The Flaw in the Evidence

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XL, Issue 1, 4 January 1908, Page 42

The Flaw in the Evidence

By

ROSLYN ROBINSON

I REMEMBER two hotter nights.” Ramsey mopped his forehead poured out a tall glass of cold lemonade from a monster pannikin sweating drops of dew,and emptied it without drawing a breath. Brassey was standing directly in front of the electric fan running his fingers through a sticky mass of tousled hair to dry out the perspiration. Mr Brassey’s cards read, “Eugene Brassey, attorney and counsellor at law,” whereas his companion was plain ‘‘Richard Ramsey, broker,” but from appearances he was forging along toward fortune at a more rapid gait than his legal friend—due perhaps to the wise advice and caution of the lawyer—and so the broker was able to maintain a cottage by the sea, where the two spent the vacation season in peace and comfort. Bachelors both, their comfort was insured by a negro who acted in the capacity of cook, valet, and general utility man. He had no equal as a concocter of cooling beverages, and he managed things so smoothly that the pair had no troubles, and smoked and dreamed the hours away in a cozy corner overlooking the ocean. Everything suggested coolness —straw matting, wicker furnishings even to huge pictures of scenes in the polar regions, and an unfailing sweating pitcher of something cold in the way of an appetiser. It was hot on this particular night. The swishing surf radiated heat, and the rays of the moon were bad for the complexion without a sunshade. “The first one,” went on Ramsey, “was the "eve of the Penniford trial.” ' “Speaking of Penniford, here’s a bit of news.” Brassey took a folded newspaper from his pocket, and, shaking it out, adjusted his eyeglasses to read: , “ ‘Penniford —Raymond. Died at Florence, Italy, on the 15th ult., Raymond Penniford, aged 35 years, formerly a resident of Peekskill, N.Y.’ ” “The last act in a tragedy connecting three lives,” mused Ramsey. Brassey looked up at him critically. “Hardly that, do you think? You were present at his trial for the murder of_ Percival Waring, and, of course, you know that Penniford merely protected his wife’s honour. That was all the evidence. A matter of duty never is a tragedy.” Ramsey waited to gather his thoughts. “You remember Thyrsa Carden, his wife, she was, Thyrsa Carden? Somehow I always think of her by that name.” The other nodded. “I just can remember her as present at the trial of her husband,” Ramsey proceeded. “Well, I knew her intimately from early childhood. I did not know Penniford at all—no one ever did, I think—though he honoured me with as much of his friendship ass he ever gave anyone. I learned more about him after he had left us, and what I did learn gave me an insight into the soul of man—a MAN, Brassey.” Ramsey sat up straight on the edge of his chair with sparkling eyes. ' “Ho should have lived in the age of chivalry,.when men’s heroic deeds Counted for something as inspirations to their fellows. His life among us was wasted. The present time does not deserve such a man.” He fell back indolently into his “sleepy hollow” and went on: “As I was saying, I knew Thyrsa Carden well, intimately. Her character and disposition were like an open book to me —to all of us fellows, her schoolmates Brassey, that girl was gentle as a dov<> timid as a fawn. We all loved her in childhood, and, when she budded into kively womanhood, we worshipped her. I loved her ardently, with ail my young

