10
Mr. Carruthers, entering the high, wide doorway of the courtroom the following morning, suddenly felt a hand upon his arm and, turning, found Inspector Painter looking at him with deep pity.
“Oh, hullo, Inspector,” he said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”
“Day off,” replied the inspector. “Always watch murder trials on my day off. That is, when they have murder trials. And when I get a day off. And, of course, when the two coincide.” He shook his head sadly. “This Simpson was a great friend of yours, wasn’t he?”
“Is,” said Carruthers brusquely. “Not was; is!” He changed the subject abruptly. “And how’s your battle going with the IBM computer, Inspector?”
Inspector Painter’s face fell. “The thing seems to be getting more accurate these past few weeks,” he admitted. “Probably getting used to our climate.” It was his turn to change the subject. “And how’s the book going, Mr. Carruthers?”
“Poorly,” said Carruthers. “Very poorly. In fact, I’m dropping it.”
The inspector’s eyes gleamed. “And the letters?”
Carruthers was shocked. “Inspector! That urge to write still has you in its toils, eh? Anyway, they’ve been destroyed.”
“Well,” said the inspector, “the idea isn’t patentable. Maybe I’ll run an advert myself.”
“If you want my advice,” said Carruthers coldly, “don’t!”
They separated and Carruthers made his way inside and found his seat. Briggs was already there and the two exchanged doleful stares.
“Doesn’t look very good,” Briggs muttered. “I heard two of the vultures they always have about these places offering four to one on conviction.” His voice became aggrieved. “Certainly doesn’t look like any ten thousand pounds’ worth of defense he’s giving poor old Cliff!”
“He’s never lost a case,” Carruthers reminded him, searching for hope.
“I never lost a tooth until I was fifty,” Briggs said shortly. “Then I lost them all.”
Carruthers looked at him steadily. “All we can do is hope, Tim. And cooperate. You know what to say on the stand?”
“I know what he wants me to say,” Briggs answered. “But I can’t for the life of me see how it could help Cliff.”
“Just see that you say it, anyway,” Carruthers said in a voice so grim that Briggs almost flinched. “We put Cliff there with our insane ideas; Pugh is our only hope of getting him free. This is no time to attempt any improvisations. So say what you were told to say!”
“Oh, I’ll say it,” said Briggs. “Don’t worry. It’s just that I’ll never know why. And,” he added honestly, “I wouldn’t know what else to say in any event.”
Sir Percival Pugh, rising to open for the defense, shuffled his few papers thoughtfully as his keen glance flickered over the faces of the jury. These were watching him carefully, with the almost hypnotized eyes of a bird fixed by a snake. The advantages of a reputation, he thought; well, let us hope we can maintain it.
“My Lord, gentlemen of the jury,” he began slowly, turning to face first the bench and then the frozen twelve men in the box, “bear with me a moment while I go off on what may appear to be a tangent, but which I assure you is not. When first studying for the bar, I was faced, as are most students of the law, with the difficult choice of which particular branch in the vast field of legal endeavor to pursue. In the end I chose criminal law; and many felt, and still feel, that I made this choice out of consideration for the money it pays.” He paused and smiled a small smile that took the jury into his confidence.
“I do not deny that it has paid well. I am not an inexpensive barrister; my fees are known to be large, and even, in some cases, exorbitant. But my friends, were it for money alone, there are other professions, and even other branches of my own profession, which offer equal or better opportunities of enrichment.” He cleared his throat impressively.
“No, my friends; it was not for money alone that I chose my profession. It was in the hope that, because of my training, because of the experience I knew would come as I advanced in my field, I might someday, somewhere, somehow, be instrumental in preventing a major miscarriage of justice.
“My Lord and gentlemen—that day has come!”
A small buzz began to roll through the courtroom as Sir Percival sipped at his glass of water, but Lord Justice Pomeroy needed no gavel rap to discourage it, for when the glass had been put aside and a handkerchief was applied delicately to the lips, silence returned at once.
