“I think he would. There wouldn’t have been the same prejudice there, you see. And counsel would have lammed in the fact that the cyclist never gave him a chance – which was, of course, perfectly true. But that was a card which I was afraid to play, because of the prejudice.”
“I give you best,” said Jonah. “It was a very good win. Even better than it looks.”
“Why d’you say that?” said Daphne.
My cousin looked at me and smiled, and I smiled back.
“He said it, my darling, because he is very shrewd. I concentrated the Court’s attention upon the accident itself. I did my utmost to keep their eyes fixed upon that – because I was deadly afraid of one very awkward question.”
My sister leaned forward.
“What was that question, Boy?”
“Well, supposing somebody’d asked the chauffeur this – ‘You tried to save the man’s life by putting your foot right down. Why didn’t you try to save it by applying your brakes?’”
My sister clapped a hand to her mouth.
“Exactly,” said I.
“D’you know,” said Daphne, “it never occurred to me.”
“For the same reason,” said I, “that it didn’t occur to the jury. I kept your eyes on the accident all the time.”
“Talking of Coroners,” said Jonah, “what is ‘The Coroner of the Verge’?”
“‘The Coroner of the Verge’ was the Coroner of the Royal Household. I use the past tense, because I believe the old title is now no longer used. ‘Within the Verge’, originally meant ‘Within ten or twelve miles of the Sovereign’s Court’; but by the time of HM King Edward the Seventh, ‘The Verge’ had come to mean ‘The precincts of the Sovereign’s residence’. If anyone died in those precincts and a doctor felt unable to give a death certificate, an inquest was held by ‘The Coroner of the Verge’. The idea was, no doubt, to preserve the privacy of the Court. I think the office survives, but that its holder is now known as ‘The Coroner of the Queen’s Household’.
“I remember Montague Guest’s sudden death in King Edward the Seventh’s reign. He was a very nice man, a close friend of the King’s, and was staying at Sandringham. One day he went out with the guns, though he wasn’t shooting himself: and he had a heart attack and died on the spot. It was expected that an inquest would be held by The Coroner of the Verge: but Guest’s doctor came down to Sandringham and signed the death certificate, because he had been attending him for heart trouble for a long time and was not at all surprised by his sudden death. Walking over the fields had been too much for him.”
“Were you often in the Coroner’s Court?”
“Only about half a dozen times, I’m thankful to say. It’s atmosphere is unpleasant, as you may well believe.”
“Sordid,” said Berry.
“It’s not exactly sordid. At least, it’s no more sordid than that of some Metropolitan Police Courts I could name. But the raison d’être of the Coroner’s Court is death – sometimes a dreadful death. And many tears are shed there, and painful evidence is heard. The only occasion on which I didn’t notice the atmosphere was at the inquest on Belle Elmore.”
“The Crippen Case?”
“Yes. It was all so dramatic and there was so much excitement that it didn’t seem like a Coroner’s Court. Then again there were no relatives. Even Crippen wasn’t there.”
“Why not?”
“I think he was on the high seas. There was no reason why he should be there. Human remains had been found. Very well. It was the Coroner’s duty to inquire into the circumstances of that unfortunate person’s death. Whether or no Crippen was involved remained to be seen.”
“Did the jury return a verdict of wilful murder?”
“I think so. I can’t be sure. It didn’t make any difference, for he was already under arrest.”
“What evidence was given?”
“Well, the police spoke to the discovery of the remains. And the police-surgeon gave evidence. Pepper, the Home Office expert, may have been there. I think Mrs Nash gave evidence – she was a friend of Belle Elmore’s and was really responsible for setting the ball rolling. But for that courageous lady, nothing would have been done. Oh, and Le Neve’s landlady went into the box.”
“That’s interesting. What did she say?”
I hesitated. Then –
“Well, it’s all in the files of The Times, so I may as well say. She said that one night Le Neve ‘had the horrors’. What precisely she meant, you can guess as well as can I. A severe emotional outburst – tears and wailing and lamentation. Any way the landlady ministered to her, and after a long time she managed to calm her down. But she never forgot that night – or that painful scene. If you’ll forgive me, I’d like to leave it there.”
There was a little silence.
Then –
“This,” I said, “has remembered something else. It’s only a side-light on a certain cause célèbre, but it may interest you.
“A man was arraigned for wilful murder at the Old Bailey. He was defended by Marshall Hall and he was acquitted. He did very well in the box. He was very cool and collected. The first question Marshall Hall asked him was, ‘Did you murder Agatha Collins?’ I think the question surprised him as much as it did the Court, for he hesitated a moment. Then he shrugged his shoulders and simply said, ‘It’s absurd.’ Which was, of course, a very good answer – and a very much better one than Marshall Hall deserved. Most men would have just said, ‘No’, which would have cut no ice. I may say that ‘Agatha Collins’ was not the victim’s real name.”
“Why didn’t Marshall Hall deserve it?”
“Because in asking that question he took a great risk. And counsel for the defence shouldn’t take any risks. That was a question from which Marshall Hall could have hoped to gain nothing, which, coming from his own counsel, was quite liable to shake the defendant up. It might easily have provoked an outburst: and when a man loses control, he may say anything.
