To Dick Birch had been assigned the duty of providing counsel for the defence of Ross Kingman, and he had immediately secured the services of Mr. Darling, an eminent legal gentleman, residing in Summerville, the county town, where the examination was to take place. It had also been his purpose to add his own strength to that of the distinguished lawyer’s; but after the complications which the evening of the first day had produced, he was disposed to abandon this idea. On his way from Pine Hill to the hotel, while he was considering what had transpired in the library, he determined to follow his original intention.
Early on the following morning he went to Summerville, and had an interview with Mr. Darling, to whom he fully and unreservedly explained his own position. He then went to the jail, where, as counsel for the prisoner, he was readily admitted.
“I am glad to see you, Mr. Birch,” said Ross, as he entered. “This is not a pleasant place to live, but I suppose I must put up with it for some months yet.”
“I’m afraid you must, Ross,” replied Dick, with more sympathy than a lawyer might be supposed to feel, though Dick was more than a lawyer in the present cause.
“I shall bear it as well as I can. How is Mary?”
“She was as well as usual when I heard from her last evening. She bears it better than any one could have expected.”
“That is a great relief to me.”
“But, Ross, I came to talk with you about your defence.”
“Thank you, sir. I am afraid you have got a hard row to hoe,” added the prisoner, with a smile.
“No, I think not; though I am rather sorry that you used your tongue so freely.”
“I like to tell the truth. I had no more idea of denying what I had done, than I had of disowning my own name. But I want you to understand that I am not guilty of murder. I don’t feel any more like a murderer than you do, Mr. Birch. I have said the same thing to Mary, to Dr. Bilks, and to the sheriff.”
“But it is a pity you acknowledged it in so many words.”
“I killed Buckstone, and I meant to do so,” said Ross, with dignified firmness. “I am willing to say that to the jury; and then I want them to say whether I am guilty of murder.”
“But you mus’n’t do anything of the sort. You must leave the whole matter in the hands of your counsel, and be guided by their directions.”
“I will do so.”
The lawyer then proceeded to draw out of the prisoner all the facts relating to the murder, and made memoranda of them.
“Ross, you say there was a man with Buckstone when you first saw him on the rocks?” continued Dick Birch.
“Yes, I do; of course you know that better than I do,” replied Ross, with a smile.
“Why should I know it?”
“Because you were the person.”
“Could you swear that I was the person, Ross?” asked Dick, with as much indifference as he could assume.
“I could not. It was too dark to see plainly who it was; and I was busy with another affair. I didn’t care who it was.”
“Now, Ross, I wish you to think of this matter. You cannot swear that I was the person?”
“No, I cannot. Does it do you any harm to have it known that you were the person with Buckstone?”
“Never mind that, just now, Ross. All we want here is the truth. When you first saw the man with Buckstone, did you think who it was?”
“No, sir; I did not.”
“After you had done the deed, did you think who it was?”
“No.”
“Now, Ross, according to your statement, Buckstone and this man were talking together, and you listened to them.”
“Yes, sir; I did.”
“Then you heard the stranger’s voice.”
“Certainly I did.”
“Could you tell by the voice whether it was any one you had heard speak before?”
“Well, he didn’t say much. I heard him ask Buckstone if he intended to marry Mary. Then, pretty soon, Buckstone told a long story about how it was--that he did intend to marry her at first, and then he didn’t. This made me so mad I didn’t want to hear any more, and I went off after a club. When I came back, they were talking about a consideration for marrying my sister, which didn’t make me feel any better. I heard what Buckstone said, and I didn’t care a straw what the other man talked about; besides, he didn’t speak very loud.”
“Then you could not tell from his voice who he was?”
“No, sir; I could not. I didn’t mind much about it; but I have thought since, from the way he spoke about the marriage, that he was a lawyer.”
“Did you think, at the time, that he was a lawyer?”
“I didn’t think anything about it.”
“What did he say that made you think he was a lawyer?”
“He asked Buckstone if he intended to marry Mary, and said the intention made all the difference in the world.”
“Just so; now, Ross, you did not think, at the time, who this stranger was,--are you quite sure on this point?”
“Of course I am. When I had thrown Buckstone over the cliff, I began to think of Mary, and I am sure I never thought a word of what took place before the deed. I didn’t even think that any person was with Buckstone. In fact, my mind was all in confusion. I wasn’t used to doing such a job, and I felt all the time, before and afterwards, just as if I was living in some other world. It didn’t seem as though there were any other persons in existence but Mary and myself.”
“I can understand your feelings, Ross. When did it first occur to you that I was the person with Buckstone on the rocks?”
“Not till I went over after Dr. Bilks for Mary.”
“Did you think of it while you were going after him, or while you were returning?”
