Ричард Марш
Miss Arnott's Marriage
CHAPTER XVI
JIM BAKER
The inquest, which was held at the "Rose and Crown," was productive of one or two pieces of what the local papers were perhaps justified in describing as "Startling Evidence." It was shown that the man had been stabbed to death. Some broad-bladed, sharp-pointed instrument had been driven into his chest with such violence that the point had penetrated to the back. The wall of the chest had been indented by the violence of the blow. Death must have been practically instantaneous. And yet one side of him had been almost riddled by shot. He had received nearly the entire charge of a gun which had been fired at him-as the close pattern showed-within a distance of a very few feet. It was only small shot, and no vital organ had been touched. The discharge had been in no way responsible for his death. Still, the pain must have been exquisite. The medical witnesses were of opinion that the first attack had come from the gun; that, while he was still smarting from its effects, advantage was taken of his comparative helplessness to inflict the death-wound.
Nothing came out before the coroner to prove motive. There were no signs that the man had been robbed. A common metal watch, attached to a gilt chain, was found on his person, a half-sovereign, six-shillings in silver, and ninepence in copper, a packet of cigarettes, a box of matches, a handkerchief, apparently brand new, and a piece of paper on which was written "Exham Park." As nothing suggested that an attempt had been made to rifle his pockets the probability was that that was all the property he had had on him at the moment of his death. There was no initial or name on any of his clothing, all of which, like his handkerchief, seemed brand new. His identity remained unrevealed by anything which he had about him.
On this point, however, there was evidence of a kind. The police produced witnesses who asserted that, on the preceding Saturday afternoon, he had arrived, by a certain train, at a little roadside station. He had given up a single third-class ticket from London, and had asked to be directed to Exham Park. On being informed that Exham Park was some distance off, he had shown symptoms of disgust. He had endeavoured to hire a conveyance to take him there but had failed. What had happened to him afterwards, or what had been the course of his movements, there was no evidence to show.
The coroner adjourned his court three times to permit of the discovery of such evidence.
During the time the inquiry was in the air the whole countryside was on tip-toe with curiosity, and also with expectation. Tongues wagged, fingers pointed, the wildest tales were told. Exham Park was the centre of a very disagreeable sort of interest. The thing to do was to visit the scene of the murder. Policemen and gamekeepers had to be placed on special duty to keep off trespassers from Cooper's Spinney, particularly on Sundays. The scrap of paper with "Exham Park" written on it, which had been found in the dead man's pocket, was a trifling fact which formed a sufficient basis for a mountain of conjecture.
Why had he been going to Exham Park? Who had he been desirous of seeing there? To furnish answers to these questions, the entire household was subjected by the police-with Miss Arnott's express sanction-to cross-examination. The same set of questions was put to every man, woman and child in the house, about it, and on the estate. Each individual was first of all informed that he or she was not compelled to answer, and was then examined as follows: -
Did you know the deceased? Did you ever see him? Or hear from-or of-him? Had you any knowledge of him of any sort or kind? Have you any reason whatever to suppose that he might have been coming to see you? Have you the least idea of who it was he was coming to see? On what is that idea based?
The house servants were questioned in the dining-room, in Miss Arnott's presence. She sat in the centre of one side of the great dining-table, completely at her ease. On her right was Mrs Plummer, obviously the most uncomfortable person present. She had protested vigorously against any such proceedings being allowed to take place.
"I believe it's illegal, and if it isn't illegal, it's sheer impudence. How dare any common policeman presume to come and ask a lot of impertinent questions, and treat us as if we had a house full of criminals!"
Miss Arnott only laughed.
"As for it's being illegal, I can't see how it can be that, if it's done with my permission. I suppose I can let who I like into my own house. No one's compelled to answer. I'm sure you needn't. You needn't even be questioned if you'd rather not be. As for a house full of criminals, I'm not aware that anyone has suggested that I harbour even one."
But Mrs Plummer was not to be appeased.
"It's all very well for you to say that I needn't be questioned, but if I decline I shall look most conspicuous. Everybody will attribute my refusal to some shameful reason. I dislike the whole affair. I'm sure no good will come of it. But, so far as I'm concerned, I shall answer all their questions without the slightest hesitation."
And she did, with direct negatives, looking Mr Nunn, the detective who had come down specially from London to take the case in charge, straight in the face in a fashion which suggested that she considered his conduct to be in the highest degree impertinent.
