“My lord,” cried Sir Walter Storm, “we are willing to grant all liberties, but we must protest against this argument in—”
“—with your arrow balanced in the opening,” said H.M., “you fire through the Judas window.”
There was a sort of thunderous pause, while Inspector Mottram stood with the screwdriver in his hand.
“My lord, I’ve had to say it,” said H.M. apologetically, “in order to make clear what I’m goin’ to show you. Now, that door has been in the possession of the police ever since the night of the murder. Nobody could ‘a’ tampered with it; it’s just as it was...Inspector, have you unscrewed one knob from that spindle? So. Will you sort of tell my lord and the jury what there seems to be—tied to the hole in the spindle?”
“Please speak up,” said Mr. Justice Bodkin. “I cannot see from here.”
Inspector Mottram’s voice rose, a ghostly kind of effect, in the silence. I am not likely to forget him standing there under the glow of the yellow lights, with the oak paneling, and the yellow furniture, and the tiers of people who were now frankly standing up. Even the white wigs and black gowns of counsel had reared up furtively to obscure our view. At the core of all this, as though in a spotlight under the white dome of the Old Bailey, Inspector Mottram stood looking from the screwdriver to the spindle.
“My lord,” he said, “there appears to be a piece of black thread tied to the hole in the spindle, and then wound a few lengths round—”
The judge made a note in his careful handwriting.
“I see. Proceed, Sir Henry.”
“And next, Inspector,” pursued H.M., “just push the spindle through with your finger—use the point of the screwdriver if it’s more convenient—and take the whole thing out. Ah, that’s got it! We want to see the Judas window, and...ah, you’ve found somethin’, haven’t you? There’s somethin’ lodged in the opening between the spindle and the Judas window, stuck there? Quick, what is it?”
Inspector Mottram straightened up from inspecting something in the palm of his hand.
“It would appear,” he said carefully, “to be a small piece of blue-colored feather, about a quarter of an inch, triangular in shape, evidently torn off something—”
Every board in the hardwood floor, every bench, every chair seemed to have its own separate creaking. At my side Evelyn suddenly sat down again, expelling her breath.
“And that, my lord,” said H.M. quite mildly, “together with the identification of the last piece of feather, will conclude the evidence for the defense. Bah!”
XVIII—“The Verdict of You All”
4:15 P.M.—4:32 P.M.
From the Closing Speech for the Defense,
by Sir Henry Merrivale.
“...and so, in what I’ve just spoken to you about, I’ve tried to outline what we’ll call the outlying phases of this case. You have been told, and I think you believe, that this man was the victim of a deliberate frame-up. You have heard now that, far from taking a pistol to that house, he was goin’ to see the one man in the world he wanted most to please. You have heard the details that twisted up everything he said to an extent that will make me, for one, walk warily henceforward. That frame-up has been concealed and elaborated by several people—notably one you heard speak right up before you, and in his own malice try to send this man to the rope. That’s a pretty thought to take with you when you consider your verdict.
“But you have nothing to do with pity or sympathy. Your business is justice, plain justice, and that’s all I’m asking for. Therefore I’m goin’ to submit that the whole point of this case depends on two things: a piece of feather and a crossbow.
“The Crown ask you to believe that this man—with no motive—suddenly grabbed an arrow down from the wall and stabbed Avory Hume. It’s a simple case, and makes a simple issue. Either he did do that, or he didn’t. If he did do that, he’s guilty. If he unquestionably did not do it, he’s unquestionably innocent.
“Take first the feather. When Dyer left the prisoner in that study, alone with Avory Hume, the feather was on the arrow—all of it—intact. That’s a simple fact which hasn’t been disputed by anyone, and the Attorney-General will acknowledge it to you. When the door was unbolted, and Dyer and Mr. Fleming went into that room, half that feather was gone from the arrow. They searched the room immediately, and the feather was not there: that’s also a simple fact. Inspector Mottram searched the room, and the feather was not there, and that’s a simple fact too. All this time, you remember, the accused had not left the study.
