The evidence of Mrs. Baxter was followed by that of the cashier at the London Bank, and, when this had been disposed of, Sir Oliver proceeded to bring up his big gun. And a very big gun it was; and, to tell the truth, the gunner seemed just a shade nervous about “letting it off.” For—to drop metaphor—the new witness was no less a person than Sir Artemus Pope, M.D., F.R.S., the eminent pathologist; and the evidence of Sir Artemus Pope was the foundation on which the whole super-structure of the prosecution rested. And the counsel’s opening address had made it clear that Sir Artemus was neither an enthusiastic nor a pliable witness. It was certain in advance that he would not budge a hair’s-breadth from bald, literal, demonstrable fact.
Sir Oliver approached him cautiously with the introductory questions. “You have made an examination of the body of the deceased, Andrew Barton, whose death is the subject of the present proceedings. Is that so?”
“Yes,” replied Sir Artemus. “On the 6th of November, acting on instructions from the Home Office, I conducted an exhumation at Fairfield Churchyard of the body of Andrew Barton and made a careful examination of the said body.”
“What was the object of the examination?”
“To check the findings of the medical witness at the inquest and to determine, if possible, the cause of death, particularly in connection with the present proceedings.”
“Were you given full particulars of the circumstances in which the death occurred?”
“Yes, including the depositions taken at the inquest.”
“What were the conditions that your examination revealed?”
“I found extensive multiple fractures of the skull and the bones of the face. Practically all the bones were broken and the head appeared to have been crushed flat. The injuries were of such a kind as would have been produced by an extremely heavy blow from some hard and ponderous object, delivered when the head was lying on the ground, face upwards.”
“What conclusions did you reach as to the cause of death?”
“If the man were alive at the moment when the blow took effect, it would certainly have killed him instantly. As there was nothing to suggest that he was not alive at that moment, I concluded that the blow was the cause of death.”
“Would the very gross injuries which you have described be sufficient to cover up and obliterate the traces of any lesser injuries which might have been previously inflicted?”
“That would depend on the nature of the previous injuries. If they had been inflicted with a sharp instrument, such as an axe, the incised wounds would be recognizable even after the subsequent smashing. But if they had been inflicted with a blunt implement, all traces of them would probably have been obliterated by the blow which flattened the skull.”
“Is it possible that such previous injuries may actually have been inflicted and their traces destroyed by the major injuries?”
“It is possible,” Sir Artemus replied, with distinct emphasis on the final word.
“From your examination did you form any opinion as to whether the injuries were due to accident or homicide?”
“The examination informed me only of the nature of the injuries. I have no personal knowledge of the circumstances in which they were inflicted. The information supplied to me set forth that they were produced by a block of chalk, weighing about a hundredweight, which had fallen from the cliff. If it had fallen on to the head of deceased when he was lying face upwards, it would have produced injuries such as those which I found. And in that ease, death would be due to accident.”
“Precisely,” said Sir Oliver. “That is one possibility. Now let us consider another. Suppose that the block had already fallen and was lying on the beach. Suppose that deceased had been killed or rendered insensible by a blow on the head with a heavy stone or some other blunt instrument. Suppose, then, that his assailant picked up the block of chalk and dropped it on his head as he lay. In that case, would the appearances be such as you found?”
“No,” replied Sir Artemus. “A man could not lift such a block more than two or three feet, and a fall from that height would not smash the skull into fragments as I found it to be smashed.”
“Not with one single blow. But suppose the blow to have been repeated several times?”
“In that case, it is possible that the skull might ultimately have been completely crushed.”
“And would it then have presented the appearance which you observed when you examined it?”
“Probably it would, so far as I can judge. But that is merely an opinion. I cannot say definitely that it would.”
“Is it possible that the injuries which you found could have been produced by homicidal violence?”
“It is physically possible that they might have been.”
“You agree that the appearances which you observed were consistent with the theory that the death of the deceased was due to homicidal violence?”
Sir Artemus did not appear to like the form of the question, but eventually gave a grudging assent; on which Sir Oliver, having got the utmost agreement that he was likely to get, promptly sat down, and Thorndyke rose to cross-examine. “You have said that the injuries which you found were such as would have been produced if the block of chalk had fallen on the head of deceased when he was lying face upwards. Did you find anything that was in the least degree inconsistent with the belief that death was caused in that way?”
“I did not,” Sir Artemus replied, promptly.
“It has been suggested that death or insensibility may have been caused by a blow, or blows, with a blunt instrument. Did you find any traces or any appearances of any kind which led you to believe that such blow, or blows, might have been inflicted?”
“I did not.”
“Did you observe anything which suggested to you that the injuries had been produced by human agency rather than by the accidental fall of the block?”
“I did not.”
“Did you observe anything, or ascertain any fact, which offered a positive suggestion that death might have been due to homicide?”
“I did not.”
“Would it be correct to say that the conditions which you found were entirely consistent with death by accident?”
