Bamberton was taking grim holiday. Bamberton the sleepy—with nothing to stir it, from one dreary year’s end to the other, treading its dull respectable round, knowing exactly who married who, and how John This, or James That, got on with their respective wives, with the certainty of the dull little clock in the Chater Arms—had suddenly awakened to find itself notorious, and its name in big print in the great London papers. Moreover, had not Bamberton, the newly-awakened, already had pictures of its High Street (with an impossible man, in a smock-frock, leaning on a species of clothes-prop, in the foreground) in the illustrated and evening journals? Had not Bamberton already been photographed, interviewed, stared at, and made public in a hundred different ways. Now, too, had come the day of the inquest; and impossible rumours were already in the air, concerning that same inquest, and the marvellous things which were to be said and done thereat. Scarcely to be wondered at therefore, is it, that Bamberton should be taking grim holiday, and should be flocking to the place where twelve lucky members of its male community had been summoned to give judgment, concerning the doing to death of poor Patience Miller.

At a period long since forgotten, some charitable inhabitant, or other person interested in the welfare of the male and female youth of Bamberton, had had dreams of an Institute; and, with that laudable design in view, had pounced upon the only unoccupied spacious building in the locality, and had endeavoured to transform it into a Hall of semi-dazzling Light. The attempt had been a failure; and the building—which was no other than the old Mill, which stood on the outskirts of the wood—had long since fallen into greater decay than before.

But this place had again come before the public notice, by reason of the fact that the body of the murdered girl had been carried there, after its discovery; and at that place the inquest was to be held. The body had been put in an upper room—a species of loft; the inquest was to be held in the great room of the Mill, where certain iron rings and rotting ropes—part of an abortive attempt at a gymnasium—hung suggestively from the ceiling. And thither all Bamberton bent its steps.

“Whisperings, and murmurings, and the shuffling of many feet—with some glances towards the ceiling, as though curious eyes would pierce through, and see the ghastly thing laid above. At present, only a grave-faced country constable or two, setting chairs in order for the twelve lucky men, the Coroner, and the witnesses; and exercising a little brief authority, in keeping back certain Bambertonites who were pressing forward beyond the limits assigned for the general public. Once or twice, the door of a smaller room opened, and an important-looking little man, with a hard face and a tuft of hair on his chin, came bustling out, with a little sheaf of papers in his hand, to whisper to one or other of the constables. The door of that room proved to be a keen source of attraction to many eyes; for it was whispered that the prisoner waited within.”

After what seemed an interminable length of time, a little gentleman, in a black frock-coat, thrust his way with some impatience through the general public, and made his way to one end of the table set apart in the cleared space. A murmur ran round that this was the Coroner, from the neighbouring county-town; murmurs, also, that he did not quite look the part, inasmuch as that he wore an air of cheerfulness, which seemed almost to suggest that he was about to preside at a wedding, rather than at anything so formidable as an inquest.

A little glancing at his watch by this gentleman; an expostulatory whisper or two on his part to the constables in attendance, and the door of the inner room opened again, and Inspector Tokely came bustling out. One constable—a stranger to Bamberton, and of more importance on that account, produced a list, from which, with a strong provincial accent, he proceeded to call out certain names. Then, more shuffling of feet, and some friendly pushing of bashful jurymen forward, and the twelve ranged themselves sheepishly, with much coughing, round the table, and were duly sworn.

“Be seated, gentlemen, I beg,” said the Coroner, busy with his papers. “Stop one moment, though”—glancing up quickly—“have you viewed the body?”

Several of the jurymen present expressed a decided disinclination to do anything of the kind; and it became apparent that that important ceremony had not been performed.

“Really, Moody,” exclaimed the Coroner—“this is most remiss on your part. This should have been done first of all. We are wasting time—valuable time.”

The repentant Mr. Moody—the strange constable—made some attempt at an apology, and concluded by hurrying the jurymen through another door, where they were heard to go heavily up wooden stairs, and to tramp about a little overhead. In the meantime, the Coroner had a word or two with Inspector Tokely, and glanced once or twice, with a nod, towards the door where the prisoner was supposed to be.

