A lot more had been happening.
On the day, the very day, when war had been declared – within half an hour of the declaration in fact – the air‐raid sirens had sounded. And Londoners had been introduced to their new signature tune. It was, as it turned out, only a false alarm. No air‐raid followed. But on that tremendous Sunday everybody was a bit on edge. Including the aircraft spotters. In consequence, the coastal batteries were opening up on anything in sight. Even on our own planes.
Not that people were jumpy without reason. It was war all right. Out in the September sea off Ireland, the liner Athenia, packed as full of children as a day‐nursery, was settling down in the water with half her keel blown away by a torpedo. And the U‐boat that had fired it was standing by on the surface, shelling the survivors. There was something fateful and symbolic about the whole affair. It was as though the uneasy quarter‐century since 1914 had come round full circle, and von Tirpitz was risen from his grave to re‐direct operations.
It was the same on the Continent. The Great War had come again. Only this time it was east and not west that the Germans were striking. Belgium was safe in its neutrality. But Poland, sliced like a ham, had been made into a neat sandwich with Germany and the U.S.S.R. squeezing it tighter every day. People, remembering Finland, talked about the Russians being as bad as the Nazis – it certainly didn’t look good with the Communist Party standing out against the war – and wise men reminded the world that it is always easier to start a war than to end one. And so it went on. Policemen wore tin‐helmets and fire‐pumps were attached as trailers to the backs of taxis. Peace News doubled its circulation and shoppers carried their gas‐masks in their baskets. Income tax was at seven and sixpence and the National Register was taken. Sandbags were piled in doorways and the barrage balloons floated overhead like silver sheep. There was a black‐out all over Britain and Winston was back at the Admiralty.
And all the time, the law – quiet, methodical and as undistracted as ever – had been proceeding with its briefs and depositions, its summons to jurors and its calendar of trials. Everything was now ready for the case of Rex v. Percy Aloysius Boon.
There is nothing in the least prepossessing about the Old Bailey, even from the outside. It has none of the complicated Gothic charm of the Law Courts – all Tennysonian turrets and arrow‐slits and things – and none of the almost domestic friendliness of the better‐class County Courts. It is just a large bleak factory of criminal law with an enormous gilt doll, dressed up as Justice, standing on top of the dome, and a public lavatory and an A.B.C. tea‐shop opposite. Old Bailey itself is a miserable thoroughfare, narrowing down at the Ludgate Hill end until it looks as though you could scarcely get a horse and cart through it. The other frontage – on Newgate St – is better. But that isn’t where they’ve put the front door.
For a big murder trial the crowd begins to form quite early. It has to. The Central Criminal Court is so much taken up with the judges and the counsel and the clerks and the witnesses and the jury and the prisoners that there is hardly any room for the public. Just a few benches up against one of the walls. Many quite promising amateur criminologists have been turned away by the ‘House Full’ notice. Of course if you know one of the judges or have had a K.C. to dinner it’s different. There are private tickets for the Old Bailey just as there are for everything else. Society ladies can pretty nearly always get in when they feel like it. But the humbler folk, retired civil servants and old clergymen up from the country for the day, can rarely find a seat without a tussle. It’s one law for the poor and another for the rich.
Mr Josser was one of the privileged ones. He’d got a ticket: Mr Barks had seen to that. But somehow he wasn’t looking forward to using it.
‘I don’t like it, Mother,’ he said. ‘I know everything’s going to be all right. But I can’t help it. I don’t like it.’
Mrs Josser made no reply, because Mr Josser had said the same thing twice already and she had answered on the two previous occasions. There had been a lot of discussion as to whether she should go with him, and she had finally decided against it. She couldn’t, despite everything that Mr Josser had told her about the way Percy was taking it, believe that he wouldn’t be embarrassed to see her sitting there. Even the thought of being able to write to tell Mrs Boon all about it afterwards hadn’t moved her. The mere thought of the Old Bailey sent cold shivers through her and she was afraid that she might faint or something. All the same as the time drew nearer – Mr Josser was already lacing up his boots – she half regretted her decision.
‘They’re devils some of those barristers,’ Mr Josser observed from somewhere down at knee‐level. ‘They don’t mind what questions they ask.’
‘He’s got that Mr Blaize on his side, hasn’t he?’ Mrs Josser answered. ‘Oh yes, he’s got Mr Veesey Blaize all right,’ Mr Josser replied. ‘But, after all, he’s only human. He doesn’t know what the prosecution may have discovered. It’s like that in a law court – you can’t tell from one moment to the next. It’s enough to tear the hide off a man.’
Mrs Josser regarded him out of the corner of her spectacles.
‘Have you ever been to one?’ she asked him.
Mr Josser glanced up for a moment.
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘If you put it like that, I haven’t.’
He gave a short tug at his lace as he spoke and said, ‘Damn!’
His lace, his practically new lace, had snapped off short and he had to start again from the very bottom.
‘Poor old Percy,’ he said at length. ‘I don’t rightly know how I’m going to stand it. Not if anything goes wrong, that is.’
That settled it in Mrs Josser’s mind.
‘Would you feel better if I came too!’ she asked.
Mr Josser gave a rather sad little smile at the suggestion.
‘Do you know, Mother, I would,’ he said. ‘It’d make all the difference.’
It was just what he had been longing for. And he knew that Percy would appreciate it. It would show that, even in his trouble, Dulcimer Street hadn’t entirely forgotten him.
They had a bit of a surprise when they reached Ludgate Circus. There just in front of them was Mr Puddy. With a small attaché case in his hand he was crossing the road in the direction of Benson’s.
‘D’you see who’s there?’ Mr Josser asked.
Mrs Josser drew in her lips.
‘I do,’ she said. ‘He’s probably going too.’
‘Oh, no,’ Mr Josser told her. ‘He wouldn’t be doing that. Not him. He hardly knew Percy…’
There was no difficulty for the Jossers when they reached the Old Bailey. Mr Barks’ card had seen to that. A policeman, looking rather strange without his helmet, took them straight along as though they owned the place. They were given seats in what seemed to be a kind of family pew.
Mr Josser looked around him. There wasn’t much doing yet because it was early. A junior counsel in wig and gown was undoing a large bundle of papers tied together with red tape and a small man in a black office coat was sharpening a pencil. Two large policemen with nothing to do talked in whispers. Mr Josser let his eyes rest on the huge coat of arms above the judge’s throne. It was about the most interesting thing in the room. The judge hadn’t appeared yet. Nor had Percy.
He was quite startled when Mrs Josser dug him suddenly with her elbow.
‘Look up there,’ she said.
Mr Josser looked. Over the rail of the public gallery a small dried‐up face under a black hat with a feather peony on it was showing. The face was turned in Mr Josser’s direction, and one eye in it winked. It was Connie. But in his astonishment at what he saw behind her, Mr Josser scarcely noticed Connie. One row back, and in the opposite corner, sat Mrs Vizzard, very smart‐looking in a new black costume, and beside her was Mr Squales wearing his light grey.
‘Well, if that isn’t nice of them,’ said Mr Josser.
‘They didn’t tell me they were coming,’ Mrs Josser replied, and drew in her lips.
But at that moment there was a distraction. Mr Barks wearing a creaseless blue suit and carrying another sheaf of papers came bustling in breathing heavily, and at his elbow marched a squat square man whose face under the grey wig was almost mulberry coloured. The junior got up and greeted him politely.
‘That’ll be Veesey Blaize,’ Mr Josser whispered.