“It may appear strange to you that in the course of the defense, reference may be made to certain statements of the Crown in their summation. We are prepared to admit that such a situation, to our knowledge, has never before obtained in a court of law. But, my friends, we are not here to slavishly bow to precedent, any more than we are here to slavishly refuse to recognize it. We are here for but one thing—to see that justice prevails. And justice shall prevail only when my client walks from this courtroom a free man, vindicated, no longer the misunderstood victim of a series of misinterpreted facts.
“I say ‘a series of misinterpreted facts.’ Some of you may feel that the phrase represents an anachronism; that a fact is, or if it isn’t, it isn’t a fact. But let me give you an example of what I mean: What would be the reaction of this audience were I to state, and to guarantee my reputation upon it, that my Lord Justice Pomeroy, just this very morning, was seen by a reliable witness walking about without his trousers in plain, broad daylight? You see? I can note the expression of disbelief on every face, and particularly on the face of his Lordship. But if I were to expand that statement—not change or qualify it, but merely expand it—by adding that it was Lady Pomeroy who was the reliable witness, and that the scene was their conjugal bedchamber, your disbelief would completely disappear.
“And so it is with many so-called facts, my friends. And so it is with the fact that my client, Mr. Clifford Simpson, was present on the fifth floor of the Grafton Building on that fateful evening of September 22, and did indeed move the pointer of that lift, and did indeed push Mrs. Sarah Bosler into that shaft and to her death. These are facts, and nobody can change them. It is only for us to properly interpret them to see how false a judgment of guilt would be; to see to what tragic travesty of justice it would lead us. For, my Lord and gentlemen of the jury, it is my contention that not only is my client innocent of this monstrous charge, but, in the honest and heartfelt opinion of the counsel for the defense, he deserves the commendation of all for his brave and fearless actions!
“And now, if it please the court, we should like to call our first witness.”
Witness: Mr. Timothy Briggs.
Examined by: Sir Percival Pugh for the Defense.
Q. Mr. Briggs, you have stated that you have known Mr. Simpson for many years. For exactly how many years?
A. Over fifty.
Q. That’s a very long time. Do you think you are familiar with Mr. Simpson’s character as a result of this long friendship?
A. Of course.
Q. And in all those years have you ever known Mr. Simpson to do a cruel or thoughtless thing to anyone?
A. Never. On the contrary.
Q. I note you added, “On the contrary.” Can you amplify that statement?
A. Well, Mr. Simpson has never been a rich man. Actually he is quite poor. Yet you may take my sworn oath that the blind beggars in Hyde Park used to listen anxiously for his footsteps.
Q. Oh, ah?
A. In order not to keep them on tenterhooks, he always timed his daily visits to the park at exactly three-thirteen.
Q. Did you say three-thirteen? Surely that’s a rather odd hour. I mean, normally a person would consider an appointment kept if he arrived within five minutes either way.
A. Not Clifford Simpson. He is the most punctual man I know. Time is almost a mania with him. He treats seconds as others treat minutes, and minutes as others treat hours.
Q. I see. Well, I suppose there are worse manias than one for time. In any event, we can take it that Mr. Simpson is both honorable and generous, as well, of course, as being punctual. Let us continue. You say you have known Mr. Simpson for over fifty years. Did you see him at regular intervals?
A. Daily. We spent most of each day together, and have for many years.
Q. And did Mr. Simpson ever mention to you Mrs. Sarah Bosler? Or the foundation for which she worked?
A. Never.
Q. On that fatal day, did he mention that he intended to visit the Grafton Building?
A. He did. He said he had been reading about a group called Peace Lovers, Incorporated, and would like to know more of them. He said he was wholeheartedly in favor of their program, as far as he knew it. He added that at about seven twenty-six he intended to go over there and get some literature on their activities.
