XVIII—“The Verdict of You All”

4:15 P.M.—4:32 P.M.

From the Closing Speech for the Defense,

by Sir Henry Merrivale.

“...and so, in what I’ve just spoken to you about, I’ve tried to outline what we’ll call the outlying phases of this case. You have been told, and I think you believe, that this man was the victim of a deliberate frame-up. You have heard now that, far from taking a pistol to that house, he was goin’ to see the one man in the world he wanted most to please. You have heard the details that twisted up everything he said to an extent that will make me, for one, walk warily henceforward. That frame-up has been concealed and elaborated by several people—notably one you heard speak right up before you, and in his own malice try to send this man to the rope. That’s a pretty thought to take with you when you consider your verdict.

“But you have nothing to do with pity or sympathy. Your business is justice, plain justice, and that’s all I’m asking for. Therefore I’m goin’ to submit that the whole point of this case depends on two things: a piece of feather and a crossbow.

“The Crown ask you to believe that this man—with no motive—suddenly grabbed an arrow down from the wall and stabbed Avory Hume. It’s a simple case, and makes a simple issue. Either he did do that, or he didn’t. If he did do that, he’s guilty. If he unquestionably did not do it, he’s unquestionably innocent.

“Take first the feather. When Dyer left the prisoner in that study, alone with Avory Hume, the feather was on the arrow—all of it—intact. That’s a simple fact which hasn’t been disputed by anyone, and the Attorney-General will acknowledge it to you. When the door was unbolted, and Dyer and Mr. Fleming went into that room, half that feather was gone from the arrow. They searched the room immediately, and the feather was not there: that’s also a simple fact. Inspector Mottram searched the room, and the feather was not there, and that’s a simple fact too. All this time, you remember, the accused had not left the study.

“Where was the feather? The only suggestion the police can make is that it was unconsciously carried away in the prisoner’s clothes. Now, I submit to you simply that this couldn’t possibly be true. There are two reasons. First of all, you saw it demonstrated here that two people could not possibly tear that feather—in a struggle—in the way it was torn; therefore there wasn’t any struggle, and what becomes of the prosecution’s case on that score alone? Second, and even more important, we know where the feather actually was.

“You’ve heard it testified by the manager of the Left-Luggage Department at Paddington that a certain person—not the prisoner—left a suitcase at the station early in the evening of January 4. (In any case, the prisoner was not in a position to go on any errands, having been under the eye of the police from the time the murder was discovered until the followin’ morning.) That suitcase contained the crossbow you’ve seen; and stuck into the teeth of the windlass was a big part of the missing piece of feather.

“We can’t doubt,I think, that this was a part of the feather on the arrow. You’ve seen microphotographs in which you can compare every detail; you’ve heard it identified by the man who attached it to the arrow: in short—as in other things in this case—you’ve been able to see and decide for yourselves. Well, how did that feather get there? How does this fact square with the prosecution’s theory that the prisoner dragged down the arrow and used it as a dagger? That’s the picture, I submit, you’ve got to keep in your minds. If he stabbed the deceased, there are a lot of things I’ll submit with my hand on my heart that he didn’t do. He didn’t tear the feather apart with a power beyond him. He didn’t shove one end of it into the teeth of a crossbow. He assuredly didn’t put the whole apparatus into Spencer Hume’s suitcase—which, you recall, was not even packed or brought downstairs until 6:30.

“Just a word about that suitcase. I’ll suggest to you that in itself it destroys any reasonable doubt of this man’s innocence. I’m not suggestin’ that Miss Jordan packed a weekend crossbow among the collar-studs and the slippers. No; I mean that it was standin’ downstairs in the hall, and someone used it. But how does this apply to the prisoner? The suitcase was packed and brought downstairs at 6:30. From that time until the time the three witnesses entered the study, it was always under somebody’s eye. Did the prisoner leave the study at any time? He did not. You’ve heard that too frequently—especially from the prosecution. Did he approach the suitcase, to put in a crossbow or a decanter or anything else (which, I suggest, were already somewhere else waiting to be put in)? Did he, in short, have anything to do with the suitcase? He did not have an opportunity before the crime was discovered, and he most certainly didn’t have an opportunity afterwards.

“Why, burn me—hurrum—members of the jury, I’ll call your attention to another point. Part of the missin’ feather is in a suitcase which, we can decide, James Answell’s ghost didn’t take to Paddington Station. But there’s another part of that feather. You know where it was, and is. You saw it there. It was in what for the sake of convenience I’ve called the Judas window. Still keepin’ in mind the prosecution’s belief that Answell used the arrow as a dagger, how does this square with the presence of the feather in the Judas window?

