’E was determined to see young Mr Ledbury, and went. What ’appened I don’t know, for old Mat wouldn’t tell me, but ’e came back mighty furious from ’is visit, and swore ’e would ruin the young man and make no end of a scandal, and he would bring the law agin’ ’im and get £5,000 damages.’

“This story, embellished, of course, by many details, was the gist of what the worthy landlord of the Fernhead Arms had to say, but you may imagine how everyone’s excitement and curiosity was aroused; in the meanwhile Samuel Holder was getting over his nervousness, and was more ready to give a clear account of what happened on the fatal night itself.

“‘It was about nine o’clock,’ he explained, in answer to the coroner, ‘and I was hurrying back to Ayrsham, through the fields; it was dark and raining, and I was about to strike across the hedge into the lane when I heard voices – a woman’s, then a man’s. Of course, I could see nothing, and the man spoke in a whisper, but I had recognized Mary’s voice quite plainly. She kept on saying: “’Tisn’t my fault!” she says, “it’s father’s, ’e ’as made up ’is mind. I held out as long as I could, but ’e worried me, and now ’e’s got your letters, and it’s too late.”’

“Samuel Holder again paused a moment, then continued:

“They talked together for a long time: Mary seemed very upset and the man very angry. Presently ’e says to ’er: “Well, tell your father to come out here and speak to me for a moment. I’ll see what I can do.” Mary seemed to ’esitate for a time, then she went away, and the man waited there in the drizzling rain, with me the other side of the ’edge watchin’ ’im. I waited for a long time, for I wanted to know what was goin’ to ’appen; then time went on. I thought perhaps that old Mat was at the Fernhead Arms, and that Mary couldn’t find ’im, so I went back to Ayrsham by the fields, ’oping to find the old man. The stranger didn’t budge. ’E seemed inclined to wait – so I left ’im there – and – and – that’s all. I went to the Fernhead Arms, saw old Mat wasn’t there – then I went back to the lane – and – Old Man Newton was dead, and the stranger was gone.’

“There was a moment or two of dead silence in the court when Samuel Holder had given his evidence, then the coroner asked quietly:

“‘You do not know who the stranger was?’

“‘Well, I couldn’t be sure, your honour,’ replied Samuel nervously, ‘it was pitch-dark. I wouldn’t like to swear a fellow-creature’s life and character away.’

“‘No, no, quite so,’ rejoined the coroner; ‘but do you happen to know what time it was when all this occurred?’

“‘Oh yes, your honour,’ said Samuel decisively, ‘as I walked away from the Fernhead Arms I ’eard Ayrsham church clock strike ten o’clock.’

“‘Ah that’s always something,’ said the coroner, with a sigh of satisfaction. ‘Call Mary Newton, please.’”

3

“You may imagine,” continued the man in the corner, after a slight pause, “with what palpitating interest we all watched the pathetic little figure, clad in deep black, who now stepped forward to give evidence.

“It was difficult to imagine that Mary Newton could ever have been pretty; trouble had obviously wrought havoc with her good looks. She was now a wizened little thing, with dark rings under her eyes, and a pale, anaemic complexion. She stood perfectly listlessly before the coroner, waiting to be questioned, but otherwise not seeming to take the slightest interest in the proceedings. In an even, toneless voice she told her name, age, and status, then waited for further questions.

“‘Your father went out a little before ten o’clock on Tuesday night last, did he not?’ asked the coroner very kindly.

“‘Yes, sir, he did,’ replied Mary quietly.

“‘You had brought him a message from a gentleman whom you had met in the lane, and who wished to speak with your father?’

“‘No, sir,’ replied Mary, in the same even and toneless voice; ‘I brought no message to father, and he went out on his own.’

“‘But the gentleman you met in the lane?’ insisted the coroner with some impatience.

“‘I didn’t meet anyone in the lane, sir. I never went out of the house that Tuesday night, it rained so.’

“‘But the last witness, Samuel Holder, heard you talking in the lane at nine o’clock.’

“‘Samuel Holder was mistaken,’ she replied imperturbably; ‘I wasn’t out of the house the whole of that night.’

