She was the last witness for the prosecution, and she seemed to be final in more senses than one. Means, motive, opportunity, premeditation—all four seemed to be proved. Mr. Popesgrove added the whole thing up in his mind. A hard-hearted and cruel woman, who disliked the sickly boy. A fortune for her if he died. The means to hand, scattered all over the garden path. And not only was it proved that she secured the information on how to use it, but she was seen in the room when the doctoring of the food must have been done. Short of an actual eyewitness of her poisoning the child, there could be no stronger evidence.
He looked at his notes and checked them over, almost in the same way as he was accustomed to check over all the restaurant accounts. The result seemed to come to the same every time.
4
Yet Sir Ikey, as he rose, seemed quietly confident. Quietly, indeed, was hardly the word; he was if anything flamboyant. He spread his hands on the table in front of him, leaning on them, until they splayed out like claws, he fixed his eyeglass to one side of his long nose and let his glance travel slowly along the jury, pass by the judge and settle on the pink plump upturned face of Mr. Proudie. He looked rather like an eagle which had perceived an unusually fat and helpless rabbit, and, sure of its prey, was pleasurably hesitating before it swooped.
“As I listened,” he said at last, “to my learned friend, I admired his skill more than I had ever done before. As he spoke, and as he marshalled his evidence, I myself believed for a moment that he had a case. You may not know, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, but we who follow this little-loved profession of the law have to know, that my learned friend is reputed one of the most dangerous persons at the Bar. His skill at presenting his case is almost legendary: he can make his bricks not merely without straw, but without clay and without water. To-day, indeed, he has nothing but straws, and these are few, damaged, and pointing in the wrong direction.”
Dr. Holmes sniggered, and the jury began to thaw.
“I shall call but little evidence, and I propose to explain to you why. Briefly, my reason is that most of the evidence that you have heard answers itself. This you will see on reflection. Perhaps, at any rate before you have heard what I have to say, you may have a residue of suspicion in your mind. But his lordship will tell you that that is not enough. Suspicion is bound to be spread around after so shocking an incident as the death of this unfortunate boy. So widespread was it, and so reckless were the tongues that wagged, that it was found necessary to change the venue of this trial to London, as I expect most of you know, for the especial purpose of securing an impartial trial.
“Nor is it necessary, as his lordship will confirm to you, for the defence to prove that someone else committed a murder, and to name who that someone else was. It is for the prosecution to prove firstly that there was a murder, and secondly that my client committed it. Both of these things, as is becoming clear to you, I hope, it has failed to do. And even had it put up a plausible case on both these points, the whole structure would collapse were we able to prove that other persons could very well have done the murder—had both opportunity and motive. This we can do.
“Let me deal briefly with the most obvious point. Was there a murder at all? I am far from satisfied on this point, and so I expect are you. You all, I think, perceived the demeanour of Dr. Parkes in the box, and I hope you noticed the conclusion to be drawn from his admission. For well over twenty-four hours he failed to realize the condition of his patient and applied remedies which were wholly unsuited to the case. He did not call in another doctor until the unfortunate child was literally in extremis and all help was vain. For all practical purposes—I am aware this is a harsh statement, but it is my duty to speak plainly—for all practical purposes the boy was unattended until the moment of death. Had a more competent doctor been in charge of the case, who can say what the result would have been? I believe that most of you feel, as I do, that but for this accident Philip Arkwright might well be alive to-day.”
Sir Ikey spoke clearly and simply, not raising his voice or using the deep booming tones that sometimes confounded over-confident witnesses. He next turned to Mrs. Rodd. He showed that she had an excellent motive. Four thousand pounds to herself and her husband—vast wealth to persons in their position. The salad was made by her, and thrown away by her. She did not need to go into the dining-room to doctor the dressing—it was the product of her hands and she could have done what she chose with it at almost any time. No doubt she had washed the salad, as the maid Ada said. What of it? She would not serve the lettuce dirty, in any case. Had she been going to mix ivy dust in the dressing, that would certainly have been done when the salad was washed and ready.
“Then there is the incident of the discovery of this cutting, which is supposed to bear hardly upon my client. Ladies and gentlemen, what a peculiar story this is! Have you ever heard an odder one? Let us ask, first of all, where it came from. The answer is: No one knows. You heard the newsagent. First of all he or his wife thought it was Mrs. Rodd’s husband. But now—after weeks have passed in which the whole neighbourhood has been one mass of seething, unreflecting prejudice against my client—he has decided that it was ordered by her. However, even now he will not swear. He just thinks it might be so. A worthless statement—a mere opinion—nothing whatever. In cold fact, we don’t know who acquired this paper. It might be any one—Mr. Rodd, Mrs. Rodd, even Mr. Gillingham, the inquisitive teacher.
“And how was it discovered? I wish I had been there. I listened to Mr. Gillingham, as you did, and I marvelled. Here is a considerable library, books of all kinds and many of them. He denies that he snooped around. No, he goes straight to the shelves, and out of all those hundreds of books picks down one, a little-used one, which happens to contain this peculiarly convenient document. How did he come to see it? He doesn’t know. Was it thrust forward on the shelf a little, so as to attract his attention? Was an edge of the document enticingly poking out? Had it been arranged there—planted, I believe is the word—so as to be certain to be found by the first comer? ‘Don’t know, don’t know, don’t know’—that is all he can say; and all we can say.