“You and I are so familiar with the procedure, that such a question wouldn’t worry us: but the average man knows nothing of courts of law: everything’s strange to him, and, if he is on trial for his life, formidable. In this case, he’d just been sworn – sworn on the Word of God to speak nothing but the truth. And then came this awful question…
“I remember that a member of the Bar who was in court said to me afterwards, ‘Did you see him hesitate? He didn’t know whether he ought to say yes or no.’”
Jonah began to shake with laughter.
“Yes, he was being funny. All the same, it was a very dangerous question. In this case it came right off. But Marshall Hall was lucky to get away with it.
“I’m well aware that I’m criticizing a man whose little finger was thicker than my loins, who was very kind to me. He was a splendid and famous advocate; and, as such, deserves to be remembered. But he was impetuous: and now and again, as I have said before, he would do a foolish thing. Still, he was in the front rank of his contemporaries, and not one of his successors has come anywhere near him.”
“What of Patrick Hastings?”
“He was not in the same street. Such was his reputation between the wars that I made a point of going to hear him in a cause célèbre… I believe he was very successful; but, quite honestly, he simply didn’t compare with Marshall Hall. With all his faults, Marshall Hall had a great and compelling personality, and I’m very proud to have known him.”
“Did the prisoner in a murder case always go into the box?”
“As a rule, he did. I mean, it looked damned bad if he didn’t. Even Crippen went into the box.”
“When you say it looked bad,” said Daphne…
“Well, it suggested very strongly that he wished to avoid being questioned by Counsel for the Crown. If you were accused of something you hadn’t done, would you be afraid of cross-examination? Of course, you wouldn’t. Your one idea would be to get into the witness-box. But if in fact you were guilty, the prospect of being cross-exami
ned by a trained lawyer in open court would be, er, less attractive.”
My sister covered her eyes.
“I should be frightened to death,” she said.
“Exactly. So you would have to decide whether to face that ordeal or to leave upon the jury’s minds the dangerous impression that you were afraid to face it. Your counsel would probably decide for you. Or, at least, advise you which to do, for the choice is really yours.
“Counsel for the Crown is not allowed to comment, in his final speech, on the fact that a prisoner has not gone into the box. But the Judge may – and in my time almost invariably did. After all, the Judge’s function is to direct the jury and unless the prisoner is, for instance, labouring under great emotion or a singularly stupid man, it is his duty to remind the jury that he has not seen fit to enter the box and deny the charge upon oath. But times have changed. I remember a case of murder which was tried long after I had left the Bar. Counsel for the defence must have passed sleepless nights, trying to make up his mind whether to call the prisoner or no. If ever there was a case in which the accused should have been called, it was this one. I mean, that stood out. Yet the material for cross-examination was – well, deadly. In the end his counsel decided not to call him – and if I may humbly say so, I think he was right. To be perfectly honest, I think he put his money on the Judge. And did he romp home? For the Judge actually directed the jury to pay no attention to the fact that the prisoner had not gone into the box.”
“Why on earth?” said Berry.
“You can search me,” I said. “For the prisoner was very much all there. But, as I say, times have changed.”
“What happens,” said Jill, “what happens if the jury can’t agree?”
“Well, in the old days they used to keep them shut up on a diet of bread and water till they did agree. But now the Judge has them in and asks if he can help them and then sends them back to have another shot. But if it’s no good, then the jury is discharged and the prisoner is tried again at the next Assizes or the next session at the Old Bailey.”
“The unsolved murder,” said Berry, “seems not so uncommon today. Were there many in your time?”
“I don’t think so. To be perfectly honest, I only remember two: but I expect there were more than that. The word ‘unsolved’, of course…”
“Let me confess,” said Berry, “that the phrase ‘the unsolved murder’ is an unpardonable piece of jargon. What I should have said was, ‘the capital crime, whose author was never discovered’.”
“That’s very much better,” I said. “You see, if no one is convicted of or possibly even arrested for the crime, the public naturally assumes that the murderer is unknown. But that isn’t always so.
“Now, before I go any further, please bear this in mind – that in all I am going to say I am referring to capital crimes which attracted attention, that is to say were accorded the dignity of headlines in the daily Press. I have little doubt that there were others; but to those I cannot speak.”
“That,” said Berry, “is understood.”
“Well, in the years immediately preceding the outbreak of the first Great War I can only remember two murders, the authors of which were never found. Only two. One was the case I referred to in As Berry and I Were Saying, which attracted little attention because of the Crippen Case. Only the lady in the case knew who the murderer was: and she wouldn’t talk. The other was the case of Kensit. Kensit was a very Low Churchman. As such he deeply resented the High Church practices of the Incumbent of St Cuthbert’s, Earl’s Court. His resentment blossomed into fanaticism and again and again he led a number of supporters, whom he had inflamed, to the precincts of St Cuthbert’s – and sometimes into the church itself – where he and they protested violently against the ceremonial observed. As a natural result, supporters of the Incumbent of St Cuthbert’s were mobilized, to deal with this unwarrantable behaviour, and since religious feelings can run very high, serious clashes took place. On the last occasion, although the police did their best, there was a battle royal and Kensit was killed. A file, driven into his eye, entered his brain. Such was the mêlée that the police never saw the blow struck. Possibly no one did. The fact remains that no one was ever arrested for that great wickedness. Still, the murder sobered both factions, as well it might: and that was the last of the clashes with which, in the name of Religion, the Sabbath Day was profaned.