“It doesn’t. There’s no doubt the feather is there. There’s no doubt it got there at the time of the murder. Inspector Mottram, as you’ve heard, took away that door on the night of the murder, and has kept it at the police-station ever since. From the time the murder was discovered to the time Inspector Mottram took the door away, there was always somebody in the study; so the feather couldn’t have landed there at any time except the time of the murder. Only a minute ago you saw Professor Parker recalled to the witness-box; you heard him identify this feather as undoubtedly the last missin’ piece; and he told you why he thought so. It is the feather, then, and it was there.

“Well, how does my learned friend say it got there? Now, I’m not here to toss dull ridicule at a group of men like Counsel for the Crown, who’ve conducted their case with scrupulous fairness towards the accused, and given the defense all the latitude we could hope for. But what can I say? Just fix your minds on the stupefyin’ suggestion that James Answell wildly arose and killed Avory Hume, and at the same time a bit of feather off that arrow managed to get into the hole that supports the knob-spindle in the door. Can you think of any reason for it, however ingenious, that doesn’t become mere roarin’ comedy?

“You’ve already heard reasons why the prisoner could not conceivably have come near the crossbow or the suitcase; in fact, it’s never been suggested that he has. The same, in general, applies to the feather in the door and the little mechanism or thread on the spindle. That little mechanism, I think you’ll agree, was prepared beforehand. Answell had never been in the house before in his life. That little mechanism was meant to work only from outside, to let the knob down from the other end. Answell was inside the room, with the door bolted. As I say, merely to ridicule is useless; but I’m convinced that the more you think of it the more out of the question it will become, or you’re a greater group of fathea—urr—or you’re not the intelligent English jury I know you are.

“Still, the feather was there. It got there somehow; and it’s not exactly a common place to find one. I’ll venture to suggest that you could go home tonight and take the knobs out of all the doors in your own house: and all down the street through your neighbors’ houses: and still you wouldn’t find a feather in the Judas window. I’ll further venture to suggest that there’s only one set of circumstances in which you could find both the feather and the thread-mechanism in the Judas window. It’s got nothing to do with an arrow snatched down from the wall to stab, except insofar as a drugged man inside could be used as a scapegoat. That set of circumstances is the one I hinted at a while ago; someone who stood outside that bolted door, and fired an arrow into Avory Hume’s heart when the murderer was almost close enough to touch him with it.

“With your indulgence, then, I’m goin’ to outline to you the way in which we believe the crime was really committed; and I’ll try to show you how the facts that have been produced support it and bear against the prosecution’s case.

“But, before I do, there’s one thing I feel I must face. You can’t disregard a beetle on the back of your neck or an unexplained statement in a court of law. Members of the jury, yesterday afternoon you heard the prisoner tell a great big thundering lie: the only lie he has told in this room: the lie that he was guilty. Mebbe he didn’t say it under oath; mebbe you were inclined then to believe it all the more because he didn’t. But you know now why it was told. Mebbe he didn’t care then whether or not he convicted himself; others, you observe, have been tryin’ hard enough to do it for him. But you’ll judge whether you think the worse or the better of him for saying what he did. And the time has come now when I can stand up and accuse my own client of falsehood. For he said he stabbed Avory Flume with an arrow, whose feather broke off in the struggle. Unless you believe that statement, you cannot and you dare not return a verdict of guilty; and that statement you cannot and you dare not believe; and I will tell you why.

“Members of the jury, the way in which we believe this crime was really committed—”

4:32 P.M.—4:55 P.M.

From the Closing Speech for the Crown, by Sir Walter Storm.

“...thus my learned friend need have no fear. I shall not ask you to wait until my lord addresses you before you learn this: If you are dissatisfied with the story of the prosecution, the prosecution have thereby failed to make out their case and it is your duty to return a verdict of not guilty. I do not think that any of you, having heard my opening speech in this case, could labor under any misapprehension as to that point. I put it before you then that the burden of the proof was on the prosecution, as I trust I shall always do when it becomes my duty to lay such a case before a jury.

“But it is likewise my duty to stress against the prisoner such of the material facts as constitute evidence. Facts: as I said in my opening speech. Facts: as I have said all along. Therefore I must ask you, dispassionately: How many of the material facts in this case have been altered or disproved?

“My learned friend has attempted well and eloquently to explain; but I must submit to you that he cannot explain away.