“What we know amounts to precisely this. Some person, whose identity is quite unknown, purchased a copy of the East Essex Monitor, part of which was found, for reasons which are not explained, in a book where it had been for a time whose length is quite uncertain. What does that mean, gentlemen? It means this and no more: that any one—any one at all—who visited that house may have known that a sufficient dose of ivy dust was a dangerous thing. It is not proved that every one in the house did know this. It is not proved that other persons did not know this already. For example, Rodd the gardener, who presumably knows all the local lore of herbs and plants. Or his wife, who prepared the salad. Either of these may have known anyway.
“What do we know about this? I asked. The answer seems to be: we know nothing at all.
“I might well leave the question at that, and ask you to acquit my client without further ado. But though it is no part of my duty to find the guilty person for the prosecution, the probable solution of the mystery seems to me so evident that I feel it my duty to touch upon it. It may be that no crime was committed. I cannot, despite the evidence of the police-sergeant, feel certain in my own mind that the ivy dust which is presumed to have been in the salad did not come there accidentally. But let us suppose that there has been a crime. Then, in that case, there is but little doubt that the responsible person is now beyond our reach.
“Let us look over the conditions in this house at the time of the tragedy, and see if we can find where there was any sufficient anger or hatred to lead to so awful an act. We have the two Rodds, whose behaviour may have been equivocal, but whom we will lay aside for the moment. We have the aunt, whose whole record is one of continual anxiety over her nephew’s health. Dr. Parkes remembered very little, but of one thing he was quite sure. He was certain that she was continually calling him in and w
atching over the boy’s condition. The prosecution, I may point out to you, have given no explanation of why this lady, who admittedly had for years worried—more than worried, fussed over Philip Arkwright’s health, should suddenly have destroyed the life she had so anxiously preserved. And then we have the boy himself—sickly, abnormal, and given to sudden rages. He has gone where we cannot question him, and only Dr. Parkes, whose qualifications you will have estimated for yourselves, attended him and can report in detail. But I shall lay before you some expert interpretation of his state of mind; so far as that can be deduced from the medical evidence of the witnesses for the prosecution. I shall not produce any other evidence: I propose, for scrupulous fairness, to use only the evidence of my opponents.”
Sir Ikey did not mention that this was no real concession, as the medical witnesses for the prosecution were not only the only possible witnesses, but had given evidence that was very suitable for his purpose.
“In this small household, a minor tragedy occurs. The boy’s pet is destroyed. I hope no one of you is going to judge Mrs. van Beer harshly for this. Say that she was over-officious, if you like. If every parent or guardian who is over-officious is to be considered a criminal, then our courts will work overtime. At least, Dr. Parkes has admitted that she may well have considered his words to constitute a more precise instruction than he meant at the time. She may have been inconsiderate, but one thing admits of no doubt—she believed that in taking this action she was safeguarding the child’s health. She may have been harsh; I do not think she was. She may have been unwise; in view of the terrible but unforeseeable results I believe that she herself would admit she was. But what is quite certain is this, that she was moved by nothing but a meticulous and anxious thought for her charge’s welfare.
“Well, right or wrong, she has the pet destroyed. The highly strung, unhappy child is shocked by the death of the animal to whom he was devoted. You have heard Dr. Parkes, Mrs. Rodd, and the tutor all confirm the unhealthy, passionate adoration which he had for it. And what happens then? He finds, as anybody else might have done, a cutting in the reading-room which shows him a way to revenge. He will punish this too-strict aunt who has taken away his darling. His small mind temporarily unbalanced with anger, he gathers some ivy dust and scatters it secretly over the food, probably over the salad. He eats very little himself but sees with glee his aunt, the destined victim, make her usual healthy meal. So, he will suffer some little inconveniences and she will die.
“But alas for the plans of eleven-year old plotters! Philip had not allowed for the reaction of the human body. His aunt’s frame rejected the poison—she had eaten but too heartily from his point of view, and her healthy stomach threw back the deadly dose. He had eaten much less and his frame was in a morbid condition and less able to tell good from evil. The poison stayed in his body. A child’s memory is very uncertain and very irregular. It is quite likely, as those of you who have families will agree, that by the afternoon he had wholly forgotten his carefully planned revenge on his aunt. When he first felt the pangs of the poison he may have considered them only to be an attack of his recurrent stomach trouble. If he did remember, he was unable to tell any one, for, young though he was, he must have realized he had done a very wrong thing. He may have thought that the doctor in any case would know what to do. I think we may presume that he had a child’s all-embracing and implicit faith in his family practitioner. Nor was he unjustified, for had he been treated properly I am convinced he might well have survived.
“All this, you will say, is plausible—it is even probable. But it is reconstruction, it is not ascertained fact. Have you any direct evidence? Ladies and gentlemen, we have. Philip Arkwright himself left behind direct evidence of his desires and intentions, as clear and definite as a written confession for those who can read it.