heart, and, in my simplicity, I fancied I could win her. She loved all of us, no one more than another, and, when we spoke of love, because we could not help it, her sweet eyes filled with tears as she told us that we were her dearest friends but never could be anything else. I am true to her to-day, Brassey. No other woman ever can come between us. I promised her that day we laid her in the ground. Why, I plant flowers on her grave every year when her anniversary comes around. It is childish and sentimental, I know, but the memory of her is too sweet to be blotted out. “I also knew Percival Waring well—we had all grown up together. His was a weak, wabbly disposition, blindly perverse when it came to doing the wrong thing, and so obstinate that, when he had set his mind on anything, he did not scruple to get it by fair or foul means, The rest of us were ‘down on him’ as boys call it, and he generally was the butt for our boyish pranks. I have said that Thyrsa treated us all alike, but I sometimes fancied her eyes were softer when she talked to him, but—well, Percival was not a man to inspire jealousy —Thyrsa may have pitied him—women are so gentle with the weak, you know. “Imagine our indignation when a rank outsider same along and carried off the prize and we helpless to interfere. She wanted him and that was enough for us; we. gave in to her as we had always done. He was an Othello without the jealousy, this Raymond Penniford. He had been the hero in many battles —real ones—and this perhaps was a powerful influence—it must have been — girls dearly love heroes. But they made a magnificent couple, he with his martial bearing, she with her gentle, tender, clinging nature —the oak and the ivy, In time we became proud of them. Of course, the martial tie was a bar to any further demonstrations of affection on our part, the husband’s fire and dash, and the strong grip of his sword hand warning off poachers on his preserves. All but Waring, who could not keep away from Thyrsa. Where Thyrsa was there also was Waring. Penniford never let on, treating us all with equal -cordiality, though he must have known how much we had once loved his beautiful wife; but Thyrsa was above suspicion. Ramsey stopped and closed his eyes in meditation. When he looked up, after a few moments, his thoughts had turned into another groove. “Brassey, you defended Penniford and know all the facts in the case, eh?” Brassey ruffled up at this imputation upon his professional sense. “It is a lawyer’s business to know all the facts in every case he tries.” Ramsey laughed. “But you didn’t know them all in this case.” Brassey ruffled up again. “Pray, what do you mean? Did I omit anything?” Ramsey surveyed him quizzically. “You certainly did. You did not have the key to the case.’ He raised his hand to stop An angry protest. ’ . “No use flaring up. You did not have it and you did not know there was one—one that would have knocked your defence completely. Listen. You know that Penniford had a brace of pistols of exquisite workmanship, both exactly alike, and that he always carried them on his person?” Brassey admitted it. “Of course I knew that. I saw them and handled them many times before the —the ‘tragedy,’ as you call it. What of it! We had the one that carried death to Waring in evidence.”

Ramsey laughed again, loudly this time. “Where was the other one? Why was it not produced, O, wise and sagacious limb of the law? Did you ask Penniford? Did you know what became of it, or did you know what an important part it would have played in that trial?” Brassey certainly was nettled, showing it in his impatient answer. “No, and 1 do not care what became of it, I would not have cared if I had thought of it during the trial, which I certainly did not. It was unimportant.” Ramsey struggled out of the depths of his chair and began pacing back and forth excitedly. “Brassey, that missing pistol was the one important piece of evidence in ths case. Its absence was the flaw in the evidence, enough to send an innocent man to execution. It might have been the cause of a judicial murder. I thought of calling your attention to it at the time, and I would have done so if Penniford had stood in the slightest shadow of danger. Mind, I did not know then what I know now—what I since have learned. Brassey, the bullet from the pistol you had in evidence did not kill Percival Waring; it was the shot from the missing one.” Brassey smiled sarcastically. - Again I say, what of it? Why quibble about pistols ? Whether it was one or the other is of no consequence. It is the fact, the corpus delicti, and so on.” Brassey swelled up like a law lecturer delivering ponderous information to shrinking students. His professional pride was hurt and he did not relish law pointers from tne broker, but personal friendship was unaffected, Ramsey suspended his promenade to stand before his friend. “Thereby hangs a tale,” he quoted, dropping into his easy chair to stare out into the darkness before proceeding farther.” "As you say, I was present at the trial, but I heard things on the side that you did not and which you could not have suspected. They came from the incoherent babblings uttered by Thyrsa in her hysterical attacks in the judge’s room where 1 carried her unconscious, and on the way home, a dazed and frantic woman. I can tell you how near you might have eome to hanging your client, an innocent man. . Public opinion, that dangerous influence in a court of justice, was with you, and it acquitted him. Otherwise the evidence would have damned him.” Brassey shuddered. “Tell me all about it,” he said, his voice breaking a little. “If I made so grave a mistake as that I ought to know. We lawyers are not infallible.” Ramsey eyed him compassionately, his friend’s sudden humility stirring him. ° “You shall know all, my friend. I learned the whole truth during the other of the two hotter nights than this I mentioned a while ago. Penniford’s death opens the way to divulge what I have kept secret. I thought of the other pistol during the trial and mentioned it to Thyrsa, who was sitting beside me. She nodded her head. ‘Tell them,’ she whispered faintly, but what happened immediately afterward drove it out of ray head and I did not think of the cursed other pistol until it was too late, and what I learned since has kept my mouth closed. “Penniford just then was testifying before the jury, and was saying: ‘That pistol, gentlemen, contains an empty shell. It was my hand that sped its bullet on its way through a villain’s heart..’ “With a wild scream Thyrsa sprang