“What remains? It is a fact that the prisoner was found with a loaded pistol in his pocket. He denies that he took this pistol to the house; and what is there to corroborate his denial? There is the testimony of the witness Grabell. You have heard that witness in the box: you have heard his replies to my questions: you have observed his demeanor. He, and he alone, claims to have seen the deceased at D’Orsay Chambers on Friday morning. How did a stranger in those flats escape the attention of every other attendant? How is the deceased presumed to have gained access to the prisoner’s flat? How, in fact, did Grabell come conveniently to be cleaning out a dustbin in darkness, when he himself acknowledges that the dustbin would have been cleaned out a fortnight before? Grabell—whose notion of honor and truthfulness you have been able to judge—is the sole witness to this. Is there any other witness who can give even secondhand corroboration to the alleged theft of the pistol by Avory Hume? There is Reginald Answell. But here I confess I am on difficult ground. Members of the jury, I must tell you frankly that, when he told you that story from which you were supposed to infer the prisoner’s guilt, I did not believe him. He was (in fact) a witness for the prosecution; and I did not believe him. You will have been able to decide whether or not my learned friend disposed of his testimony in a court where—whether for the prosecution or for the defense—we will not avail ourselves of lies. But it is Reginald Answell, this same witness, who testifies to his conversation with Grabell about the pistol. If we believe that a man has borne false witness in the last part of his testimony, shall we therefore believe that he has borne true witness in the first part of it?”

“If the prisoner did in fact take that pistol to Mr. Hume’s house, there is premeditation. And I suggest to you that he did.

“What other facts remain? There are the prisoner’s fingerprints on the arrow. Such things are stubborn. They are marks. They remain. They show beyond doubt that the prisoner’s hand was round the arrow—whether or not, as my learned friend has suggested, the fingerprints were placed on the arrow by others while the prisoner was unconscious.

“And what is the evidence as to this alleged unconsciousness, this alleged drugging, on which all deductions from the fingerprints must rest? If you refuse to believe that the prisoner was drugged, then, obviously, I must submit to you that the fingerprints are the most vital evidence in the case. The evidence, then? A decanter similar to the first, filled with drugged whisky, is produced from a suitcase discovered in the Left-Luggage Department at Paddington Station, along with a siphon from which some soda-water is drawn. Doubtless there are many decanters resembling it in London; but I put it before you that what I should like to see is some evidence that the accused had drunk any drugged whisky—or any whisky at all. On the contrary, you have heard from the divisional-police surgeon that (in his opinion) the prisoner had taken no drug at all. In all fairness I must tell you that the witness who was to have testified to this as well, Dr. Spencer Hume, is missing: and is inexplicably missing: but we cannot say that the two circumstances are connected until we have heard Dr. Hume. That is what I mean by a fact.

“You heard at the time the insinuations that were directed towards Dr. Stocking. Despite this, I do not think that an opinion given by a man of Dr. Stocking’s long experience at St. Praed’s Hospital should be taken too lightly.

“And other facts? You have heard the witness Dyer’s testimony of remarks made by the prisoner to the deceased, I did not come here to kill anyone unless it becomes absolutely necessary’; which now appears with the emendation by the prisoner, I did not come here to steal the spoons,’ and is stressed by my learned friend. You will note that all of Dyer’s other statements appear to be accepted by my learned friend, even with an accent of welcome, since much of his evidence depends on them. But he will not accept this one. What are we to believe from that? Is Dyer a witness who tells a truth at one o'clock and a falsehood at five minutes past one?

“You understand the fashion, members of the jury, in which I ask you to look at this case. Having made this clear, let me now go over the evidence point by point, line by line, from the beginning...

“...which must bring us, as I have tried to do point by point, to the end of the evidence. Now, as to the suggestions put forward concerning the crossbow and the triple-feather—this counterblast of which the prosecution had no warning. That the prosecution had no warning was quite legal and ethical, of course; the defense is rightly reserved, though it is customary for the defense to be informed as to the lines on which the prosecution means to proceed. As to the crossbow and the triple-feather (I say), it is neither my purpose nor my intention to pass comment now. You have heard the evidence for the Crown which it was my duty to lay before you. How the piece of feather—if indeed it is a piece of feather from the arrow before you—how this curious fragment got into the spindle-hole of the door, I do not know. How the other piece of feather—with the same implied reservation—got into the teeth of the crossbow, I do not profess to know. I say, ‘It is there’; and no more. If you believe that these and other matters weigh in the favor of the accused, it is your duty to let your verdict be influenced by them. You cannot convict this man unless you are perfectly clear beyond all reasonable doubt that the case we have outlined points with almost irresistible emphasis to the conclusion that he is guilty. Of course, the last word lies with my lord; and I have little doubt that he will tell you—”

4:55 P.M.—5:20 P.M.