“Not till I saw Dr. Bilks. I told him all about what I had done to Buckstone, before he saw Mary, so that he might understand what ailed her. I went back with him to row him over the channel. Then I told him there was a man with Buckstone--I didn’t even think of it till then.”
“What did Dr. Bilks say about it?” asked Dick, with an eagerness which he could not wholly conceal.
“He said the stranger must be Mr. Hungerford.”
“Mr. Hungerford!” exclaimed the lawyer.
“Yes, sir; but I told him it was not; Mr. Hungerford was a good deal taller than this man.”
“What then?” continued Dick, nervously.
“Then he asked if it wasn’t Mr. Birch. I told him it might be; but I didn’t believe it was.”
“What did he say then?”
“He said he was satisfied the man was Mr. Birch. He told me you had said something to him about making Buckstone marry Mary. He said you did it from the best of motives; and I know you did, and I was very much obliged to you.”
“This satisfied you that I was the person on the rocks with Buckstone?”
“Well, yes; that was enough to satisfy me--wasn’t it?” said Ross, not a little puzzled by the troubled expression on the lawyer’s face. “I’m sure I feel very grateful to you for all you have done. Of course, if I had known you were the man with Buckstone, I shouldn’t have done what I did. You were acting all the time for Mary’s good.”
“Did it seem reasonable to you that I should meet Buckstone in the dark, and bribe him to marry your sister?” asked Dick, as quietly as he could.
“It didn’t seem exactly like you, I own; but, then, Buckstone is a slippery character, and I didn’t understand your plans. I knew you wouldn’t do anything that wasn’t right.”
“Where did you find Dr. Bilks, when you went after him that night, Ross?”
“In his office.”
“Was he abed?”
“No; he had just come in from making a visit.”
“Do you know where he had been?”
“He told me he had been over beyond the Point, where he had a bad case. He said it was rather hard on him to have to go out again, for he had hardly slept a wink for three nights, or something of that sort.”
After some further conference, Dick told the prisoner to keep his courage up, and left him. He had another interview with Mr. Darling, and at ten o’clock in the forenoon, all the parties met in the court-house, where the examination was to take place. Eugene Hungerford, Dr. Bilks, and Mary were there as witnesses. Eugene had attempted to see Ross; but Mr. Darling, at Dick’s suggestion, had requested the sheriff to exclude all visitors.
The examination was conducted in the usual form, its object being simply to establish the fact that a murder had been committed, and that there was sufficient evidence to presume the guilt of the prisoner. It was not an easy matter to prove that a murder had been committed, though no one doubted the fact. The prosecution expected to establish it from the confession of the prisoner to Dr. Bilks, and by Richard Birch, who was generally believed to be the person who had accompanied the murdered man to The Great Bell.
The body of Buckstone had not been found. It might yet appear when the chemical changes attending decomposition caused it to rise to the surface. Neither had the body of Goodwin, the sportsman, who had been drowned on the forenoon of the same day, been recovered. There was a kind of tradition prevalent at Port Poppleton that the bodies of people drowned in Bell River, between the islands and the main land, were seldom, if ever, found. There was alleged to be something in the tidal current which carried the corpses down, and so entangled them upon the jagged rocks of The Great Bell, that they never rose to the surface. The water was ten fathoms deep, even close up to the cliff. Old men at the Port told of this man and that man who had been drowned many years before, whose bodies had never been found. It was doubtful, therefore, in the light of the popular superstition, whether Buckstone’s body would ever be discovered.
The examination commenced. Ross Kingman was firm, dignified, and even noble, in his demeanor. Mary wept and trembled when he was brought in; but Dr. Bilks, who had charged himself with the care of her, spoke some consoling words, and she became calm. For the first time since her departure from Poppleton with Buckstone, Eugene saw her. He took her by the hand, and assured her all would be well. This was all he said to her in the court-house, though he watched her with tender interest all day long.
Mary was called to the stand first, and, supported by Dr. Bilks, she took her place. She had recovered her firmness, and related, in a tone loud enough to be heard by all in the court-room, what had occurred between Buckstone and herself before the murder. She was truthful, and did not attempt to conceal the fact, so damaging, apparently, to her brother’s cause, that he had acknowledged to her the killing of Buckstone.
“Your name?” was the first question put to her.
“Mary Kingman,” she replied, to the astonishment of all who heard her.
“Is that your name?”
“It is.”
“Is it the name by which you have called yourself, and by which you were known in New York?”
“It is not.”
“By what name were you known?”
“Mary K. Buckstone.”
“Were you the wife of Mr. Buckstone?”
“I was not.”
“Were you not married to him?”
“I do not know that I was, or was not.”
“Was a ceremony performed?”
“There was; but Mr. Buckstone assured me I was not his wife.”
“You intended to marry him at the time the ceremony was performed?”
“I did.”
“And he intended to marry you?”
“I suppose he did not, as he repudiated the marriage, and declared that I was not his wife.”
