The Love-Story of Aliette Brunton
the street, the multiplying posters, the comments which reached his ears
as he made his hasty way towards Holborn, rattled him still further.
His luck only added to his fears. Had it not been for the two anonymous
notes, Maggie Peterson's evidence would have stood unchallenged. Now he
could smash that evidence. But even now---even if the jury believed
_his_ side of the case sufficiently to discount Brunton's plea of
premeditation--even if Bob Fielding and Lucy came well through the
ordeal of Brunton's cross-questions--how, how the devil could he hope,
unless some miracle gave his halting oratory genius, to secure a
complete acquittal?
Lunching alone in the crowded grill-room of the South-Eastern & Chatham
Hotel, Ronnie's thoughts went back to other days. He saw himself soldier
again, and remembered the particular type of moral courage, of
self-control, necessary for the winning of battles. That moral courage,
that self-control must be his again if he would win this fight against
Brunton. "This is my chance," he thought. "My one chance of downing the
brute. I mustn't muff it."
Gradually solitude restored his balance. Gradually, his mind
reconcentrated. Weeks of thought crystallized to short sentences. Lucy,
Lucy Towers must be saved. Nothing but that mattered. The personal issue
dwindled to unimportance.
Walking back to the court, he found that he could think, even of his
enemy, logically.
2
But when, a few minutes later, Ronald Cavendish, rising to open the
defense of Lucy Towers, saw Hector Brunton bowed over his brief, nothing
of him visible except a patch of gray wig, the hump of a black back, and
one gentlemanly hand clutched round the gold pencil-case--then, for a
moment, logic failed; and only the fear-stricken eyes of the woman in
the dock, only his personal enmity for the man keyed him to the
struggle.
"M' lord, members of the jury," he began, and there was no attempt at
oratory in his beginning, "it will be no part of my case to prove to you
that Lucy Towers did not shoot her husband. She did shoot him. She shot
him exactly as counsel for the Crown has proved to you. But when the
Crown asks you to find my client guilty of wilful murder, when my
learned friend brings what he is pleased to call evidence in support of
malice and of premeditation; then I join issue with him. My submission
to you is that there was, in what my client did, neither malice nor
premeditation.
"Yet even if my learned friend fails--as it seems to me he must fail--to
convince you of premeditation, that failure will not furnish me with
sufficient grounds on which to ask you for my client's complete
exoneration. Only on one ground can I ask you, as I intend to ask you,
for your verdict of not guilty; and that ground, members of the jury, is
justifiable or excusable homicide.
"Excusable homicide!" For a full ten minutes, the voice, grave, low,
meditative, calm as the voice of the judge himself, dealt with the legal
aspect of excusability; and all the while Hector Brunton listened,
motionless. But suddenly, as Ronnie's tone changed to the tone of the
pleader, the "hanging prosecutor" shifted on his seat; and savagely he
stared at his enemy.
"Those, members of the jury, are some of the grounds on which our law
excuses the killing of one human being by another. But there are other
grounds, grounds which not only excuse but justify. It is such
justification, the fullest possible justification, which I purpose to
plead. My learned friend, you may have noticed, was very careful to
avoid any reference to the character or disposition of my client's
husband. I, on the contrary, intend to deal with that point rather
fully."
Already the very quietness, the very certainty of that opening had
impressed the court; and as, still quietly, yet with a hint of mounting
passion behind it, the speech went on; as, point by point, counsel for
the defense traversed the statements of counsel for the Crown, it
seemed, even to the obtuse Spillcroft, as though the capital charge
against Lucy Towers might fail.
"While as for the minor charge," continued Ronnie, "the charge of
manslaughter--of which, as his lordship will tell you, even though it is
not pleaded on the indictment, it will be open to you to find my client
guilty--on that charge, too, I intend to ask you for the completest
acquittal."
Brunton's stare relaxed. He hunched himself once more over his notes.
And abruptly instinct, the instinct of the born advocate, warned Ronnie
that he had spoken long enough. He glanced at the clock, at the jury.
The jury--and especially the three women--were losing interest. Those
women wanted neither argument nor oratory. They wanted drama. They were
waiting, as spectators in a theater, for him to put Lucy Towers in the
witness-box. So, abruptly, he regalvanized their interest.
"Members of the jury, my learned friend who leads for the Crown has been
at great pains to convince you, out of the mouths of his witnesses, that
Lucy Towers is both murderess and adulteress. I propose to afford him
yet another opportunity of convincing you--by putting both my client and
her cousin in the witness-box."
At that, the whole court stiffened to attention, and even the judge, who
seemed to have been dozing throughout the speech, leaned forward. "Isn't
he even going to deal with the evidence for the prosecution?" thought
the judge.
But Ronnie purposely played his highest card last.
"Nevertheless, before you hear my client's story from her own lips, I
must ask you to weigh very carefully certain evidence which the Crown
has thought fit to call against her. With the testimony of John Hodges
and of James Travers, honest testimony, let us hope, I shall deal at a
later stage of these proceedings. But the evidence of Maggie Peterson
calls for different treatment. Because Maggie Peterson has lied--and
lied deliberately!