“Where was the feather? The only suggestion the police can make is that it was unconsciously carried away in the prisoner’s clothes. Now, I submit to you simply that this couldn’t possibly be true. There are two reasons. First of all, you saw it demonstrated here that two people could not possibly tear that feather—in a struggle—in the way it was torn; therefore there wasn’t any struggle, and what becomes of the prosecution’s case on that score alone? Second, and even more important, we know where the feather actually was.
“You’ve heard it testified by the manager of the Left-Luggage Department at Paddington that a certain person—not the prisoner—left a suitcase at the station early in the evening of January 4. (In any case, the prisoner was not in a position to go on any errands, having been under the eye of the police from the time the murder was discovered until the followin’ morning.) That suitcase contained the crossbow you’ve seen; and stuck into the teeth of the windlass was a big part of the missing piece of feather.
“We can’t doubt,I think, that this was a part of the feather on the arrow. You’ve seen microphotographs in which you can compare every detail; you’ve heard it identified by the man who attached it to the arrow: in short—as in other things in this case—you’ve been able to see and decide for yourselves. Well, how did that feather get there? How does this fact square with the prosecution’s theory that the prisoner dragged down the arrow and used it as a dagger? That’s the picture, I submit, you’ve got to keep in your minds. If he stabbed the deceased, there are a lot of things I’ll submit with my hand on my heart that he didn’t do. He didn’t tear the feather apart with a power beyond him. He didn’t shove one end of it into the teeth of a crossbow. He assuredly didn’t put the whole apparatus into Spencer Hume’s suitcase—which, you recall, was not even packed or brought downstairs until 6:30.
“Just a word about that suitcase. I’ll suggest to you that in itself it destroys any reasonable doubt of this man’s innocence. I’m not suggestin’ that Miss Jordan packed a weekend crossbow among the collar-studs and the slippers. No; I mean that it was standin’ downstairs in the hall, and someone used it. But how does this apply to the prisoner? The suitcase was packed and brought downstairs at 6:30. From that time until the time the three witnesses entered the study, it was always under somebody’s eye. Did the prisoner leave the study at any time? He did not. You’ve heard that too frequently—especially from the prosecution. Did he approach the suitcase, to put in a crossbow or a decanter or anything else (which, I suggest, were already somewhere else waiting to be put in)? Did he, in short, have anything to do with the suitcase? He did not have an opportunity before the crime was discovered, and he most certainly didn’t have an opportunity afterwards.
“Why, burn me—hurrum—members of the jury, I’ll call your attention to another point. Part of the missin’ feather is in a suitcase which, we can decide, James Answell’s ghost didn’t take to Paddington Station. But there’s another part of that feather. You know where it was, and is. You saw it there. It was in what for the sake of convenience I’ve called the Judas window. Still keepin’ in mind the prosecution’s belief that Answell used the arrow as a dagger, how does this square with the presence of the feather in the Judas window?
“It doesn’t. There’s no doubt the feather is there. There’s no doubt it got there at the time of the murder. Inspector Mottram, as you’ve heard, took away that door on the night of the murder, and has kept it at the pol
ice-station ever since. From the time the murder was discovered to the time Inspector Mottram took the door away, there was always somebody in the study; so the feather couldn’t have landed there at any time except the time of the murder. Only a minute ago you saw Professor Parker recalled to the witness-box; you heard him identify this feather as undoubtedly the last missin’ piece; and he told you why he thought so. It is the feather, then, and it was there.
“Well, how does my learned friend say it got there? Now, I’m not here to toss dull ridicule at a group of men like Counsel for the Crown, who’ve conducted their case with scrupulous fairness towards the accused, and given the defense all the latitude we could hope for. But what can I say? Just fix your minds on the stupefyin’ suggestion that James Answell wildly arose and killed Avory Hume, and at the same time a bit of feather off that arrow managed to get into the hole that supports the knob-spindle in the door. Can you think of any reason for it, however ingenious, that doesn’t become mere roarin’ comedy?
