“Yes, Mr. Wickerby; I know what an alibi is.”
“Next to an alibi that breaks down, an unsuccessful attempt to affix the fault on another party is the most fatal blow which a prisoner’s counsel can inflict upon him. It is always taken by the jury as so much evidence against him. We must depend altogether on a different line of defence.”
“What line, Mr. Wickerby?”
“Juries are always unwilling to hang,”—Madame Goesler shuddered as the horrid word was broadly pronounced—“and are apt to think that simply circumstantial evidence cannot be suffered to demand so disagreeable a duty. They are peculiarly averse to hanging a gentleman, and will hardly be induced to hang a member of Parliament. Then Mr. Finn is very good-looking, and has been popular—which is all in his favour. And we shall have such evidence on the score of character as was never before brought into one of our courts. We shall have half the Cabinet. There will be two dukes.” Madame Goesler, as she listened to the admiring enthusiasm of the attorney while he went on with his list, acknowledged to herself that her dear friend, the Duchess, had not been idle. “There will be three Secretaries of State. The Secretary of State for the Home Department himself will be examined. I am not quite sure that we mayn’t get the Lord Chancellor. There will be Mr. Monk—about the most popular man in England—who will speak of the prisoner as his particular friend. I don’t think any jury would hang a particular friend of Mr. Monk’s. And there will be ever so many ladies. That has never been done before, but we mean to try it.” Madame Goesler had heard all this, and had herself assisted in the work. “I rather think we shall get four or five leading members of the Opposition, for they all disliked Mr. Bonteen. If we could manage Mr. Daubeny and Mr. Gresham, I think we might reckon ourselves quite safe. I forgot to say that the Bishop of Barchester has promised.”
“All that won’t prove his innocence, Mr. Wickerby.” Mr. Wickerby shrugged his shoulders. “If he be acquitted after that fashion men then will say—that he was guilty.”
“We must think of his life first, Madame Goesler,” said the attorney.
Madame Goesler when she left the attorney’s room was very ill-satisfied with him. She desired some adherent to her cause who would with affectionate zeal resolve upon washing Phineas Finn white as snow in reference to the charge now made against him. But no man would so resolve who did not believe in his innocence—as Madame Goesler believed herself. She herself knew that her own belief was romantic and unpractical. Nevertheless, the conviction of the guilt of that other man, towards which she still thought that much could be done if that coat were found and the making of a secret key were proved, was so strong upon her that she would not allow herself to drop it. It would not be sufficient for her that Phineas Finn should be acquitted. She desired that the real murderer should be hung for the murder, so that all the world might be sure—as she was sure—that her hero had been wrongfully accused.
“Do you mean that you are going to start yourself?” the Duchess said to her that same afternoon.
“Yes, I am.”
“Then you must be very far gone in love, indeed.”
“You would do as much, Duchess, if you were free as I am. It isn’t a matter of love at all. It’s womanly enthusiasm for the cause one has taken up.”
“I’m quite as enthusiastic—only I shouldn’t like to go to Prague in June.”
“I’d go to Siberia in January if I could find out that that horrid man really committed the murder.”
“Who are going with you?”
“We shall be quite a company. We have got a detective policeman, and an interpreter who understands Czech and German to go about with the policeman, and a lawyer’s clerk, and there will be my own maid.”
“Everybody will know all about it before you get there.”
“We are not to go quite together. The policeman and the interpreter are to form one party, and I and my maid another. The poor clerk is to be alone. If they get the coat, of course you’ll telegraph to me.”
“Who is to have the coat?”
“I suppose they’ll take it to Mr. Wickerby. He says he doesn’t want it—that it would do no good. But I think that if we could show that the man might very easily have been out of the house—that he had certainly provided himself with means of getting out of the house secretly—the coat would be of service. I am going at any rate; and shall be in Paris tomorrow morning.”
“I think it very grand of you, my dear; and for your sake I hope he may live to be Prime Minister. Perhaps, after all, he may give Plantagenet his ‘Garter.’ ”
When the old Duke died, a Garter became vacant, and had of course fallen to the gift of Mr. Gresham. The Duchess had expected that it would be continued in the family, as had been the Lieutenancy of Barsetshire, which also had been held by the old Duke. But the Garter had been given to Lord Cantrip, and the Duchess was sore. With all her Radical propensities and inclination to laugh at dukes and marquises, she thought very much of Garters and Lieutenancies;—but her husband would not think of them at all, and hence there were words between them. The Duchess had declared that the Duke should insist on having the Garter. “These are things that men do not ask for,” the Duke had said.
“Don’t tell me, Plantagenet, about not asking. Everybody asks for everything nowadays.”
“Your everybody is not correct, Glencora. I never yet asked for anything—and never shall. No honour has any value in my eyes unless it comes unasked.” Thereupon it was that the Duchess now suggested that Phineas Finn, when Prime Minister, might perhaps