They were both looking at him when Mr Blaize without even putting his hand up to his mouth closed his eyes and yawned. Evidently he had been up into the small hours poring over his brief. All the same, both Mr and Mrs Josser were secretly a little disappointed that he didn’t seem fresher. He might just have been roused from a rather long after‐luncheon slumber. Mr Josser in particular had a sudden doubt as to whether he was going to get his money’s worth.
By now, however, there was too much going on for them to concentrate exclusively on Mr Veesey Blaize. Already, the jury was filing in. They were not an impressive lot. Indeed, they might have been chosen by an unenterprising casting director who had rung up a theatrical agency and asked for a dozen little puddingy people, eleven men and a woman. At least six of them were completely interchangeable and the other five had the air of being made up of spare parts. They all wore neat dark suits. The identical six wore hard white collars and the other five had dimly‐coloured ones. Even the woman was wearing a dark dress with a white collar like a governess’s. And in character they seemed to have something in common, too: they were wuffly and undecided. Even though there were only three rows of benches on which to sit, the little puddingy people couldn’t decide where to place themselves. Then one of them, slightly rounder and fuller than the rest, seated himself in the front row nearest to the judge’s throne and undid his coat. He had a thick gold watch‐chain with which he started to fiddle. It was obvious that when the time came, he was going to be foreman.
Mr Veesey Blaize took one glance at them and then yawned again. Altogether he seemed extraordinarily out of sorts this morning. He pulled himself together, however, when another learned counsel came in and said good‐morning to him. For a moment he became alert and affable in a big bland sort of way – became in fact more what Mr Josser had imagined him. But this may have been only because the other counsel was such an impressive figure of a man that Mr Veesey Blaize felt that he simply had to do something to keep up his own dignity.
At first, indeed, Mr Josser had thought that the newcomer must be the judge himself. He was as tall as a Guardsman and had a large grey face with all the features just a shade too pronounced. When he spoke his Adam’s apple, absurdly prominent between the two wings of his collar, rose and fell as though it were on a spring. He kept rubbing his long colourless hands together, alternately stroking first one and then the other.
Indeed, after the sight of him – he was Mr Henry Wassall, K.C. for the prosecution – the judge himself came as a bit of a disappointment. The usher called something out, the whole court stood up and, emerging from a kind of stage door, on to the bench clambered a tiny pink‐and‐white man all bundled up in his enormous wig and robes of office. He was such a small and insignificant little body that it seemed impossible that he should be in charge of things. In charge of Mr Veesey Blaize with that terrifying temper of his hidden away somewhere behind the yawn, and of the big‐boned Mr Wassall with the all‐grey face. Even his pink‐and‐whiteness did not appear to have anything to do with good health. It was of an extreme delicacy all its own and suggested that his lordship on rising had spread a thin layer of peach‐blossom porcelain over his old cheeks. Altogether Mr Justice Plymme cut a disturbingly dainty and fragile sort of figure.
But this was only a layman’s view of things. The Law knew Mr Justice Plymme and respected him. So did the Society of Fine Arts and the English Madrigal Society. Likewise Queen’s Club and Shaftesbury Avenue and the Flyfishers’. For Mr Plymme off duty went everywhere and did everything. He was a kind of respectable bachelor leprechaun who exhibited himself at first nights and private views and tennis finals. And after dinner his thin voice, high and clear like a choir‐boy’s, had been heard rising in one city hall after another, urbane, cynical and remorselessly witty, in a brittle, brilliant sort of fashion. Mr Justice Plymme, in fact, was one of the cries of old London.
When Percy was called and stood there in between the two warders, Mr Josser couldn’t at first bear to look at him. And, when he did look, it was all just as he had feared. He looked so out of place there. It needed only one glance at the purplish suit, the coloured handkerchief and his fair wavy hair to see that he belonged to a different world altogether. He’d obviously got himself up pretty carefully for the occasion. But, even so, you could see that he was nervous. A faint smile kept playing round the corners of his mouth as he peered about him.
An astonishing amount of time was wasted at the outset in proving that Percy Boon was really Percy Boon. It suggested that Mr Wassall had been badly caught that way before. Then the prosecution began calling witnesses. And to Mr Josser’s amazement it was all old stuff. They were simply going over everything that had been said at the police court; checking up on the magistrate as it were. First of all, there was the accountant from Norbury. He identified the car. It was an Austin 12, No. PQJ 1776 that he had bought new three months before. It was practically new. He had taken it to the local Carlton and had left it locked in the car‐park. When he had come out shortly after eleven the car was missing. Was he quite sure that he had locked it? Quite sure. He spoke in a clipped, busy‐sounding kind of voice and Mr Wassall was obviously prepared to take his word for things. He thanked him in a dead, formal manner and told him that he could stand down.
Dead. Yes, that was it. Mr Wassall’s own voice was like something rumbling round in a tomb. By the time it reached the open court there was a distinctly coffiny and brass‐handle ring to it.
The next witness whom Mr Wassall called was a policeman. The evidence proceeded as smoothly as though it had been rehearsed – which, in the circumstances, wasn’t really surprising.
Mr Wassall:
‘You are P.C. Lamb?’
P.C. Lamb:
‘I am.’
Mr Wassall:
‘Where were you on the evening of the 3rd June, 1939?’
P.C. Lamb:
‘I was on Wimbledon Common, sir.’
Mr Wassall:
‘What part of Wimbledon Common?’
P.C. Lamb:
‘On the main Wimbledon–Putney Road. By the Long Pond.’
Mr Wassall:
‘There had been an accident, hadn’t there?’ P.C. Lamb: ‘There had.’
Mr Wassall:
‘What sort of an accident?’
P.C. Lamb:
‘A cyclist had been knocked off his machine and injured.’
Mr Wassall:
‘Well, what did you do about it?’
P.C. Lamb:
‘I moved the injured man to the side of the road and sent someone to ring for an ambulance.’
Mr Wassall:
‘I see. You had moved the injured man to the side of the road. So you weren’t causing any obstruction. There was room for, let us say, a car to get past without disturbing either of you.’
P.C. Lamb:
‘There was room for two cars…’
Mr Veesey Blaize rose suddenly to his feet.
‘M’ lud,’ he said, ‘I object. Can the examination really be necessary? This is a murder case that your lordship is hearing, not a running down charge.’
Mr Justice Plymme turned towards Mr Wassall.
‘I suppose that there is some relevance in the constable’s evidence, Mr Wassall?’ he asked.
He spoke in a polite, interested voice as though he would not have minded in the least if Mr Wassall had told him that nothing had got to do with anything.
‘Of the first relevance, m’lud,’ Mr Wassall replied promptly. ‘It is quite essential to the prosecution, in fact. I am afraid that I shall have to ask your Lordship’s indulgence for a long sitting if my learned friend is to interrupt me further in this way.’
‘Then pray proceed, Mr Wassall,’ Mr Justice Plymme invited him. ‘So much evidence that is irrelevant is heard in every court that your assurance is most welcome.’
Up in the press gallery the reporters began writing hard. It was the first clash between Mr Veesey Blaize and Mr Wassall and also Mr Justice Plymme’s first bon‐mot. Every one seemed pleased. Mr Wassall continued louder than ever.
Mr Wassall: ‘Yet you were nearly run into, were you not?’ P.C. Lamb: ‘I was.’
Mr Wassall: ‘By what?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘By a car.’
Mr Wassall: ‘What kind of a car?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘By an Austin 12.’
Mr Wassall: ‘Did you obtain the number of the car?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘I did.’
Mr Wassall: ‘Well, tell the court what it was.’
P.C. Lamb: ‘It was PQJ 1776.’
Mr Wassall: ‘How did it happen?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘I stepped into the roadway and raised my hand.’
