AWAITING THE TRIAL

Of course, the newspapers were full of the accounts of the murder of young Edward Wilson. The two Brunford papers were filled with practically nothing else. The Manchester dailies devoted several columns to it. Not only were the Wilsons an important family in Lancashire, but Paul Stepaside was a Member of Parliament, who had lately made a speech of note in the House. Even the London dailies gave a large amount of s.p.a.ce to it; and on the morning following the coroner's inquest Mary Bolitho felt as though someone had struck her a blow, when, on the first page of the newspaper which had been sent to her father's house, she saw the staring headlines: "Brunford Murder.

Coroner's Inquest. Paul Stepaside, M.P., committed for trial." She had no breakfast that day, but went straight to her room, where she spent hours reading and re-reading the reports given. Everything pointed to the fact that Paul was guilty, and yet she felt sure he was not. The shock of Ned Wilson's death, of course, had been very great, and she had written a letter of condolence to the family. But even her horror at the murder was nothing compared with her feelings as she realised that Paul Stepaside, even at that moment, lay in Strangeways Gaol. She remembered him as they spoke together the last time they had met. She called to mind her admiration of him, and reflected that, although he had been brought up among the working cla.s.ses, his appearance gave no suggestion of it. Perfectly dressed, perfectly calm, and possessed of that _savoir faire_ which seems to be innate with a certain cla.s.s of people, Paul was infinitely removed from the cla.s.s of men with whom one a.s.sociates criminal deeds. She knew enough of law, and had talked sufficiently often with her father, to know how absolutely false circ.u.mstantial evidence may be, even although it seems absolutely conclusive; and now, despite the fact that her father seemed to have no doubt about Paul's guilt, her mind simply refused to accept it.

He had never done the deed. He simply could not! If she were asked her reason for this she could not have given one, only she knew--she was absolutely sure.

Like many others, too, she tried to think who could have been guilty of the murder. The fact that young Ned Wilson was dead was, of course, beyond doubt. Someone must have killed him. Who was it? Her father had repeatedly declared that, excepting Paul, Ned had not an enemy in the world. He had lived all his life in Brunford; he was known to the people. His father was a large employer of labour, and was regarded as a good master. Ned lived on good terms with everybody. Who, then, could have killed him? Of course, every finger pointed to Paul--the long feud, the repeated quarrels, the injuries which Wilson had often done to him, the blow on his head on the very night of the murder, and Paul's threat. Then, again, there was his refusal to give an account of his actions between midnight and six in the morning--and, last of all, the knife acknowledged to be the property of Paul, with which the deed was done. The chain seemed complete; there did not appear to be a loophole anyhow, and yet she was certain Paul had never committed the deed. Was it likely that a clever man such as he, even if he had wanted to commit murder, would have used such brutal means? Would he have left behind him the knife which must inevitably be traced to him?

The thing was impossible! Paul could not have done it. Then she remembered the strong, pa.s.sionate nature of the man, the flash of his eyes, his grim resolves, and her mind became torn by conflicting thoughts. Why did he persist in being silent? Was there someone whom he desired to shield, and, if so, who was it? And again and again there were the old haunting questions.

When the news was presently announced that the Brunford magistrates had committed him to the Manchester a.s.sizes for wilful murder, her father was in the room.

"You've seen this, Mary?" he said, and he noted how pale her face was, noted, too, the dark rings round her eyes.

She nodded.

"I haven't had time to go to Lancashire," continued the Judge. "Of course, I wrote a long letter of sympathy to the Wilsons. I hope you've also done this?"

"Yes," she replied.

"Poor Ned! He was a good lad," said the Judge. "To think that such a life as his should have been cut short by that atheistic villain!"

"Are you sure it was he?" she could not help saying.

"Nothing is sure in such cases," replied the Judge. "But I have read every line of the evidence. I've had full reports sent to me from Brunford, and I have carefully weighed everything. Besides, you see, I know the history of both men, and I know the motives likely to be at work. Unless something comes out at the trial which utterly alters the impression made by what has previously taken place, nothing can save him. Any jury in the world would condemn him!"

Her heart became like lead as he spoke, but she remained silent.

