The Man Within · Part II · Chapter 8 (4/5)

“That is the case for the Crown.” Sir Henry Merriman’s voice, filtering through the big double doors of the court, came too softly to disturb Andrews, where he slept. To him in a state of content, of unknowing, without dreams, weeks might have passed and not hours. The voice was a clear whisper. That was all. And he had not wakened, when, a long time previously, the Court had risen for luncheon. The whispers of the witnesses had then ceased to sound in the corridor. There had been silence, a shuffle of persons rising to their feet and then, as the doors of the Court swung open, loud voices and a roar of conversation which burst like a bomb. Andrews slept on, slept on through the heavy reluctant return of feet, weighed down by a good meal eaten, slept on as the doors closed and the whispers of the witnesses began again.

The officer in the corridor leant his ear against the door and listened, avid for any excitement to conquer boredom. He cast an eye towards Andrews in the hope of conversation, but Andrews slept. The prisoners inside were making their defence; so much the officer could gather from the broken sentences that reached him. Each man’s defence had been written out for him by his solicitor, and it was read in a toneless stumbling voice. Through the glass front of the door the officer could see the prisoners. The trial was reaching its final stages and so was the light. The Court was veiled depressingly in grey, not yet sufficiently dark to justify the lighting of the candles. The prisoners, in spite of their confidence in the jury, felt the gloom and were a little touched by fear. Each as he read from the sheet of paper in front of him felt the constraining presence of a dead man rise to refute his arguments. A man had been killed. A hundred alibis could not turn that fact into a falsehood. As though by mutual consent, bent on the sacrifice of an unwanted Jonah, they edged a little away from the half-witted youth, until he sat in a small cleared space, which in that crowded Court took on the dimensions of a desert.

Each man’s defence was a little subtly changed. This man at the supposed time of the affray had been drinking with a friend, this man had been in bed with his wife. All would bring witnesses to prove their stories and only the perorations were similar, “So help me God I am innocent.”

Four times the stumbling, mechanical stories were repeated to set the officer yawning, and then there was a change. It was the turn of Hake, the large black-bearded man who had threatened Andrews from the dock. When he rose the candles were being lighted in Court and his shadow swung across the ceiling in the manner of a gigantic bird. His voice boomed into the corridor like struck metal deeply toned.

“My lord, the gentlemen of the jury have a responsibility on them today the like of which will never come their way again. Whose word are they going to take? Those gaugers, afraid of losing their jobs the whole lot of them, ours⁠—men they’ve drunk with⁠—that sneak’s, that Andrews with his loose woman, or ours? If they hang us and the truth comes out who’ll speak for their souls in the day of Judgment? Who’ll defend their bodies here?”

“Prisoner,” a high petulant voice, “are you threatening the jury? The jury have nothing to do with the punishment. They have only to decide whether you are innocent or guilty.”

“I only warn them⁠ ⁠…”

“The jury will be protected in the performance of their duty. Threats do not strengthen your case.”

“Are you going to hang us?”

“I am anxious to be fair, but unless you proceed with your defence, you must sit down.”

“My defence is the same as these others. I wasn’t there. I’ll prove it with witnesses as these will. But a man’s been killed, you’ll say, you can’t get over that. Well, I’ll tell you who killed him. He did,” and his finger pierced across and emphasised the desert which surrounded Tims. Tims leapt to his feet. “You don’t mean it,” he said, “you are lying. Tell them you are lying.” He sank down again on his chair and covering his face with his hands began to cry with a peculiar moaning sound like a sick animal’s. Mingled with the booming voice it made a peculiar orchestral effect in the corridor.

“I’ve heard him, I tell you, talking about it. He’s a half-witted loon, you can see that for yourself, more fit for the asylum than for the gallows. He used to tell me many a time what he intended to do to Rexall. Rexall used to tease him in the street. You’ve heard a gauger say so himself, but there’s more evidence than that to it. I wouldn’t expect you to take a gauger’s word. But listen here⁠—you are honest men and will bring us in innocent.”

“You are not addressing the jury, you are addressing the Court.”

“I’m sorry, my lord, what I mean to say,” he leant forward over the edge of the dock towards the jury, “the jury will want to know what’s to happen to that Judas and his woman. Let them leave it to us, I say, let them leave it to us.”

Before Sir Edward Parkin could speak he sat down. The officer stole a glance at Andrews. He slept on.

The Court seemed peculiarly silent when that booming voice was still. They were waiting for the last prisoner to make his defence, but he remained seated, his face covered by his hands which shook spasmodically in time with his moans.

“Richard Tims, this is the time that it becomes your duty to make your defence.”