Mr Wassall: ‘How far were you out from the kerb?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘There wasn’t a kerb, sir.’
Mr Wassall uttered a deep, grampus‐like sigh. Then he blew his nose and resumed.
Mr Wassall: ‘Well, how far were you from the side of the road? From the grass verge or whatever it was.’
P.C. Lamb: ‘About a yard.’
Mr Wassall: ‘And how wide is the road?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘Twenty‐eight feet.’
Mr Wassall: ‘Did the car try to avoid you?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘No, sir. It came straight on in a direct line.’
Mr Wassall: ‘What did you do?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘I jumped clear.’
There was a noise, half titter half sneeze, from Connie’s corner of the public gallery. P.C. Lamb was a large man and it would have been funny to see him jumping clear of anything. But the joke was a purely private one and the court continued without pausing.
Mr Wassall: ‘Did you see the person who was driving?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘I did.’
Mr Wassall: ‘Was it a woman?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘No, sir.’
Mr Wassall: ‘Then it was a man?’
Mr Josser was staring at Mr Wassall in amazement. Really, he seemed to have an intelligence of the most obvious kind.
P.C. Lamb: ‘Yes, sir.’
Mr Wassall: ‘Was he alone?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘No, sir.’
Mr Wassall: ‘Had he got another man with him?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘No, sir.’
Mr Wassall: ‘Then his companion was a woman?’
Mr Josser squirmed. If Mr Wassall was going on like this he seemed to have forgotten that it might have been a child.
P.C. Lamb: ‘Yes, sir.’
Mr Wassall: ‘Did you notice what the driver was wearing?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘Only that he was wearing a tweed cap and had his coat collar turned up.’
Mr Wassall: ‘And about the woman?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘She had fair hair, sir.’
Mr Wassall: ‘What was the woman doing? Was she sitting there with her hands in her lap?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘No, sir. She appeared to be struggling.’
Mr Wassall: ‘She appeared to be struggling!’ Mr Wassall ran his tongue across his lips. ‘Was she struggling with the driver?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘She was pulling at his arm and the driver was thrusting her away from him. He had his elbow in her face.’
Mr Wassall: ‘And what happened after that?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘The car drove straight on and the lights were switched off.’
Mr Wassall: ‘I see. You were nearly hit by an Austin car No. PQJ 1776 driven by a man who was struggling with a fair‐haired girl…’
There was a movement on the bench and Mr Justice Plymme raised his small white hand.
‘Mr Wassall,’ he said. ‘I am quite capable of making any summing up that the jury may require. Do you wish to examine the witness further?’
Mr Wassall: ‘I am finished, m’lud.’
Mr Justice Plymme: ‘Ah!’
Now it was Mr Veesey Blaize’s turn. He had a warm, rather friendly manner when he started. He might have been discussing a recent round of golf. But his friendliness fell from him in chunks as he proceeded.
Mr Vaisey Blaize: ‘What sort of weather was it on the night in question?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘Rather foggy, sir.’
Mr Veesey Blaize: ‘What does “rather foggy” mean? I want to know if it was foggy, or if it wasn’t.’
P.C. Lamb: ‘There was ground mist, sir.’
Mr Veesey Blaize: ‘But you said just now that it was fog. They’re not the same thing, you know. Which was it – mist or fog?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘I don’t know, sir. The papers called it fog.’
Mr Veesey Blaize: ‘I’m not interested in what the papers called it. I want to know what you call it.’
P.C. Lamb: ‘Fog, sir.’
Mr Veesey Blaize: ‘Was it dense!’
P.C. Lamb: ‘No, sir.’
Mr Veesey Blaize: ‘Could you see your hand in front of your face?’ P.C. Lamb: ‘Yes, sir.’
Mr Veesey Blaize: ‘Did you try?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘No, sir.’
Mr Veesey Blaize turned towards the jury. There was something at once helpless and appealing in the gesture: it asked mutely how, with witnesses like P.C. Lamb, they could ever hope to get anywhere. Then Mr Veesey Blaize resumed.
Mr Veesey Blaize: ‘Could you see a mile away?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘No, sir.’
Mr Veesey Blaize: ‘You’re sure?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘Yes, sir.’
Mr Veesey Blaize: ‘What was there a mile away from where you were standing? What was there if you had been able to identify it – a mile away exactly, remember?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘I don’t know, sir.’
Mr Veesey Blaize: ‘Then how could you know whether you could see it or not?’
The police constable was growing sulky and Mr Veesey Blaize took full advantage of the break. He gave again that you‐see‐the‐kind‐of‐difficulty‐I’m‐in glance in the direction of the jury.
Mr Veesey Blaize: ‘Was the car in question travelling fast?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘Yes, sir.’
Mr Veesey Blaize: ‘Really fast – speeding, I mean?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘Yes, sir.’
Mr Veesey Blaize: ‘It bore down on you suddenly out of the mist or fog or whatever it was?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘Yes, sir.’
Mr Veesey Blaize: ‘And you jumped out of the way?’
P.C. Lamb: ‘Yes, sir.’
Mr Veesey Blaize: ‘Even so, out of the back of your head as it were, you noted the number, the person who was driving, his companion and what was happening inside the car. All that in the fog, remember. I congratulate you…’
There was a lot more like that only Mr Josser lost count of it. The one thing that consoled him was that Mr Veesey Blaize was certainly giving them their money’s worth: Mr Wassall and his witnesses looked as though they were in for a whacking. And then, into the midst of these new surroundings, stepped Percy’s Big Surprise of the police court. It was a Mr Jack Rawkins.
It was Percy’s turn to stare now and, for a moment, he couldn’t place him. And then he remembered him perfectly. Remembered every button about him in fact. He was the man who had been saying good‐bye to the Blonde just when Percy had spotted her. But what was really very remarkable was the amount, under examination by Mr Wassall, that the silly little soak remembered about him. He was able to identify him, to swear that he had seen Percy and the Blonde get into the car together, and to be sure that it was an Austin 12. He had known the Blonde for a number of years, he said; adding only professionally, however. He was a traveller in pin‐tables and had met her in the way of business. On the morning in question he had gone along to the Duke of Marlborough to see two men friends and had run into the Blonde purely by accident.
This last piece of evidence was not strictly connected with the case and Mr Wassall had to arrange for it to be slipped quickly over Mr Justice Plymme’s head. Not that it wasn’t important. It was. The tall plain woman in the public gallery was the pin‐table salesman’s wife.
There were a lot of other witnesses, too. There was the policeman who had found the Blonde in the roadway. The policeman who had found Percy’s snap brim trilby. A bone‐specialist out of Harley Street. A mechanic to testify that he recognised the spanner … Mr Wassall was still fiddling about with these odds‐and‐ends of witnesses when Mr Justice Plymme, an inner radiance seeming suddenly to suffuse him, adjourned the court for lunch.
They resumed promptly at 2 o’clock. Mr Justice Plymme took his seat looking more pink‐and‐white than ever and kept putting his hands together in front of his stomach as though his lunch had been a good one. From the front row of the gallery, Connie was looking down on him. Though Mr Justice Plymme didn’t know it she was feeling sorry for him. She wondered whether, like herself, he was too short for his feet to reach to the floor, and if he was just sitting there with them dangling.