Miss Arnott, on the other hand, who proffered herself first, treated the questions lightly, as if they had and could have no application to herself. She said no to everything, denied that she had ever known the dead man, that she had ever seen him, that she had ever heard from, or of, him, that she had any reason to suppose that he was coming to see her, that she had any idea of who he was coming to see, and did it all with an air of careless certainty, as if it must be plain to everyone that the notion of in any way connecting her with him was sheer absurdity.
With the entire household the result was the same. To all the questions each alike said no, some readily enough, some not so readily; but always with sufficient emphasis to make it abundantly clear that the speaker hoped that it was taken for granted that no other answer was even remotely possible.
Thus, to all appearances, that inquiry carried the matter not one hair's breadth further. The explanation of why the dead man had borne those two words-"Exham Park" – about with him was still to seek; since no one could be found who was willing to throw light upon the reasons which had brought him into that part of the world. And as the police, in spite of all their diligence, could produce no further evidence which bore, even remotely, on any part of the business, it looked as if, at anyrate so far as the inquest was concerned, the result would have to be an open verdict. They searched practically the whole country-side for some trace of a weapon with which the deed could have been done; in vain. The coroner had stated that, unless more witnesses were forthcoming, he would have to close the inquiry, and the next meeting of his court would have to be the last, and it was, therefore, with expectations of some such abortive result that, on the appointed day, the villagers crowded into the long room of the "Rose and Crown."
However, the general expectation was not on that occasion destined to be realised. The proceedings were much more lively, and even exciting, than had been anticipated. Instead of the merely formal notes which the reporters had expected to be able to furnish to their various journals, they found themselves provided with ample material, not only to prove a strong attraction for their own papers, but also to serve as appetising matter to the press of the entire kingdom, with contents bills for special editions-"The Cooper's Spinney Murder. Extraordinary Developments."
These "extraordinary developments" came just as the proceedings were drawing to a close. Merely formal evidence had been given by the police. The coroner was explaining to the jury that, as nothing fresh was before them, or, in spite of repeated adjournments, seemed likely to be, all that remained was for them to return their verdict. What that verdict ought to be unfortunately there could be no doubt. The dead man had been foully murdered. No other hypothesis could possibly meet the circumstances of the case. Who had murdered him was another matter. As to that, they were at present able to say nothing. The identity of the miscreant was an unknown quantity. They could point neither in this quarter nor in that. The incidents before them would not permit of it. It seemed probable that the crime had been committed under circumstances of peculiar atrocity. The murderer had first fired at his victim-actually nearly fifty pellets of lead had been found embedded in the corpse. Then, when the poor wretch had been disabled by the pain and shock of the injuries which had been inflicted on him, his assailant had taken advantage of his helplessness to stab him literally right through the body.
The coroner had said so much, and seemed disposed to say much more, in accents which were intended to be impressive, and which, in fact, did cause certain of the more easily affected among his auditors to shiver, when a voice exclaimed from the back of the room, -
"That's a damned lie!"
The assertion, a sufficiently emphatic one in itself, was rendered still more so by the tone of voice in which it was uttered; the speaker was, evidently, not in the least desirous of keeping his opinion to himself. The coroner stopped. Those who were sitting down stood up, those who were already standing turned in the direction from which the voice came.
The coroner inquired, with an air of authority which was meant to convey his righteous indignation, -
"Who said that?"
The speaker did not seem at all abashed. He replied, without a moment's hesitation, still at the top of his voice, -
"I did."
"Who is that man speaking? Bring him here!"
"No one need bring me, and no one hadn't better try. I'm coming, I am; I've got two good legs of my own, and I'm coming as fast as they'll carry me. Now then, get out of the way there. What do you mean by blocking up the floor? It ain't your floor!"
The speaker-as good as his word-was exhibiting in his progress toward the coroner's table a degree of zeal which was not a little inconvenient to whoever chanced to be in his way. Having gained his objective, leaning both hands on the edge of the table he stared at the coroner in a free-and-easy fashion which that official was not slow to resent.
"Take off your cap, sir!"
"All right, governor, all right. Since you've got yours off I don't mind taking mine-just to oblige you."
"Who are you? What's your name?"
"I'm a gamekeeper, that's what I am. And as for my name, everybody knows what my name is. It's Jim Baker, that's what my name is. Is there anybody in this room what don't know Jim Baker? Of course there ain't."
"You're drunk, sir!"
"And that I'm not. If I was drunk I shouldn't be going on like this. You ask 'em. They know Jim Baker when he's drunk. There isn't many men in this parish as could hold him; it would take three or four of some of them."
"At anyrate, you've been drinking."