From the Summing-Up, by Mr. Justice Bodkin.

“...and as you know, members of the jury, we have here a case of circumstantial evidence. Now the real test of the value of circumstantial evidence is this: Does it exclude every reasonable possibility? I can even put it higher: Does it exclude all other theories or possibilities? If you cannot put the evidence against the accused man beyond a probability and nothing more, then it is impossible for you to say you are satisfied beyond reasonable doubt that the charge is established. There is no muddledom about that; the law there is as plain as a pikestaff. A man cannot be convicted of any crime, least of all murder, merely on probabilities: unless they are so strong as to amount to a reasonable certainty. If you have other possibilities, you cannot come to the decision that the charge is made out.

“The question is not: Who did this crime? The question is: Did the prisoner do it? You have heard at some length the evidence in this case, you have heard the speeches of counsel, and it is now my task to make some survey of the evidence. You will remember that you are the judges of the facts; I am not the judge of the facts at all; and you must bear this in mind if I seem to omit or overstress any matter contrary to your view.

“Let us take what may be called the relevant facts from the beginning. Much has been said at the beginning concerning the demeanor of the accused man. As you know, testimony about the look of a man—whether he seemed happy, whether he seemed agitated—is permitted here. You must therefore give it due consideration. But I must tell you that I think it unwise to put too high a value on such statements. You have probably found that it is not always reliable in the affairs of ordinary life. In judging the demeanor of a person, you must suppose that his reactions to a given happening—tragic, peculiar, or even commonplace—will invariably be the same as your own; and I do not need to tell you of the dangers attending that. Taking the facts that have been outlined to you, then...

“...I think, therefore, that this case boils down not to a question of fact alone, but to the interpretation of fact. An arithmetic book cannot consist of all answers and no sums. A case of this sort cannot consist of all effects and no causes: it is the causes that are under debate. The two original matters you must decide are: First, had Avory Hume formed any plot to drug Captain Answell, arrange the false trappings to suggest a felonious attack on him by Captain Answell, and put Captain Answell under detention as a madman? Second, was the prisoner mistaken for Captain Answell?

“I have just indicated to you my reasons for thinking that there is good evidence in favor of both these things. You have heard Dr. Peter Quigley, an agent of the International Medical Council, as to words he states he heard the deceased speak. The deceased is quoted as saying that he meant to get possession of Captain Answell’s pistol: that he meant to invite Captain Answell to his home: that he meant to administer brudine in a drink of whisky and soda: that he meant to get rid of such evidence afterwards: that he meant to create the signs of an apparent struggle: that he meant Captain Answell’s fingerprints to be found on an arrow, and the pistol to be found in Captain Answell’s pocket. I have quoted to you supplementary evidence which seems to me to make this a reasonable possibility. Do you believe that this happened? If you do not, you will decide accordingly; it is a matter entirely for you. But if you do believe it, you will only be led into a muddle by any talk of ‘facts.’

“Did the deceased mean that a pistol should be found in the pocket of the man he was entertaining? If he did, I think we cannot hold against the prisoner the ‘fact’ that it was actually found there. If he meant to administer drugged whisky, getting rid of the evidence later, and if he succeeded in doing this, I think we cannot hold it against the prisoner that the plan actually succeeded. If he meant fingerprints to be found on the arrow—and if you believe he succeeded in implanting them there—then fingerprints are only what we should expect to find. If (to give you an example) A is accused of stealing B’s wallet, and the wallet is found in A’s pocket, the fact itself would not weigh with you if you were convinced that C put it there.

“In this reading of the evidence, I confess I can see no motive for murder on the part of the prisoner. Indeed, none is suggested except the fact of Mr. Hume’s antagonism towards him; and, if you believe this reading, the antagonism did not exist. Without motive or weapon, the prisoner arrives at the house. You have heard evidence which has been construed as the sign of a quarrel in the study, and which you must consider carefully. But if every matter relied on as circumstantial is equally consistent both with the guilt and the innocence of the prisoner, the multiplication of those instances may not take you any further in coming to a conclusion of guilt.

“Taking first the testimony of the individual witnesses...

“Finally, members of the jury, there is the question whose determining must be the crux of your decision: Was the deceased man killed by an arrow held in the hand of the prisoner?