This time the witness called by the prosecution was a very nasty customer. It was someone whom Percy hadn’t seen before. But when he did see him he couldn’t take his eyes off him. ‘Mr Sidney Parker’ was called, and a dark evil‐looking man with flat hair and dropped side‐whiskers stood up in the box and said that he was the Blonde’s husband. He had married her at Portsmouth in 1937, and they had separated ten months afterwards. The Blonde’s other name turned out to have been Edith Soper and she’d been in domestic service when Mr Parker met her. There was a child of the marriage in an orphanage at Wanstead. The marriage had broken up because of the Blonde’s friends. Despite his appearance, Mr Parker was apparently very strict about his wife’s friends. Since December, 1937, he had not seen or heard of his wife until he saw her picture in the papers at the time of the murder.
The mention of ‘murder’ brought Mr Veesey Blaize bouncing to his feet.
‘M’lud,’ he said, ‘this is intolerable. I protest. The witness has just sought to poison the minds of the whole jury against my client. He has used a word that I could not bring myself to repeat in these circumstances.’
Mr Justice Plymme seemed pained. Badly pained. There had been no indication that he had even noticed that anything was amiss. But he immediately turned to the clerk.
‘The objection is sustained,’ he said. ‘Pray see that the word “murder” is erased from the evidence.’ Then he turned to Mr Wassall. ‘Mr Wassall, I must ask you to control your witness. This lapse has been deeply unfortunate.’
Having spoken, he picked up his pencil and went on with what he had been doing. He was drawing cats and he was half‐way through a large round tabby.
But Percy had scarcely noticed the interruption. The word ‘murder’ didn’t seem to concern him in the least. What had happened to him was far more serious. He’d just had a whole part of his life shattered – shattered by the nasty piece of goods who looked like an Italian waiter. More than once, the Blonde had as good as hinted that she was married but she’d said that ‘he’ – they’d never got as far as using his name – was something in the Indian Army, and had let her down. She’d said that she was from an army family herself and that her name was Evadne St Claire. It may have been that she had thought that he doubted it, because she had showed him her initials in silver on a packet of mauve notepaper as proof. But that wasn’t all. Mr Nosey Parker had suggested that the Blonde had been unfaithful. She might have been to him. But not to Percy. The Blonde was the sort of girl who would stand by any man who was ready to stand by her. Or at least he had thought of her that way. He’d never caught her out. And he didn’t like to hear of her being spoken about like that. He’d been in love with the Blonde. If things had been different, he would have been in love with her still.
Mr Veesey Blaize’s temporary defeat of Mr Wassall had no discernible effect on him. He continued, just as he had done after the last interruption, in the same massive voice as before, only louder. He was booming right across the court when he called his next witness.
This time it was a rather shabby old lady who took the stand. She had been the Blonde’s landlady. The Blonde had lodged there for about six months, she said. On at least two occasions, she declared, she had seen the prisoner go upstairs – her room was at the top of the house – with the Blonde. On the night when she didn’t come home the old lady had sat up for her.
As Percy listened it all came back to him. He recalled now that he had once on the stairs met someone wearing a very dirty apron and carrying a pile of what might have been washing. But he hadn’t taken much notice of her – the Blonde had simply said that she was ‘some old girl.’ And it surprised Percy that the old girl should have noticed him. But apparently every one had noticed him. He must have been about the most conspicuous man in London, without knowing it. And what made the landlady’s evidence so unreal and puzzling was that she kept on referring to the Blonde as ‘Miss Watson.’ At first Percy hadn’t been quite sure whom she meant by it. But it turned out that Evadne, or Edith, or whatever her name was, had been using a nom‐de‐plume. But what was wrong with that? She was free to call herself whatever she wanted to, wasn’t she?
He was still defending her in his own mind when to his astonishment he heard the judge saying that the Court would be adjourned until tomorrow. Just like that. Adjourned, and he hadn’t been given a chance to say a single word. He might just as well not have been there. The sheer injustice of it made him see red. He wanted to shout out things, and tell the judge what he thought of him. If They thought that They could treat him like that They’d very soon find out where They got off. He wasn’t going to bring his harp to any party and then not have anybody ask him to play …
His blood was right up when one of the two warders behind him tapped him on the arm and jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate that Percy was to follow. Percy got up and followed as obediently as a choir‐boy.
It seemed to Percy as the Black Maria took him back to the prison that he’d been sold a pup in Mr Veesey Blaize. Only two interruptions in the whole day and letting that big battle‐axe on the other side get away with everything. He supposed that it would be Mr Veesey Blaize’s day to‐morrow.
It’s a lovely day to‐morrow, he said to himself over and over again as the car trundled back to Wandsworth.
So to‐morrow had come. He hadn’t slept much because of the sick, excited feeling in his stomach. That, and the dreams. He’d just been going round in circles all night. And now that he was awake and dressing, he realised that this was the day that he’d been looking forward to. He must have been balmy last night. This wasn’t any sort of birthday‐party that he was going to. He wished that it was still yesterday.
And then he remembered the papers. They’d be something. He’d be headlines all right. Splashed right across the page. ‘Bandit Murderer’ and all that sort of stuff. And he would be able to look out for bits of himself without being afraid of what he found. It was funny. The cold sweat of seeing something about It – how the police had got hold of a new clue, or how They expected to make an arrest shortly – all that was over now. He was quite calm inside himself. Had been ever since They’d showed their hand and run him in. No more worries about being picked up, simply because it had happened. It was as though from the moment when the inspector had slipped the handcuffs on him while he was still in a faint on the floor a deep new peace had descended on him. It was the waiting period that had been so killing.
When he’d done his hair and got his coat and tie on he went over to the door of the cell and rattled his fingers across the grille to call the warder. There wasn’t any waiting because the man was only just outside.
‘Gimme the daily papers,’ he said. ‘The whole lot o’ ’em. I want
’em all. My s’lic’tor’ll pay.’
Then he went back and combed his hair again. He had to because he couldn’t get the right sort of brilliantine, and he couldn’t get the proper glossy finish. Even if Mr Veesey Blaize didn’t mind turning up in court looking as if he’d just had a night out, Percy did. And that was silly, wasn’t it. Because a night out was the one thing that he couldn’t have had at the moment.
The warder let him have the papers. Or at least all that he could get. There was a Daily Mail. And an Express. And a Daily Mirror. His hands were trembling as he reached out for them. And then… and then… and then – nothing. He wasn’t on the front pages of even one of them. It was just war, war, war, war, wherever you looked.
He felt almost like crying as he put them down. It was all right keeping a stiff upper lip and that kind of thing. But there are limits to what any one can stand. Especially without acknowledgment. It would have helped a lot to find that the papers were taking a decent interest in the case. A photograph, for instance, would have made him feel somebody. If you’re a public figure, you can afford to take things on the chin.
Of course when he went through the papers thoroughly he was there all right. Quite nice little headings, in fact. And a photograph in one of them. It was only the placing, the sense of proportion that was wrong. Didn’t News Editors know that it was a strain having to stand up in court and fight for your life?
He was interrupted by the warder, who came in very officiously and told him that it was time to get cracking. Time to get cracking, indeed. He was ready to bet that they would be half an hour too early, same as yesterday. They seemed to think that he’d got nothing better to do than sit around with a policeman at each elbow until other people were ready.
But it wasn’t only of himself that he was thinking on the ride to the Old Bailey. Or at least not directly. He was thinking of the war. It had all gone on over his head and he felt out of it. Of course he’d known it was coming. Some of his friends had been buying up good secondhand cars for more than a year now, getting ready for the day when there wouldn’t be any more new ones and the prices would start rising. If only Percy had been outside he too could have done something to help his country. But it just hadn’t worked out that way.
