“ALL persons who have anything to do before my Lords the King’s Justices of Oyer and Terminer and general gaol delivery for the jurisdiction of the Central Criminal Court, draw near and give your attendance.”
“God save the King, and my Lords the King’s Justices.”
In Courtroom Number One, the “red” judge was taking his seat. Mr. Justice Bodkin was a very short plump man whose robe of scarlet slashed with black made him look even shorter and stouter. But he carried it with a swing of briskness. Under a gray tie-wig, fitting him as well as his own hair, his face was round and fresh-complexioned. His little narrow eyes, which should have been sleepy, had an alertness which gave him the air of a headmaster before a form.
To Evelyn and myself, sitting in the reserved seats behind counsel, the place had a look less of a court than of a schoolroom. Even the desks were arranged like forms. Over the court a big white-painted dome ended in a flat roof of glass, blurred with the light of a raw March morning. The walls were paneled to some height in oak. Concealed electric lights under the cornices of the paneling threw a yellow glow up over the white dome; they made the oak look light, and turned the woodwork of the rest of the court to a yellowish color. This resemblance to a schoolroom may have been caused by the brushed, business-like neatness of the place. Or it may have been the complete lack of haste or flurry, like the pendulum of a grandfather clock.
From where we sat—behind counsel—we could see of the barristers only the backs of their gowns and wigs: a few descending tiers of white wigs, with little ridges of curls like hair buttons. A school, bending towards each other and whispering. Towards our left was the big raised dock, now empty. Immediately across from us—beyond the long solicitors’ table in the well of the court—was the jury-box, with the witness-box beside it. Towards our right, the judge’s bench showed behind it a line of massive tall chairs: the Sword of State suspended vertically over the chair in the center.
Mr. Justice Bodkin bowed to the Bar, to the officers of the court, and to the jury. His bow was from the waist, like a salaam. The two clerks of the court, at the desk immediately below him, turned round and bowed in unison. Both were very tall men in wig and gown, and their deep bend together was in such sharp timing with the judge’s as to give it the effect of a movement in a Punch-and-Judy show. Then the court settled down, and the coughing began. Mr. Justice Bodkin arranged himself in the chair immediately to the left of the Sword of State: never in the center one, which is reserved for the Lord Mayor or one of the aldermen. Fitting on a pair of a shell-rimmed glasses, Mr. Justice Bodkin took up a pen and smoothed flat the pages of a large notebook. Over the glass roof of the court, March daylight strengthened and then dulled. They brought in the prisoner at the bar.
You cannot look long at the prisoner, standing in that enormous dock with a policeman on either side of him. Or at least I can’t. You feel like a ghoul. It was the first time either Evelyn or I had seen Answell. He was a decent-looking young fellow—almost anybody in court might have looked into a mirror and seen his counterpart. Despite the fact that he was well-dressed and freshly shaven, there was a certain air about him which gave the impression that he did not now particularly care a curse what happened. But he stood stiffly at attention. There were a few ghouls from the society columns sitting behind us; he did not glance in our direction. When the indictment was read over to him, he answered not guilty in a voice suddenly edged with defiance. Not an unnecessary word was spoken in the court. The judge seemed to conduct matters mostly by signs.
“I swear by Almighty God,” they were administering the oath to the jury, “that I will well and truly try, and true deliverance make, between our Sovereign Lord the King and the prisoner at the Bar, whom I have in charge, and a true verdict give according to the evidence.”
It was a schoolroom with a rope at the end of it when you left the headmaster’s study. Evelyn, who was troubled, spoke behind her hand. She had been looking down over the blank rows of black-silk backs in front of us.
“Ken, I can’t understand it. Why ever does H.M. want to go into court?
I mean, I know he’s always at loggerheads with people in the government; and he and the Home Secretary practically come to blows every time they meet; but he’s hand in glove with the police. That chief inspector—what’s his name—?”
“Masters?”
“Masters, yes. He’d take H.M.’s advice before he’d take his own superiors’. Well, if H.M. can prove this chap Answell is innocent, why didn’t he just prove it to the police, and then they’d have dropped the case?”
I did not know. It was the one point on which H.M. had preserved a belligerent silence. Though the barristers in front had their backs to us now, it was easy to pick out H.M. He was sitting alone on the left of the front bench: his elbows outthrust on the desk, so that his ancient gown made him look still broader, and his wig sitting strangely on him. Towards his right on the same bench, counsel for the Crown—Sir Walter Storm, Mr. Huntley Lawton, and Mr. John Spragg—conferred together. Their whispers were inaudible. Though the desk in front of H.M. was comparatively clear, the space before counsel for the prosecution was piled with books, with the neatly printed briefs, with the yellow booklets in which official photographs are bound, and with fresh pink blotting-paper. Every back was grave. Yet under the mask of studied courtesy which marks the Old Bailey, I felt (or thought I could feel) a certain ironical amusement under those wigs, whenever an eve happened to stray towards H.M.