Q. But Mrs. Bosler was not an employee of Peace Lovers, Incorporated?”
A. I can merely tell you what he said.
Q. I see. Tell me, Mr. Briggs, did Mr. Simpson ever mention the name Corby to you? Mr. Arthur Corby?
A. Never.
Q. Do you think he would have, had he known the man?
A. I am sure of it. We had no secrets from each other. I should say he had never laid eyes on the man.
Q. Thank you, Mr. Briggs. Your witness, Sir Osbert.
Cross-Examination by Sir Osbert Willoughby for the Crown:
Q. You state that you are sure Mr. Simpson never laid eyes on Mr. Corby. How can you be so sure?
A. Well, before starting out that day, he asked me if I knew the location of the Grafton Building. I didn’t, and he had to ask someone else. If he had known Mr. Corby, you’d think he ought to know where the Grafton Building was, because if Mr. Corby worked there, and if Cliff knew Mr. Corby, then—
Q. Please answer just yes or no.
A. Yes or no? How can I answer your question yes or no? Or even maybe? You asked, “How can you be sure—”
Q. Mr. Briggs! Just answer without comments! And now, how can you be sure he was not acquainted with Mrs. Bosler?
A. We spent the majority of each day together, and while our interest in women at our age necessarily limited itself to discussion, we did not drop the subject entirely. We were young once, you know. In any event, it would have been impossible for a new feminine name to come up in the conversation without my remembering. Besides, as far as that goes, you said yourself that your office had investigated and couldn’t find the slightest connection between the two—
Q. Mr. Briggs! No more questions, your Lordship.
Witness: Mr. William Carruthers.
Examined by: Sir Percival Pugh for the Defense.
Q. It is my understanding, Mr. Carruthers, that you, Mr. Briggs, and Mr. Simpson formed a triumvirate at your club, and that for this reason you were usually present when Mr. Briggs and Mr. Simpson were. In order to save the time of the court, therefore, allow me to put one over-all question: Do you corroborate Mr. Briggs’s statements?
A. Completely.
Q. Thank you. Now one thing further, and possibly a delicate and unexpected subject, but I must ask you to bear with me. How old are you, Mr. Carruthers?
A. Sixty-nine years old. I shall be seventy next month.
Q. Are you a wealthy man?
A. You must be joking. I have nothing.
Q. When you came to me and asked me to undertake the defense of Mr. Simpson, did you find my fee, shall we say high?
A. Yes. Extremely high. Exorbitantly high.
Q. Yet you made no attempt to have me reduce it. Why was that?
A. To be honest, I knew your reputation as far as fees went. But it seemed to me to be far more important that Cliff—Mr. Simpson, that is—be freed of this monstrous charge.
Q. I see. Tell me, Mr. Carruthers, how were you able to arrange the money for the payment of my fee?
A. I don’t quite see how that matters.
Q. Allow me to connect it up later. Just answer the question, please.
A. Well, we—Briggs and myself, that is—cashed the last of our Postal Savings, which actually weren’t very much; then we sold everything we had, our books, our few pitiful mementos of the past that we had gathered so painfully over the years, our miserable, shabby belongings. Cliff, of course, also chipped in his tiny mite. And we borrowed, from all who would listen to our anxious plea. You have been paid, Sir Percival, but, believe me, the cost will burden us for the rest of our lives!
Q. Tell me, Mr. Carruthers, would either you or Mr. Briggs have taken such drastic financial steps had you felt for one moment that Mr. Simpson was guilty of a crime?
A. Never; nor would Mr. Simpson have permitted us to. But we did not hesitate, for it was obvious to us that some horrible mistake had been made, and the most important thing—far more important than mere money—was that it be rectified.
Q. Thank you, Mr. Carruthers. Your witness, Sir Osbert.
Cross-Examination by Sir Osbert Willoughby for the Crown:
Q. Tell me, Mr. Carruthers, exactly what was Sir Percival’s fee?
A. I’m afraid I must refuse to answer that question. I prefer to keep the extent of our shameful poverty to myself and my two friends.