Naturally, when the trial was over he could look around. But by then all the fat would have gone. He’d have to content himself with the pickings. Unless conscription came along. He’d missed what they’d said in the papers about conscription. And he was worried. It wasn’t going to be any fun for a man of his abilities to have to footslog it with a lot of rookies for a shilling a day. Then, he remembered, and he gave a little laugh – on the ride down to the Old Bailey for the second day of his trial he gave a little laugh. He wouldn’t have to do any footslogging. Not likely. He’d be at a premium. They’d be all over him. Skilled motor mechanic – he could choose his job just like peace‐time. The R.A.F. couldn’t have too many men like him.
The line of thought was attractive, and he pursued it. By the time the big blue gates had been opened the van drew up in the closed concrete yard of the Old Bailey, he wasn’t with them any more. He was miles away. Over Berlin. His bomber was caught in a searchlight beam and the guns were firing at him. But he wasn’t worried. Not him. This was his sixtieth raid and he was bearing right down on his target ready to drop the secret bomb that he was trying out. Pushing the joystick forward he went into a shrieking power‐dive…
‘Come along there. Look lively,’ someone was saying to him. ‘Can’t stand here all day.’
Not that he need have hurried himself. Mr Wassall was still fitting the bits together the way he liked them. And when he’d finished Mr Veesey Blaize began tearing them apart again. Balmy, wasn’t it? Because Mr Veesey Blaize was there to prevent awkward questions.
But Mr Wassall soon gave him something else to think about. This was the cross‐examination party.
It had given Percy a funny feeling, taking the oath. Perhaps that’s why They made you do it. To unnerve you. And when you were at the business end of Mr Wassall it wasn’t so nice. He had a cold, superior way with him as though he’d given up even trying to be a human being. He made it quite clear that hanging people was his job and he meant to get on with it.
At first he just asked a few general questions about how long Percy had known the Blonde and that sort of thing. And Percy told him the truth as well as he could remember. But it was difficult even in little things like this. He hadn’t really got a head for dates and he’d never kept a diary. Then Mr Wassall pulled a fast one on him when he wasn’t expecting it.
Mr Wassall: ‘Were you and this young lady intimate?’
Percy: ‘Fairly.’
Mr Wassall: ‘You understand what I mean by intimate?’
Well, everybody knew that, didn’t they? You couldn’t go to the films, or read a decent book, without knowing.
Percy: ‘Yus.’
Mr Wassall: ‘She was your mistress, in fact?’
Percy shook his head.
Percy: ‘No.’
Mr Wassall: ‘I will repeat my question. You have just admitted that there was intimacy between you and I asked if she was your mistress.’
Percy looked across at Mr Veesey Blaize. Why didn’t he do something to earn his money? Percy certainly needed his help all right. He wasn’t going to be trapped into saying that the Blonde had been his mistress. That’d be fatal. Every one knew that mistresses always got murdered sooner or later. But how could be explain?
Percy: ‘No. She was just a friend. A close friend. I never paid her anything.’
There was a noise behind him that sounded like a snigger, and Mr Justice Plymme looked up. There was an expression of quite incredulous pain on his face. But it wasn’t at Percy that he was looking. It was at a small woman in the front row of the public gallery. She was wearing a gay hat with a feather peony in it.
Mr Justice Plymme: ‘A murder trial is not a public performance conducted for the amusement of the public. I am not an actor and this court is not a theatre. If I hear any other unseemly noises I shall order the court to be cleared.’
Well, that was that, and Connie got her handkerchief ready for future emergencies. She didn’t want to be put out.
Mr Wassall, meanwhile, was continuing. He was the only person who hadn’t removed his eyes from Percy’s face, and Percy felt uncomfortable under their stare.
Mr Wassall: ‘I am not interested in your financial arrangements. I am interested only in the intimacy which you have admitted. Were you aware that this woman was going to bear a child?’
Percy put out his hands to catch hold of the front of the dock. He felt faint for a moment. They’d raised that stunner at the police‐court.
Percy: ‘No. She never told me.’
Mr Wassall: ‘Then this was information that you were expecting?’ Mr Veesey Blaize was on his feet before Percy could reply. Evidently he had caught Percy’s disapproving eye earlier.
Mr Veesey Blaize: ‘M’lud,’ he exclaimed. ‘I protest. My learned friend is endeavouring to confuse my client. The prisoner has already told the court that he was no more than a close friend of the deceased. These insinuations can have only one purpose.’
Mr Justice Plymme, however, remained quite unmoved by this outburst. He disliked Mr Veesey Blaize. Disliked him intensely. Had disliked him for years. Cut him quite deliberately in the corridors. And he wasn’t going to have him behaving like a jack‐in‐the‐box now.
Mr Justice Plymme: ‘Mr Blaize’ – he knew that would annoy him, because the creature loved sounding as though he had been born double‐barrelled – ‘these interruptions are most uncalled for. Mr Wassall has been conducting his examination in accordance with the best traditions of this court. If it had been otherwise, I should have taken suitable action. Pray proceed, Mr Wassall.’
Mr Wassall: ‘Were you or were you not the father of this woman’s child?’
Percy: ‘No, I don’t think so.’
Mr Wassall: ‘But come – you must know. I will repeat my question. “Were you the father of this woman’s child?”’
Percy: ‘No.’
Why didn’t Mr Veesey Blaize help him? Was he afraid of the judge or something? Why didn’t he show Mr Wassall once and for all where he got off?
Mr Wassall: ‘How long had there been intimacy between you?’ Percy: ‘I didn’t keep any record. About a year, I reckon.’
Mr Wassall: ‘About a year. Then it is possible that she might have been about to bear your child?’
Percy: ‘It wouldn’t have been likely.’
Mr Wassall: ‘I am not interested in what was likely. I said “possible.”’
Percy: ‘But we were careful.’
Mr Wassall changed his stance. He caught hold of the two lapels of his coat in a sudden fury as though it were really Percy whom he wanted to seize. His voice was simply enormous now.
Mr Wassall: ‘Will you answer my question? Is it possible that this woman was about to bear your child?’
Percy: ‘Yes, it’s possible, I suppose.’
Mr Wassall: ‘Thank you.’
Percy took out his handkerchief and passed it across his forehead. He was sweating. It wasn’t easy having to answer a question like that in front of a lot of strangers. Whatever would they think of him? Mr Wassall has made him blot his copybook all right.
He raised his eyes and took a look at Mr Wassall. Funny that he didn’t show signs of any strain. Less than half a minute ago he’d been bawling at the top of his voice, and there he was looking as though he was standing up in church all the time. But his next question was put in quite a gentle voice. Percy was relieved. He was – why not admit it? – a bit frightened of Mr Wassall.
Mr Wassall: ‘Were you and this woman planning to be married?’ Percy: ‘No. She said she was married already.’
Mr Wassall: ‘Did you ever discuss marriage?’
Percy: ‘No. We just saw each other.’
Mr Wassall: ‘And how many times did you see her?’
Percy: ‘I don’t remember.’
And even if he did remember, he wasn’t going to say. Suppose his mother got hold of a paper, it’d break her heart to know what had been going on. He wasn’t going to do that just to please Mr Wassall. He hoped in any case that his mother wasn’t well enough to read the papers. Hoped that she was worse in fact.
Mr Wassall: ‘Well, did you see her every day?’
Percy: ‘No.’
Mr Wassall: ‘Every other day?’
Percy: ‘No.’
Mr Wassall: ‘Well, let us say once or twice a week.’
Percy: ‘Not so often.’
Mr Wassall: ‘Well, how often then?’
Percy: ‘More like once.’
Mr Wassall: ‘You saw her once a week.’