"Poor Mary!" continued the Judge. "Of course, you feel Ned's death keenly, and it must be ten times harder for you to bear than if it had taken place in the natural way. Talk about not believing in capital punishment after this! Why, the people would tear him to pieces if they could get hold of him!"

"What do you mean?" asked the girl, and her voice was hoa.r.s.e as she spoke.

"From what I can gather, public feeling against him is terribly strong," went on Judge Bolitho. "It seems that the news has got afloat that he had been planning this for months."

"It's a lie!" cried the girl.

"What?" asked the Judge in surprise.

"It cannot be true. I saw him only a few days before the murder. He is not capable of such a thing, father."

The Judge laughed sarcastically. "I ought to be the last man to prejudge a case," he said. "But when you talk about such a thing being impossible I cannot help being amused. Besides, no one can look at his face without realising the streak of the savage that is in him. He always looked like an incipient criminal. Anyhow, we shall see, and justice must be done."

Christmas pa.s.sed away and the New Year came, and there was nothing further in the newspapers about Paul Stepaside save that he was lying in Strangeways Gaol in Manchester awaiting the coming a.s.sizes. Early in the New Year, however, Mary noticed that her father's face looked strangely perturbed. He was very silent, and seemed very anxious.

"What is the matter?" she asked. "Aren't you well?"

"Oh, yes, quite well," he replied.

"What is it, then?"

"I don't like it," said the Judge. "As far as I can see, I shall have to try Stepaside. I thought I should have escaped it, but for some reason or other Leeson has dropped out, and I am the next on the rota.

There is not sufficient reason, either, why I should raise any objection, and, after all, the jury will have to decide his guilt, not I. Besides, if I did, it would cause a certain amount of comment.

Still, I don't like it." And it was easy to see, by the look on his face, that he meant what he said. Much as he had always disliked Paul Stepaside, he shrank from having to give judgment against him--and that, he seemed to believe, would be inevitable.

"It is settled," he said a day or two later. "I have to go to Lancashire next week."

"Father," said the girl, "let me go with you, will you?"

"Go with me, Mary? Surely you do not mean to say that you wish to stay at the Wilsons'?"

"Oh, no," she cried quickly. "But I should like to be near you. There are good hotels both in Manchester and Liverpool, and I dread the thought of staying here alone."

"The Gordons have invited you to go to their place. Why not accept the invitation?"

"I don't wish to," she replied, "Let me go with you."

"Come, come, Mary. I shall begin to think that you are getting morbid.

This vulgar affair can be nothing to you, after all. Of course, I know you feel Wilson's death keenly, but why--why----"

"Don't ask me any questions, father. I want to go with you. I want to be near to you."

"Oh, very well," he replied. "If you can find any pleasure in being in Lancashire at this time of the year by all means come. But I think you'll repent of it."

A few days later, however, she started upon the journey northwards with her father, knowing that, according to all probability, he would be the judge who would try Paul Stepaside for murder.

Meanwhile the accused man lay in Strangeways Gaol. Up to the present he had been treated with leniency, if not kindness. First of all, according to the English law, every man is regarded as innocent until he's proved to be guilty, and as yet this had not taken place in Paul's case. He was allowed to see whom he would. If he wished lawyers to come and consult with him with regard to the method of his trial, or to arrange for counsel, it was in his power to do so. He could also see friends. Of course, he was held in strict confinement, but until the word of doom was spoken certain privileges were allowed to him which would be impossible afterwards. As a matter of fact, too, many people came to see him. An ambitious young solicitor from Brunford, a friend of Paul's, came to urge him to be defended and to offer his services.

"You and I, Stepaside," he said, "have known each other for years.

Won't you allow me to prepare your defence?"

"No," said Paul.

"But why?"

"Because I have none."

"Do you mean to say, then, that you're going to plead 'guilty'?"

"I don't say that--no, I shall plead 'Not guilty.'"

"Then will you allow yourself to be undefended?"

"I choose to defend myself," he replied.

"But, my dear fellow, you minimise your own chances that way!"

"Nevertheless, what defence is made on my part I shall make myself," he replied.

The young solicitor looked at him in astonishment. "You must be mad!"

he said. "It isn't as though you can't afford it."