Evelyn felt it too, and was furious.
“But he shouldn’t have come into court,” she insisted. “He took silk before the war, but Lollypop told me herself he hasn’t accepted a brief in fifteen years, and they’ll eat him. Look at him down there, sitting like a boiled owl! And if they begin to get under his skin he won’t behave himself; you know he won’t.”
I had to admit he was not the most polished counsel who might have been selected. “It would appear that there was some commotion the last time he did appear in court. Also, I think myself it was indiscreet to begin an address to the jury with, ‘Well, my fatheads.’ But for some curious reason he won the case.”
A creaking and a muttering drone filled the court as the jury continued to be sworn. Evelyn glanced down past counsel at the long solicitors’ table in the well of the court. Every seat was filled, and the table was piled with exhibits bound into neat envelopes or packages. Two other and more curious exhibits were propped beyond, near the little cubicle where the court shorthand-reporter sat. Then Evelyn looked up at Mr. Justice Bodkin, sitting as detached as a Yogi.
“The judge looks—tough.”
“He is tough. He is also one of the most intelligent men in England.”
“Then if this fellow is guilty,” said Evelyn. She mentioned the unmentionable subject. “Do you think he did it?”
Her tone took on the furtive note with which this is mentioned by spectators. Privately, I thought Answell was either guilty or crazy or both. I was fairly sure that they would hang him. He had certainly done as much as possible to hang himself. But there was no time to reflect on this. The last of the jurors, including two women, had now been sworn without a challenge. The indictment was again read over to the prisoner. There was a throat-clearing. And Sir Walter Storm, the Attorney-General, rose to open the case for the Crown.
“May it please your Lordship, members of the jury.”
There was a silence, through which Sir Walter Storm’s rich voice rose with a curious effect of seeming to come from a gulf. The woolly top of his wig confronted us as he tilted his chin. I do not think that throughout the entire trial we saw his face more than once, when he twisted round: it was long, long-nosed, and ruddy, with an arresting eye. He was completely impersonal, and completely deadly. Often he had the air of a considerate schoolmaster questioning slightly feebleminded charges. In his course of remaining impartial, his voice took on a light and modulated enunciation like an actor’s.
“May it please your Lordship, members of the jury,” began the Attorney-General. “The charge against the prisoner, as you have heard, is murder. It is my duty to indicate to you here the course that will be followed by the evidence for the Crown. You may well believe that it is often with reluctance that a prosecutor takes up his duties. The victim of this crime was a man universally respected, for many years an official of the Capital Counties Bank; and later, I think, a member of the board of directors of that bank. The man who stands accused of having committed it is one of good family, good upbringing, and of considerable material fortune, having a great many of this world’s advantages denied to others. But the facts will be presented to you; and these facts, I shall suggest to you, can lead to no other conclusion but that Mr. Avory Hume was brutally murdered by the prisoner at the bar.
“The victim was a widower, and at the time of his death was living at number 12 Grosvenor Street with his daughter, Miss Mary Hume; his brother, Dr. Spencer Hume; and his confidential secretary, Miss Amelia Jordan. During the fortnight of December 23 to January 5, last, Miss Mary Hume was absent from this house, visiting friends in Sussex. You will hear that on the morning of December 31, last, the deceased received a letter from Miss Hume. This letter announced that Miss Hume had become engaged to be married to James Answell, the prisoner at the bar, whom she had met at the home of her friends.
“You will hear that, on receiving this news, the deceased was at first well pleased. He expressed himself in terms of the warmest approval. He wrote a letter of congratulation to Miss Hume; and conducted at least one telephone conversation with her on the subject. You might think that he had reason to be satisfied, considering the prisoner’s prospects. But I must draw your attention to the sequel. At some time between December 31 and January 4, the deceased’s attitude towards this marriage (and towards the prisoner) underwent a sudden and complete change.
