale, and cried out that it was impossible. But she shed no tears, and showed but little emotion after the first surprise.’
(‘Pooh! What difference does that make? This sort of thing simply depends on the person’s character, not on whether he is guilty or not.’ And the blue pencil did some more scoring out.)
‘The only remaining circumstance of the case is the disposal of the body.
‘In the afternoon of the same day, the second of June, a visitor staying in Porthstone, named Wilfrid Meredith, was walking out to Newton Bay. Just as he rounded the corner and came into the bay he discovered on the edge of the waves a human hand.
‘Although somewhat bruised and discoloured, this hand has been identified as the deceased’s by her nephew and the servants.
‘On the fingers were several valuable rings, which deceased constantly wore. About the identity, therefore, there can be no reasonable doubt.
‘No other portion of the body has yet been found. For this reason the Treasury have declined to take up the case, which is in the nature of a private prosecution on the part of Mr. Lewis.
At this point Mr. Prescott laid down his brief and leant back in his chair. The remainder of the document consisted of the proofs or statements of the evidence which each witness was prepared to give. Much of it would, of course, be merely a repetition of the narrative contained in the first part. It could therefore be looked at some other time.
He laid down his brief and began to think over its contents. It was a case of circumstantial evidence, evidence which all seemed to point one way, and to fix a horrible crime upon a young girl whom he remembered as a pretty child.
Though not a native of Mynyddshire, Charles Prescott was familiar with the district. He had, in fact, been educated at a grammar school in the next county, and it was while he was there that he had made the acquaintance of the Owens.
His favourite schoolfellow, a boy a few years younger than himself, came from the little watering-place, and a summer seldom passed without Prescott spending some part of his holiday at his friend’s home. There it was that he had seen old Owen, the parish rector, and had caught a few passing glimpses of the little Eleanor.
Hence his interest in the present case, and the unusual feeling of reluctance with which he approached his task. He had not been to Porthstone for five years now. The schoolfellows were still friendly – in fact, they saw a good deal of each other still, having taken up the same profession and joined the same circuit. But Prescott had got on much better than his friend. He had had five years’ start to begin with, and his was that firm, persevering temperament which ensures success to the lawyer. He had therefore risen steadily, and was already making an income of twelve or fifteen hundred a year, while his younger and erratic friend had but gained a precarious foothold in the profession by dint of a few brilliant speeches, which covered a very superficial acquaintance with the law.
‘I wonder who will have the defence!’ meditated Prescott. ‘It will surely run to something more than a docker!’
A docker, it should be explained, is the name for a retainer which is handed direct from a prisoner in the dock to a counsel, without the intervention of a solicitor. It is the resource of the poorer class of offenders, who can scrape together that single guinea, but no more.
‘I have it. I’ll go and see Tressamer about this. He goes there still, and ought to know all about it.’
Tressamer was the name of his old friend. His chambers were in an adjoining court of the Temple. Prescott put on his hat, told his clerk where he was to be found, and strolled forth.
CHAPTER III.
COUNSEL FOR THE DEFENCE
‘Mr. Tressamer is inside, sir. Will you walk in?’
Thus said the clerk at Mr. Tressamer’s chambers as soon as he saw Mr. Prescott. Then, stepping to the door, he rapped and opened it, saying the visitor’s name.
‘Well, Tressamer, where have you been this age?’
The speaker stopped, startled at the sight that presented itself, for there, lying on his face on the hearthrug, with his hands clutching at his thick black curls, lay George Tressamer, the very picture of one in mortal despair.