*• her feet, attempted to speak but fell unconscious. I was standing over her and could catch the words: ‘He—did —■ not—kiX —him—I —’ Then she lapsed into unconsciousness. On the way home she repeated this, but became hysterical, when she attempted to say more. I remember that Penniford hugged her close at such moments and quieted her with soothing words and caresses. 1 thought at the time: ‘Why does he not let her tell what she is trying to get out’’ He caught my eye once and said with quivering lips: ‘Could I have done less, Richard?’ I stretched out my hand, which hq grasped so firmly that 1 yet can feel the tingle of the grip. “I presumed upon my old friendship to try to worm it out of Tbrysa, but her lips were closed on the subject. “ ‘There is nothing for you to know, Richard —at least, not now. Some day, perhaps, when —when I am dead —but not now—O, not now! Always remember this, Richard,’ and she drew herself up proudly, ‘my husband is a hero. Never forget that. There is no knight of the olden time so chivalrous as he.’ A few months afterward we laid her to rest, and Penniford departed for foreign lands. “About a year aiT,er tier death I went south and west on an extended business trip, and on my way home I felt the need of ‘dropping off’ at some quiet station to enjoy a good night’s rest, which I had not had for two weeks. It was in the middle of August, and the heat and dust of travel, together with the incessant click-clack of the wheels on the rails, drove me into insomnia, and so rasped upon my nerves that I detested my own company. The neverending montony of it could net be endured another night. “Not having a folder for reference, I was informed by the conductor, to whom I made known my desire, that the train was due to reach a small station in North Carolina, about a mile from a formerly well patronized health resort in the mountains, shortly after dark. There was a good hotel in the town, but other more popular resorts had reduced -its business to a few straggling travellers like myself, in search of quiet and repose. ‘You will find plenty of both there,’ remarked the conductor with a covert smile, ‘but, owing to the falling off in travel, it is a flag station, and this particular train has orders not to stop at all. I can do this, however —slow down so that you easily can swing off the car step to the platform. Of course you must be ready.’ I agreed to everything for the sake of the quiet and repose I expected to find. “When the time came I gathered together my belongings, and, making ready, swung off the car step, the momentum of the heavy train carrying me head over heels the moment ,my feet struck the platform. The locomotive shrieked a derisive ‘toot’ of farewell as it immediately started off at full speed,- the lights of the train disappearing around a curve in the mountains. Mv first impression, after I picked myself up, made sure that no bones had been broken, and collected my scattered baggage, was that I had .been whirled .off a limited express going at full speed, into a vast sea of ink. “There was no sign of life, and the darkness was so. intense that I could see nothing but. a huge black object looming up before me. Rightly conjecturing it to be .the station house, I groped around it, found a door, knocked, kicked, and hammered loud enoi.gh to rouse the Seven Sleepers, but received no otner respo:-ca,e. than the dull echoes of mv own noise, The night was hot and sultry, the heat lying damp and sullen on the earth, crushing and beating down with its weight the odours of the pines and.hill flowers. I was as one marooned upon a dismal black island in an abysmal, ocean of darkness, which was rendered more visible, so to speak, by the faint gleams of a few stars struggling to penetrate the pall like mist. The silence was supreme, not an insect or leaf stirring to indicate that the world still was alive. The only sound, I could hear was the blood throbbing painfully through my arteries and veins,, and boating against mv nerves like hammers wielded by invisible imps. I stood irresolute, mopping the cold perspiration from my forehead, my night’s rest growing more’ distant in *he vanishing hours. "’A sensation of terror crept over mo * dread of something terrible coming at rno out of the blackness against which I was Impotent, I had no other weapon Of defence but a small pocket knife, and this I opened and clutched tightly in