“It would be useless for me,” continued the man in the corner, “to attempt to convey to you the intense feeling of excitement which pervaded that crowded court, as that wizened little figure stood there for over half an hour, quietly and obstinately parrying the most rigid cross-examination.

“That she was lying – lying to shield the very man who perhaps had murdered her father – no one doubted for a single instant. Yet there she stood, sullen, apathetic, and defiant, flatly denying Samuel Holder’s story from end to end, strictly adhering and swearing to her first statement, that her father went out ‘on his own’, that she did not know where he was going to, and that she herself had never left the house that fatal Tuesday night.

“It did not seem to occur to her that by these statements she was hopelessly incriminating Samuel Holder, whom she was thus openly accusing of deliberate lies; on the contrary, many noticed a distinct touch of bitter animosity in the young girl against her former sweetheart, which was singularly emphasized when the coroner asked her whether she approved of the idea of a breach of promise action being brought against Mr Ledbury.

“‘No,’ she said; ‘all that talk about damages and breach of promise was between father and Sam Holder, because Sam had told father that he wouldn’t mind marrying me if I had £5,000 of my own.’

“It would be impossible to render the tone of hatred and contempt with which the young girl uttered these words. One seemed to live through the whole tragedy of the past few months – the girl, pestered by the greed of her father, yet refusing obstinately to aid in causing a scandal, perhaps disgrace, to the man whom she had once loved and trusted.

“As nothing more could be got out of her, and as circumstances now seemed to demand it, the coroner adjourned the inquest. The police, as you may well imagine, wanted to make certain enquiries. Mind you, Mary Newton flatly refused to mention Mr Ledbury’s name; she was questioned and cross-questioned, yet her answer uniformly was:

“‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. The person I was going to marry four years ago has gone out of my life – I have never seen him since. I saw no one on that Tuesday night.’

 “Against that, when she was asked to swear that it was not Mr – now Captain – Ledbury who had promised her marriage she flatly refused to do so.

“Of course, there was not a soul there who had not made up his or her mind that Captain Ledbury had met Mary Newton in the lane, and had heard from her that all his love-letters to her were now in her father’s hands, and that the old man meant to use these in order to extort money from him.

“Fearing the exposure and disgrace of so sensational a breach of promise action, and not having the money with which to meet Mat Newton’s preposterous demands, he probably lost control over himself, and in a moment of impulse and mad rage had silenced the old man for ever.

“I assure you that at the adjourned inquest everybody expected to see Captain Ledbury in the custody of two constables. The police in the interim had been extremely reticent, and no fresh details of the extraordinary case had found its way into the papers, but fresh details of a sensational character were fully expected, and I can assure you the public were not disappointed.

“It is no use my telling you all the proceedings of that second most memorable day; I will try and confine myself to the most important points of this interesting mystery.

“I must tell you that the story told by the landlord of the Fernhead Arms was fully corroborated by several witnesses, all of whom testified to the fact that the old man came back from his visit to Fernhead Towers in a terrible fury, swearing to bring disgrace upon the scoundrel who had ruined his daughter.

“What occurred during that visit was explained by Edward Sanders, the butler at The Towers. According to the testimony of this witness, there was a large house-party staying with Sir John Fernhead to celebrate the engagement of his daughter; the party naturally included Captain Mervin Ledbury, his brother, Lord Walterton, with the latter’s newly married young wife, also many neighbours and friends.

“At about six o’clock on Monday evening, it appears, a disreputable-looking old man, who Edward Sanders did not know, but who gave the name of Newton, rang at the front door bell of The Towers and demanded to see Mr Ledbury. Sanders naturally refused to admit him, but the old man was so persistent, and used such strange language, that the butler, after much hesitation, decided to apprise Captain Ledbury of his extraordinary visitor.

“Captain Ledbury, on hearing that Old Man Newton wished to speak to him, much to Sanders’ astonishment, came downstairs and elected to interview his extraordinary visitor in the dining-room, which was then deserted. Sanders showed the old man in, and waited in the hall. Very soon, however, he heard loud and angry voices, and the next moment Captain Ledbury threw open the diningroom door, and said:

“‘This man is mad or drunk; show him out, Sanders.’

“And without another word the Captain walked upstairs, leaving Sanders the pleasant task of ‘showing the old man out’.