“Members of the jury—when this change occurred, or why, the Crown do not attempt to say. But the Crown ask you to consider whether or not such a change had any effect on the prisoner at the bar. You will hear that on the morning of Saturday, January 4, the deceased received another letter from Miss Hume. This letter stated that the prisoner would be in London on that day. Mr. Hume lost little time in communicating with the prisoner. At 1:30 on Saturday afternoon he telephoned to the prisoner at the latter’s flat in Duke Street. The deceased’s words were overheard on this occasion by two witnesses. You will hear in what terms, and with what acerbity, he spoke to the prisoner. You will hear that, as the deceased replaced the receiver of the telephone, he said aloud, ‘My dear Answell, I’ll settle your hash, damn you.’”
Sir Walter Storm paused.
He spoke the words unemotionally, consulting his papers as though to make sure of having them right. A number of people glanced automatically at the prisoner, who was now sitting down in the dock with a warder sitting on either side of him. The prisoner, I thought, seemed to have been prepared for this.
“In the course of this telephone conversation, the deceased asked the prisoner to come to his house in Grosvenor Street at six o'clock that evening. Later, as you will hear, he told the butler that he was expecting at six a visitor who (in his own words) ‘might give some trouble, for he is not to be trusted.’
“At about 5:15 the deceased retired to his study, or office, at the rear of the house. I must explain to you that—during his long term of service with the bank—he had constructed for himself a private office at home suited to his needs. You will see that there are only three entrances to this room: a door and two windows. The door was a heavy and tight-fitting one, fastened on the inside with a bolt. There was not even a keyhole: the door being fastened on the outside with a Yale lock. Each of the windows could be covered with folding steel shutters, which, as you will hear, were of a burglarproof variety. Here the deceased had been accustomed to keep such valuable documents or letters as he had once been obliged to bring home with him. But for several years this study had not been used as a strong-room; and the deceased had not considered it necessary to lock up the room either with door or with shutters.
“Instead, he kept there only his ‘trophies.’ This, members of the jury, refers to the fact that the deceased had been a keen follower of the pastime of archery. He was a member of the Royal Toxophilite Society and of the Woodmen of Kent, societies which exist for the furtherance of this good old sport. On the wall of his study hung some prizes of the annual matches of the Woodmen of Kent. These consisted of three arrows—inscribed respectively with the dates on which they had been won, 1928, 1932, 1934—and a bronze medal presented by the Woodmen of Kent for a record number of points, or hits, in 1934.
“With this background, then, the deceased went into his study at about 5:15 on the evening of January 4. Now mark what follows! At this time the deceased called to Dyer, the butler, and instructed him to close and lock the shutters. Dyer said, ‘The shutters?’—expressing surprise, since this had not been done since the deceased had left off using the room as an office. The deceased said: ‘Do as I tell you; do you think I want Fleming to see that fool making trouble?’
“You will hear that this referred to Mr. Randolph Fleming, a fellow archery enthusiast and a friend of the deceased, who lived next door: in fact, in the house across the narrow paved passage outside the study windows. Dyer followed the deceased’s instructions, and securely barred the shutters. It is worthy of note that the two sash-windows were also locked on the inside. Dyer, making sure that everything was in order in the room, then observed on a sideboard a decanter full to the stopper of whisky, an unused siphon of soda-water, and four clean tumblers. Dyer left the room.
“At 6:10 o'clock the prisoner arrived. You will hear evidence which will enable you to decide whether he was or was not in an extremely agitated frame of mind. He then refused to remove his overcoat, and asked to be taken at once to Mr. Hume. Dyer took him to the study and then left the room, closing the door.
“At about 6:12 Dyer, who had remained in the little passage outside the door, heard the prisoner say, ‘I did not come here to kill anyone unless it becomes absolutely necessary.’ Some minutes later he heard Mr. Hume cry out, ‘Man, what is wrong with you? Have you gone mad?’ And he heard certain noises which will be described to you.”
This time the Attorney-General’s pause was of the slightest. Sir Walter Storm was warming up: though he remained fluently impersonal, and still read out quotations with the same painstaking articulation. His only gesture was to move his forefinger slowly at the jury at each word he read. Sir Walter is a tall man, and the sleeve of his black gown flapped a little.
“At this point, members of the jury, Dyer knocked at the door and asked whether anything was wrong. His employer replied, ‘No, I can deal with this; go away,’—which he did.
“At 6:30 Miss Amelia Jordan came downstairs, on her way out of the house, and went to the study. She was about to knock at the door when she heard the voice of the prisoner say, ‘Get up! Get up, damn you! ‘Miss Jordan tried the knob of the door, and found that it was bolted on the inside. She then ran down the passage, meeting Dyer, who was just coming into it. She said to him: ‘They are fighting; they are killing each other; go and stop them.’ Dyer said that it might be better to get a policeman. Miss Jordan then said, ‘You are a coward; run next door and fetch Mr. Fleming.’ Dyer suggested that Miss Jordan had better not be left alone in the house at that moment, and that she herself had better go after Mr. Fleming.