“It would.”
“And that your examination disclosed no positive evidence or any suggestion of any kind that death was due to homicide?”
“Yes. That would be quite correct.”
Thorndyke, having squeezed the witness dry (and he had not seemed unwilling to be squeezed), noted the replies and then proceeded: “Were you supplied with a description of the person of deceased?”
“I was given a copy of the depositions taken at the inquest. They contained a description of the person of deceased.”
“Had you any instructions to verify the identity of deceased?”
“No. My instructions were to ascertain the cause of death and consider the possible alternatives of accident or homicide. The question of identity was not raised. The body which I examined was described to me as the body of Andrew Barton, and such I assumed it to be.”
“But you had a description of the person of Andrew Barton. Now, when you made your examination, did you find that the body which you were examining corresponded completely with that description?”
The question seemed to put Sir Artemus on the alert, and he gave himself a few seconds to consider it. But he was not the only person who roused at the question. The judge seemed to have found a possible clue to the mystery that had been puzzling him, for he leaned forward with eager interest to catch the reply. The prisoner in the dock, too, perceived a ray of light from an unexpected quarter, and, glancing at Molly, he saw that she had fixed a startled eye on the questioner. “What do you say, Sir Artemus?” Thorndyke inquired, placidly.
“The deceased,” Sir Artemus replied cautiously, “was personally unknown to me, so I was dependent on the description. There did appear to me to be a slight discrepancy between that description and the body which I was examining. The
description set forth that deceased had suffered from a severe injury to the nose resulting in complete flattening of the bridge. The conditions which I found were not exactly what I should have expected from that description.”
“You have heard the evidence which was given by Mrs. Barton that the surgeon’s certificate described the injury as a depressed and comminuted fracture of the nasal bones?”
“Yes, I heard that evidence. It agrees with the description that was given to me.”
“Did you make a careful examination of the nasal bones of deceased?”
“I did. They were both fractured, but not very extensively. They had been driven bodily into the nasal cavity.”
“In a case of comminuted fracture with a depression which remained permanently, what conditions would you expect to find?”
“As the fragments must have united in a false position, I should expect to find the bones distorted in shape and associated with a good deal of callus or new bone.”
“What did you actually find?”
“The bones were fractured, as I have said. But when the fragments were put together, they did not appear to be in any way abnormal. I was not able to recognize any callus or traces of repair.”
“What conclusions did your observations suggest?”
“I concluded that the original injury could not have been as great as had been supposed; that there must have been some exaggeration, due to error.”
“Does that conclusion seem to you to be supported by the evidence which you have heard today?”
“I am hardly prepared to pronounce an opinion on that question. My examination was not concerned with the issue of identity, which you seem to be raising, and I did not give it sufficient attention to enable me to make a perfectly definite statement.”
“Are you prepared to admit that, if the description given to you of the person of Andrew Barton was a true and faithfully correct description, the body which you examined could not have been the body of Andrew Barton?”
“That seems rather sweeping,” the witness objected. “I don’t think I can commit myself to that. But I will admit that, if the description was correct, there were disagreements between that description and the visible facts which I am unable to account for.”
As this amounted, in effect, to an affirmative answer to the question, Thorndyke pushed the cross-examination no farther. As he resumed his seat, Sir Oliver rose to re-examine; and as he could evidently make nothing of Thorndyke’s later questions, he set himself to mitigate the effects of the earlier ones. “You have said, Sir Artemus, that you found no positive indications of homicide. Did you find any positive indications that excluded homicide?”
“I did not,” was the reply.
“Can you say whether Andrew Barton met his death by accident or by homicide?”
“I cannot. I have said that either is physically possible. I have no means of comparing the probabilities.”
Sir Oliver noted the reply. Then, turning towards the judge, he informed the court that “that was his case.” Thereupon Thorndyke rose and announced: “I call witnesses,” and a few seconds later the name of Ronald Barton was called, and the prisoner was conducted from the dock to the witness-box.
CHAPTER XV
The Witnesses for the Defence
As Andrew made his short journey across the court from the ignominy of the dock to the comparative respectability of the witness-box, he was aware of a curious and unexpected sense of confidence. For now, at last, he was about to make his long-dreaded revelation; to tell, before judge and jury and the crowded court, his preposterous story with all its outrageous improbabilities. And yet, to his surprise, he did not shrink from the ordeal. What had once seemed almost an impossibility had now come within the compass of the possible.
But his surprise was unwarranted, as he himself partially realized. For there is all the difference in the world between making an astounding revelation to an audience that is utterly unprepared for it and making the same revelation to hearers who are already waiting for the solution of a puzzle. And that was his position now. By his skilfully conducted cross-examination, Thorndyke had thoroughly prepared the way for Andrew’s statement; ignoring the apparently important issues and building up a fabric of evidence which would immediately drop into its place as soon as Andrew began to tell his story. And when he stood up and faced his witness, it was not the judge alone who leaned forward all agog to hear what the defence really was. “You are indicted,” he began, “in the name of Ronald Barton for the murder of Andrew Barton. Is your name Ronald Barton?”
