An interesting point was raised in the cross-examination of Inspector Craikes. A penknife being shown him, he identified it as the one found on Cathcart’s body.
By Mr. Glibbery: “Do you observe any marks on the blade?”
“Yes, there is a slight notch near the handle.”
“Might the mark have been caused by forcing back the catch of a window?”
Inspector Craikes agreed that it might, but doubted whether so small a knife would have been adequate for such a purpose. The revolver was produced, and the question of ownership raised.
“My lords,” put in Sir Impey, “we do not dispute the Duke’s ownership of the revolver.”
The Court looked surprised, and, after Hardraw the gamekeeper had given evidence of the shot heard at 11:30, the medical evidence was taken.
Sir Impey Biggs: “Could the wound have been self-inflicted?”
“It could, certainly.”
“Would it have been instantly fatal?”
“No. From the amount of blood found upon the path it was obviously not immediately fatal.”
“Are the marks found, in your opinion, consistent with deceased having crawled towards the house?”
“Yes, quite. He might have had sufficient strength to do so.”
“Would such a wound cause fever?”
“It is quite possible. He might have lost consciousness for some time, and contracted a chill and fever by lying in the wet.”
“Are the appearances consistent with his having lived for some hours after being wounded?”
“They strongly suggest it.”
Reexamining, Sir Wigmore Wrinching established that the wound and general appearance of the ground were equally consistent with the theory that deceased had been shot by another hand at very close quarters, and dragged to the house before life was extinct.
“In your experience is it more usual for a person committing suicide to shoot himself in the chest or in the head?”
“In the head is perhaps more usual.”
“So much as almost to create a presumption of murder when the wound is in the chest?”
“I would not go so far as that.”
“But, other things being equal, you would say that a wound in the head is more suggestive of suicide than a body-wound?”
“That is so.”
Sir Impey Biggs: “But suicide by shooting in the heart is not by any means impossible?”
“Oh, dear, no.”
“There have been such cases?”
“Oh, certainly; many such.”
“There is nothing in the medical evidence before you to exclude the idea of suicide?”
“Nothing whatever.”
This closed the case for the Crown.
XV
Bar Falling
Copyright by Reuter, Press Association Exchange Telegraph, and Central News.
When Sir Impey Biggs rose to make his opening speech for the defense on the second day, it was observed that he looked somewhat worried—a thing very unusual in him. His remarks were very brief, yet in those few words he sent a thrill through the great assembly.
“My lords, in rising to open this defense I find myself in a more than usually anxious position. Not that I have any doubt of your lordships’ verdict. Never perhaps has it been possible so clearly to prove the innocence of any accused person as in the case of my noble client. But I will explain to your lordships at once that I may be obliged to ask for an adjournment, since we are at present without an important witness and a decisive piece of evidence. My lords, I hold here in my hand a cablegram from this witness—I will tell you his name; it is Lord Peter Wimsey, the brother of the accused. It was handed in yesterday at New York. I will read it to you. He says: ‘Evidence secured. Leaving tonight with Air Pilot Grant. Sworn copy and depositions follow by S.S. Lucarnia in case accident. Hope arrive Thursday.’ My lords, at this moment this all-important witness is cleaving the air high above the wide Atlantic. In this wintry weather he is braving a peril which would appal any heart but his own and that of the world-famous aviator whose help he has enlisted, so that no moment may be lost in freeing his noble brother from this terrible charge. My lords, the barometer is falling.”
An immense hush, like the stillness of a black frost, had fallen over the glittering benches. The lords in their scarlet and ermine, the peeresses in their rich furs, counsel in their full-bottomed wigs and billowing gowns, the Lord High Steward upon his high seat, the ushers and the heralds and the gaudy kings-of-arms, rested rigid in their places. Only the prisoner looked across at his counsel and back to the Lord High Steward in a kind of bewilderment, and the reporters scribbled wildly and desperately stop-press announcements—lurid headlines, picturesque epithets, and alarming weather predictions, to halt hurrying London on its way: “Peer’s Son Flies Atlantic”; “Brother’s Devotion”; “Will Wimsey be in Time?”; “Riddlesdale Murder Charge: Amazing Development.” This was news. A million tape-machines ticked it out in offices and clubs, where clerks and messenger-boys gloated over it and laid wagers on the result; the thousands of monster printing-presses sucked it in, boiled it into lead, champed it into slugs, engulfed it in their huge maws, digested it to paper, and flapped it forth again with clutching talons; and a blue-nosed, ragged veteran of Vimy Ridge, who had once assisted to dig Major Wimsey out of a shell-hole, muttered: “Gawd ’elp ’im, ’e’s a real decent little blighter,” as he tucked his newspapers into the iron grille of a tree in Kingsway and displayed his placard to the best advantage.
After a brief statement that he intended, not merely to prove his noble client’s innocence but (as a
