I
t seemed to Mrs.
Bunting that she had been sitting there a long time - it was really
about a quarter of an hour - when her official friend came
back.
"Better come along now," he whispered; "it'll begin
soon."
She followed him out into a passage, up a row of
steep stone steps, and so into the Coroner's Court.
The court was big, well-lighted room, in some ways
not unlike a chapel, the more so that a kind of gallery ran
half-way round, a gallery evidently set aside for the general
public, for it was now crammed to its utmost capacity.
Mrs. Bunting glanced timidly towards the serried row
of faces. Had it not been for her good fortune in meeting the man
she was now following, it was there that she would have had to try
and make her way. And she would have failed. Those people had
rushed in the moment the doors were opened, pushing, fighting their
way in a way she could never have pushed or fought. There were just
a few women among them, set, determined-looking women, belonging to
every class, but made one by their love of sensation and their
power of forcing their way in where they wanted to be. But the
women were few; the great majority of those standing there were men
- men who were also representative of every class of Londoner.
The centre of the court was like an arena; it was
sunk two or three steps below the surrounding gallery. Just now it
was comparatively clear of people, save for the benches on which
sat the men who were to compose the jury. Some way from these men,
huddled together in a kind of big pew, stood seven people - three
women and four men.
"D'you see the witnesses?" whispered the inspector,
pointing these out to her. He supposed her to know one of them with
familiar knowledge, but, if that were so, she made no sign.
Between the windows, facing the whole room, was a
kind of little platform, on which stood a desk and an arm-chair.
Mrs. Bunting guessed rightly that it was there the coroner would
sit. And to the left of the platform was the witness-stand, also
raised considerably above the jury.
Amazingly different, and far, far more grim and
awe-inspiring than the scene of the inquest which had taken place
so long ago, on that bright April day, in the village inn. There
the coroner had sat on the same level as the jury, and the
witnesses had simply stepped forward one by one, and taken their
place before him.
Looking round her fearfully, Mrs. Bunting thought
she would surely die if ever she were exposed to the ordeal of
standing in that curious box-like stand, and she stared across at
the bench where sat the seven witnesses with a feeling of sincere
pity in her heart.
But even she soon realised that her pity was wasted.
Each woman witness looked eager, excited, and animated; well
pleased to be the centre of attention and attraction to the general
public. It was plain each was enjoying her part of important, if
humble, actress in the thrilling drama which was now absorbing the
attention of all London - it might almost be said of the whole
world.
Looking at these women, Mrs. Bunting wondered
vaguely which was which. Was it that rather draggle-tailed-looking
young person who had certainly, or almost certainly, seen The
Avenger within ten seconds of the double crime being committed? The
woman who, aroused by one of his victims' cry of terror, had rushed
to her window and seen the murderer's shadowy form pass swiftly by
in the fog?
Yet another woman, so Mrs. Bunting now remembered,
had given a most circumstantial account of what The Avenger looked
like, for he, it was supposed, had actually brushed by her as he
passed.
Those two women now before her had been interrogated
and cross-examined again and again, not only by the police, but by
representatives of every newspaper in London. It was from what they
had both said - unluckily their accounts materially differed - that
that official description of The Avenger had been worked up - that
which described him as being a good-looking, respectable young
fellow of twenty-eight, carrying a newspaper parcel.
As for the third woman, she was doubtless an
acquaintance, a boon companion of the dead.
Mrs. Bunting looked away from the witnesses, and
focused her gaze on another unfamiliar sight. Specially prominent,
running indeed through the whole length of the shut-in space, that
is, from the coroner's high dais right across to the opening in the
wooden barrier, was an ink-splashed table at which, when she had
first taken her place, there had been sitting three men busily
sketching; but now every seat at the table was occupied by tired,
intelligent-looking men, each with a notebook, or with some loose
sheets of paper, before him.
"Them's the reporters," whispered her friend. "They
don't like coming till the last minute, for they has to be the last
to go. At an ordinary inquest there are only two - maybe three -
attending, but now every paper in the kingdom has pretty well
applied for a pass to that reporters' table."
He looked consideringly down into the well of the
court. "Now let me see what I can do for you - "
Then he beckoned to the coroner's officer: "Perhaps
you could put this lady just over there, in a corner by herself?
Related to a relation of the deceased, but doesn't want to be - "
He whispered a word or two, and the other nodded sympathetically,
and looked at Mrs. Bunting with interest. "I'll put her just here,"
he muttered. "There's no one coming there to-day. You see, there
are only seven witnesses - sometimes we have a lot more than
that."
And he kindly put her on a now empty bench opposite
to where the seven witnesses stood and sat with their eager, set
faces, ready - aye, more than ready - to play their part.
For a moment every eye in the court was focused on
Mrs. Bunting, but soon those who had stared so hungrily, so
intently, at her, realised that she had nothing to do with the
case. She was evidently there as a spectator, and, more fortunate
than most, she had a "friend at court," and ,so was able to sit
comfortably, instead of having to stand in the crowd.
But she was not long left in isolation. Very soon
some of the important-looking gentlemen she had seen downstairs
came into the court, and were ushered over to her seat while two or
three among them, including the famous writer whose face was so
familiar that it almost seemed to Mrs. Bunting like that of a
kindly acquaintance, were accommodated at the reporters' table.
"Gentlemen, the Coroner."
The jury stood up, shuffling their feet, and then
sat down again; over the spectators there fell a sudden
silence.
And then what immediately followed recalled to Mrs.
Bunting, for the first time, that informal little country inquest
of long ago.
First came the "Oyez! Oyez!" the old Norman-French
summons to all whose business it is to attend a solemn inquiry into
the death - sudden, unexplained, terrible - of a fellow-being.