“Well, there are my two. Some of my contemporaries would probably suggest that there were more but, unless my memory is letting me down, I am inclined to think that my figure is correct. You see, they would include some cases which I do not. Regarding some of those cases, I shall say nothing, and I must beg you to let me leave it at that. But in the period which I have mentioned there were, to my knowledge, two cases in which the murderer was known, but in the public interest was never brought to trial.
“And now just let me say this. First I am telling you something which I did not, repeat not, learn in the course of my duty – that is to say, while I was with the Solicitors to the Commissioner of Police or with Treasury Counsel. I was told it years afterwards by a man who is now dead, whom I came to know very well. And I have the best of reasons for believing that his report was true. Secondly, in neither of these cases was there any question of shielding anyone, or of sparing the feelings of the well-to-do. The persons involved were not rich and their names were virtually unknown. But the circumstances of both crimes were so demoralizing that no one who knew the truth could condemn the decisions taken by the authorities.
“Now of the first case I am only going to say that it was a most painful affair and that no injustice was done by not making an arrest. Of the second, I shall say more, but not very much. This appeared to be an ordinary, straightforward case: the victim was dead: his assailant had made himself scarce. With little enough to go on, the CID got down to it, and after some excellent work by Detective-Inspector — the man was found. But before he was so much as arrested – let alone charged – the man made so startling a statement that Detective-Inspector — decided to hold his hand. Arranging for the man to be watched, he hastened back to the Yard and made his report. The man’s statement was investigated and found to be, if anything, less than the truth. These facts were immediately communicated to the Authorities and it was decided that, in the public interest, the case must be dropped.”
There was a little silence.
Then –
“When you say ‘dropped’,” said Berry…
“Well, so great was the man’s provocation that, had the case come to be tried, there can be no doubt that the charge of murder would have been reduced to one of manslaughter. All the same, he stood in jeopardy, and I assume that he was told that, provided he left the country, the warrant for his arrest would stay on the file. Any way, I have reason to believe that he emigrated within the month.
“Now please don’t think that I don’t realize that I have in no way substantiated my statement that it was in the public interest that this case should be suppressed. For that, I can only ask you to take my word: for it would be most improper for me to defeat the object of the Authorities, to achieve which they went such lengths. I can only say that, in my humble opinion, they were more than justified. The victim did not deserve to be avenged and the consequent revelation of a very great and far-reaching scandal would have done irreparable harm.”
There was another silence.
Then –
“Most interesting,” said Jonah. “Detective-Inspector — was clearly an exceptional man.”
“For that, I can vouch,” I said.
“And what a relief,” said Berry, “to know that, where the public interest was at stake, the Authorities were prepared to take the responsibility of driving a coach and six through the Criminal Law.”
“I entirely agree.”
7
I looked at my brother-in-law.
“What about a few words about Cheiro?”
“Ah,” said Berry. “Cheiro. A ver
y likable man. And very talented. I knew him fairly well. He wrote me a very nice letter shortly before he died.” He stopped there and looked at Daphne. “Another small wet of port would spare the vocal cords.”
“It’s just as likely to give you gout,” said his wife.
“I’ll take the risk,” said Berry. “Er, would you mind, er, passing the decanter?”
“If,” said my sister, “I could reach it without rising, I shouldn’t mind at all. As it is…”
Berry looked round.
“Will nobody succour the head of their house?” he said.
Jill, beside me, began to shake with laughter.
“That’s right,” said Berry. “Derision. When Boy wants another snort, you get it quick enough.”
“He’s got a game leg,” said my wife. “With you, it’s laziness.”
“No port, no Cheiro,” said Berry.
Jonah got to his feet.
“It happens,” he said, “that I want some more port myself.”
“You shall have my blessing,” said Berry. “I’ll make a note of your smell. That’s what Isaac went by. He was stung, I know. But then he went by the clothes. Esau probably kept his in naphthaline. As they all had BO, the flesh itself was no help.”
“That’s right,” said Daphne. “Be bestial. And now that you’ve got your port, what’s Cheiro done?”
Her husband sat back in his chair.
“It is not my practice,” he said, “to patronize soothsayers – much less to pay two guineas to have my fortune told. For that was Cheiro’s fee. But more than once Cheiro told my fortune – and never would let me pay him a penny piece.
“In his day, of course, he was a very big man. He was consulted by many most eminent people – that I know. His Majesty King Edward the Seventh was one of these. And the King commanded Cheiro to tell him the date of his death.”
“Never,” said Daphne.
B-Berry and I Look Back Page 6