The Vintage Mysteries for the Holidays. Эдгар Аллан По

impress of your finger-prints on it?”

      The bullying manner was highly efficacious with a nervous disposition.

      “I—I suppose I must have taken up the bottle.”

      “I suppose so too! Did you abstract any of the contents of the bottle?”

      “Certainly not.”

      “Then why did you take it up?”

      “I once studied to be a doctor. Such things naturally interest me.”

      “Ah! So poisons ‘naturally interest’ you, do they? Still, you waited to be alone before gratifying that ‘interest’ of yours?”

      “That was pure chance. If the others had been there, I should have done just the same.”

      “Still, as it happens, the others were not there?”

      “No, but——”

      “In fact, during the whole afternoon, you were only alone for a couple of minutes, and it happened—I say, it happened—to be during those two minutes that you displayed your ‘natural interest’ in Hydrochloride of Strychnine?”

      Lawrence stammered pitiably.

      “I—I—mdash;”

      With a satisfied and expressive countenance, Sir Ernest observed:

      “I have nothing more to ask you, Mr. Cavendish.”

      This bit of cross-examination had caused great excitement in court. The heads of the many fashionably attired women present were busily laid together, and their whispers became so loud that the judge angrily threatened to have the court cleared if there was not immediate silence.

      There was little more evidence. The hand-writing experts were called upon for their opinion of the signature of “Alfred Inglethorp” in the chemist’s poison register. They all declared unanimously that it was certainly not his hand-writing, and gave it as their view that it might be that of the prisoner disguised. Cross-examined, they admitted that it might be the prisoner’s hand-writing cleverly counterfeited.

      Sir Ernest Heavywether’s speech in opening the case for the defence was not a long one, but it was backed by the full force of his emphatic manner. Never, he said, in the course of his long experience, had he known a charge of murder rest on slighter evidence. Not only was it entirely circumstantial, but the greater part of it was practically unproved. Let them take the testimony they had heard and sift it impartially. The strychnine had been found in a drawer in the prisoner’s room. That drawer was an unlocked one, as he had pointed out, and he submitted that there was no evidence to prove that it was the prisoner who had concealed the poison there. It was, in fact, a wicked and malicious attempt on the part of some third person to fix the crime on the prisoner. The prosecution had been unable to produce a shred of evidence in support of their contention that it was the prisoner who ordered the black beard from Parkson’s. The quarrel which had taken place between prisoner and his stepmother was freely admitted, but both it and his financial embarrassments had been grossly exaggerated.

      His learned friend—Sir Ernest nodded carelessly at Mr. Philips—had stated that if the prisoner were an innocent man, he would have come forward at the inquest to explain that it was he, and not Mr. Inglethorp, who had been the participator in the quarrel. He thought the facts had been misrepresented. What had actually occurred was this. The prisoner, returning to the house on Tuesday evening, had been authoritatively told that there had been a violent quarrel between Mr. and Mrs. Inglethorp. No suspicion had entered the prisoner’s head that anyone could possibly have mistaken his voice for that of Mr. Inglethorp. He naturally concluded that his stepmother had had two quarrels.

      The prosecution averred that on Monday, July 16th, the prisoner had entered the chemist’s shop in the village, disguised as Mr. Inglethorp. The prisoner, on the contrary, was at that time at a lonely spot called Marston’s Spinney, where he had been summoned by an anonymous note, couched in blackmailing terms, and threatening to reveal certain matters to his wife unless he complied with its demands. The prisoner had, accordingly, gone to the appointed spot, and after waiting there vainly for half an hour had returned home. Unfortunately, he had met with no one on the way there or back who could vouch for the truth of his story, but luckily he had kept the note, and it would be produced as evidence.

      As for the statement relating to the destruction of the will, the prisoner had formerly practiced at the Bar, and was perfectly well aware that the will made in his favour a year before was automatically revoked by his stepmother’s remarriage. He would call evidence to show who did destroy the will, and it was possible that that might open up quite a new view of the case.

      Finally, he would point out to the jury that there was evidence against other people besides John Cavendish. He would direct their attention to the fact that the evidence against Mr. Lawrence Cavendish was quite as strong, if not stronger than that against his brother.

      He would now call the prisoner.

      John acquitted himself well in the witness-box. Under Sir Ernest’s skilful handling, he told his tale credibly and well. The anonymous note received by him was produced, and handed to the jury to examine. The readiness with which he admitted his financial difficulties, and the disagreement with his stepmother, lent value to his denials.

      At the close of his examination, he paused, and said:

      “I should like to make one thing clear. I utterly reject and disapprove of Sir Ernest Heavywether’s insinuations against my brother. My brother, I am convinced, had no more to do with the crime than I have.”

      Sir Ernest merely smiled, and noted with a sharp eye that John’s protest had produced a very favourable impression on the jury.

      Then the cross-examination began.

      “I understand you to say that it never entered your head that the witnesses at the inquest could possibly have mistaken your voice for that of Mr. Inglethorp. Is not that very surprising?”

      “No, I don’t think so. I was told there had been a quarrel between my mother and Mr. Inglethorp, and it never occurred to me that such was not really the case.”

      “Not when the servant Dorcas repeated certain fragments of the conversation—fragments which you must have recognized?”

      “I did not recognize them.”

      “Your memory must be unusually short!”

      “No, but we were both angry, and, I think, said more than we meant. I paid very little attention to my mother’s actual words.”

      Mr. Philips’ incredulous sniff was a triumph of forensic skill. He passed on to the subject of the note.

      “You have produced this note very opportunely. Tell me, is there nothing familiar about the hand-writing of it?”

      “Not that I know of.”

      “Do you not think that it bears a marked resemblance to your own hand-writing—carelessly disguised?”

      “No, I do not think so.”

      “I put it to you that it is your own hand-writing!”

      “No.”

      “I put it to you that, anxious to prove an alibi, you conceived the idea of a fictitious and rather incredible appointment, and wrote this note yourself in order to bear out your statement!”

      “No.”

      “Is it not a fact that, at the time you claim to have been waiting about at a solitary and unfrequented spot, you were really in the chemist’s shop in Styles St. Mary, where you purchased strychnine in the name of Alfred Inglethorp?”

      “No, that is a lie.”

      “I put it to you that, wearing a suit of Mr. Inglethorp’s clothes, with a black beard trimmed to resemble his, you were there—and signed the register in his name!”

      “That is absolutely untrue.”

      “Then