“No,” replied Andrew, “it is not.”
“What is your real name?”
“My name is Andrew Barton.”
As the answer was given, a startled cry mingled with the universal murmur of astonishment. Glancing quickly at Molly, Andrew could see that she had swung round on her seat and was gazing at him with an expression of the wildest amazement. The judge, after a quick glance towards the interrupter, fixed a look of critical scrutiny on the witness. “Is this a coincidence in names?” he asked, “or do you mean that you are the Andrew Barton whom you are accused of having murdered?”
“I am that Andrew Barton, my lord,” was the reply.
“The same Andrew Barton whose description has been read out to us from the police bill?”
“The same, my lord.”
The judge continued to look at him for two or three seconds. Then, with a slight shrug, he bowed to Thorndyke with a manner that seemed to invite him to “get on with it.” Meanwhile the jury, suddenly reminded of the police bill, looked first at the prisoner and then at one another, some with frank incredulity and others with undisguised grins. Unperturbed by those grins, Thorndyke proceeded: “The evidence relating to the alleged crime of which you are accused covers a certain period of time and a certain succession of events. What is the starting-point of that series of events?”
“They began with a letter which I received from my cousin Ronald. It was dated the 21st of August and reached me on the 23rd. Its principal purpose was to ask for a loan of fifty pounds, but it also announced his intention to pay me a visit on the 28th.” Andrew then went on, urged by Thorndyke, to give the minutest details, even to the cutting of the privet hedge, of the circumstances connected with the letter and his difficulties in staving off Ronald’s visit.
“What was your objection to this visit?”
“From what I knew and suspected of my cousin’s mode of life, I did not consider him a suitable person to associate with my wife; and I had also found his manner towards her distinctly objectionable.”
“Why did you not tell your wife about this letter?”
“I was afraid that she would misunderstand my motives in objecting to Ronald’s visit; that she might feel that I had not complete confidence in her discretion in dealing with him.”
“Had you any such fear as to her discretion?”
“Not the least. I had perfect confidence in her. But I thought she did not quite realize what kind of man Ronald was, and might not be completely on her guard if he should try to establish relations of a kind that I considered undesirable.”
When the arrangements for the pretended visit to London had been described, Thorndyke proceeded to the incident of the murder of Mr. Hudson and led Andrew through it in the closest detail. “When you went home after the attack, were you at all alarmed or uneasy as to your connection with the affair?”
“Not at all. I did not know that any murder had been committed and, of course, I was only a spectator. I told my wife exactly what had occurred and we discussed what I had better do. I was inclined to go over to Bunsford and give information at once. But my wife thought that, as I could not tell the police anything that they did not know already, I had better wait until some inquiries were made. But I intended to call on the police on the following day and tell them what I knew; and I should have done so had not the train come in sooner than I had expected.”
There followed a descr
iption of the visit to Crompton in the same minute detail, including the inspection of Professor Booley’s window and the remarkable announcements on his advertisement card; of which Andrew was able to remember nearly the whole, and the recital of which was received with murmurs of amusement. “When you read the list of Professor Booley’s accomplishments, did it occur to you to give him a trial and see if you could not dispense with the spectacles which you have described to us?”
“No. I did not take his claims seriously. I thought he was merely an advertising quack.”
The account of the day’s doings, almost from minute to minute, was continued until the incident of the seabathing at Hunstone Gap was reached. Then Thorndyke pressed for even more exhaustive details. “You say that your cousin ran up before you to the place where your clothes were lying and that he took possession of the heap that belonged to you. Is it not remarkable that he should have mistaken your clothes for his own?”
“I don’t think so. The outer clothes were almost exactly alike in the two suits. But I don’t think that it was really a mistake on his part. I think it was a practical joke. It was just the kind of joke that I should have expected from him.”
“What makes you think that it was a joke?”
“I have since remembered that, before sitting down, he turned the clothes over, putting the coat on top. And then he proceeded to wipe himself on my coat.”
“Can you account for the circumstance that you did not notice that you were sitting down on the wrong clothes?”
“As I have said, the two suits were almost exactly alike. They were both ordinary grey flannels. But apart from that, I was in a very disturbed state of mind. I was trying to think how I could decently put him off the visit to Fairfield, which he still seemed to be bent on.”
The account now approached the tragic incident of the falling block of chalk. The silence in the court was profound; and still Thorndyke insisted on tracing events from moment to moment. “Did you actually see the block fall?”
“No. I was much agitated by the unpleasant turn the conversation had taken and was avoiding looking at my cousin. I was watching a fishing lugger which was beating up the bay. When the chalk came rattling down, I jumped up and ran away from the cliff. When I stopped and looked round, Ronald was lying in the same place, covered with small lumps of chalk and with the large block resting on his head.”
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 185