“You’ve already heard reasons why the prisoner could not conceivably have come near the crossbow or the suitcase; in fact, it’s never been suggested that he has. The same, in general, applies to the feather in the door and the little mechanism or thread on the spindle. That little mechanism, I think you’ll agree, was prepared beforehand. Answell had never been in the house before in his life. That little mechanism was meant to work only from outside, to let the knob down from the other end. Answell was inside the room, with the door bolted. As I say, merely to ridicule is useless; but I’m convinced that the more you think of it the more out of the question it will become, or you’re a greater group of fathea—urr—or you’re not the intelligent English jury I know you are.
“Still, the feather was there. It got there somehow; and it’s not exactly a common place to find one. I’ll venture to suggest that you could go home tonight and take the knobs out of all the doors in your own house: and all down the street through your neighbors’ houses: and still you wouldn’t find a feather in the Judas window. I’ll further venture to suggest that there’s only one set of circumstances in which you could find both the feather and the thread-mechanism in the Judas window. It’s got nothing to do with an arrow snatched down from the wall to stab, except insofar as a drugged man inside could be used as a scapegoat. That set of circumstances is the one I hinted at a while ago; someone who stood outside that bolted door, and fired an arrow into Avory Hume’s heart when the murderer was almost close enough to touch him with it.
“With your indulgence, then, I’m goin’ to outline to you the way in which we believe the crime was really committed; and I’ll try to show you how the facts that have been produced support it and bear against the prosecution’s case.
“But, before I do, there’s one thing I feel I must face. You can’t disregard a beetle on the back of your neck or an unexplained statement in a court of law. Members of the jury, yesterday afternoon you heard the prisoner tell a great big thundering lie: the only lie he has told in this room: the lie that he was guilty. Mebbe he didn’t say it under oath; mebbe you were inclined then to believe it all the more because he didn’t. But you know now why it was told. Mebbe he didn’t care then whether or not he convicted himself; others, you observe, have been tryin’ hard enough to do it for him. But you’ll judge whether you think the worse or the better of him for saying what he did. And the time has come now when I can stand up and accuse my own client of falsehood. For he said he stabbed Avory Flume with an arrow, whose feather broke off in the struggle. Unless you believe that statement, you cannot and you dare not return a verdict of guilty; and that statement you cannot and you dare not believe; and I will tell you why.
“Members of the jury, the way in which we believe this crime was really committed—”
4:32 P.M.—4:55 P.M.
From the Closing Speech for the Crown, by Sir Walter Storm.
“...thus my learned friend need have no fear. I shall not ask you to wait until my lord addresses you before you learn this: If you are dissatisfied with the story of the prosecution, the prosecution have thereby failed to make out their case and it is your duty to return a verdict of not guilty. I do not think that any of you, having heard my opening speech in this case, could labor under any misapprehension as to that point. I put it before you then that the burden of the proof was on the prosecution, as I trust I shall always do when it becomes my duty to lay such a case before a jury.
“But it is likewise my duty to stress against the prisoner such of the material facts as constitute evidence. Facts: as I said in my opening speech. Facts: as I have said all along. Therefore I must ask you, dispassionately: How many of the material facts in this case have been altered or disproved?
“My learned friend has attempted well and eloquently to explain; but I must submit to you that he cannot explain away.
“What remains? It is a fact that the prisoner was found with a loaded pistol in his pocket. He denies that he took this pistol to the house; and what is there to corroborate his denial? There is the testimony of the witness Grabell. You have heard that witness in the box: you have heard his replies to my questions: you have observed his demeanor. He, and he alone, claims to have seen the deceased at D’Orsay Chambers on Friday morning. How did a stranger in those flats escape the attention of every other attendant? How is the deceased presumed to have gained access to the prisoner’s flat? How, in fact, did Grabell come conveniently to be cleaning out a dustbin in darkness, when he himself acknowledges that the dustbin would have been cleaned out a fortnight before? Grabell—whose notion of honor and truthfulness you have been able to judge—is the sole witness to this. Is there any other witness who can give even secondhand corroboration to the alleged theft of the pistol by Avory Hume? There is Reginald Answell. But here I confess I am on difficult ground. Members of the jury, I must tell you frankly that, when he told you that story from which you were supposed to infer the prisoner’s guilt, I did not believe him. He was (in fact) a witness for the prosecution; and I did not believe him. You will have been able to decide whether or not my learned friend disposed of his testimony in a court where—whether for the prosecution or for the defense—we will not avail ourselves of lies. But it is Reginald Answell, this same witness, who testifies to his conversation with Grabell about the pistol. If we believe that a man has borne false witness in the last part of his testimony, shall we therefore believe that he has borne true witness in the first part of it?”