Percy: ‘Not always. At least, that is lately, I’d given up seeing her.’ He knew as soon as he’d said it that he’d made a mistake. He shouldn’t have said that bit. It was simply playing Mr Wassall’s game. And was Mr Wassall quick off his mark?
Mr Wassall: ‘Why had you suddenly given up seeing this woman?’ Mr Veesey Blaize jumped to his feet.
Mr Veesey Blaize: ‘M’lud, my client did not say “suddenly.” He merely said that he had given up seeing her.’
Mr Justice Plymme ignored Mr Veesey Blaize altogether: he merely turned to his notes and addressed them in a quiet voice as though the two of them understood each other.
Mr Justice Plymme: ‘At one time I saw her once a week. Lately I had given up seeing her. Those were the words.’
Then he turned to Mr Wassall.
Mr Justice Plymme: ‘There has been no suggestion of suddenness that I am aware of. You may proceed, Mr Wassall.’
Mr Wassall: ‘I will re‐phrase my question, m’lud. Why did this intimacy cease?’
Percy: ‘I stopped going.’
Mr Wassall: ‘That is not an answer. I asked for the reason.’
Percy knew that he’d asked; he’d heard him. But what could he say? He couldn’t stand there and tell them about Doris, and about the other Blonde at Victoria, because it would sound silly. More than that. It would make him seem a blooming Bluebeard. He wasn’t going to have that happen.
Mr Wassall: ‘I am still waiting for my answer. Shall I repeat my question?’
Percy: ‘I got tired of her.’
Mr Wassall: ‘You got tired of her. She may have been expecting your child but you got tired of her. And when did your tiredness as you call it make you give up seeing her?’
Percy: ‘About a month before.’
Mr Wassall: ‘About a month before what?’
Percy: ‘A month before she… died.’
Mr Wassall: ‘Had you seen her at all during that time?’
Percy: ‘Not until I met her in the public‐house.’
He was getting confused. He couldn’t help it. Mr Wassall kept banging away with his questions and not giving him time to get his breath between answers. He was like some kind of a machine‐gun. And what was worse he was off again already.
Mr Wassall: ‘Did you meet her by arrangement?’
Percy: ‘No, it just happened.’
Mr Wassall: ‘How did it happen?’
Percy: ‘I went in to get a drink and she was in there so I went over to her.’
Mr Wassall: ‘But I understand that you were tired of her.’
Percy: ‘So I was.’
Mr Wassall: ‘Then why did you join her?’
Percy: ‘She beckoned to me.’
Mr Wassall: ‘It didn’t give you any particular pleasure seeing her?’ Percy: ‘No.’
Mr Wassall: ‘You would just as soon not have seen her?’
Percy: ‘It was all over and finished between us, like I said.’
Mr Wassall: ‘In fact her company meant nothing to you?’
There was a movement on the bench and Mr Justice Plymme raised his small pink face from his writing pad.
Mr Justice Plymme: ‘I am frequently amazed by the number of questions which counsel feel it necessary to put in order to establish a quite simple point. To the best of his ability the prisoner has already told you that the meeting gave him no particular pleasure, that he would just as soon not have seen her and, to use his own expression, it was all over and finished between them. I can see no progress in your last question, Mr Wassall.’
It made Percy feel better hearing Mr Justice Plymme say that. It showed that he was on his side. He wanted to thank him for it, and tried to give a smile in his direction. But Mr Justice Plymme wasn’t having any. He had dropped his head again and was again apparently disinterested in the whole case. But Mr Wassall wasn’t.
Mr Wassall: ‘It is a point of the most critical importance, m’lud. That is why I wished to make so certain of it.’ (Turning to Percy) ‘How long did you stay with her after Mr Rawkins had left?’
Percy: ‘About half an hour.’
Mr Wassall: ‘Did you experience any rekindling of your emotions during that time? Did you, so to speak, fall in love with her again?’
Percy: ‘No.’
Mr Wassall: ‘Then why did you invite her to drive with you in the car in which she went to her death?’
Percy: ‘She asked me.’
Mr Wassall: ‘But couldn’t you have refused?’
Percy: ‘It wouldn’t have been polite.’
Mr Wassall: ‘You are quite sure she asked you?’
Percy: ‘Yes.’
Mr Wassall: ‘You didn’t suggest it yourself ?’
Percy: ‘No.’
Mr Wassall: ‘You are sure?’
Percy: ‘Quite sure.’
Mr Wassall: ‘I suggest that the invitation came entirely from you. That you proposed that ride for purposes of your own. That you in fact lured her into that car.’
Mr Wassall was at his biggest and most terrible as he said it. His voice swept over Percy like a tornado, stunning him. It was silly, he knew: but he felt frightened again. Properly frightened. He hadn’t known that things were going to turn out this way. It seemed to have shaken Mr Veesey Blaize as well. He was on his feet. ‘M’lud…’ he began. But Mr Justice Plymme motioned him to be quiet. Then he addressed himself direct to Percy. It was the first time he had looked full at Percy. And, when he looked, Percy wasn’t so sure that he really was on his side after all. He didn’t look like a real man. It was just a pair of old Haddock’s eyes that was peering out from underneath that wig.
Mr Justice Plymme: ‘You must answer counsel’s questions, you know. Would you like the last question to be repeated?’
Percy: ‘No, sir. I heard it.’
Mr Justice Plymme: ‘Then kindly reply.’
Percy: ‘But it isn’t true.’
Mr Justice Plymme: ‘Thank you.’
Percy was all hot and sweaty now. He’d have liked a bitter, or a cup of tea, or something.
Mr Wassall: ‘Where did the young lady wish to be taken?’
Percy: ‘Home.’
Mr Wassall: ‘And where was her home?’
Percy: ‘Kennington.’
Mr Wassall: ‘But across Putney Common isn’t the quickest route to Kennington, is it?’
Percy: ‘No.’
Mr Wassall: ‘Then why did you want to prolong this ride with a young woman whom you were tired of ?’
Percy: ‘I wanted to go the quiet way.’
Mr Wassall: ‘Ah. And what was your purpose in that?’
Percy: ‘So as not to be seen.’
Mr Wassall: ‘It was a foggy night, wasn’t it?’
Percy: ‘Well, misty.’
Mr Wassall: ‘So whatever route you took, you were not likely to be seen. Even so, deliberately you took the loneliest…’
There were still the closing speeches. Mr Wassall and Mr Veesey Blaize both tried to score points off each other. That was where the really big stuff came in. It was as good as Marshall Hall after all. Only, by then, Mr Josser felt sick and couldn’t listen.
The summing‐up was a real triumph. It was long – about forty‐five minutes – and beautifully phrased. The Law Quarterly called it one of the most artistic and polished performances of Mr Plymme’s career. There was, indeed, a general opinion in legal circles that the whole case of Rex v. Percy Aloysius Boon would have been well worth it if only for the summing‐up. When his Lordship had finished speaking there was that chastened and slightly embarrassed silence which succeeds the faultless demonstration that something which had appeared very complex and difficult is in reality quite uninvolved and easy.
Its effect was marred only by a foolish question from the little, puddingy foreman of the jury. When Mr Justice Plymme had finished speaking the foreman – he was a corn‐chandler – rose respectfully and, after a false start, during which his voice was at first so faint that he couldn’t be heard and then so loud that his Lordship drew back involuntarily, he said: ‘Suppose we decide that the prisoner killed her but didn’t mean to, what verdict do we bring in then?’
This question, hesitantly put and indifferently uttered, brought forth the rebuke that was prominently reported in the papers next day.