He made no reply, no sign even that he had heard the judge’s voice.

“Mr. Braddock, you represent the prisoner, do you not?”

“I, my lord?” Mr. Braddock rose, sweeping his gown round him, as though to escape pollution. “This prisoner? No, my lord. I represent the other prisoners.”

“No one ever seems capable of making out the lists correctly. You are put down for all the prisoners, Mr. Braddock.”

“I was never so instructed, my lord.”

“Which of you represents this prisoner?”

There was no reply.

“Has this prisoner had no legal advice?” Sir Edward Parkin protested with a faint note of annoyance.

“If he had wished, my lord, he could have had counsel.”

“This is very trying. The case has gone on long enough as it is. I don’t want any delay. The Assizes is a very full one.”

“My lord,” an elderly little man with blinking eyes rose to his feet, “I will represent the prisoner if you so wish it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Petty. Will you explain to the prisoner that he must make his defence?”

Mr. Petty stepped delicately to the edge of the Court and holding a handkerchief to his nose spoke to the boy.

“It’s no use, my lord, the prisoner is not in a fit state to make his defence.”

“The jury will take it that he merely asserts his innocence. Mr. Braddock will you call your witnesses?” Sir Edward Parkin leant back and dabbed his fingers furiously in his snuffbox. He was annoyed. The case had been held up for at least two minutes. His breakfast had been a bad one, his luncheon worse, and he was hungry. The trial showed no sign of reaching an end, but his hunger, far from leading to an adjournment, only confirmed his obstinacy. He would sit till midnight if necessary, but he would finish the trial.

One after another men, women and children filed into the witness box and committed mechanical perjury. This woman was in bed with that man at the time of the murder, this man was toasting another in whisky, a child had heard its father undressing upstairs. Sir Henry Merriman shrugged his shoulders at Mr. Farne. “They have us,” he seemed to say. “That man Andrews,” Mr. Farne whispered, “was worse than useless.” Only occasionally did they trouble to cross-examine. The witnesses had been too well primed in their stories. Mr. Petty, having magnanimously undertaken the task of representing the half-wit, closed his eyes and went to sleep.

Mrs. Butler scrambled up the steps of the witness box and allowed her ample breasts to flow over the edge. Yes, she had seen Andrews at a certain woman’s cottage two days previously. Yes, there had been every indication that he had slept in the place. The woman had told her that Andrews had been there for a week. Yes, the woman was a notoriously loose liver. All the neighbourhood knew it.

“What the neighbourhood says is not evidence.”

“No, my lord, but what my eyes have seen is evidence.”

Sir Henry Merriman’s voice stabbed itself into the corridor, sharp and clear as an icicle. “Did you hear this woman call the man Andrews her brother?”

“Yes.”

“Was that true?”

“No, of course it weren’t true. They didn’t take me in, I can tell you.” Her hand unerringly sought the thin strands of gold in her hair and she stroked them lovingly. “I know what it is to love,” she said in her sweet, damp voice. “I could tell the love light in ’is eyes.”

“What does the woman mean?”

“She means, my lord,” Mr. Braddock explained with unction, “that the man Andrews appeared to be in love with the woman.”

“How on earth could she tell that?”

“A woman’s intuition, m’ lord.” Mrs. Butler’s hand stroked one capacious breast. “And I can tell you something else, m’ lord. Only one bed had been slept in.”

“If the woman lied with regard to her relationship with Andrews, have you any reason for believing her other statement that he had been with her for a week? I suggest that he had arrived only the night before.”

“Well, I don’t know anything, sir. But ’e must ’ave made quick time with ’er, mustn’t ’e?” Mrs. Butler leered ingratiatingly at Sir Edward Parkin. “Men are very shy, my lord. I’ve known many in my time, my lord, and I speak with conviction.”

Sir Edward Parkin turned away his face, screwed up a little as though he suffered from nausea. “Have you finished with this good woman, Sir Henry?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Mr. Braddock rose. “That, my lord, is the case for the defence.”

“Have you any witnesses to call, Mr. Petty?”

“No, my lord.”

“Gentlemen of the jury, it is growing late, but by the law of England I am not allowed to discharge you until the case is finished. I am obliged to keep you together, though, no doubt, proper accommodation will be afforded you. But I am for myself perfectly willing to go on to finish the case before we separate. I have been accustomed to bear fatigue of this kind and am willing to bear it. The foreman will consult with his brethren and collect their wishes.”