The jurymen coming down again—some of them rather white-faced and wide-eyed—the Coroner abruptly motioned them to their seats, and turned to Tokely as he took his own.

“Inspector, I think we may have Mr. Chater in here now.”

The general public seemed to stir and sway, as though bent by a sudden wind; bending towards each other, and whispering hoarsely, yet keeping their eyes with one accord turned towards that door. Inspector Tokely hurried out, and came back in another moment, glancing over his shoulder through the doorway; immediately following him came Philip Chater, with two constables in close attendance. He looked round for a moment at the murmuring crowd; seemed to seek one face in it, and to smile as he recognised it. At the same moment, a woman in the crowd burst into violent weeping.

The Coroner rapped the table impatiently with his knuckles. “Any demonstration on the part of any member of the public will necessitate my clearing the room at once,” he said, looking sternly about him.

One of the jurymen—no other than old Toby Siggs—rose ponderously in his place. “Askin’ yer pardon, Mister,” he said, slowly—“I rather think as ’ow that was my ole gel.” Then, before the astonished Coroner could interpolate a remark, Toby turned abruptly, and addressed his spouse. “’Earty is it, ole gel,” he said, in a voice like muffled thunder, for her special hearing—“we’ll git ’im off, afore you’d ’ave time to draw ’arf a pint. Bear in mind, ole gel, as ’ow I’ve got a vote.”

“My good sir,” interposed the Coroner, hurriedly,—“let me impress upon you that this business must be tried judicially and fairly—with no bias. Understand that clearly.”

Toby nodded his head with much gravity. “Sich are my intentions, Mister,” he said. “So fire away as ’ard as you like. An’ Gawd ’elp the winner!” With which pious exclamation, Toby Siggs sat down perfectly satisfied with himself.

And now the Coroner—in a quick, bustling fashion, as though he were in a hurry, and should be glad to get so unimportant a matter off his hands—began to inform the jury of what their clear duty was, and how rapidly they might set about it. The body of this young girl, gentlemen, had been found in the adjacent wood. She was stabbed very near a vital part, and had undoubtedly, under considerable pain, and for a period perhaps of half-an-hour, slowly bled to death. They would be told—by the medical gentleman then present—who had made a most careful post-mortem examination of the body—that the wound could not have been self-inflicted. Such being the case, gentlemen, it devolved upon them to discover in what fashion her death had been caused; and here he would remind them that they must be guided entirely by circumstantial evidence. A man—a gentleman of good position—appeared before them that day, in a most unenviable situation. It was not for him, gentlemen, to tell them of their duty, or to lead them to imagine that any guilt attached to the man they saw before them; all that they must judge for themselves. But they would be confronted with witnesses—most unwilling witnesses—who would tell them of the intimacy which had undoubtedly existed between this man and the murdered girl; they would be told, gentlemen, by a witness from the railway station, of the appearance of this man, in a great state of excitement and hurry, at the station, in time—barely in time, gentlemen, to catch the last train to London. This, too, on the very night of the murder, and within a very short time of the hour at which, according to the medical testimony they would hear, this unfortunate young woman must have been struck down.

Here the Coroner stopped to clear his throat, and to glance at Philip Chater—as though to assure that unfortunate man that he was quite prepared to put a rope round his neck within the next few minutes, and had already got it half spun.

The gentlemen of the jury, who surely knew their duties, would be told how this man, deserting his home, had fled to London; how he had come back, in the dead of night, and had been seen about the village; how a most intelligent officer—a gentleman from Scotland Yard, gentlemen—had endeavoured to capture him; how he had again fled to London. They would be told, by a former associate of this man—now very repentant of his connection with him—of a sort of semi-confession made by this man to him. More than all, they would hear that a spade had been discovered near the body, which had evidently been used in a hurried attempt to dig a grave for the murdered girl (the crowd swayed again, like an angry sea and one woman shrieked out something unintelligible against the man who stood so calmly through it all)—and that spade would be traced as having come from the residence of the man now before them. While admitting, gentlemen, that all this evidence was purely circumstantial, the Coroner must beg them not to cast it lightly aside on that account, but to hear the witnesses with patience. And so sat down, having spun his rope to a tolerable length and strength.