Mr Justice Plymme resumed his horn‐rimmed spectacles and placed his porcelain‐like hand over his little painted face. ‘There are occasions,’ he said in his smooth fluting voice, ‘when it seems impossible to impart information by word of mouth. Perhaps writing would be better: I do not know. The disappointing truth remains that the latter part of my summary was concerned exclusively with answering the very point that this gentleman has just put to me. At the cost of being repetitive in a case where so much has been repetitive already, I will elaborate what I have already said. To administer a blow in anger in a drawing‐room may be only an act of common assault. To administer an exactly comparable blow upon a man standing at the top of Beachy Head may be murder. In the case which you have just heard the prisoner has admitted to striking on the head with a spanner his fellow passenger in a fast moving car. As a result of the blow the passenger fell into the road and was killed either as a result of the blow or as a result of the fall or as a result of the shock caused by both these occurrences. You have heard the prisoner say that the blow was struck lightly. You have heard medical evidence to the contrary. You have heard the prisoner say that deprivation of life did not enter his mind. You have heard evidence that the door of the car was faulty. You may therefore decide that the succession of events was out of the prisoner’s hands. Nevertheless it remains for you to decide what set the succession of events in train. And if you decide that the blow struck within the car, a blow struck by a spanner weighing 3¼ pounds, was the cause of the succession of events it will be your duty to find the prisoner guilty of murder. If on the other hand you regard the delivery of the blow as purely accidental and the fall from the car as a further accident, then you may rightly return a verdict of manslaughter.’
Mr Justice Plymme uncovered his face and fixed his eyes upon the corn‐chandler.
‘I trust,’ he said, ‘that I have succeeded in removing the perplexity which was in your mind.’
The corn‐chandler cleared his throat and tried to look as though he understood. He was rubbing the plams of his hands up and down his waistcoat because he was sweating.
‘May I ask another question, my lord?’
Mr Justice Plymme inclined his head politely.
‘What about a recommendation to mercy?’ he asked.
Mr Justice Plymme had expected that to be the question.
‘All juries,’ he said straight away, ‘appear to labour under the misapprehension that they have been called to advise His Majesty’s Secretary of State for Home Affairs in the exercise of his duties. This is not so. Juries are summoned to listen to evidence and to give their verdict on it. Having given that verdict without thought or fear of the consequences their natural humanity may prompt them to utter a plea for clemency. The law provides for that, and the plea is passed on to the Secretary of State – who I may add is perfectly capable of showing clemency even without the benefit of advice on that score. That is the right order of events. It is not only misleading but positively mischievous to talk of mercy before guilt has been proved and there can be any possible need for mercy.’
Mr Justice Plymme scrutinised the corn‐chandler closely.
‘I have made myself plain, I trust?’
‘Perfectly, thank you, sir – my lord, I mean,’ the corn‐chandler replied looking more mystified and abashed than ever.
‘Then the court will adjourn while you consider your verdict,’ Mr Justice Plymme announced.
And what about me? Percy was asking. Where do I come in?
What do I get out of this? Why wasn’t I allowed to speak? I could have told them. I could have put ’em straight. I could have cleared myself. And now what are they going to think of me? Why wasn’t I allowed to speak? You can’t call answering a lot of ruddy questions speaking. ‘How would he’ – Percy was staring at the door through which the scarlet robes of Mr Justice Plymme had just disappeared – ‘have liked it if I’d kept butting in when he was talking? Call this justice! What about me? Where do I come in?’
There was one piece of finesse in Mr Justice Plymme’s summing‐up which escaped even the Law Quarterly. And that was the timing. Without hurrying himself or resorting to any unnecessary padding, Mr Justice Plymme arrived at his conclusion at exactly five minutes to one – five minutes, that is, before his invariable lunch‐hour. And in those five minutes he was able to answer the two foolish questions of the juryman. Punctually to one minute he seated himself at his table in the judge’s room, poured himself out a glass of light claret and began dissecting the wing of cold chicken that he had ordered. Mr Justice Plymme never ate red meat.
On the floor below, the jurymen were settling themselves down to something considerably more substantial. To‐day’s menu was steak‐and‐kidney pudding, boiled potatoes and cabbage, and an apple‐turnover. It was all brought over from a near‐by restaurant. A waitress and a boy had made no fewer than three separate journeys with it all. Bottled beer arrived independently from the House opposite. And the jurors, all twelve of them, sat down to their food in a small room with a green dado and closed windows.
Because they were busy men, the jury wasted no time and discussed the case right through lunch. Not that there was very much to discuss. For outside the court, the foreman was a different human being altogether – dogmatic, obstinate and overbearing. He spoke as one who had lived practically all his life in law courts and knew the Criminal Evidence Act, 1898, by heart.
‘It’s as plain as a pikestaff,’ he said uncontradictably, pausing only when he actually wanted to swallow. ‘The judge said so himself. Either he killed her or he didn’t, and if he killed her in those circumstances it’s murder. Well, she’s dead, isn’t she? So far as I’m concerned that’s all there is to it.’
He had finished the steak‐and‐kidney pudding by now and looked up beamingly to see the effect of his logic. It seemed to have convinced ten of his companions but to have left the eleventh unmoved. A prim, stubborn little man with pince‐nez glasses, the eleventh evidently had humanitarian misgivings.
‘It’s a big responsibility,’ he said. ‘Suppose he didn’t mean to do it.’ ‘Then he shouldn’t have tried,’ replied the foreman. ‘He ought to have thought of that before.’
‘But suppose he only meant to stun her?’
‘If a person commits an act on another person,’ the foreman intoned, ‘and if the person – the other person that is – dies because of what the first person has done to the other person then the first person, the person who started it all, is guilty.’
He sat back, a smile on his face, pleased with his performance. ‘That isn’t what the judge said,’ the vague, wispish man complained. ‘Then what did he say?’ the corn‐chandler demanded.
‘He said only if the first person was standing on Beachy Head. He said he could hit the other person as hard as he liked in his own drawing‐room and it would only be common assault. I heard him distinctly.’
‘Well, a moving car’s the same thing.’
‘Same thing as what?’
‘Same thing as Beachy Head.’
‘Who says so?’
The corn‐chandler undid his waistcoat and cleared a little space on the table in front of him. He gave a little cough.
‘Don’t let’s fall out about small things,’ he said in a quieter, more engaging tone. ‘Cases like this sometimes go on for weeks and weeks if that happens. Locked up in here until it’s over. Let’s be reasonable men.’
‘That’s what I am being,’ the wispish man interrupted him. ‘You said a car was the same thing…’
‘Please!’ The foreman lifted his hand and cleared his throat again. ‘It’s not our job to find fault with each other. It’s our job to find the prisoner guilty. Now did he do it? Hands up those who say yes.’
Eight hands went up. Then nine. Then, very flutteringly, a tenth. Only the little wispish man remained as he was.
The foreman looked at him fiercely. ‘Well, did he?’
‘Did he do what?’
‘Kill her.’
‘That’s what I’m not sure about.’
The foreman put down his spoon and fork and sat back in his chair.
‘Would any one else like to be foreman?’ he asked.
No one, not even the vague wispish man, volunteered.
‘No, you just go on as you are,’ he said. ‘It’s your job to convince us.’
‘Well, would the young lady be alive to‐day if he hadn’t hit her on the head?’ the foreman inquired.
The vague, wispish man pondered.
‘Perhaps she was attacking him,’ he suggested. ‘Perhaps it was self‐defence. You can’t call self‐defence murder.’
‘Nobody’s said anything about self‐defence,’ the foreman retorted. ‘Yes, they have,’ the vague, wispish man replied.
‘Who?’
‘Me.’
