by Q. Patrick
After this solid beginning, Mr. Whiteley touched on more dangerous ground—the references in Edith’s letters to specific poisons. He approached it obliquely.
Q. Had you some quinine on board?
A. Yes, I used it myself. It was in the form of five-grain tabloids, white.
Q. Did you ever give any of that quinine to Mrs. Thompson?
A. I did.
Q. Apart from that quinine, did you ever give her any other drug?
A. No, I did not.
Bywaters then referred to the newspaper clippings Mrs. Thompson had enclosed with her letters, claiming that they had been sent purely as objects of general interest. He described his various meetings with Edith during his second shore leave and claimed they had frequently discussed the possibility of a divorce, even though Edith was sure Percy would never agree to one and no actual effort to obtain one was made. Mr. Whiteley then returned to the letter, quoting from Exhibit 15.
Q. Consider this passage; “Darlint—you must do some thing this time—I’m not really impatient—but opportunities come and go by—they have to—because I’m helpless and I think and think and think—perhaps—it will never come again.”
“You must do something.” That was the ominous phrase that had to be explained away. For the first time Freddie faltered.
A. I hardly know what that refers to.
Q. “You must do something.” What was it she had been wanting you to do?
A. Take her away.
Freddie had recovered and Mr. Whiteley pressed hurriedly on.
Q. It is suggested by the prosecution that that means that you were going to do something in connection with her husband. Is there anything in that?
A. It is entirely wrong.
Q. Did she ask you more than once to take her away?
A. Oh, yes.
Q. Tell us about it.
A. Well, she appeared to want to go away but she used to get very hysterical. She was of a highly strung nature.
Once again Freddie in a groping way was trying to explain the whimsical complexities of Edith’s character. But here Mr. Justice Shearman, for whom whimsical complexities of character had no part in a court of law, made an interruption. It was the first of several such significant interruptions, which Edith’s other champion, Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett, must have anticipated and dreaded. Clearly showing impatience with such a quibbling, indecisive answer, the Judge injected:
“Did she ask you to take her away or not?”
Freddie’s reply to this was a curt “Oh, yes,” and from then on, according to eyewitness reports, his manner subtly changed. His answers, which before had been brief, were now almost laconic and seemed to have lost their air of conviction. His attitude, too, had taken on a certain defiance. We know that Frederick Bywaters was a touchy young man, quick to take offense. Superintendent Wensley had managed to alienate him almost at once. It is possible that Mr. Justice Shearman’s interruption both antagonized him and rattled him. Perhaps, at that point, he suddenly saw how hopeless it would be to describe what had really happened in front of a judge who seemed to demand nothing but a “yes” or “no” response from the witness box. And perhaps the task of explaining something so inexplicable as Peidi’s dream house had always been too great for Freddie’s limited powers of articulation and this was the first time it was beginning to show.
In any case, from that moment on, Freddie Bywaters withdrew into himself, and at a time when only the most eloquent interpretation of the letters would have altered the jury’s preconceived notion of them, his lackadaisical, almost stupid responses began steadily to lose him sympathy.
Having stated that the “plans and methods” mentioned in the letters referred to fruitless attempts to obtain a divorce or a separation, Freddie explained that he and Edith had finally decided that they might run away together if Freddie could find some employment for Edith abroad. During his next voyages, Freddie had looked for an opening for her in Bombay, Australia, and France. He described his third shore leave and his fourth departure, admitting that, during his leave, he had given Edith quinine.
Mr. Whiteley was then forced to tackle the passages in the letters that were possibly the most damaging of all to Mrs. Thompson. He referred to them as vaguely as possible.
Q. In Mrs. Thompson’s letter dated April first (Exhibit Seventeen) she talks about an electric light bulb. Did you pay any attention to that at all?