my hand, blade out, prepared to sell my life at as high a price as possible. “There was no choice of exits from the platform, the darkness transforming everything into a uniform black gulf, but, summoning up my courage, I jammed my hat down tight over my ears and started in what I guessed was the direction of the town, to learn afterward that it was the wrong one. That I was going down hill was evident, for I had to lean backward to maintain my perpendicular, and I could hear the gravel and bowlders dislodged by my feet tumbling down ahead of me with a rattle and clatter. I must have gone miles —it seemed so, anyhow—when I stopped in sheer despair and addressed the darkness: ■‘‘ln God’s name, where is the town? Where is the hotel?’ “Out of the black wall was thrust a bony hand which closed cold and clammy over mine, taking possession of my baggage, and a pallid, wrinkled face peered into mine so close that I drew my knife back to strtke. But my arm was restrained by a raucous voice sounding like the dying rattle of an untuned diapason: “ ‘Hotel, sir? Yes, sir. Right here, sir.’ “Without more ado my sepulchral guide started off marking a fitful black mark against the sky, and I followed, inasmuch as he had possession of iny baggage. My nerves were stretched to the breaking point, and I held my knife ready to meet any attack that might be made upon me. How long or how far vve walked I do not know, time and space being obliterated in the murky pall enveloping us. We crunched down hill over boulders and rocks, masses of which rolled down clamorously- as if announcing our arrival to the fiends below, my guide showing evidences of being human by calling baek at me out of the darkness by way of encouragement: “ ‘Right this way, sir. Hotel this way, sir.’ “At last we reached a double row of irregular black objects standing out in profile against the sky line, broken, jagged fangs-in a monstious jaw ready to .crunch down upon sie. I assumed this to be the town, and toward a larger blaek patch my spectral companion directed his steps, with me following so closely that when he stopped abruptly I nearly fell over him. r “‘Hotel, sir; right here, sir,’ came the voice., “Through a small round opening in what I took to be a door, a bright red light, shot out at me like an evil eye, winking maliciously. In the solemn darkness it appeared to be the fiery, watchful eye of a Cyclops. After much hammering 'and kicking without eliciting the slightest response, I fumbled over the face of the door to find a knob, which 1 jerked viciously, awakening a whole battery of jangling bells. Their clamour began below, went somewhere above, then came down to the door as if in inquiry, their clatter mingling with the creaking of the rusty wire sounding uncanny. “By and by, the shuffling and dragging of feet announced life of some sort. Then c-ame the rasping of a key, the groaning of a lock, aud through the partly open door appeared another spectral object bearing a dim candle high above its head. A pale, haggard face surrounded by a bristling beard, and surmounted by a thick shock of still

unkempt red hair, an old bed gown from which peeped bare feet thrust into ancient worndown slippers, did not vouch much hospitality, but 1 was in for whatever might happen. “With much grumbling, the porter, for such he turned out to be, threw open the door, and I entered, demanding accommodation. Without a word he took up my baggages and motioned for me to follow. When the outer- door sl-ammed to, shutting me in, I felt like a prisoner and wondered if I could escape. I was so completely swallowed up from my known world, away from friends and acquaintances, that the notion of how easily I might become a ‘mysterious disappearance’ was far from soothing to my nerves. “The hotel was apparently unoccupied, unfurnished, my footsteps sounding hollow along the narrow halls and passages, the floor boards creaking dismally in protest at my unwonted intrusion. Reaching a room which suited him, the porter opened the door, and after dropping my belongings on the floor unceremoniously, 'and lighting the stub of a candle in the middle of the room, he departed abruptly and without a word, the heels of his old slippers clip-pety-clopping along the hall, echoing through the emptiness. “I locked the door, and further guarding it from entrance by screwing into the jamb a strong steel gimlet 1 always carried for that purpose, felt secure from attacks nt that point. Holding the candle high above ray head, and taking a general survey of the large apartment in which I had been turned loose, so to speak, 1 seemed to be immured ia a dreary whited sepulchre. The pallor of death tinged everything, the walls, ceiling, ’and even a cavernous, gaping fireplace. “Somebody liberally had piaster-d the whole with whitewash. Two enormous beds placed side by side, covered with white spreads, and overhung with white trailing mosquito netting fastened to ceiling, high ebony posts, appeared like catafalques. Even the carpet was overlaid with dirty white canvas, broken in spats, my feet tripping as I wandered about. The place was hot and stuffy, smelling like a sepulchre. “Two long windows on a level with the floor directly opposite the foot of thebeds opened out upon a porch from which led a wide flight of steps down to what I guessed might be a lawn or terrace-T-it was so pitchy dark that 1 could see little beyond the small