"Well, and so would you have been drinking if you'd been going through what I have these last weeks."
"How dare you come to my court in this state? and use such language?"
"Language! what language? I ain't used no language. I said it's a damned lie, and so it is."
"You'll get yourself into serious trouble, my man, if you don't take care. I was saying that, having shot the deceased, the murderer proceeded to stab him through the body. Is that the statement to which you object with such ill-timed vigour?"
The answer was somewhat unlooked for. Stretching half-way across the table, Jim Baker shook his fist at the coroner with an amount of vigour which induced that officer to draw his chair a little further back.
"Don't you call me a murderer!"
"What do you mean, sir, by your extraordinary behaviour? I did not call you a murderer; I said nothing of the kind."
"You said that the man who shot him, stabbed him. I say it's a lie; because he didn't!"
"How do you know? Stop! Before you say another word it's my duty to inform you that if you have any evidence to offer, before you do so you must be duly sworn; and, further, in your present condition it becomes essential that I should warn you to be on your guard, lest you should say something which may show a guilty knowledge."
"And what do you call a guilty knowledge? I ask you that."
"As for instance-"
Mr Baker cut the coroner's explanation uncivilly short.
"I don't want none of your talk. I'm here to speak out, that's what I'm here for. I'm going to do it. When you say that the man as shot him knifed him, I say it's a damned lie. How do I know? Because I'm the man as shot him; and, beyond giving him a dose of pepper, I'm ready to take my Bible oath that I never laid my hand on him."
Mr Baker's words were followed by silence-that sort of silence which the newspapers describe by the word "sensation." People pressed further into the room, craning their heads to get a better view of the speaker. The coroner searched him with his eyes, as if to make sure that the man was in possession of at least some of his senses.
"Do you know what it is you are saying?"
"Do I know what I'm saying? Of course I know. I say that I peppered the chap, but beyond that I never done him a mischief; and I tell you again that to that I'm ready to take my Bible oath."
The coroner turned to his clerk.
"Swear this man."
Jim Baker was sworn-unwillingly enough. He handled the Testament which was thrust into his hand as if he would have liked to have thrown it at the clerk's head.
"Now, James Baker, you are on your oath. I presume that you know the nature of an oath?"
"I ought to at my time of life."
There were those that tittered. It was possible that Mr Baker was referring to one kind of oath and the coroner to another.
"And, I take it, you are acquainted with the serious consequences of swearing falsely?"
"Who's swearing falsely! When I swear falsely it will be time for you to talk."
"Very good: so long as you understand. Before proceeding with your examination I would again remind you that you are in no way bound to answer any question which you think would criminate yourself."
"Go on, do. I never see such a one for talking. You'd talk a bull's hind leg off."
Once more there were some who smiled. The coroner kept his temper in a manner which did him credit. He commenced to examine the witness.
"Did you know the dead man?"
"Know him? Not from Adam."
"Did you have any acquaintance with him of any sort or kind?"
"Never heard tell of him in my life; never set eyes on him till that Saturday night. When I see him under the beech tree in Cooper's Spinney I let fly at him."
"Did you quarrel?"
"Not me; there wasn't no time. I let fly directly I see him."
"At a perfect stranger? Why? For what possible reason? Did you suspect him of poaching?"
"I'd been having a glass or two."
"Do you mean to say that because you were drunk you shot this unfortunate man?"
"I made a mistake; that's how it was."
"You made a mistake?"
"I must have been as near drunk as might be, because, when I come upon this here chap sudden like, I thought he was Mr Hugh Morice."
"You thought he was Mr Hugh Morice?"
"I did."
"Remember you are not bound to answer any question if you would rather not. Bearing that well in mind, do you wish me to understand that you intended to shoot Mr Morice?"
"Of course I did."
"But why?"
"He's sitting there; you ask him; he knows."
As a matter of fact Mr Hugh Morice-who had throughout shown a lively interest in the proceedings-was occupying the chair on the coroner's right hand side. The two men exchanged glances; there was an odd look on Mr Morice's face, and in his eyes. Then the coroner returned to the witness.
"If necessary, Mr Morice will be examined later on. At present I want information from you. Why should you have intended to shoot Mr Morice?"
"Obeying orders, that's what I was doing."
"Obeying orders? Whose orders?"
"My old governor's. He says to me-and well Mr Hugh Morice knows it, seeing he was there and heard-'Jim,' he says, 'if ever you see Hugh Morice on our ground you put a charge of lead into him.' So I done it-leastways, I meant to."
