“Even at this late date,” I said, “will you still keep from giving a hint as to how you mean to defend him? What are you going to say when you get up there tomorrow? What the devil is there to say?”
An expression of evil glee stole over H.M.’s face.
“You don’t think the old man can be eloquent, do you?” he inquired. “Just you watch me. I’m goin’ to get up there and look ‘em in the face, and I’m goin’ to say—”
X—“I Call the Prisoner”
“ME LORD; members of the jury.”
With one hand behind his back, and his feet planted wide apart, H.M. was certainly looking them in the eye. But I could have wished that his manner was not so much that of a lion-tamer entering a cage with whip and pistol, or at least that he would abate his murderous glare at the jury.
Courtroom Number One was packed. The rumor of sensational developments had been all over town: since seven o'clock in the morning there had been a queue outside the door to the public gallery up over our heads. Where there had been only a few newspapermen in attendance yesterday, today every paper in London seemed to have put a man in the somewhat inadequate space provided for the press. Before the sitting of the court, Lollypop had spent some time talking with the prisoner over the rail of the dock; he looked shaken but composed, and ended by shrugging his shoulders wearily. This conversation appeared to interest the saturnine Captain Reginald Answell, who was watching them. It was just twenty minutes to eleven when Sir Henry Merrivale rose to open the case for the defense.
H.M. folded his arms.
“Me lord; members of the jury. You’re probably wonderin’ what sort of defense we’re here to offer. Well, I’ll tell you,” said H.M. magnanimously. “First of all, we’ll try to show that not one single one of the statements made by the prosecution could possibly be true.”
Sir Walter Storm rose with a dry cough.
“My lord, the assertion is so breathtaking that I should like to be quite clear about it,” he said. “I presume my learned friend does not deny that the deceased is dead?”
“Ss-s-t!” hissed Lollypop, as H.M. lifted both fists.
“Well, Sir Henry?”
“No, melord,” said H.M. “We’ll concede that as bein’ the only thing the Attorney-General has been able to find out about this case unaided. We’ll also concede that zebras have stripes and hyenas can howl. Without drawin’ any more personal comparisons between hyenas and—”
“The zoology of the matter does not concern us,” said Mr. Justice Bodkin, without batting an eyelid. “Proceed, Sir Henry.”
“I beg your lordship’s pardon and withdraw the question,” said the Attorney-General gravely; “submitting the accepted fact that hyenas do not howl: they merely laugh.”
“Hyenas—Where was I? Ah, I got it. Members of the jury,” pursued H.M., leaning his hands on the desk, “the Crown have presented their case to you on two counts. They’ve said to you, ‘If the prisoner didn’t commit this crime, who did?’ They’ve also said, ‘It’s true we can’t show you any shadow of a motive for this crime; but therefore the motive must have been a very powerful one.’ Both of those counts are pretty dangerous for you to go on. They’ve based their case on a culprit they can’t find and a motive they don’t know.
“Let’s take first this question of motive. You’re asked to believe that the prisoner went to Avory Hume’s house with a loaded gun in his pocket. Why? Well, the police officer in charge of the case says, ‘People do not usually carry weapons unless they think they may have a use for them.’ In other words, you’re subtly asked to believe that the prisoner went there with the straight intention of murdering Avory Hume. But why? As a prelude to married life, it’s a little drastic. And what prompted the feller to do that? The only thing you’ve heard is a telephone conversation—where, mind you, there wasn’t one bitter or flamin’ word spoken the whole time. ‘Considerin’ what I have heard, I think it best that we should settle matters concerning my daughter. Can you manage to come to my house at six o'clock,’ and all the rest of it. Did he say to the prisoner, ‘I’ll settle your hash, damn you?’ He did not. He said it to a dead phone; he said it to himself. All the prisoner heard—and all anyone says he heard—was a cold and formal voice invitin’ him to the house. And therefore, you’re asked to believe, therefore he grabbed up someone else’s gun and rushed round to the house with murder written all over his face.
“Why? The suggestion creeps in that the victim heard something pretty bad about the prisoner. You haven’t heard what it was; you’ve heard only that they can’t tell you what it was. They simply say, ‘Where there’s smoke there must be some fire’; but you haven’t even heard about any smoke. They can’t supply any reason why Avory Hume suddenly seemed to act like a lunatic.
“But, d’ye see, I can.”
There was no doubt that he had caught his audience. He was speaking almost offhandedly, his fists on his hips, and glaring over his spectacles.
“The facts, the actual physical facts in this case, aren’t in doubt. It’s the causes for these facts that we’re goin’ to question. We’re goin’ to show you the real reason for the victim’s conduct: we’re goin’ to show you that it had nothing whatever to do with the prisoner: and we’re goin’ to suggest that the whole case against this man was a deliberate frame-up from end to end. The Crown can’t supply any motive for anybody’s actions; we can. The Crown can’t tell you what happened to a large piece of feather that mysteriously vanished; we can. The Crown can’t tell you how anyone except the prisoner could have committed the crime; we will.