Marshalled by Tokely, the first witnesses were already shuffling to their places, when an interruption came from among the crowd; and a young man thrust himself forward, and made straight for the Coroner. He was a bright-faced fellow, with a cool and gentlemanly bearing, and he gave a quick nod to Philip as he pressed forward.

“One moment, Mr. Coroner,” he said. “Mr. Chater here is an old friend of mine—knew him at Oxford. I’m a barrister; and I claim the right to represent Mr. Chater at these proceedings. I should like to point out to you, Mr. Coroner”—still with the same engaging frankness, and the same cheery smile—“that my friend is placed in a very awkward position, and has against him, in charge of the case, a very able representative of the law”—a bow here for the gratified Inspector—“from Scotland Yard. I merely propose to watch the case on behalf of my friend, and to put such questions as I may deem necessary, and as you, Mr. Coroner, may see fit, in the exercise of a wise discretion, to allow.” Here the young gentleman bowed all round again, with another cheery smile, and sat down near the Coroner, after having made a decidedly good impression.

Philip Chater broke the silence which seemed to hang so heavily about him, and addressed the Coroner. “I am greatly obliged,” he said, “for my friend’s kindly offer; but I would rather decline it. Whatever case there is against me must go on its merits; I desire nothing more.”

Before the Coroner, or any one else, could speak, the young gentleman came darting out of his chair, and had Philip by the button-hole—drawing him aside a little, and impressing his points upon him in an eager whisper.

“Now, my dear boy,” he said, with the same frankness as before—“don’t you be foolish. Frankly—I believe you to be innocent; but these beggars don’t—and you’ll get yourself into a devil of a hole, and give yourself away most gloriously, if you try to conduct the case yourself. This chap from Scotland Yard is an ass—but he’s vindictive; the Coroner is in a hurry, and is dead against you. On the other hand—have the goodness to consider my position. This is my first chance—absolutely my first. I’ve read up the case, day by day, and I know it by heart; I may do you a lot of good—and I shall make my own fortune. To-morrow morning in all the newspapers—Andrew Banks—rising young barrister—badgered the Coroner—turned the witnesses inside out—played Old Harry with the police; don’t you see? Now—all you have to do is to sit quiet, and look virtuous; I’ll lay out Mr. Coroner, for the benefit of the yokels, in a brace of shakes.”

He was gone again, back to his place at the table, before Philip Chater had even time to thank him, or to remonstrate further; and the real business of the inquest began. In the first place, appeared the two countrymen who had found the body; and who contradicted each other in minor points of detail, and were hopelessly confused by that rising young barrister Mr. Andrew Banks—so much so, that, at the end of five minutes, they were half disposed to believe that the one had committed the murder, and the other made an attempt to hide the body. And so sat down, greatly confused.

Next came Betty Siggs—making a deeper impression than she would willingly have done against the man who stood watching her. For, after a question or two, old Betty turned suddenly to that quiet figure, and stretched out her hands, and appealed to him, in a voice shaken by sobs.

“For God’s sake—let me speak; let me tell what I know,” she said; and, though she spoke in a whisper, the silence about her was so deep and solemn that the lightest breath of that whisper was heard. “For the sake of the old days—let me say what you and I alone know—let me—my dear—my dear!”

Unfortunately, it had the very opposite effect to that which Betty intended; for there seemed to be at once established between these two some terrible affinity in the crime, which made it more horrible. Nor did the young barrister improve matters; for, wholly at a loss to understand to what she referred he began to urge her to tell all she knew—even to threaten her with dire penalties, in the event of non-compliance.