The jury - there were fourteen of them - all stood
up again. They raised their hands and solemnly chanted together the
curious words of their oath.
Then came a quick, informal exchange of sentences
'twixt the coroner and his officer.
Yes, everything was in order. The jury had viewed
the bodies - he quickly corrected himself - the body, for,
technically speaking, the inquest just about to be held only
concerned one body.
And then, amid a silence so absolute that the
slightest rustle could be heard through the court, the coroner - a
clever-looking gentleman, though not so old as Mrs. Bunting thought
he ought to have been to occupy so important a position on so
important a day - gave a little history, as it were, of the
terrible and mysterious Avenger crimes.
He spoke very dearly, warming to his work as he went
on.
He told them that he had been present at the inquest
held on one of The Avenger's former victims. "I only went through
professional curiosity," he threw in by way of parenthesis, "little
thinking, gentlemen, that the inquest on one of these unhappy
creatures would ever be held in my court."
On and on, he went, though he had, in truth, but
little to say, and though that little was known to every one of his
listeners.
Mrs. Bunting heard one of the older gentlemen
sitting near her whisper to another: "Drawing it out all he can;
that's what he's doing. Having the time of his life, evidently!"
And then the other whispered back, so low that she could only just
catch the words, "Aye, aye. But he's a good chap - I knew his
father; we were at school together. Takes his job very seriously,
you know - he does to-day, at any rate."
***
She was listening intently, waiting for a word, a
sentence, which would relieve her hidden terrors, or, on the other
hand, confirm them. But the word, the sentence, was never
uttered.
And yet, at the very end of his long peroration, the
coroner did throw out a hint which might mean anything - or
nothing.
"I am glad to say that we hope to obtain such
evidence to-day as will in time lead to the apprehension of the
miscreant who has committed, and is still committing, these
terrible crimes."
Mrs. Bunting stared uneasily up into the coroner's
firm, determined-looking face. What did he mean by that? Was there
any new evidence - evidence of which Joe Chandler, for instance,
was ignorant? And, as if in answer to the unspoken question, her
heart gave a sudden leap, for a big, burly man had taken his place
in the witness-box - a policeman who had not been sitting with the
other witnesses.
But soon her uneasy terror became stilled. This
witness was simply the constable who had found the first body. In
quick, business-like tones he described exactly what had happened
to him on that cold, foggy morning ten days ago. He was shown a
plan, and he marked it slowly, carefully, with a thick finger. That
was the exact place - no, he was making a mistake - that was the
place where the other body had lain. He explained apologetically
that he had got rather mixed up between the two bodies - that of
Johanna Cobbett and Sophy Hurtle.
And then the coroner intervened authoritatively:
"For the purpose of this inquiry," he said, "we must, I think, for
a moment consider the two murders together."
After that, the witness went on far more
comfortably; and as he proceeded, in a quick monotone, the full and
deadly horror of The Avenger's acts came over Mrs. Bunting in a
great seething flood of sick fear and - and, yes, remorse.
Up to now she had given very little thought - if,
indeed, any thought - to the drink-sodden victims of The Avenger.
It was he who had filled her thoughts, - he and those who were
trying to track him down. But now? Now she felt sick and sorry she
had come here to-day. She wondered if she would ever be able to get
the vision the policeman's words had conjured up out of her mind -
out of her memory.
And then there, came an eager stir of excitement and
of attention throughout the whole court, for the policeman had
stepped down out of the witness-box, and one of the women witnesses
was being conducted to his place.
Mrs. Bunting looked with interest and sympathy at
the woman, remembering how she herself had trembled with fear,
trembled as that poor, bedraggled, common-looking person was
trembling now. The woman had looked so cheerful, so - so well
pleased with herself till a minute ago, but now she had become very
pale, and she looked round her as a hunted animal might have
done.
But the coroner was very kind, very soothing and
gentle in his manner, just as that other coroner had been when
dealing with Ellen Green at the inquest on that poor drowned
girl.
After the witness had repeated in a toneless voice
the solemn words of the oath, she began to be taken, step by step,
though her story. At once Mrs. Bunting realised that this was the
woman who claimed to have seen The Avenger from her bedroom window.
Gaining confidence, as she went on, the witness described how she
had heard a long-drawn, stifled screech, and, aroused from deep
sleep, had instinctively jumped out of bed and rushed to her
window.
The coroner looked down at something lying on his
desk. "Let me see! Here is the plan. Yes - I think I understand
that the house in which you are lodging exactly faces the alley
where the two crimes were committed?"
And there arose a quick, futile discussion. The
house did not face the alley, but the window of the witness's
bedroom faced the alley.
"A distinction without a difference," said the
coroner testily. "And now tell us as clearly and quickly as you can
what you saw when you looked out."
There fell a dead silence on the crowded court. And
then the woman broke out, speaking more volubly and firmly than she
had yet done. "I saw 'im!" she cried. "I shall never forget it -
no, not till my dying day!" And she looked round defiantly.
Mrs. Bunting suddenly remembered a chat one of the
newspaper men had had with a person who slept under this woman's
room. That person had unkindly said she felt sure that Lizzie Cole
had not got up that night - that she had made up the whole story.
She, the speaker, slept lightly, and that night had been tending a
sick child. Accordingly, she would have heard if there had been
either the scream described by Lizzie Cole, or the sound of Lizzie
Cole jumping out of bed.
"We quite understand that you think you saw the" -
the coroner hesitated - "the individual who had just perpetrated
these terrible crimes. But what we want to have from you is a
description of him. In spite of the foggy atmosphere about which
all are agreed, you say you saw him distinctly, walking along for
some yards below your window. Now, please, try and tell us what he
was like."