“This she did, finding Mr. Fleming just leaving his house to go out. Mr. Fleming returned with her. They found Dyer returning from the kitchen with a poker, and all three went to the study door. Dyer knocked; after a minute they heard a noise which they correctly believed to be that of the bolt being slowly withdrawn from its socket on the other side of the door. I say ‘correctly,’ members of the jury. That the bolt was indeed withdrawn at this moment, and that it was a stiffly working bolt which required some effort to draw, has repeatedly been acknowledged by the prisoner himself.
“The prisoner opened the door a few inches. On seeing them, he opened it fully, and said, ‘All right; you may as well come in.’
“You may or may not think the remark a callous one under the circumstances. The circumstances were that Mr. Hume was lying on the floor between the windows and the desk, in a position you will hear described. An arrow had been driven into his chest, and remained upright in the body. You will hear that arrow identified as one which, when the deceased was last seen alive in the company of the prisoner alone, had been hanging on the wall of the study: this, indeed, has been acknowledged by the prisoner himself.
“With regard to this arrow, we shall demonstrate by medical evidence that it had been driven into the body with such force and direction that it penetrated the heart and caused instantaneous death.
“You will hear, on the testimony of expert witnesses, that this arrow could not possibly have been shot or fired—as, that is to say, one might discharge it from a bow—but that it must have been used as a hand-weapon, as one might use a knife.
“You will hear from police officers that there was on this arrow (which had been hanging for some years against the wall) a coating of dust. This dust had been disturbed at only one place, where there were found clear fingerprints.
“You will hear, finally, that these fingerprints were those of the prisoner at the bar.
“Now, what happens when the prisoner opens the door of the study to Miss Jordan, Mr. Fleming, and the butler? He is alone in the room with the dead man, as they establish. Mr. Fleming says to him, ‘Who did it?’ The prisoner replies, ‘I suppose you will say I did it.’ Mr. Fleming says, ‘Well, you have finished him, then; we had better send for the police.’ Still, they proceed to examine the room: discovering the steel shutters still barred on the inside, and the sash-windows locked on the inside as well. The prisoner, it will be our course to demonstrate to you, has been found alone with a murdered man in a room rendered inaccessible in this fashion; and nowhere, we may say literally, can there be shown a crack or crevice for the entrance or exit of any other person. During the time that Mr. Fleming searched the room, the prisoner sat in a chair with what was apparently complete calm (but you must hear this from the witnesses); and smoked a cigarette.”
Someone coughed.
It was an inadvertent cough, since every face in the court wore a strain of gravity; but it caused a stir. How most of the people had taken all this I could not tell. Still, such things have an atmosphere; and this atmosphere was sinister. Behind us in the seats of the City Lands Corporation were two women. One was good-looking and wore a leopard-skin coat; the other was plain, not to say ugly, and made up her aristocratic face several times. It is only fair to admit that they did not shift round or laugh or make their voices carry; the metallic whispers reached only us.
Leopard-Skin said, “Do you know, I met him at a cocktail party once. I say, isn’t it frightfully exciting? Just think, in three weeks he’ll be hanged.”
Plain-Face said: “Do you find it amusing, darling? I do wish they would give one a comfortable place to sit.”
Sir Walter Storm leaned against the back of the bench, spreading out his arms along it, and contemplated the jury.
“Now, members of the jury, just what does the prisoner himself have to say to all this? How does he explain the fact that he, and he alone, could have been with the deceased when Mr. Hume died? How does he explain the presence of his fingerprints on the weapon? How does he explain, a fact which will further be presented to you, that he went to that house armed with a pistol? You will hear in detail the various remarks he made to Mr. Fleming, to Dyer, to Dr. Spencer Hume, who arrived shortly after the discovery of the body.
“But most of these remarks are also contained in the statement he made to Divisional Detective-lnspector Mottram at 12:15 A.M. on January 5. The prisoner accompanied Inspector Mottram and Sergeant Raye to Dover Street, where he voluntarily made the statement which I now propose to read to you. He said:
“‘I make this statement voluntarily and of my own free will, having been told that anything I say will be taken down in writing and may be used as evidence.”