A. No. I think she was trying to put herself in the same place as Bella Donna in the book “Bella Donna.”
Q. Then in the letter of twenty-fourth April (Exhibit Eighteen) she says: “I used the ‘light bulb’ three times.”
Mr. Whiteley did not wait for an answer to that and quickly slurred it over with a question about another reference to “failure,” which Freddie monotonously explained as another failure to get a separation. In Mr. Whiteley’s next gambit we see why he had already made two references to the quinine. Now he read a most perilous passage from the letters and managed deftly to slip in the quinine as if it were obvious that quinine and only quinine was under consideration.
Q. Look at this passage: “We will wait eh darlint, and you’ll try and get some money and then we can go away and not worry about anybody or anything. You said it was enough for an elephant. Perhaps it was. But you don’t allow for the taste making only a small quantity to be taken. It sounded like a reproach, was it meant to be?” Just tell what the reference to the elephant and the quinine is.
A. Thirty grains of quinine taken by Mrs. Thompson. I told her it was enough for an elephant. I used to take ten grains when I was bad with malaria.
Mr. Whiteley’s phrasing of the question had been skillful, but Freddie’s reply that Mrs. Thompson had taken the quinine herself (why?) was obvious double talk and Mr. Whiteley hurried on to cover it up.
Q. Look at the letter of eighteenth May (Exhibit Twenty-two), which starts with a quotation from “Bella Donna.” [The quotation was: “It must be remembered. that digitalin is a cumulative poison and that the same dose, harmless if taken once, yet frequently repeated, becomes deadly.”] Did you attach any importance to that?
A. That it came from a book, that is all; it is a quotation.
That reply, both surly and evasive, was no help either, and Mr. Whiteley retreated to safer ground. He made Freddie describe his fourth shore leave with its interminable futile discussions about separation and divorce. Then, in a series of questions and answers, he showed that during his last absence Freddie had tried to bring both the correspondence and the relationship to an end for his own peace of mind and Edith’s. When he had established this fact, Mr. Whiteley stepped out once more into the firing line with this quotation:
“Why arn’t you sending me something—I wanted you to—you never do what I ask you darlint—you still have your own way always—If I don’t mind the risk why should you? Whatever happens cannot be any worse than this existence—looking forward to nothing and gaining only ashes and dust and bitterness.”
Q. What was it she asked you to send her?
A. More letters.
Q. Where did the risk come with regard to those letters?
A. The risk was people seeing them; she did not want anyone to see them; that was all. There was always the difficulty as to where these letters should be sent to.
Now these replies were almost shockingly stupid. It was impossible to believe that when Mrs. Thompson asked him to “send me something,” she had meant more letters. If she had wanted more letters, she would have asked for more letters. It was equally impossible to accept Freddie’s feeble explanation of the risk involved as the risk of the letters being seen.
To the court prepared to be sympathetic, Freddie Bywaters must by that time have begun to look not only like a liar, but like a very lame one.
Freddie’s passionate determination to say nothing that could possibly discredit Edith was admirable, but it was also disastrous, because it was hopelessly romantic and unaccompanied by common sense. It m
ust always be remembered that Edith was not on trial for having attempted or pretended to attempt to poison her husband. Although the prosecution was to make much of these points, they were essentially irrelevant. Edith Thompson was on trial for inciting Freddie to commit murder. If Freddie could have brought himself to admit that she had, in the letters, fancifully played with the dream of murdering Percy, he would not have damaged her cause. In fact, he could have helped it immensely. All the talk of poisons and light bulbs and risk and things to be sent could have been brushed away as figments of her imagination, which he had immediately recognized as such, and which, therefore, had had no inciting effect on him whatsoever.
But Freddie, although he had certainly been briefed on this line by Mr. Whiteley and had even tried at the beginning to follow it, had been incapable of sticking to it. As essentially respectable and literal as the members of the jury, he was quite incapable, when the moment came, of admitting that the girl he loved could, even fancifully, have asked him to send her poison. That was the point at which the Sir Galahad of Upper Norwood drew the line. Never would he admit, if there was any other conceivable explanation to be used, that the Lady in Distress had been a make believe murderess. It did not matter to him how farfetched and unconvincing an alternative explanation was, so long as there was one.