“If the prisoner did in fact take that pistol to Mr. Hume’s house, there is premeditation. And I suggest to you that he did.
“What other facts remain? There are the prisoner’s fingerprints on the arrow. Such things are stubborn. They are marks. They remain. They show beyond doubt that the prisoner’s hand was round the arrow—whether or not, as my learned friend has suggested, the fingerprints were placed on the arrow by others while the prisoner was unconscious.
“And what is the evidence as to this alleged unconsciousness, this alleged drugging, on which all deductions from the fingerprints must rest? If you refuse to believe that the prisoner was drugged, then, obviously, I must submit to you that the fingerprints are the most vital evidence in the case. The evidence, then? A decanter similar to the first, filled with drugged whisky, is produced from a suitcase discovered in the Left-Luggage Department at Paddington Station, along with a siphon from which some soda-water is drawn. Doubtless there are many decanters resembling it in London; but I put it before you that what I should like to see is some evidence that the accused had drunk any drugged whisky—or any whisky at all. On the contrary, you have heard from the divisional-police surgeon that (in his opinion) the prisoner had taken no drug at all. In all fairness I must tell you that the witness who was to have testified to this as well, Dr. Spencer Hume, is missing: and is inexplicably missing: but we cannot say that the two circumstances are connected until we have heard Dr. Hume. That is what I mean by a fact.
“You heard at the time the insinuat
ions that were directed towards Dr. Stocking. Despite this, I do not think that an opinion given by a man of Dr. Stocking’s long experience at St. Praed’s Hospital should be taken too lightly.
“And other facts? You have heard the witness Dyer’s testimony of remarks made by the prisoner to the deceased, I did not come here to kill anyone unless it becomes absolutely necessary’; which now appears with the emendation by the prisoner, I did not come here to steal the spoons,’ and is stressed by my learned friend. You will note that all of Dyer’s other statements appear to be accepted by my learned friend, even with an accent of welcome, since much of his evidence depends on them. But he will not accept this one. What are we to believe from that? Is Dyer a witness who tells a truth at one o'clock and a falsehood at five minutes past one?
“You understand the fashion, members of the jury, in which I ask you to look at this case. Having made this clear, let me now go over the evidence point by point, line by line, from the beginning...
“...which must bring us, as I have tried to do point by point, to the end of the evidence. Now, as to the suggestions put forward concerning the crossbow and the triple-feather—this counterblast of which the prosecution had no warning. That the prosecution had no warning was quite legal and ethical, of course; the defense is rightly reserved, though it is customary for the defense to be informed as to the lines on which the prosecution means to proceed. As to the crossbow and the triple-feather (I say), it is neither my purpose nor my intention to pass comment now. You have heard the evidence for the Crown which it was my duty to lay before you. How the piece of feather—if indeed it is a piece of feather from the arrow before you—how this curious fragment got into the spindle-hole of the door, I do not know. How the other piece of feather—with the same implied reservation—got into the teeth of the crossbow, I do not profess to know. I say, ‘It is there’; and no more. If you believe that these and other matters weigh in the favor of the accused, it is your duty to let your verdict be influenced by them. You cannot convict this man unless you are perfectly clear beyond all reasonable doubt that the case we have outlined points with almost irresistible emphasis to the conclusion that he is guilty. Of course, the last word lies with my lord; and I have little doubt that he will tell you—”
The Judas Window Page 22