Q. Hmmm! Thank you, Mr. Carruthers. No more questions.
Witness: Mr. Arthur Corby.
Examined by: Sir Percival Pugh for the Defenses
Q. Hullo, Mr. Corby. We meet again. Tell me, to renew our refreshing conversation of yesterday, have you ever in your life met, or even seen, Mr. Simpson before yesterday?
A. Never.
Q. Are you sure? You never sat beside him in an omnibus, or ran across him in a pub, or stood beside him in a cinema queue?
A. I’m positive. I wouldn’t have forgotten anyone that tall and skinny.
Q. Then, Mr. Corby, could you please explain how, if Mr. Simpson wished to drug you, he knew enough of your habits to select whiskey as the medium? For all he knew, you may have been a firm believer in abstinence. You may have even been addicted to yoghurt, or even milk.
A. I never said he drugged me.
Q. No, you didn’t. And neither did I. However, the fact remains that you were drugged, and if Mr. Simpson didn’t do it, someone else must have. Were you away from your cubbyhole for any length of time at all during the evening in question?
A. No. Yes. I remember: some flibbertigibbet up on the sixth floor pushed the porter’s button for a joke. When I got up there the place was empty, so I came back.
Q. What time was this?
A. About seven, or maybe seven-thirty, as well as I remember.
Q. And when you came back you found the bottle awaiting you? In a state that tempted you to investigate it further, let us say?
A. That’s right. It was there when I came back.
Q. I see. In your first statement you repeated, as well as you could recall, the contents of the note you found wrapped about the bottle. You stated that it was addressed to a person called Chickie and was signed by a person named Pinky. And that the note dealt with the systematic looting of the liquor stocks of this Pinky’s superior. Is that true?
A. That’s right.
Q. I find it difficult to believe that one friend would send another friend, especially as a bon-voyage gift, a bottle of drugged liquor. It strikes me as a poor way to exhibit friendliness. What is your opinion, Mr. Corby?
A. I don’t know.
Q. However, I could understand the possibility of the note being a trap. Let us suppose that Pinky simply got tired of having some of the many bottles he stole pilfered before they got past the mail desk. In that case it begins to make sense. Don’t you agree, Mr. Corby?
A. I still don’t know what you mean.
Q. I’ll put it more plainly, although you may not enjoy it. Is it possible that Pinky had sent other bottles along the same clandestine route, and that only a portion arrived at destination? And that he concluded that the embolism in the arteries of his illegal traffic was you? The porter charged with the mail?
A. Now, hold on there! I tell you—
Q. No, Mr. Corby, let me tell you! You are asking us to believe that you stole this bottle of whiskey, but never stole one like it. Although the only logical explanation for your being drugged is that Pinky simply became weary of having his whiskey restolen, and decided to teach you a lesson. However, this is beside the point; this trial is not being held to determine the theft, either at first or second hand, of a pint bottle of whiskey. I have raised the entire issue for quite another reason: Is it not possible that Mrs. Bosler was also aware of Pinky’s fondness for his boss’s private stock, and in some manner made the mistake of letting the thief know? And thereby earned his hatred even as you earned it?
A. If Bosler knew anything about anyone stealing whiskey, she never said anything to me.
Q. And why would she say anything to you? For all she knew—and it would have been a logical supposition—you, having charge of the mail desk, may well have been an accomplice.
A. I wasn’t Pinky’s accomplice, I tell you!
Q. I believe you. However … Tell me, Mr. Corby, was it Pinky you saw in the lobby as you were falling into your drugged sleep?
A. He got away before I could see him.
Q. Most unfortunate. Does it not seem interesting to you, Mr. Corby, with what regularity Pinky appears on the scene? First he lures you from your office; then he drugs your whiskey; then he arouses Mrs. Bosler’s suspicions, and she earns his hatred for it; and finally he manages to cleverly evade you in the lobby. Busy chap, wasn’t he?