"Lied--and lied deliberately." Now, as passion mounted and mounted,
kindling the quiet voice to rage, Brunton's head twitched from his
brief, and his eyes, the cold gray eyes under the gray wig, glanced
fearfully about the packed court-room.
"Because, on the night of July 4, the night when Maggie Peterson swears
that she saw my client making her way to Robert Fielding's room, Maggie
Peterson was not at 25 Laburnum Grove at all."
Ronnie paused, letting his every word sink home. Rain, pattering
suddenly on the glass dome above, seemed to emphasize the silence below.
Then passionately the speech ended. "My lord, members of the jury, I ask
for no mercy. I ask only for justice. I ask you to remember, even while
you are listening to my client's testimony, that the main evidence
against her, the evidence of this woman Peterson is, from beginning to
end, one tissue of deliberate lies, of the most wilful and corrupt
perjury, as I shall prove to you out of the mouth of a competent
witness, the landlord of the Red Lion Tavern, who will testify to you
beyond the shadow of a doubt that from eight o'clock till after ten on
the night of July 4, Maggie Peterson never left his establishment; who
will testify, moreover, that Maggie Peterson's companion on the night in
question was none other than my unfortunate client's husband, William
Towers himself."
And on that, satisfied with the utter hush which followed, Ronald
Cavendish put his client in the box.
3
There are seconds in every man's life when the conviction of his own
wrong-doing shatters the edifice of conceit and flings illusion
headlong.
Such a second came to Hector Brunton, K.C., as he watched Lucy Towers
step down from the side of the dock and make her way past the packed
benches to the witness-box. With her--he could feel--went a wave, a
great wave of human sympathy, the wave against which he, Hector Brunton,
had been swimming for more than a year.
Paralyzed he watched her--watched her take the oath, kiss the book. His
mind was a torment, a torment of conscience. Conscience howled: "You
knew! You knew all the time that your principal witness was lying. You
knew! You knew all the time that this woman was no adulteress. She's
innocent, innocent, Hector Brunton; as innocent in intention as that
other woman you've been hounding."
Cavendish's voice, the voice of his enemy, broke the spell.
"Mrs. Towers, while the oath you have just sworn is still fresh in your
mind, I want you to answer this question. Have you ever, at any time in
your life, been guilty of immorality with your cousin, Robert Fielding?"
"Never." The answer, so diffident yet so definite, might have been
Aliette's; and to Ronnie, his brain still throbbing from its own
unaccustomed eloquence, it seemed, just for a fraction of a second, as
though the woman he defended were indeed his own.
"Various witnesses for the Crown have stated that you were on bad terms
with your husband. Are those statements true?"
"I did my best to get on with him." The brown eyes never flinched. "But
he was a cruel man, especially when he was in drink."
"Nevertheless, you were faithful to him?"
"Yes. Always."
"You heard Mrs. Peterson's evidence? She said," Ronnie referred to his
notes, "that at half-past nine o'clock on the night of July 4, she saw
you go into Robert Fielding's room. Have you any comment to make on that
evidence?"
"It's a lie. I never visited him at night. Only by day."
"At half-past nine on the night of July 4, where were you?"
"I was in my own room, washing up the supper things."
"Was your husband with you?"
"No."
"Where was he?"
"I don't know."
"One other point about Mrs. Peterson's evidence. She told us, if you
remember, that you made a statement: that you said to her that you would
never be happy till your husband was dead. What have you to say about
that statement?"
"It's another lie." The lips pursed, stubbornly--it seemed to
Brunton--as his wife's own. "An absolute lie."
"One moment, please!" Mr. Justice Heber--every syllable of his question
audible as the tinkle of glass--intervened. "I should like to be clear
on this point, Mrs. Towers. The witness to whom your counsel refers made
the following statements: that at half-past nine o'clock on the night of
July 4 she saw you enter Robert Fielding's room; that you were in the
habit of making such visits, and that she was standing in the passage
between your room and hers when she saw you. Do I understand you
positively to deny all three of those statements?"
"Yes, m'lord."
"And the witness in question further stated that you said to her: 'Bill
isn't fit to be any woman's husband. I wish to God he was dead.' What
have you to say to that?"
The woman in the witness-box did not hesitate. Deliberately her eyes met
the judge's. Deliberately she answered his question: "My lord, I may
have said that Bill wasn't fit to be any woman's husband. But I never
said," the shy voice rose, "either to Maggie Peterson or to any one
else, that I wished he was dead."
"She never said"--word for word Mr. Justice Heber wrote down his
answer--"that she wished her husband was dead."
But Hector Brunton--bent over his brief--could not write. For now, not
only conscience, but all his years spent in separating truth from
falsehood, all the experience of a legal lifetime, told him of Lucy's
innocence.
Again his enemy's voice broke the spell: "You heard the evidence of John
Hodges. He said that you told him somewhere about the end of last June
that you wished you had never married your husband. Have you anything
you would like to say in answer to that?"
"Bill was there at the time. I only meant it for a joke."
"And now, before I ask you to tell his lordship and the jury, in your
own words, what happened on the afternoon of July 5, I want you, if you