“I said a minute ago that the case has been presented to you, ‘If the prisoner didn’t commit the crime, who did?’ But you can’t say to yourselves, it is very difficult to think that he didn’t do it’; if that’s what you think, you’ll have to acquit him. But I don’t mean to bother with merely provin’ a reasonable doubt of his guilt; we mean to show that there’s no reasonable doubt of his innocence. Why, burn me—”
Lollypop wamingly flourished that curious typewritten sheet as H.M. began to thrust out his neck.
“All right, all right!—In other words, you’ll hear an alternative explanation. Now, it’s not my business to indicate who really committed this murder, if the prisoner didn’t. That’s outside our inquiry. But I’ll show you two pieces of a feather, hidden in a place so obvious that nobody in this dazzlin’ investigation has thought of looking there; and I’ll ask you where you really think the murderer was standin’ when Avory Hume was killed. You’ve heard a whole lot of views and opinions. You’ve heard all about the prisoner’s sinister leers and erratic conduct: first they tell you he’s so nervous he can’t hold on to his hat, and next he’s so coldly cynical that he smokes a cigarette: though why either of them acts should be suspicious is beyond my simple mind. You’ve heard how first he was supposed to threaten Hume with murder, and then how Hume got up and bolted the door so that he could do it more conveniently. You’ve heard what he might have done and what he probably did and what he never could have done in this broad green world; and now, by the flaming horns o' Tophet, it’s time you heard the truth.—I call the prisoner.”
While H.M. gobbled at a glass of water, one of the warders in the dock touched Answell’s arm. The door in the dock was unlocked, and he was led down through the well of the court. He walked nervously, without looking at the jury as he passed. His necktie was a little loose from much fingering; and his hand would go up to it frequently. Again we had an opportunity of studying someone under fire. Answell’s light hair was parted on one side; he had good features which showed imagination and sensitiveness rather than a high intelligence; and his only movement, aside from touching his tie or moving his big shoulders slightly, was to glance up at the roof of the witness-box. In this roof there is a concealed mirror—a relic of the days when light was thus focused—and it seemed to fascinate him at times. His eyes looked a little sunken and completely fixed.
Despite H.M.’s truculence—
he was drinking water with the effect of gargling it—I knew he was worried. This was the turn of the case. During the time a prisoner is in the box (usually more than an hour and sometimes a day) he carries his fate in his mouth every second. It is a good man who will not falter before the pulverizing cross-examination that is waiting for him.
H.M.’s manner was deceptively easy.
“Now, son. Your name?”
“James Caplon Answell,” said the other.
Although he was speaking in a very low tone, hardly audible, his voice flew off at a tangent. He cleared his throat a few times, turning his head away to do so, and then gave a half-guilty glance at the judge.
“You’ve got no occupation, and you live at 23 Duke Street?”
“Yes. That is—I lived there.”
“At about the end of December, last, did you become engaged to be married to Miss Mary Hume?”
“Yes.”
“Where were you then?”
“At Mr. and Mrs. Stoneman’s house at Frawnend, in Sussex.”
H.M. led him gently through the part about the letters, but it did not put him at his ease. “On the Friday—that’s January 3—did you decide to go up to town next day?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you decide to do that?”
An indistinguishable mutter.
“You will have to speak up,” said the judge sharply. “We cannot hear a word you are saying.”
Answell looked round; but the fixed, sunken expression of his eyes never altered. With some effort he found his voice, and seemed to catch up things in the middle of a sentence. “—and I wanted to buy an engagement ring. I had not got one yet.”
“You wanted to buy an engagement ring,” repeated H.M., keeping his tone to an encouraging growl. “When did you decide to go? I mean, what part of Friday d’jou decide this?”
“Late Friday night.”
“Uh-huh. What made you think of this trip?”
“My cousin Reg was going up to town that evening, and he asked me whether he could get an engagement ring for me.” A long pause. “It was the first time I had thought of it.” Another long pause. “I suppose I should have thought of it sooner.”
“Did you tell Miss Hume you were goin’?”
“Yes, naturally,” replied Answell, with a sudden and queer ghost of a smile which vanished immediately.
“Did you know that on this Friday evening she had put through a telephone-call to her father in London?”
“No, I did not know it then. I learned it afterwards.”
“Was it before or after this call that you decided to come to town next day?”
“Afterwards.”
“Yes. What happened then?”
“Happened? Oh, I see what you mean,” said the other, as though with relief. “She said she would write a note to her father, and she sat down and wrote one.”
“Did you see this note?”
“Yes.”
“In this note, did it mention what train you were takin’ in the morning?”
“Yes, the nine o'clock from Frawnend station.”
“That’s about an hour and three-quarters’ run, ain’t it? Thereabouts?”
“Yes, on a fast train. It is not quite as far as Chichester.”
“Did the note mention both the time of departure and the time of gettin’ there?”
“Yes, 10:45 at Victoria. It’s the train Mary herself always takes when she goes up.”
“So he knew the train pretty well, eh?”
“He must have.”
H.M. was allowing him plenty of time, and handling him with the softest of gloves. Answell, with the same fixed and sunken look, usually started off a sentence clearly, but allowed it to trail off.