A. He was, you know.
Q. He was, indeed. Well, I am sure we have not heard the last of Pinky. In any event, thank you, Mr. Corby. No more questions.
Cross-examination of Mr. Corby having revealed nothing new, the court adjourned for lunch. Sir Percival Pugh, wandering down some nine blocks to a fairly small and unknown restaurant, was not at all surprised to find both Carruthers and Briggs awaiting him in a corner booth. He seated himself, ordered a very dry martini, and tucked his napkin under his chin.
“Well,” he said, in a fashion that indicated he was not exactly displeased with himself, “am I earning my fabulous fee?”
“I haven’t the faintest clue to what you’re driving at,” Briggs said crossly. “What’s all this Pinky-this and Pinky-that stuff?”
“Dust,” said Sir Percival, reaching over and extracting a menu from beneath Carruthers’ arm. He looked up, his eyes twinkling. “As I recall, Mr. Briggs, in one of your books you had a lone twosome of Foreign-legion blokes staggering across the endless sands of the Sahara when they were attacked by a bloodthirsty band of Tuaregs. And, if my memory serves me, they escaped by having the good fortune to encounter a mirage of French troops, at which, of course, the naughty savages fled. So you should know what causes mirages, Mr. Briggs. Dust.”
He made his selection known to their waiter and then took a sip of his martini.
“But—” Carruthers began.
“Patience,” said Sir Percival, smiling. “Patience and faith.” And he proceeded to put these two virtues into practice by leaning back and awaiting his plat du jour.
The afternoon session of the court opened at three o’clock sharp. The questioning of witnesses was scheduled to continue, and a hushed and reverent silence fell upon the courtroom as Sir Percival rose and called none other than the prisoner himself to the stand.
Mr. Simpson seated himself in the witness box as if relieved to be quit, even temporarily, of the accused’s box—although, in truth, the one chair was as hard as the other.
Q. Tell me, Mr. Simpson, do you have the hour?
A. Certainly. It is exactly two minutes and thirty-three seconds after three o’clock.
Q. Are you always this exact when stating the hour?
A. Always. I’m sorry, but time is a mania with me.
Q. You mean like straightening pictures in someone else’s home when they’re a bit tilted?
A. Exactly. I’m afraid I also have the mania of straightening tipped pictures.
Q. There are people like that. Now, Mr. Simpson, let us get down to business. You went to the Grafton Building on the night of September 22?
A. I did.
Q. It was about eight o’clock, was it not?
A. I arrived there at precisely seven fifty-three, plus sixteen seconds.
Q. And why did you go there?
A. I had read of an organization calling itself Peace Lovers, Incorporated. Their policy of maintaining loving relations among all peoples struck me as expressing my sentiments exactly. Naturally, I wanted to study their platform in greater depth and see if there was some way in which I might contribute to their excellent program.
Q. I see. And when you arrived there, the building was open?
A. It was. True, I saw no one about the lobby, but I had noticed a light on the fifth floor as I approached the building, and I therefore made my way thence.
Q. You took the lift, of course?
A. I’m rather ashamed to admit it, but I walked. You see, I’ve led a rather secluded life these past thirty years or so, and, to tell the truth, I’m not quite brave enough to tackle one of these modern lifts. Alone, that is. Or without an operator.
Q. You looked for an operator?
A. Everywhere. I even went so far as to look in on the porter’s cubbyhole, but the poor chap was sleeping. At the time I thought it was due to exhaustion, but I know better now.
Q. Was he asleep?
A. Yes. I hated to wake him, knowing how hard they work, the poor chaps.
Q. So you walked up?
A. Yes. All five flights. Of course, I took it fairly easily, you understand, but I’d come so far to see these folks I rather hated to lose the opportunity.
