by Andrew Garve
The final speech for the prosecution was fair but deadly. The Attorney General began by dealing at length with the defense submission that the similarity of the two plots had been a coincidence. It was conceivable, he said, that there could be a considerable measure of coincidence in plot and treatment when two stories were based on the same actual event, but in the view of the prosecution it was inconceivable that there could be such identity in detail as existed in this case. It was, in the accused’s own phrase, “against common sense.’’ The jury had had the opportunity to read for themselves both Galloway’s book and Shaw’s manuscript and on this vital question of coincidence they would have to make up their own minds. He would only draw their attention again to certain specific passages—and here he quoted, at length, four or five passages from each work. He did not believe, he said, that any reasonable person could consider such similarities a matter of coincidence.
The defense, arguing in favor of coincidence, had said that Galloway would never have dared to gamble on getting away with the theft of the plot, but that was very open to question. Men took enormous risks for money. Galloway, a man with a great reputation in his own line, might well have doubted whether Shaw, an unknown amateur, would be able to bring an allegation of plagiarism home to him in any effective way. For one thing, the cost of the litigation involved would almost certainly have been more than Shaw could afford and Galloway would have known that. Considering Galloway’s urgent need for a big success, the gamble might well have seemed worth while. It had also been argued that, if Galloway had in fact stolen the plot, he would have made more changes in it. But major changes might well have destroyed its value and minor ones would not have sufficed to prevent Shaw from making his charge of plagiarism. Galloway might well have said to himself, “In for a penny, in for a pound.’’
Even if coincidence were the explanation of the similar plots, which the prosecution did not for a moment accept, the case against Galloway remained. The defense had suggested that if Galloway had not stolen Shaw’s plot it was unlikely that he would have killed Shaw, but there was Galloway’s own admission, made in his statement to the police, that he had doubted if he would be able to convince other people of his innocence in the matter of the plot. And if he’d thought that he couldn’t convince others and that his reputation and livelihood were in jeopardy, he had had a very strong motive for murder. In this connection, the defense had argued that Galloway would never have taken the risk of following and killing a man whom he had such a strong motive for killing, when the motive would probably emerge. But that sort of risk existed in almost every case of murder and it had certainly not prevented determined men from killing in the past. In any case, it was far from certain that the association between Galloway and Shaw would ever have been discovered but for the accident of the quarrel on the boat being overheard. Earlier meetings seemed to have been arranged very discreetly and Galloway might well have thought he was safe.
The jury would have been asking themselves, the Attorney General continued, just how the long and detailed statement which Galloway had volunteered to the police fitted into the prosecution’s case. The defense had called it “the work of an impetuous and innocent man.’’ It might equally well have been the work of a clever and guilty one. The substance of it would have emerged in any event, sooner or later, from other sources, or from questioning in court, and there were obvious advantages in getting one’s blow in first. Up to a point it had certainly been plausible—but perhaps too plausible. It should not be forgotten that Galloway was a skillful and practiced writer of fiction! As a writer, moreover, he would naturally have been in a position to present his case in a striking and persuasive way. Even so, he had failed to explain, in any convincing manner, how his own story and Shaw’s had come to be so very much alike.
Finally, the Attorney General recapitulated the stark facts. Galloway had had the opportunity and the motive. A fierce quarrel had taken place. Shaw had left Galloway’s boat, breathing threats. Galloway had known that his reputation, his career, everything, was at stake. The night had been dark, the towpath quiet. A lethal weapon was lying handy. So was the river. Twelve hours later, Shaw had been found dead, murdered. In all the circumstances, could any reasonable man be asked to turn away from Galloway and try to conjure up some alternative murderer, some phantom figure, from the emptiness? The prosecution maintained that the case against Galloway was proved beyond any reasonable doubt.
The defense wound up briefly. Olsen could do little but repeat the arguments he had already used, and make a strong appeal. Stressing again the angle of coincidence, he said, “I implore you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, not to close your minds to the possibility. Coincidence is a strange thing. How often do you read of a coincidence in real life, in the newspapers, or even perhaps experience one yourselves, and say, ‘If that were put in a book, no one would believe it? Can you be certain that this is not such a case? I ask you to consider this question most earnestly.’’
Finally, the judge. His summing up was heavily against the possibility of coincidence. He, too, read passages from the two stories. He, too, reminded the jury that they must approach the matter as reasonable men, as men of common sense. Was it credible that, by pure chance, such similarities could occur in two works, not once but four or five times? If not, then the inescapable conclusion was that Galloway had stolen Shaw’s plot. And just as the prosecution’s case would be weakened (though not entirely destroyed) if it could be accepted that the similarities were coincidental and that Galloway had spoken the truth on that matter, so it would be strengthened, and greatly strengthened, if the opposite were accepted.