“What’d you do after you got to London?”
“I—I went and bought a ring. And some other business.”
“And after that?”
“I went to my flat.”
“What time did you get there?”
“About twenty-five minutes past one.”
“Was that when the deceased rang you up?”
“Yes, about one-thirty.”
H.M. leaned forward, humping his shoulders and spreading out his big hands on the desk. At the same time the prisoner’s own hands began to tremble badly. He looked up at the edge of the roof over the box; it was as though they were approaching some climax where wires must not be drawn too tightly or they would snap.
“Now, you’ve heard it testified that the deceased had already rung up your flat many times that momin’, without getting an answer?”
“Yes.”
“In fact, he was ringin’ up that flat as early as nine o'clock in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“You heard Dyer say that?”
“Yes.”
“Uh-huh. But he must have known perfectly well he couldn’t get you, mustn’t he? At nine o'clock you were just leavin’ Frawnend, on an hour and three-quarter journey. There were the times of arrival and departure smack in front of him, on a train his daughter frequently took. He must have known, mustn’t he, that it’d be two hours before he could hope to get you?”
“I should have thought so.”
(“What on earth is the man doing?” demanded Evelyn in my ear. “Pulling his own witness to pieces?”)
“Now let’s take this phone conversation. What did the deceased say?” Answell’s account was the same as the others’. He had begun to speak with a terrible earnestness.
“Was there anything in what the deceased said that you could take offense at?”
“No, no, nothing at all.”
“What’d you think of it, in general?”
“Well, he did not sound exactly friendly, but then some people are like that. I thought he was just being reserved.”
“Was there any dark secret in your life that you thought he’d discovered?”
“Not that I know of. I never thought of it.”
“When you went along to see him that evenin’, did you take your cousin’s gun with you?”
“I—did—not. Why should I?”
“You got to the deceased’s house at ten minutes past six? Yes. Now, we’ve heard how you dropped your hat, and seemed in a temper, and refused to take your overcoat off. Son, what was the real reason for all that conduct?”
Mr. Justice Bodkin interposed during the prisoner’s quick mutter. “If you are to do yourself any good, you must speak up. What did you say? I cannot hear.”
The prisoner turned towards him and made a baffled kind of gesture with his hands.
“My lord, I wanted to make as good an impression as I could.” Pause. “Especially as he had not sounded—you know, cordial, over the phone.” Pause. “Then, when I went in, my hat slipped out of my hands. It made me mad. I did not want to look like—”
“Like a what? What did you say?”
“Like a damned fool.”
“‘Like a damned fool,’” repeated the judge without inflection. “Go on.”
H.M. extended a hand. “I suppose young fellers calling on their in-laws for the first time often do feel just as you did? What about the overcoat?”
“I didn’t mean it. I didn’t want to say it. But after I had said it I could not take it back, or it would have seemed worse.”
“Worse?”
“More like an ass,” blurted the witness.
“Very well. You were taken back to the deceased? Yes. What was his manner towards you?”
“Reserved and—queer.”
“Let’s make that clearer, son. Just what d’you mean, ‘queer?’”
“I do not know.” Pause. “Queer.”
“Well, tell the jury what you said to each other.”
“He noticed me looking at those arrows on the wall. I asked him if he was interested in archery. He began talking about playing bows and arrows in the north when he was a boy, and how it was fashionable here in London. He said the arrows were trophies of what he called the ‘annual war
dmote’ of the Woodmen of Kent. He said, ‘At those meets, whoever first hits the gold becomes Master Forester for the next year.’”
“‘The gold,’” repeated H.M. in a rumbling voice. “‘The gold.’ What did he mean by that?”
“I asked him that, and he said he meant the center of the target. When he said this, he looked straight at me in an odd kind of way—”
“Explain that. Just take it easy, now...
Again Answell gestured. “Well, as though he thought that I had come fortune-hunting. That is the impression I got.”
“As though you’d come fortune-huntin’. But I s’pose, whatever else you could be called, you couldn’t be called a fortune-hunter?”
“I hope not.”
“What did he say then?”
“He looked at his fingers, and looked hard at me, and said, ‘You could kill a man with one of those arrows.’”
“Yes; after that?” prodded H.M. gently.
“I thought I had better change the subject. So I tried to be light about it, and I said, ‘Well, sir, I didn’t come here to steal the spoons, or to murder anyone unless it becomes absolutely necessary.’”
“Oh?” roared H.M. “You used the expression, ‘I didn’t come here to steal the spoons,’ before you said the rest of it. We haven’t heard that, y’know. You said that?”
“Yes. I know I said that first, because I was still thinking about ‘the gold’ and wondering what he had in mind. It was only natural.”
“I agree with you. And then?”
“I thought it was no good beating about the bush any longer, so I just said, ‘I want to marry Miss Hume, and what about it?’”
H.M. took him slowly through the statement about pouring out the whisky.
“I’m goin’ to ask you to be very careful now. I want you to tell us just exactly what he said after he poured out that whisky: every look and gesture, mind, as far as you remember it.”
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