Q. And when you arrived at the fifth floor?
A. Well, I looked around, and then went and tapped on the only door that showed a light.
Q. You say you looked around. What do you mean by that?
A. Just that. I looked around.
Q. And when you looked around, did you see something, or touch anything?
A. I don’t believe so. Why?
Q. Think carefully, Mr. Simpson. When you arrived at the fifth floor, did you proceed directly to Mrs. Bosler’s office door, or did you first do anything else?
A. Oh, you mean the clock? Well, I saw it pointed to noon, and I may have automatically adjusted it. It’s a habit of mine, you see.
Q. Adjusted it? In what way?
A. To the proper hour, of course. Now that you mention it, I recall the incident clearly. Is that what they were making all that fuss about? The pointer and all that? What happened was that I started to set it to eight o’clock—these cheap wall clocks, you know, you can’t set them to the exact minute and second—and then I found the thing was broken; only had one arm. So I left it alone. Couldn’t help people if they had a broken clock, you see.
There was a pause in the questioning by defense counsel. Sir Percival Pugh removed the sketch made by Mr. Isbrandt of the Arvo Company, demonstrating the various floor positions of the pointer, and passed it among the jury, while Mr. Simpson watched him owlishly, obviously puzzled by the entire proceedings. The members of the jury nodded profoundly. Sir Percival also nodded profoundly—or possibly he was nodding first and the jury was merely repeating.
Q. Pardon me for the interruption, Mr. Simpson. And then?
A. Well, then I went and rapped on this door. And this woman came out and I asked her if these were the offices of Peace Lovers, Incorporated.
Q. And what did she say?
A. Oh. She said they weren’t; that Plink—that was the word she used—was closed for the day. So I was about to leave when we both heard this weird sound.
Q. What weird sound?
A. A sort of soft buzzing. Like footsteps sliding across the marble surface of the steps.
Q. And then?
A. She said, “Oh, my God! It’s Pinky!”
Q. And what did you say?
A. Well, naturally, I said, “Who’s Pinky?” And she said, “He’s a thief who is trying to get away with all his employer’s whiskey, but I’m on to him! I told him if he ever attempted to steal another bottle, I’d report him, come what may!”
Q. You interest me strangely. And then?
A. We could hear the soft buzz ascending. And she said, “Oh, my God! He’s come to kill me!” And I said, “Fear nothing, madam, I shall protect you.”
Q. And what did she say?
A. Well, I’m rather ashamed to admit it, but what she actually said was, “Who, you? Don’t make me laugh! The day Pinky loses four stone, he’ll still make two of you. I’ve got to escape!”
Q. And you?
A. I didn’t know what to do. Apparently we were about to be trapped by this Pinky. And then she looked up and said, “Thank God! He’s forgotten the lift! It’s still on five!” And she hastily latched the door and made for the lift.
Q. You did not inform her that the lift was not on five?
A. I had no idea where the lift was. How should I have known?
Q. True. And then?
A. She fled to the lift. The bulb within was apparently burned out, for it was completely dark. I slid the door open for her and hastily thrust her inside.
Q. You did not follow her within?
A. Sir! Do you believe I am a cowardly swine? That simply because this Pinky bulked twice my size I would forget my Englishman’s code to the extent of allowing him to persist in his campaign of terror against a fragile woman? You misunderstand me, sir! I slid the doors closed and took up my stance at the head of the stairway, prepared to do battle with this brute who had the incalculable gall to threaten an innocent woman!
Q. You heard no sound from Mrs. Bosler when you pushed her into the lift?
A. You must understand that my hearing is not as sharp as it once was. I thought for a moment that I heard a shriek, but it faded quickly, so I paid it no attention.
Q. I see. And then? This Pinky came at you?
A. He was a coward, as all bullies are. Apparently aware that he was no longer dealing with a member of the weaker sex, but had, instead, a man to face, he slipped down the steps and away.
Q. And you? Once you knew he was escaping, did you not take to the lift to follow him?
A. How can you follow by lift a man who is afoot? Once I knew he was no longer ascending the stairs, I knew I had him! Psychologically speaking, that is. So I slipped down the stairs after him, but he had already made his getaway.