It is easy to brand this attitude as stupid. It is fairer perhaps to remember that Freddie was only twenty and in a predicament where his emotions inevitably overrode his intelligence. But, whether stupid or merely touching, his decision was fatal. By flatly denying the obvious fact that Peidi in her dream house had played, among other roles, the role of murderess, Freddie presented himself to the jury as a blatant and embarrassing liar.
It was almost time now for the court to adjourn. Mr. Whiteley, who must have realized how his case was collapsing, scurried back to safety, getting Freddie once again to repeat that he had tried unsuccessfully to bring the relationship to a close and establishing the fact that the lovers had made a compact to dedicate a five-year period to the attempt of obtaining a divorce or a separation.
With his eye on the clock, Mr. Whiteley brought up Freddie’s fifth and final shore leave, and asked:
Q. At that date had there been any agreement that any act of violence should be done to her husband either by her or by you?
A. No, nothing at all.
Q. In these letters that have been read, was there anything which incited you to do any act of violence to Mr. Thompson?
A. Nothing whatever.
Q. Had it any effect on your mind at all, so far as Mr. Thompson was concerned?
A. No, I never considered them much.
At that point Mr. Justice Shearman adjourned the court till the following morning. Mr. Whiteley had contrived, at least, to close on the good, safe note of a flat denial from Freddie. But the damage had been done.
Chapter Ten
It is perhaps sentimental to sympathize with the plight of a barrister. While his client stands to risk his life in a court battle, counsel risks no more than the loss of a forensic victory. But it is worth considering Mr. Whiteley’s predicament at this point, for it was so closely allied with the fate of Freddie Bywaters and of Edith Thompson too. During the first day of Freddie’s examination, the actual murder had not come up at all. The time had been spent on matters that had no real relevancy to Freddie’s position. It was the murder itself that Mr. Whiteley had to handle on the second day.
Although Freddie had admitted killing Percy Thompson and had signed a statement to that effect, there were still two possible ways of defending him. Freddie could be pictured as killing on a sudden, unpremeditated impulse, or he could be pictured as killing in self-defense.
The “sudden impulse” approach had much to be said for it. In the first place, it was probably true; in the second place, it was understandable by a jury and convincing. The bewildered, lovesick, jealous boy, convinced of Percy’s unkindness to Edith, frustrated by months of deadlock, had decided on an impulse to waylay the couple and force an issue. The sight of his rival, the realization of the utter futility of argument, the accidental possession of the knife all welded together in a moment of uncontrollable passion and, almost before he realized what had happened, the fatal blow had been struck.
That was a picture that rang true, and which, in so far as homicide can ever be sympathetic, was sympathetic. This defense, put forcibly to the jury with its unpremeditated aspect emphasized, had at least a chance of diminishing their verdict to one of manslaughter.
But here again we see how Mr. Whiteley was hindered by Freddie’s chivalry. If this approach were used, effective as it might be for Freddie, it would automatically tend to incriminate Edith, for, as the prosecution would be the first to point out, if Freddie had reached such a pitch of emotional tension, was not this purely and simply because Edith, in her letters, had incited him to it? That, beyond everything, was what Freddie was determined to avoid.
So, short of a bald admission of guilt with no condoning aspects whatever, the only approach remaining for Mr. Whiteley was the one of self-defense. It is unlikely that Mr. Whiteley, as a lawyer, could have favored this approach, but there it was. He was stuck with it.
When the court assembled for the third day and Freddie Bywaters returned to the witness box, this was the approach Mr. Whiteley was obliged to use.