There was a brief nodding of heads and the foreman intimated that they wished to finish the case. Sir Edward Parkin leant back in his seat, took a liberal helping of snuff, smoothed his white hands with some complacency and began his summing up. The officer with an impatient sigh removed his ear from the door. He had in past assizes experienced the bitter boredom of Mr. Justice Parkin’s meticulous care and accuracy. Only occasionally did he put his ear to the door to gain some indication of the progress of the judge’s charge.

“If you accept the evidence of the revenue officers that these men landed with a cargo on the night of February 10, and that in a fight which ensued Rexall was killed, it is unnecessary to fix the guilt of firing the shot on any one man. By the law of England they are all equally guilty of murder. The prisoners, in answer to the charge, have returned a complete denial and five of the prisoners have brought evidence to show that they were in a different place when the fight, described by the officers of the Crown, took place. Gentlemen, with regard to the credibility of the prisoners’ witnesses I would have you bear in mind⁠ ⁠…

“The evidence for the prosecution rests not on the bare word of the officers alone. One of the prisoners’ companions, on whose information the officers are said to have acted, appeared in the witness box. You must decide for yourselves upon his credibility, but I would point out that his story is similar in every point to that given by the officers⁠ ⁠…

“There remains, gentlemen, the body, and here an unexpected line has been taken by five of the prisoners. They have accused one of their number of having committed the murder as a climax to a series of quarrels with the officer Rexall. They have adopted part of the evidence of the prosecution in their own defence. Medical evidence leaves no doubt of the cause of Rexall’s death, and the bullet found in his body is similar to those in the possession of these men. No evidence has been brought by this prisoner in his defence, but until a late stage of the trial he was unrepresented by counsel, and you can judge for yourself of his mental state. I would point out to you that it is for the prosecution to prove a case of guilt. The prisoners’ statements are not evidence, and the prosecution have not attempted to prove the man Tims guilty alone. He and his companions in this respect must be judged together⁠ ⁠…

“You are not concerned with the past, and the evidence of the witness Andrews dealing with the life of crime lived on the ship Good Chance must not be taken into consideration. You are not to try the prisoners on their bad characters, nor are you to try them on the good characters which have been given to them by certain witnesses for the defence⁠—you are to try whether they be guilty of the crime with which they are charged. It has been stated that they are good fathers, good husbands, good sons, but if they were angels and if the evidence as to the crime were clear and satisfactory, it would be your duty to return a verdict accordingly⁠ ⁠…

“An ill-advised attempt has been made by one of the prisoners to influence your verdict by threats. I can promise you, gentlemen, that whatever your verdict you will have the full protection of the law⁠ ⁠…”

The officer drooped like an undignified and top heavy flower. The candles in the Court were burning low in their sockets, but Mr. Justice Parkin, with the stage all his own, talked on⁠ ⁠…

Through Andrews’s sleep came first a hum of talk, then a distant burst of cheering. He opened his eyes. Through a window he could see that it was dark. Groups of talking people passed him and paid him no attention. The door of the Court stood open. He sat up and cleared sleep from his eyes with the back of a hand. Sir Henry Merriman and Mr. Farne came from the Court. Mr. Farne was talking with gentle insistence, his hand on the older man’s arm. “We shall never put down smuggling in the Courts,” Mr. Farne said. “There is only one way⁠—to remove the duty from spirits.”

Sir Henry Merriman stared at the ground. “No,” he said, “I am growing old. I must retire and give room for younger men. You, Farne.”

“That is nonsense,” Mr. Farne said. “No man could have made that jury convict.”

Andrews slowly rose to his feet. “Do you mean to say,” he said, “that those men are acquitted?”

Mr. Farne turned. “Yes,” he said shortly. “Listen. The whole town’s cheering them.”

“Don’t go,” Andrews implored. “Tell me what am I to do. Have they been released?” Mr. Farne nodded.

“You’ve cheated me,” Andrews cried. “You got me to give evidence and now⁠—don’t you understand that you’ve let them loose on me?”

Sir Henry raised eyes that seemed blurred with weariness. “I have already promised you,” he said, “that you shall be protected as long as you stay in this town. I should advise you to leave for London, however, as soon as you can. I admit that certain threats were made against you. Give Sussex a wide berth and you will be safe.”

“How can I get to London? I have no money.”

“Come to me tomorrow,” Sir Henry said. “You shall be given money.” He turned his back on Andrews. “Farne,” he said, “I am tired. I shall go to bed now. Listen. Isn’t it rather bitter, that cheering? If we had won there would have been less enthusiasm. You remember the Duke of Northumberland, who declared for Jane Grey⁠—‘the people press to see us, but not one saith God speed’?”

“I won’t let you go like this,” Andrews cried. “That cheering only means defeat to you. It will be death to me if I’m seen. How can I get away from here?”