“It is important to know whether the man who was murdered was your husband or not. The court will instruct you that you were legally the wife of Buckstone, if any ceremony was performed, and you believed that it was real; that the fictitious character of the marriage does not affect its legality.”
“Was the marriage otherwise legal?” asked the magistrate.
“I don’t know,” replied Mary.
“Have you any certificate--was there any record made of the marriage?”
“None, sir.”
“Is there any evidence that the marriage ceremony was performed?”
“I know of none.”
The magistrate did not presume to decide upon the validity or invalidity of the marriage; it was sufficient for the present purpose that the witness did not regard herself as the wife of the deceased.
Mary then gave her testimony, as already indicated. It is probable that she was aware how much might depend upon her marriage; that Ross’s very life might hang on this question, for it was one thing to kill his sister’s husband, and quite another to kill her betrayer and seducer. The issue with the jury at the trial must lie between these two points. She was a well-informed person; had always read the newspapers; and understood the merits of the case as well as any man who would sit upon the jury. Ross had told her that, while he acknowledged the fact of the killing, it was not murder; the deed was a justifiable one, and no jury would convict him. Her testimony, so far as it could be without distorting the simple truth, was based upon this view. Hence she called herself Mary Kingman, honestly believing that she was not legally a wife; and hence she did not attempt to conceal or mitigate the facts contained in her brother’s confession to her.
Dr. Bilks was called. He had been summoned to attend Mary Kingman--as she chose to call herself--though he was still of the opinion that she was Mrs. Buckstone--a legal venture which produced a smile on the almost impassible face of the magistrate. Going to and returning from the residence of his patient, he had been accompanied by the prisoner, who had told him what he had done, substantially as related by the last witness; but with the additional fact that Buckstone was not alone just before the murder.
“Who was the person with him?” asked the government attorney.
“I do not know who he was,” replied the doctor.
“Did the prisoner tell you who he was, or give you any description of him?”
“A meagre description--simply that he wore an overcoat, and was about my size;” and the doctor smiled as he mentioned the last item.
“Did he say it was you?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, did he say who he was?”
“He did not; that is, he didn’t say in so many words who the person was.”
“Go on, Dr. Bilks.”
“I think I mentioned the names of several persons.”
“Whose names did you mention?” demanded the attorney, impatiently.
“I mentioned Mr. Hungerford’s first.”
“Well?”
Dr. Bilks was a slow witness. It was evident that he did not like to implicate any person in the business of making a contract with Buckstone, which must soon be apparent.
“The prisoner was positive that Mr. Hungerford was not the person,” added the doctor.
“What other name did you mention?”
“I mentioned Mr. Birch’s;” and the doctor gave a very elaborate explanation of the reasons which had led him to use Dick’s name in this connection, which, of course, included the whole matter of the plan by which Buckstone was to be induced to marry Mary in Poppleton. “For the reason that Mr. Birch intended to do what the stranger on the island appeared to be doing, I concluded the person must be Mr. Birch.”
“What did the person on the island appear to be doing?”
Dr. Bilks related what Ross had reported to him about the “intentions” of Buckstone, and the “consideration” which the stranger offered.
It looked like a plain case, and everybody was fully satisfied that Dick Birch was the mysterious personage who had gone to The Great Bell with the murdered man.
“What did the prisoner say when you mentioned the name of Mr. Birch?” continued the attorney.
“He was satisfied that Mr. Birch was the person;” which was quite true.
Other evidence of less importance was elicited from Dr. Bilks, and when the “direct” was finished, he was turned over to the prisoner’s counsel for cross-examination. The doctor had certainly behaved like an honest witness. He had exhibited a great deal of delicacy and sensitiveness when compelled to use the names of those who were understood to be his friends, and the impression produced by him thus far was decidedly favorable. To the surprise of many, and of none more than Dr. Bilks himself, Mr. Birch was intrusted with the task of cross-examining him. Dick was courteous, and the doctor was steady, so that the questions and answers flowed very smoothly for some time, without disclosing anything new or startling.
“You were at home, Dr. Bilks, when the prisoner came for you to attend his sister?” said Dick.
“I was.”
“What time was it?”
“About two o’clock in the morning, or a little later.”
“You were in bed then?”
“No, sir.”
“Were you up at that hour in the morning?”
“I was.”
“Do you usually sit up all night?” asked Dick, facetiously.
“Not usually.”
“Did you on this occasion?”
“I did--until about five o’clock.”
Dr. Bilks barely answered the questions proposed to him. He was a prudent witness--careful not to prove too much.
“Why did you sit up on this particular night, if it is not your usual custom?”
“Professional duties required it,” replied the doctor, crisply; and though the examination seemed to be of no possible moment, a close observer might have detected a slight pallor in the face of the witness.