He did what he could with it. Briskly he led Freddie through the incidents leading up to the murder, the final meetings with Mrs. Thompson at the tearoom, his own movements on the day before the crime, and then on to the day of the crime itself. Bywaters testified:
“After leaving Mrs. Thompson at Aldersgate Street station I went to Mr. Graydon’s house at Manor Park, and arrived there between six and half past six. I went there in order to get the tobacco that we had spoken about and I remained till eleven o’clock, sitting in the same room all the time. Mr. and Mrs. Graydon, Newenham Graydon [Edith’s brother], and Avis were in the room with me at different times. I had a pouch with me which Mrs. Thompson had given me as a present on the Monday. Both Mrs. and Miss Graydon noticed it. Mrs. Graydon said to me, ‘You have got a new pouch, Freddy. Was it a present?’ and I said, ‘Yes.’ And she said, ‘I expect the same girl gave you that as gave you the watch?’ (I had got a present of a watch from Mrs. Thompson, two voyages previously.) I said, ‘Yes, the same girl gave it me,’ and she said, ‘I know who it is, but I am not going to say. Never mind, we won’t argue about it. She is one of the best.’ I said, ‘There is none better.’”
It is interesting to note from these remarks quoted by Freddie that Mrs. Graydon must have known about and tacitly accepted the relationship between her daughter and Bywaters. Edith had never admitted this in the letters, for there was, of course, no suitable role in her romantic dream for a tolerant suburban mother. However, it is surprising that this fact was never elaborated in the trial.
Having shown Freddie in the warm light of the Graydons’ approval, Mr. Whiteley moved on to more ominous matters.
Q. Bywaters; I know it is difficult, but I want you to tell us in your own way what your feelings were towards Mrs. Thompson.
A. After that conversation, which happened just before I left, I was naturally thinking of Mrs. Thompson. I was thinking how unhappy she was, and I wished I could help her in some manner. That was the trend of my thoughts all the way to East Ham station. When I arrived at East Ham station I thought: I don’t want to go home; I feel too miserable. I want to see Mrs. Thompson; I want to see if I can help her. I turned round from East Ham station and walked in the direction of Ilford. I knew Mr. and Mrs. Thompson would be together, and I thought perhaps if I were to see them I might be able to make things a bit better. I had spoken to Mr. Thompson about this on two previous occasions only, in August and September of the previous year.
Q. What was your object in going to Ilford?
A. I went to see Thompson to come to an amicable understanding for a separation or divorce.
Q. Until that moment
, had you had any intention of going to Ilford at all that night?
A. Oh, no. It kind of came across me all of a sudden. I arrived at Ilford station and crossed over the railway bridge, turning down York Road into Belgrave Road. When I got into Belgrave Road I walked for some time, and some distance ahead I saw Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, their backs turned to me. They were walking along Belgrave Road towards Kensington Gardens, and Mrs. Thompson was on the inside of the pavement. I overtook them, and pushed Mrs. Thompson with my right hand, like that.
At this point, for the first time, Freddie Bywaters seemed carried away by his own story. Dramatically he pushed a hand forward, indicating how he had brushed Mrs. Thompson aside.
A. With my left hand I held Thompson, and caught him by the back of his coat and pushed him along the street, swinging him round. After I swung him round I said to him, “Why don’t you get a divorce or separation, you cad?”
Q. Where were your hands when you said that?
A. By my side; I had let go of him. He said, “I know that is what you want, but I am not going to give it you; it would make it too pleasant for both of you.” I said, “You take a delight in making Edie’s life a hell.” Then he said, “I’ve got her, I’ll keep her, and I’ll shoot you.” As he said that he punched me in the chest with his left fist, and I said, “Oh, will you?” and drew a knife and put it in his arm.
Q. Did he do anything before you took the knife out?
A. Yes, he punched me with his left hand and said, “I’ll shoot you,” going at the same time like that with his right hand. [Once again Freddie demonstrated.]
Q. Why did you draw your knife?
A. Because I thought I was going to be killed. After I put my knife into his arm there was a struggle. All the time struggling, I thought he was going to kill me. I thought he was going to shoot me if he had an opportunity, and I tried to stop him.
Q. We know of the wounds he received. Have you any recollection at all as to how the wounds at the back of the neck occurred?