“That evidence, you may be surprised to hear, depends upon the name of the rabbit. You may have wondered why I was so insistent on establishing the exact form of that curious name, out of the unwilling mouths of hostile witnesses. You are about to hear the reason. And to explain this I am putting in as evidence this book.”
He showed the jury a small blue book whose title they could not read.
“It is not an unused book which mysteriously leapt out to the hand of an inquisitive visitor. It is a much-used book from the late Sir Henry’s library, which occupied a prominent place on a low shelf. It was found by the solicitor for the defence, a highly respected gentleman by the name of Archibald Henderson, in the presence of the witnesses, whom you will hear. And he found it because he was looking for it.
“However, this is enough of my remarks. You need to hear the evidence, and I will call it.”
5
Sir Ikey, correctly judging that none of the jurors would have read “Saki”, chose to adjourn the explanation of the rabbit’s name while he presented the evidence of Dr. Richard Taylor, of Harley Street, who had made a fortune as a “straight” doctor and taken up psychiatry afterwards. He combined the enthusiasm of a devotee (for he earnestly believed Dr. Freud to be the greatest man of the century) with the smooth authoritative manner which had brought him to the top of his original profession. His book Masochism and International Politics had had a success sufficient to convince him that he could handle any ideological or political group. Young Mr. Allen, the poet-Socialist on the jury, had read it and believed it. Whatever Dr. Taylor said was assured beforehand of his assent if it was in any way possible.
Sir Ikey purred at the doctor. He ascertained that he had heard all the evidence given at that trial concerning Philip’s state of mind. He had also read all the evidence at the inquest. He had had the pleasure of prolonged conversations with Dr. Parkes. Had he formed an opinion concerning the mental state of the deceased child? He had. Was that opinion consistent with the possibility of the boy having conceived a plan to poison his aunt in the manner suggested? It was. Perhaps Dr. Taylor would be willing to explain to the jury more in detail the child’s probable condition of mind? He would.
Dr. Taylor had undistinguished features, but very shiny black hair, smoothed and greased back from his forehead. His manner was that of one explaining simply to men who were his intellectual equals a matter of which they happened merely not to know the facts, but which they would at once understand when he had given them the original, relatively unimportant historical data. He used repeatedly words that they half-understood, like “complex”, or which they did not understand at all, like “trauma”; but he used them invariably in sentences of the simplest construction which were apart from them composed wholly of common Anglo-Saxon derivatives. They felt in each case that they had nearly understood what he said, and that if they had only paid more attention to the context they would have understood it altogether.
He described the causation and symptoms of fetichism and their possible bearing on this case. He concluded that on the whole they had no direct bearing, but that certain analogies and certain behaviour-patterns might be held in mind, as illustrations and not as proof. He mentioned the Oedipus complex, with an apologetic lift of the eyebrows, as of one who has to introduce hackneyed and misused quotations into a sophisticated audience; he reminded them that owing to the death of the parents a transference of emotions to the aunt might be legitimately presumed. He found no immediately visible evidences of schizophrenia, but he would not dismiss it wholly. The relations of the boy to the rabbit, on the other hand, gave incontrovertible proof of his masochism.
The last statement seemed to be connected with Philip’s semi-deification of his pet, but the jury as a whole was by now too confused to analyse its impression. The boy was loopy, as Miss Victoria Atkins noted, and that was the main thing. Not so Mr. Proudie: he thought that he had discovered a flaw in the defence’s case which he could prise open into a wide split. He took his chance as soon as the time came for cross-examination.
“You said, Dr. Taylor, that you deduced evidences of mas
ochism in Philip Arkwright?”
“I did.”
“You indicated, did you not, that this was really the guiding indication to his behaviour? I am sorry if I do not use the correct technical terms: I hope I make myself clear, at least.”
“Yes, I think that that is more or less the meaning of what I said.”
“Masochism, as I understand it, is an unhealthy desire to submit to suffering?”
“Unhealthy is a question-begging term. Are you able to define mental health? I am not, and I fancy I have had considerable experience. But if you will substitute the word ‘pathological’ I will not object to your statement.”
“Very well: pathological. That does not affect my point. The child, you say, wished to be dominated, wished to be oppressed, even to the extent of worshipping a rabbit.” (Mr. Proudie’s tones expressed the contempt of the plain man for such high-faluting chatter; his eyebrows invited the jury to join him in the ranks of men of simple good sense.) “Possibly, possibly. But I am wondering how you reconcile the later events with your hypothesis. Sir Isambard has suggested—I say suggested, for no trace of evidence has yet appeared—that the boy plotted to poison his aunt and by some mistake poisoned himself. This is not the act of a masochist—not the act of one who desires to be the victim of suffering. It is the act of the very opposite. In the words of your own profession—we are not wholly illiterate in this court, Dr. Taylor,” (Mr. Proudie’s archness caused a slight flush to appear on the doctor’s face) “—in the words of the average psychological essay, it is the act of a sadist. The precise opposite of a masochist, is it not, Doctor?”
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