“‘I wish to clear myself. I am absolutely innocent. I arrived in London at 10:45 this morning. The deceased knew I was coming, since my fiancée had written to him saying that I would take the nine o'clock train from Frawnend, in Sussex. At 1:30 Mr. Hume rang me up on the telephone, and asked me to come to his house at six o'clock. He said he wished to settle matters concerning his daughter. I went to his house at 6:10. He greeted me with complete friendliness. We spent a few minutes talking about archery, and I then noticed the three arrows hanging on the wall. He said that you could kill a man with one of those arrows. I said, meaning it as a joke, that I had not come there to kill anybody unless it became absolutely necessary. At this time I am certain that the door was not bolted, and I did not have any kind of weapon on my person.
“‘I told him I wished to marry Miss Hume, and asked his consent. He asked me if I would have a drink, and I said I would. He poured out two glasses of whisky and soda, giving me one and taking the other himself. Then he said that he would drink my health, and he gave his full consent to my marriage with Miss Hume.’”
Sir Walter lifted his eyes from the paper. For what seemed a long time he remained looking steadily at the jury. We could not see his face; but the back of his wig was eloquent.
“The Crown will indeed ask you to believe that the deceased invited him there to ‘settle matters concerning his daughter.’ You will have to decide whether you think this statement reasonable, or probable, on the face of it. He goes there, they fall to talking of archery as soon as the prisoner enters the room, and Mr. Hume in the friendliest possible manner announces that you could kill a man with one of those arrows. You may think this extraordinary conduct, although it allows the prisoner to make his joke about murder. You may think it still more extraordinary that the deceased, having expressed before other witnesses such sentiments towards the prisoner as you will hear, should drink success to the prisoner and approval to the marriage. But what follows?
“‘I had drunk about half of the whisky and soda when I felt my head going round, and I knew I must be losing consciousness. I tried to speak, but could not. I knew a drug must have been put into that drink, but I felt myself falling forward, and the last thing I remember is Mr. Hume saying, “What is wrong with you? Have you gone mad?”
“‘When I came to myself again I was sitting in the same chair, though I believe I had fallen out of it before. I felt ill. I looked at my watch, and saw it was half-past six. Then I noticed Mr. Hume’s foot on the other side of the desk. He was lying there dead, just as you saw him. I called to him to get up. I could not think what had happened. I went round the room, noticing that one of the arrows had been taken off the wall. I tried the door, and found it was bolted on the inside. I also examined the shutters, and they were locked as well. It occurred to me that possibly I might be suspected of having killed him, so I went to look for the glasses of whisky that Mr. Hume had poured out. I could not find them. The decanter of whisky was full again on the sideboard, and the siphon of soda did not seem to have been used. There were four clean glasses: but two of them may have been the glasses we used; I don’t know.”
“‘A short time after this I went over and looked at the door again. I then noticed the dust on my hand, as you called my attention to it later. I went back and looked at the arrow. While I was doing so, someone knocked at the door; and I saw there was nothing else to do, so I opened it. The big man you call Fleming came charging in, and the servant behind him carrying a poker, and Miss Jordan hanging about the doorway. That is all I can tell you. I never touched that arrow at any time.’”
There was a rustle as Sir Walter flipped over the flimsy typewritten sheets, and put them down. That rustle went through the court.
Leopard-Skin whispered: “Why, he’s as mad as a hatter.”
Plain-Face said: “Do you really think so, darling? How terribly naive of you. That’s what he wants them to think, I dare say.”
“Ss-t!”
“Members of the jury,” continued Sir Walter, spreading out his hands with a gesture of magnanimity and even perplexity, “I shall not offer to comment on that statement, nor on such physical evidence as will be outlined by the witnesses and the police officers. What explanation can be made for these extraordinary statements, what interpretation will be placed on them by the prisoner or by my learned friend, it is not within my province to say. The contention of the Crown is that this man, finding in Avory Hume an angry, unexpected, and determined opposition to a cherished project, quarreled with him and brutally killed an old man who had done him no harm.
“In conclusion, I need remind you only of this: The matter before you is to determine whether or not the evidence which the Crown will lay before you supports the charge of murder. That is your painful task, and your only task. If you think that the Crown have not proved their case beyond any reasonable doubt, you will have no hesitation in doing your duty. I tell you quite frankly that the Crown can supply no reason for the victim’s sudden antagonism towards the prisoner. But that, I shall submit, is not the point at issue: The point at issue is what effect this antagonism had on the prisoner. The antagonism itself is a fact, and you may think a starting point in the chain of facts we shall lay before you. If, therefore, you think that the case for the Crown has been fairly proved, you will not allow a weakness of character on the part of the prisoner to be turned into a strange link for his defense; and you must have no hesitation in condemning him to the extreme penalty of the law.”