At the same time, the jury must give due weight to several points raised by the defense which seemed to throw doubt on whether a man like Galloway would have acted as he was accused of acting. In spite of what the prosecution had said, they might think it surprising that Galloway had failed to make greater changes in the story he was supposed to have stolen. They might think that the way he appeared to have underestimated the risk of later trouble with Shaw—if he had stolen the story—had been astonishingly reckless. However, they would bear in mind, too, that if murderers always acted with proper caution and foresight they would probably never get to the point of murder at all. The jury might well decide that so much had been at stake for Galloway as to override ordinary caution. A little homily followed on the subject of circumstantial evidence, which could be as good and conclusive, the judge said, as the evidence of actual witnesses if it ruled out, in the eyes of any reasonable person, all other theories or possibilities—and the summing up ended.
The jury had been out for ninety minutes before returning with their verdict of “Guilty.’’ I wondered why it had taken them so long.
Chapter Five
It was two o’clock before I got to bed, and then I didn’t sleep. I lay for hours thinking about the case and the evidence, and about Galloway’s incredible folly. I thought how different he must be in his secret heart and mind from Mary’s own conception of him. I was too shaken and confused to face up yet to the psychological problems of being in love with a murderer’s daughter, but I was growing much more aware of them. My impetuous assurances that nothing had changed now seemed dreadfully facile. Mary was right, of course—everything had changed. For her much more than for me. When I thought of her standing by helplessly through the long, frightening months, watching the shadow creeping up on her father and herself, I no longer felt any surprise that she’d seemed to regard me almost as a stranger. She was a totally different woman, now, from the carefree girl I’d met. Our brief romance must seem a fading irrelevancy. Her harrowing experience, unshared by me, had set her apart. It was out of the question that we could just take up the threads again where we’d dropped them. It might well be impossible to take them up at all. It certainly would be if Mary continued to believe her father innocent, for over this, the most vital thing in her life, there’d be no meeting ground. Yet I desperately wanted to see h
er again, and I knew that I had to.
I rang her up first thing in the morning and asked if I might come. She said I could and I drove down to Kew about ten. Her manner wasn’t quite so distant as it had been when I’d left her the previous night. Then, she hadn’t seemed to care very much whether I read up on the case or not, or what I thought about it. Now, as she turned to me in the sitting room, she searched my face as she must have searched the faces of the jury when they’d filed back into the box—hoping against hope. I felt thankful that this time the verdict mattered less.
“Well,’’ she said, “what did you make of it?’’
There was no point in pretending. I said, “The evidence is pretty strong, isn’t it?’’
“It’s absolutely overwhelming.’’
I looked at her in surprise. “You agree about that …? Then how is it you can believe he didn’t do it?’’
“I know him, that’s all.’’
I nodded slowly. There didn’t seem to be any useful comment I could make on that.
“I expect you’re thinking I’m all heart and no head,’’ she said, “and that I just won’t face facts. But surely the way a man is made up is a fact, too?’’
“It’s not always a demonstrable one,’’ I said.
“It’s still a fact to anyone who knows him. And I know that my father couldn’t have done what they said he did.’’
“You mean he’s incapable of killing anyone?’’
“I didn’t say that—he’s impulsive and fairly quicktempered and I suppose if he was sufficiently provoked, he might lose control of himself and go for someone bald-headed. Anyone might do that.… What I’m absolutely sure about is that he’d never creep up behind a man in the dark and hit him with a hammer.’’
“It’s not a very attractive idea, I agree.’’
“He couldn’t do it, I know he couldn’t. And I’m equally sure that he’d never steal anyone else’s plot.’’
“Not even if he was desperate for money?’’ I said.
“He wasn’t as desperate as all that. The thing is, he never bothered very much about money—when he had it, he spent it freely, quite often on me or on entertaining his friends or just giving it away—and when he hadn’t he earned some more. He worked awfully hard, you know—that picture the prosecution drew of a sort of rich playboy who did a bit of work occasionally couldn’t have been more untrue. That’s why he wasn’t desperate, because he knew he could work hard and get over any temporary jam. Even if he’d had to sell his boat he’d have bought another one later on.… Anyway, all that’s beside the point. If he’d been on his uppers he wouldn’t have stolen anyone else’s plot.’’
“Did you know much about his work?’’ I said. “Did he talk to you about it?’’
“Of course he did. Not when he was actually writing—he’d shut himself up in his flat or on the boat for weeks on end, then, and I’d scarcely see him at all. And he very rarely told me about his plots beforehand because that would have lessened the impact when he showed me the final story. But as soon as the book was typed he’d always bring it straight along to me and he wouldn’t be able to rest until I’d read it and discussed it with him and then as often as not he’d go away and make changes. He was terrifically thorough and conscientious. He never supposed he was writing great works of literature, but he really enjoyed turning out a well-carpentered job, the best he could do. He was a craftsman and a very fine one—he took genuine pride in his work. That’s why it’s so utterly fantastic to think he could have taken over someone else’s half-baked ideas. He’d never, never have done it.’’
She spoke with such certainty and passion that I could scarcely meet her gaze. My own skepticism felt like treachery. I drew on my pipe and began to fill it. After a moment I said, “Well, I’m wide open to conviction, Mary—but what about the evidence?’’