The coroner glanced at Mr Morice with an uplifting of his eyebrows which that gentleman chose to regard as an interrogation, and answered, -
"What Baker says is correct; the late Mr Arnott did so instruct him, some seven or eight years ago."
"Was Mr Arnott in earnest?"
Hugh Morice shrugged his shoulders.
"He was in a very bad temper."
"I see. And because of certain words which were uttered in a moment of irritation seven or eight years ago, James Baker meant to shoot Mr Morice, but shot this stranger instead. Is that how it was?"
"That's about what it comes to."
"I would again remind you that you need not answer the question I am about to ask you unless you choose; but, if you do choose, be careful what you say, and remember that you are on your oath. After you had shot this man what did you do?"
"He started squealing. As soon as I heard his voice I thought there was something queer about it. So I went up and had a look at him. Then I saw I'd shot the wrong man."
"Then what did you do?"
"Walked straight off."
"And left that unfortunate man lying helpless on the ground?"
"He wasn't helpless, nor yet he wasn't lying on the ground. He was hopping about like a pig in a fit."
"You know it has been proved that this man was stabbed to death?"
"I've heard tell on it."
"Now-and remember that you are not bound to answer-did you stab him?"
"I did not. I swear to God I didn't. After I pulled the trigger I done nothing to him at all."
"Is it possible that you were so drunk as to have been unconscious of what you did?"
"Not a bit of it. So soon as I see as I'd shot the wrong man that sobered me, I tell you. All I thought about was getting away. I went straight to my own place, two miles off."
"When you last saw this man he was still alive?"
"Very much alive he was."
"He had not been stabbed?"
"He hadn't, so far as I know."
"You must have known if he had been."
"I never touched him, and I asked no questions."
"What was he doing when you saw him last?"
"Hopping about and swearing."
"And you don't know what happened to him afterwards?"
"I see nothing; I'd seen more than enough already. I tell you I walked straight off home."
"And you heard nothing?"
"Nothing out of the way."
"Why haven't you told this story of yours before?"
"Because I didn't want to have any bother, that's why. I knew I hadn't killed him, that was enough for me. Small shot don't hurt no one-at least, not serious. Any man can have a shot at me for a ten-pound note; there's some that's had it for less. But when I heard you saying that the man as shot him stabbed him, then I had to speak-bound to. I wasn't going to have no charge of that kind made against me. And I have spoken, and you've got the truth."
"What time did it happen-all this you have been telling us about?"
Jim Baker answered to the best of his ability. He answered many other questions, also, to the best of his ability. He had a bad time of it. But the worst time was to come when all the questions had been asked and answered.
The coroner announced that, in consequence of the fresh evidence which had been placed before the court, the inquiry would not close that day; but that there would be a further adjournment.
As Mr Baker passed out of the room and down the stairs people drew away from him to let him pass, with an alacrity which was not exactly flattering. When he came out into the street, Granger, the policeman, came forward and laid his hand upon his shoulder, saying, in those squeaky tones which had caused him to be regarded with less respect than was perhaps desirable, -
"James Baker, I arrest you for wilful murder. You needn't say anything, but what you do say will be taken down and used against you. Take my advice and come quiet."
By way of answer Jim Baker stared at Granger and at the London detective at his side and at the people round about him. Then he inquired, -
"What's that you say?"
"I say that I arrest you for wilful murder, and my advice to you is to come quiet."
When Baker saw the policeman taking a pair of handcuffs out of his coat-tail pocket he drew a long breath.
"What's that you've got there?"
"You know what it is very well-it's handcuffs. Hold out your hands and don't let us have no trouble."
Jim Baker held out his hand, his right one. As the policeman advanced, ready to snap them on his wrist, Baker snatched them from him and struck him with them a swinging blow upon the shoulder. Granger, yelling, dropped as if he had been shot. Although he was not tall, his weight was in the neighbourhood of sixteen stone, and he was not of a combative nature.
"If anybody wants some more," announced Mr Baker, "let him come on."
Apparently someone did want more. The words were hardly out of his mouth, before Nunn, the detective, had dodged another blow from the same weapon, and had closed with him in a very ugly grip.
There ensued the finest rough-and-tumble which had been seen in that parish within living memory. Jim Baker fought for all he was worth; when he had a gallon or so of beer inside him his qualifications in that direction were considerable. But numbers on the side of authority prevailed. In the issue he was borne to the lock-up in a cart, not only handcuffed, but with his legs tied together as well. As he went he cursed all and sundry, to the no small amusement of the heterogeneous gathering which accompanied the cart.