And? o! light cast by my flickering candle, ;.:i I i had not the courage to venture Luther. 1 close*’ and belted the windows, which opened inward, and, paitially undresving, extinguished the light and lay down upon the outside of one of the beds. My mind was in •.» chaotic state. 1 still was g.iziig out of a car window with all manner of objects whirling past. Though the weather was hot, oppressively so, 1 felt cob! and clammy, tossing about uncomfortably. regretting my comfortable berth in the Pullman. At hast, I fell into an uneasy slumber. “I do not know how long 1 had been sleeping when 1 suddenly waked up with a sensation that I had had my steep out and it was time to get up. The moon had risen and was shining bright and clear through the windows, illuminating every nook ’and corner of the room, bringing out with startling distinctness its unearthly whiteness. Prom a window I looked out upon a lawn terrace, down along an ave?»ue of trees with white statues here and there. “Fronting the windows stood a statue of Laocoon, every detail of which I could see as clearly as in the bright sun at noonday. The agony of the father striving with swollen muscles to cast off the tightening coils of the deadly serpents was appalling, and the terror mingled with confidence in their parent’s strength was so realistic that 1 turned away in sorrow at. my impotence to save them. It was strangely familiar to me, but I could not remember where I had seen the same place before. “Growing heavy with sleep. 1 lay down again, this time in the other bed. immediately falling into a semi-conscious state, or ‘half asleep,’ as we say. Then my brain began to work, as docs that of every man who is upon the border line of sleep. The cerebral functions acting, involuntarily fill the mind with the phantoms of what he has once seen but forgotten. < “My subconsciousness evoked Thyrsa, the woman who had been the central figure of the tragedy the woman I had loved, and whom 1 stall regretted. The incident of the trial ami her incoherent babblings returned to me. and I tried to interpret her few words attributing innocence to her husband. Opening my eyes to avoid introspection through the aid of external objects, for I desired sleep/ I looked around the room carelessly, and' out through the windows upon Laocoon. The surroundings became more and more familiar to mo as I looked, and 1 won-

dered where I had seen them. I know 1 never had been in the miserable place before, for I could not have forgotten it. It might~have been in a dream. “Turning the matter over in my semiconscious brain, I was startled by a loud cry which brought me out into the middle of the room. The cry was my own, evoked by my subconsciousness, though it sounded as coming from another person. My memory revolved around Thyrsa, and all in a moment I remembered. 1 saw the whole as it had been pictured in the newspapers containing an account of the tragedy and all its details. I looked down at the statue, expecting to see Waring’s body lying there, bleeding on the soil. There was the bed upon which had lain the body of the unconscious Thyrsa; there was the other bed upon which had been deposited the lifeless victim —my old schoolmate, Waring. There, from behind that porch column, Penniford had fired the fatal shot. 1 was upon the scene of the tragedy. “The strange coincidence benumbed my senses, and I lay down again to rest my body and enable my mind to piece together the chaotic thoughts which surged through it in a riot. Why did Thyrsa say that her husband did not kill Waring? There was no one else; but the other pistol! “I could not even form a conjecture. Thyrsa appeared to me as sweet and smiling as in the days of her budding womanhood, but surrounded by the dark shadows of the tragedy. As I lay with my heavy eyes half open I w is aroused by another loud cry from my subconsciousness.' and siting up in bd I stared down at the liaocoon, beside which I plainly saw a form looking intently toward the windows. Springing up, I rushed to a window, whence I could see every lineament of the obje:t’s face. I recognised it immediately. It was Percival Waring, and, half stupid from loss of sleep, I wondered what he could be doing there with such a look of longing and expectancy. “Hurriedly I opened the window, intending to descend the steps to find out what it meant, when I was stopped by a rustling of skirts, and. crouching behind the window, which already I had opened, I saw Thyrsa rush down and cast herself into the extended arms of the man at the statue. They stood locked in each other’s arms, pressing their lips together. In another moment my attention was diverted to the porch column, from tlie shadow of which I perceived Raymond Penniford peering down upon the couple, with fire in his eyes and stern resolve written on his dark face. I saw him descend the steps, the shining pistol raised straight out in his right hand. He had almost reached them, when, as by some premonition of danger, Tliyrso suddenly looked around and saw her husband close upon them. “The look of agonised terror which spread over her countenance gave way to one of calm resignation—such a look as one gives when a heroic deed is resolved upon—and, drawing from some place of concealment in her garments a shining pistol—the one I had missed at the trial —pressed the muzzle against her lover’s heart and pulled the trigger. Immediately she turned it against her own white bosom and would have followed Waring into eternity had not her husband, by a supreme effort, flung himself forward and roughly wrested the weapon from her grasp, casting it over the shrubbery into the middle of a fish pond beyond. “With a wild cry Thyrsa threw up her hands and collapsed upon the sod, the bleeding body of her victim crashing down beside her. Penniford quickly carried her unconscious form up into the room and laid it upon one of the beds, immediately returning to carry up Waring’s body, which he deposited upon the other bed. “I saw him standing ovtr them with a perplexed look upon his face, as if irresolute what to do next; then, with a look of triumph and relief, he rushed to the window, raised his pistol, and. firing one single shot at the sky, instantly vanished with the others.’’ Brassey sprang to his feet and looked at his watch. “I have just' time to catch the last train to the city,” calling back as he rushed off. “I am going to find that other pistol." Ten days later the broker received from the lawyer an apology for having doubted his storv.