“Ah, you had been out professionally, when the prisoner called for you?”
“I had.”
“Where had you been?”
“Over beyond the Point.”
“Will you be a little more definite, if you please?” said Dick, in the blandest of tones, and with the softest of smiles.
“I do not know that I can describe the locality; I believe it is within the corporate limits of Poppleton,” replied Dr. Bilks, with a smile apologetic for his ignorance of mere roads and boundaries.
“Who was sick?”
“It was an obstetric case.”
“By whom were you called?”
“By a man--I don’t know who he was. He was an Irishman.”
“Did he tell you where to go?”
“He did.”
“How did he describe the locality?”
“What has all this to do with the murder on the island?” demanded the attorney for the government.
Mr. Birch, without precisely stating his object, made it appear that the matter was proper--that it was not new matter, and that it was relevant.
“I do not remember what his description was,” replied the doctor, when the question had been repeated.
“But you went to the place indicated--did you?”
“I did.”
“What was the name of the lady whom you attended?”
“I do not remember; I have forgotten the name. Possibly I have it in my book;” and he examined his pockets, and produced his case-book; but the name of the sick lady did not appear.
“Didn’t you put the name down?”
“I supposed I put the name down, but it appears that I did not,” replied Dr. Bilks, who had now become quite pale.
“Are you not usually spoken to some weeks or months in advance, in such cases?”
“Usually, but not in this instance.”
“Did you visit this patient yesterday, or this morning?”
“I did not.”
“Do you leave them with only one visit, in such cases?”
“Never!”
“Why have you not called upon this patient then?”
“I did not consider it as regularly a case of mine. The family were evidently in very indigent circumstances; and I concluded, if there was any further need of my attendance, I should be called.”
“Is this your custom with poor people?”
“It is not,” said the doctor, sweating like a day laborer under the cross-examination, for it was evident to all in the court-room, that there was something wrong, somewhere, though what or where it was, they could not tell.
“Can you describe the house to which you went, Dr. Bilks?”
“I could not.”
“Did you find it readily when you went that night?”
“I did not, very readily.”
“Did you inquire?”
“I did not; the man who came for me gave me such directions as enabled me to find the house.”
“Could you go to it again?”
“I doubt if I could.”
“Have you any intention of calling upon this patient again?”
“Not unless I am sent for.”
“How will you collect your bill?”
“I shall make no charge; I never do, when people appear to be as poor as they were.”
The doctor looked magnanimous, and glanced languidly at the spectators, as if for their approval of his professional generosity.
“What time did you start, Dr. Bilks?”
“About eleven, I think.”
“Where did you spend the early part of the evening?”
“I visited a patient at eight o’clock--shall I give you the name, and describe the house?” asked the doctor.
“It is hardly necessary in this instance,” replied Dick, not at all moved by the witty charge. “You visited a patient at eight o’clock: go on, if you please.”
“I returned to my office at nine, and read till eleven. The book was ‘The Lancet’--a medical periodical published monthly, in New York, at two dollars a year. The article in which I was particularly interested was a----”
“Never mind the article, doctor,” interrupted the lawyer.
“I beg your pardon; I thought you wanted all the particulars.”
“I do in regard to the patient you visited beyond the Point. That is the only case of yours in which the court is at all interested. You read ‘The Lancet’?”
“I did; and was about to retire at eleven, when the man came for me. I went to the hotel stable for my horse, and started immediately.”
“What road did you take?”
“The road to the Point.”
“Describe your route till you reached the house where you found your patient.”
“I drove down the Point Road, by the salt works.”
“Go on, if you please.”
“I came to the house, and went in.”
“Where was the house?”
“I cannot describe its locality,” replied Dr. Bilks, the cold sweat standing visibly on his forehead.
“Did you go beyond the road leading from the Point Road to the Mills?”
“I think I did.”
“Did you pass any houses before you came to the one you wished to find?”
“Possibly I did; I don’t remember.”
“You stopped--did you?”
“Of course I did.”
“What induced you to stop?”
“The expectation of finding the patient to whom I had been called.”
“Did you get the right house the first time trying?”
“I did.”
“That was fortunate! What was the condition of the woman when you saw her?”
Dr. Bilks described her condition.
“Was she an old woman or a young one?”
“About thirty, I should say.”
“At what time was the child born?”
“About half past one o’clock.”
“You were there two hours at least?”
“About two hours.”
“Was there a nurse?”
“There were a couple of women there.”
“Was the child a boy or a girl?”
“A girl.”
“I pray your honor’s judgment,” said the government attorney. “Mr. Birch evidently intends to treat us to a complete view of obstetrical science.”
“I have done with the witness, may it please your honor,” interposed Dick.
Dr. Bilks stepped down from the stand so weak and exhausted, that his condition excited the attention of the audience, especially of Eugene, though none could imagine what it all meant.