But that only made matters worse; she cast one swift look in the direction of Philip, and read in his face that she must be silent; turned on the young and ardent man of law—and defied him.

“Don’t you think, young man—as you’re agoin’ to open my mouth—because you ain’t. I loved this poor young gel, as though she’d been a child o’ my own; but I swear to you, before God, that the man who stands there knew nothing of it, and is absolutely innocent. Toby—my angel—vote for ’im—if you love me!”

Toby answered with a responsive growl, and Mrs. Siggs sat down. Nor would the pleadings of the Coroner—the threats of Tokely—or the suavity of the young barrister move her; she read in the face from which she took her inspiration that she must be silent—and the rack itself would not have moved her.

Came the medical man, who gave his evidence grimly enough, in technical terms which yet sent a shudder through the listening crowd. He had examined the body, and, in answer to a question from the Coroner, gave it as his opinion—and with certainty—that the unfortunate girl, at the time of her death was near the period when she would have given birth to a child; struck a more deadly blow at the prisoner, by describing, in callous medical phraseology, the wound which had been inflicted, and the lingering death which followed. At the end of that evidence, there was not a man nor woman in the place that would not have shrieked “Murderer!” at him, whatever the verdict of the jury might be.

Some little sensation was created by the appearance of Harry Routley, the young servant of Dandy Chater; who—tackled by the Inspector, and keeping his eyes resolutely turned from the man whose life he was swearing away, gave his evidence in little more than monosyllables; but gave it in damning quality enough, even at that. Some greater sensation, too, was caused, by his turning swiftly to the prisoner, in the midst of the questions of the Inspector, and holding out his hands to Philip in an agony of appeal; and then covering his face with them.

“Master Dandy—Master Dandy!” he cried—“I swore to you that I would keep the secret—I have broken my word! Master Dandy—I was mad—beside myself—Master Dandy—forgive me!”

It created, if that were possible, a worse impression than ever. In the midst of the murmurs which surged up about them, the quiet voice of Philip was heard.

“It’s all right, Harry; you’ve only done the right thing. The time will come when you will understand better what I mean—when you will have no cause for regret. You need have none now; you have been more loyal and true to me than I deserved; I say it openly, before all here.”

Came Inspector Tokely himself, demanding that this man be sent for trial; pointing out this man’s desperate attempts to escape; his partial success; and so introducing the last witness—the Shady ’un.

The Shady ’un—giving his name, with much humility, as Shadrach Nottidge—threw himself upon the mercy of the gentlemen present. He was but an ’umble workin’ man—led astray by the villainies of Mr. Chater. In a moment of remorse, he had felt that Mr. Chater must be given up; he could not have slept in peace, good gentlemen, while Mr. Chater remained at large. Mr. Chater had told him that he was flying for his life; had begged him (the Shady ’un) to give him shelter. Declining to allow his white hands to be soiled—even by deputy—with blood, he had taken the earliest opportunity of handing Mr. Chater over to the Law. And he hoped it would be remembered in his favour.

Mr. Andrew Banks—rising young barrister of the cheery smile—tried his hardest—badgered the Coroner—twitted Inspector Tokely—was sarcastic with the Shady ’un; but all to no purpose. The Coroner very clearly pointed out to the jury their obvious duty in this matter; reminded them that Law and Justice took no cognizance of a man’s social position; and generally spun his rope a little stronger. Finally, addressing Philip, begged to know if he cared to make any statement, administering to him, at the same time, the usual legal caution.

“I have nothing to say—except that I am wholly innocent of this murder,” said Philip, quietly.

The rest was a mere matter of form. The jury returned a verdict of Wilful Murder, against Mr. Dandy Chater, of Chater Hall, in the County of Essex; and he was duly committed to take his trial at the coming Sessions at the county-town. Toby Siggs made some faint protest, but was overruled; and the crowd surged out into the spring sunshine, and generally expressed the opinion that Dandy Chater was as good as hanged already.