“Someone else must have killed Shaw,’’ she said. “It was just a horrible bit of bad luck that Daddy happened to see him and quarrel with him that night.’’
“What about the two plots …? It does seem to me a tremendous amount turns on how those two stories came to be so much alike, because if your father did use Shaw’s plot, it strengthens the murder accusation enormously.… Do you think it was coincidence?’’
She was silent.
“Of course,’’ I said, “I haven’t read either of the stories yet—that’s something I’ve got to do. But judging by the bits the prosecution quoted, I’d have thought coincidence was pretty well ruled out.’’
Mary nodded. “I’ve read both stories, over and over. During the trial I tried to buoy myself up with the coincidence idea, because there didn’t seem to be anything else, but I don’t think I ever really believed it. And I don’t now. I think it’s out, too.’’
“Well,’’ I said unhappily, “we’ve got to be logical. If it wasn’t coincidence, and if Shaw didn’t copy your father’s plot, then your father must have copied Shaw’s.’’
“I prefer to be logical the other way round,’’ Mary said. “If it wasn’t coincidence, and Daddy didn’t copy Shaw’s plot, then Shaw must have copied Daddy’s. Just as Daddy believed in the first place.’’
“But that’s ruled out absolutely by the letter Blundell sent to Shaw,’’ I said. “Unless, of course,’’ I added, “Blundell’s letter was a forgery—and I assume the defense looked into that. They certainly seemed to take it at its face value at the trial.’’
“It wasn’t a forgery,’’ Mary said.
“That was gone into, was it?’’
“Yes, very thoroughly. The prosecution gave us a photostat copy of the letter, as well as letting us see the original, and Daddy’s lawyers got an expert to compare it with some other letters that Blundell had happened to write to Daddy ages ago. It was genuine, all right—the expert hadn’t any doubt at all.… I’ve still got the stuff here if you’d like to see it.’’
“I would,’’ I said.
Mary crossed to a bureau and produced the photostat and the letters and a large magnifying glass that she’d obviously used before. There were two letters from Blundell to Galloway, dated about three years earlier. I glanced quickly through their contents. They seemed to be a private follow-up to some public controversy that both men had taken part in on the subject of state aid for writers. Blundell had been strongly for it, Galloway strongly against it. Galloway had taken the line that if a writer couldn’t earn his living by writing, he should do some other job as well and not expect to be wet-nursed. Blundell had taken a poor view of that and in his second letter had accused Galloway, with surprising personal acrimony, of not being interested in what happened to his less fortunate colleagues now that he’d hit the jackpot himself. It wasn’t a very edifying correspondence!
I picked up the magnifying glass and, without any expectations, compared the two early letters with the photostat of the one that Blundell had sent to Shaw. I wasn’t an expert but I didn’t have to be. Worn typewriter letters are almost as individual as fingerprints and it was perfectly obvious that all the correspondence had been typed on the same typewriter. The signatures, too, were the same. Blundell had had a very self-conscious signature with a lot of flourishes, difficult to forge successfully. He’d used a fountain pen in each case, not a ball point, and the pressures of the up-and-down strokes were similar in all the signatures, with none of the breaks or hesitations that usually go with amateur forgery. The signature on the letter to Shaw was a bit more slapdash than the others and sloped away at an angle as though Blundell had penned it in a hurry, but it was unmistakably genuine. I examined the date on the letter to see if it had been altered or tampered with in any way but it hadn’t. I asked Mary about the paper Blundell had used for the letter to Shaw, because the photostat didn’t show the watermark clearly, and she said it had been a quarto typing paper called Egerton Bond. The paper used in the earlier correspondence was Waterton Bond, but there didn’t seem anything significant in the fact that Blundell had changed his paper. He
’d probably bought his stationery in small quantities from a local retailer and might easily have got a different sort each time.
I put the magnifying glass down. “Well, that seems conclusive enough,’’ I said. “The letter to Shaw is genuine. Blundell wrote it before your father began his story. Therefore, Shaw didn’t copy your father’s plot. I don’t see how we can get around that.’’
Mary sat down and lit a cigarette. “I can’t accept it,’’ she said.
“But, Mary …’’ I began, and broke off. It was useless to try and force logic down her throat. It was horrible that I should seem to be bullying her. If we were ever to establish a new relationship, I’d just have to be patient.
“There must be some explanation,’’ she said.
“What explanation can there be?’’
She hesitated. It was as though she had something on her mind that she was reluctant to put into words. Finally she said, “Something to do with Blundell, perhaps.’’
“How do you mean?’’
“Well, I’ve been thinking about it.… I think Blundell must have written his letter to Shaw after Daddy’s book was published, and pre-dated it.’’
I stared at her.
“That’s how my logic goes, anyhow,’’ she said defiantly. She went through it all again. “Daddy didn’t copy Shaw. Therefore Shaw copied Daddy, after Daddy’s book was published. Therefore Blundell couldn’t have seen Shaw’s story at the time he’s supposed to have written his letter to Shaw. Therefore he wrote it later, and pre-dated it.’’