“If the prisoner took the arrow and willfully stabbed the deceased man with it, he is guilty of murder. On the one hand, you have his fingerprints on the arrow, and the circumstance that door and windows were bolted on the inside. On the other hand, you have the indications with which I have already dealt, and you have an alternative explanation with whose evidence I can deal now. We have heard that, when the prisoner was left alone in the study with Mr. Hume, the guide feather on the shaft of the arrow was intact. You have heard that, when a search of the room was made immediately after the discovery of the crime, a piece of feather some inch and a quarter long by an inch square was missing. Neither Mr. Fleming nor Dyer found it. It was not found by Inspector Mottram. The suggestion made by the prosecution is that it had lodged in the prisoner’s clothing.

“The question now before us is not so much: What happened to the missing piece of feather? The question before us may be put more accurately: Do the two pieces of feather produced by the defense—one from a crossbow, the other from an opening supporting the spindle in the door—constitute what we want? Do they belong to the feather on the arrow used to commit this crime? Are they one feather? If you decide that they are not—or, more properly, that neither of the two pieces belongs to the original—then they do not concern us. The circumstances in which they were found are curious, no doubt; but that is none of our business. On the other hand, if you are satisfied that either or both of them belonged to the original feather, it is difficult not to think that this in itself constitutes a reasonable doubt of the case for the prosecution.

“I confess I do not altogether understand the suggestion of the prosecution here. In my notes I find the suggestion that the first piece of feather, that in the crossbow, was not a part of the original one; but I have had no further illumination as regards this. Let us take the evidence as it has been presented, and see whether it may not lead irresistibly to the conclusion that—”

5:20 P.M.—5:26 P.M.

From the Record of the Shorthand Writer, by Mr. John Keyes.

The jury, after six minutes’ retirement, returned into court.

The Clerk of Arraigns: Gentlemen of the jury, are you agreed upon your verdict?

The Foreman of the Jury: We are.

The Clerk of Arraigns: Do you find the prisoner guilty, or not guilty of murder?

The Foreman of the Jury: Not guilty.

The Clerk of Arraigns: You say he is not guilty, and that is the verdict of you all?

The Foreman of the Jury: It is.

Mr. Justice Bodkin: James Caplon Answell, the jury, after considering the evidence, have found you not guilty of murder. It is a verdict in which I thoroughly concur. It remains only for me to tell you that you are a free man, and to wish you Godspeed.—The prisoner is discharged.

Notes: Broad grin on Attorney-General’s face; he seemed to want this. Old Merrivale standing up and raving and cursing like blazes: can’t imagine why: his man’s free. Prisoner being handed his hat; can’t seem to find his way out. People pressing up to him: including that girl. (???) Gallery wild with delight. “And e’en the ranks of Tuscany could scarce forbear to cheer!”

5:45 P.M.

From the History of the Old Bailey.

In Courtroom Number One they were turning out the lights. Two warders, looking very unlike policemen without their helmets, seemed to be alone in a deserted schoolroom. The noise of a vast shuffling was dying away outside the doors; a few echoes came back, as though the echoes moved slowly and hung there. Up on the glass roof the rain was pattering steadily, and you could now hear it with great distinctness. There was a click: one cornice-row of lights vanished, so that the oak panels and the white stone above took duller colors. Two more clicks, and the room was nearly dark. The noise of the rain seemed louder; so did the noise of the warders’ footsteps on uncertain hardwood; and their heads moved like high shadows. You could barely see the high, pointed backs of the judges’ chairs, and the dull gold of the Sword of State. The vestibule-door creaked in the gloom as one of the warders pushed it open.

“‘Ere, stop a bit,” said the other suddenly. His voice also had an echo.

“Don’t close it. There’s somebody left behind.”

“You seeing ghosts?”

“No, I mean it. Sitting over there—end of that bench—behind the dock. Here, there! Hoy!”

He might have been seeing ghosts in a house built on the bones of Newgate. Under the grayish-black light, a figure was sitting alone and hunched up at the end of the bench. It did not move, even at the startling echo of the warder’s hail. The warder clumped over towards that figure.

“Now, then!” he said, with a sort of tolerant impatience. “You’ll ‘ave to—”

The hunched figure did not look up, but it spoke. “I—don’t know if I can. I’ve just drunk something.”

“Drunk something?”

“Some kind of disinfectant. I thought I could face it, but I can’t. I—I feel horrible. Can I get to a hospital?”

“Joe!” said the warder sharply. “‘Ere you go, and lend a hand!”

“You see, I killed him. That was why I drank the stuff.”

“Killed who, ma’am?”

“I killed poor Avory. But I’m sorry I killed him; I’ve always been sorry. I wanted to die, if it didn’t hurt so much. My name is Amelia Jordan.”