Q. Did you not look for Mrs. Bosler when you arrived at the first floor?
A. I did indeed, and the lift was there, but it was empty. I could only assume that my delaying tactics had permitted her sufficient time in which to make her escape. Alas, I know now, too late, that my actions, rather than saving the life of the poor woman, actually—
Q. It was not your fault, Mr. Simpson. In this vale of tears we can but do our best. But tell me, when did you hear that Mrs. Bosler did not, as you so bravely intended, escape, but remained behind?
A. The following day. It was eleven-sixteen and eight seconds, when I read the journal and discovered the tragic consequences of my poor attempt to aid her. I immediately rushed to the police to inform them that Mr. Corby was innocent.
Q. But the police claim you refused to give them any details. Why was that?
A. My dear sir, I am not a young man. It has been over thirty years since I have been privileged to assume a chivalrous attitude. I could not bring myself to admit, in front of that ring of hardened, suspicious faces, that in my first opportunity in over a quarter of a century to come to a lady’s aid I had failed miserably. I could not allow them to scoff at me for having brought about the tragic end of the one person I was attempting to succor!
Q. But did you not realize the danger of maintaining silence?
A. I had no fears. My faith in British justice is complete. And I knew my two old friends would not let me down.
Q. I see. I admire you, Mr. Simpson. No more questions.
Sir Osbert Willoughby saw, too late, the trap into which he had fallen. No longer willing to concede even one visitor to the Grafton Building that evening; no longer willing to concede the animosity of even one occupant of the building for Mrs. Bosler, he tore into Mr. Simpson tooth and nail, but he was batting on a sticky wicket, and he knew it. The sudden look of shock on the faces of the jury brought him to his senses; this was no way to make friends or influence people. And when he saw the frown on the face of Lord Justice Pomeroy, he sagged. It was number fourteen, and he knew it.
The summing up for the defense was short, dignified, and to the point. Sir Percival Pugh knew when to stop pressing. Sir Osbert Willoughby rose to attempt one last, desperate appeal, but a hiss from the gallery gave him pause. True, Lord Justice Pomeroy banged his gavel at the spectator’s impertinence, but it was plain to see he banged it halfheartedly, as if regretting that he was not free to join in the sibilance. Sir Osbert shuddered, nodded in a bewildered manner, and sat down.
A spate of whispers broke out in the jury box; the members of that group were leaning over each other, exchanging conversation. Before Lord Justice Pomeroy could remonstrate with this latest example of non-formula, however, the whispering ceased and the foreman rose.
“My Lord,” he inquired, “the members of the jury have asked me to find out if it is possible to render our decision without leaving the jury box. Is it necessary to be locked up to vote? For we have discussed it already and are in complete agreement.”
“It is customary,” answered his Lordship, “but not necessary. In any event, custom went overboard in this trial some time ago. If you are ready with your decision, you may render it.”
“Thank you, my Lord,” the foreman said, and turned a bit so his voice rang clearly to all parts of the room. “We, the jury, wish to commiserate with a fine and brave gentleman, Mr. Clifford Simpson, for the misfortune which attended his courageous and resolute actions on the night of September 22. We should also like to go on record as expressing to him our profound regret that he was forced to undergo the strain of this trial, and to compliment him on his forbearance and patience during it. We thank you.” And he sat down.
Lord Pomeroy leaned over the bench.
“I would be less than truthful,” he said, “if I did not state myself to be in complete accord with the sentiments of the jury. However, there is one part of courtroom procedure I am afraid we cannot dispense with, even in this trial. Will the jury give its verdict on the guilt or innocence of the prisoner?”
“Oh, yes!” said the foreman, popping back to his feet. “I forgot! We, the jury, find the prisoner not guilty!”
“Thank you,” said Lord Justice Pomeroy, and, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smile, he banged his gavel contentedly several times.
The trial was over.