‘We’re not here to discuss what you said; we’re here to discuss what the judge said.’
‘It isn’t the judge we’re trying.’
‘And it isn’t you either.’
It was generally felt that the foreman had scored a victory this time. And what was more the other ten were growing a little tired of the vague, wispish juror. He was prolonging things and raising difficulties – a kind of born unleader of men.
‘Tell us again what the judge said,’ he challenged the foreman. ‘If there are two people and one of them does something…’ ‘Which one?’ the vague, wispish one asked.
‘Either one,’ the foreman replied. ‘And because of what he does the other one dies, it’s murder.’
‘What about soldiers and surgeons?’ the vague, wispish man asked. ‘They kill people and nobody calls them murderers.’
But that was too much. The vague, wispish man had betrayed himself. He was a crank. And, from then on, the foreman had everything his own way. As soon as the vague, wispish man opened his mouth to raise further objections there was somebody to stop him.
‘Then we’re agreed, are we?’ asked the foreman at last. It was a quarter‐past three already and he was feeling tired. ‘Hands up those who say “yes.”’
‘Not if he’s going to be hanged, we’re not. Or at least I’m not.’ It was the eleventh hand – the fluttering one – that had spoken.
The foreman squared his shoulders and glared at his fellow juror. ‘So far as I’m aware, the Secretary of State doesn’t need any advice on inclemency from us. That’s not what we’re here for. As soon as I see all hands go up we’ll talk about mercy. Not before. Now, is the prisoner guilty? Just that, leaving out being hanged for the moment.’
Eleven hands went up, and the foreman began rubbing his own together.
‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘Capital. And now what about a recommendation to mercy? How about it?’
Eleven hands went up again.
‘A strong one,’ suggested the vague, wispish man who felt that somehow he had been coerced into departing from his principles.
‘Hear! Hear!’ replied the woman juror.
‘Well, that’s that,’ said the corn‐chandler. ‘Guilty. With a strong recommendation to mercy. It couldn’t have been anything else in the circumstances.’
Mr Justice Plymme was dozing in his chair when his clerk knocked on the door to say that the jury had considered their verdict and were ready. He kept the man waiting while he sat up and straightened his tie.
He was almost pathetically tiny and frail as he stood up in his dark lounge suit, waiting to be robed. His face under the curling silver hair was like that of a small, tired child. The clerk removed the scarlet robe from its hanger in the corner cupboard and held it ready for him. Mr Justice Plymme vanished into it. Then the starched cravat was produced and placed round his neck. Finally, the horsehair wig was taken off its block on the writing‐desk and, as it was lowered on to his head, the miracle was complete. The little old man was a judge again.
During all this time, he had not stirred. Or spoken. The real trouble was that he was not yet properly awake. At least, only half awake. It was a disability which had been growing on him lately – this failure to spring immediately to life when roused. Even in his procession to the court he was still sleep‐walking. He mounted the bench, still in the same half‐dazed, half‐awake condition, and folded his hands in front of him as though praying. Already the clerk of the court was addressing the foreman of the jury. The foreman was standing politely to attention, holding his lapels.
‘Do you find the accused guilty or not guilty?’ the clerk asked.
The reply was exactly what Mr Justice Plymme had expected. So exactly, in fact, that his hand was already reaching out instinctively for the small square of black cloth that lay there ready.
‘This,’ he reflected sadly, thinking how old it made him, ‘is the twenty‐seventh time I have done this thing. Here and at Assizes. Twenty‐seven times. No wonder the strain is telling on me…’
The clerk turned towards Percy.
‘Prisoner at the bar,’ he asked, ‘have you anything to say why the Court should not give you judgment according to law?’
So it had come – Percy’s big moment. But he wasn’t up to it. Simply wasn’t up to it. He gave a gulp almost as though he were about to cry.
‘Only that I’m innocent. I never meant to.’
That also was exactly what Mr Justice Plymme had expected him to say. Really one murder trial was very like another. He placed the black cap carefully on his head and adjusted it. And as he did so he became grim and terrible for all his pink‐and‐whiteness.
‘You have been found guilty of that crime for which the law appoints one sentence and one sentence only. It is that sentence which I now pronounce upon you. The sentence of the Court upon you is, that you be taken from this place to a lawful prison and thence to a place of execution, and that you be there hanged by the neck until you be dead; and that your body be afterwards buried within the precincts of the prison in which you shall have been confined before your execution. And may the Lord have mercy on your soul.’
Then Mr Justice Plymme removed his black cap and turned towards the jury.
‘Gentlemen, I thank you,’ he said, almost as if he were apologising. ‘You are exempt from jury service for ten years.’
But what about Percy? What about him? Hasn’t he got any feelings in the matter? Doesn’t he count for anything any more?
Oh, yes, he’s still the centre of attention in the prisoner’s room behind the court. He’s a very special person now and they’re taking every care of him. Mr Barks is allowed to see him, but only in the presence of two warders. Percy might be royalty from the way they’re guarding him.
Mr Barks is somehow not quite the same aggressive, cocksure Mr Barks who came into the court yesterday morning. He looks tired. Even his dapper bow‐tie is drooping. Altogether his appearance does credit to his feelings. But appearances after all can be most deceptive. Actually, he is thinking of Mr Veesey Blaize, and wondering if he realises that professionally he is finished. Thinking of Mr Veesey Blaize’s failure and his own arrears of County Court work. Nice steady profitable work with no fireworks. Five cases a morning and three more in the afternoon. No wonder that Mr Barks looks worn.
But Percy is still too much dazed to notice how he looks. Too dazed, and too angry. He feels that, somehow or other, he has been tricked. Tricked by Mr Barks and by Mr Veesey Blaize and by Mr Wassall and by the judge. And, going further back, tricked by Them in general and by the plainclothes lodger in particular. At the present moment, he sees himself at the end, the very end, of a long road of deception and double‐dealing. It was for stealing a car that They first had him, wasn’t it? And look at him now. Where is he?
It was the judge in particular who was against him. He could see that now. And he understood why Mr Justice Plymme had avoided his eye when he had tried to smile across at him.
Not that this was going to be the end of it. Not by a long chalk. He was going to get even with him somehow. It wouldn’t be easy, shut up inside like he was. But he’d do it. He’d get Mr Barks and Mr Veesey Blaize to complain to the chief magistrate. He’d get even with him somehow. Then just as he has clenched his fists from thinking about it, he bursts out crying.
‘I didn’t mean to kill her,’ he bursts out. ‘I swear I didn’t. Why won’t they believe me? Why won’t they?’
One of the warders tells him to take things easy, and Mr Barks looks uncomfortable again.
Then a new fear – only it’s the old fear, really, all polished and brought up‐to‐date suddenly – strikes him.
‘They aren’t going to… to…’ – the word is slurred over because he is crying so much – ‘for something I didn’t mean, are They?’
Mr Barks begins fumbling with his brief‐case.
‘This is only the first stage,’ he says. ‘Court of Criminal Appeal comes next. Very important. Fix up early conference with Mr Veesey Blaize. Clear case of misdirection. Be hearing from me.’
‘You mean it’ll be all right?’ Percy asks.
‘Strong case,’ Mr Barks answers. ‘Very strong case. Jury prejudiced. Talk all about that later.’
With that, Mr Barks leaves him. But those last few minutes had been as good as a tonic to Percy. He takes out his pocket‐comb and runs it through his hair. He isn’t such a fool as They took him for. He knows what’s what. He’d spotted straightaway that the judge wasn’t being fair, hadn’t he?
Then one of the warders touches him on the shoulder and Percy follows him.