Trial and Error Read online

  Considering the idea to show the true scientific spirit, he whispered a request over the edge of the dock for pencil and paper and, when these were forthcoming, wrote solemnly:

  “E.P.’s opening speech for the prosecution more succinct than I would have expected and gave me great satisfaction. His case sounds truly convincing. I think we have a chance.”

  2

  Only one witness was taken before the lunch interval, but he was an important one: Ferrers.

  Ferrers’s evidence fell under two heads, the conversation at the now notorious dinner party and his own personal relations as editor of the London Review with Mr Todhunter. Suave and self-possessed as ever, Ferrers remembered the dinner party perfectly. He agreed that Mr Todhunter had seemed rather to press the question of what a man condemned to death by his doctor might do for the benefit of his fellows. He remembered, too, quite clearly, that the final decision had been almost unanimously for murder.

  “In fact, if the accused were seeking advice on this point behind a veil of anonymity, your advice to him at that time was to commit a murder?” frowned Sir Ernest, much shocked.

  “I’m afraid the rest of us were not taking the discussion very seriously,” Ferrers replied with a slight smile. “Otherwise our advice might have been different.”

  “But in point of fact you did so advise him?”

  “If you put it that way, yes.”

  “I do put it that way.”

  “Then,” said Ferrers blandly, “I can’t contradict you.”

  “But you never expected the accused to act on it?”

  “It never entered our heads.”

  “Knowing him as you do, would you be surprised to learn that he did act on it?”

  Ferrers considered. “Perhaps not.”

  That brought Sir Ernest to his second head.

  “You do know the accused well?”

  “Quite well, I think.”

  “He has worked under you for a certain periodical for a considerable time?”

  “He has been a regular contributor to the London Review for a number of years, under my editorship,” replied Ferrers, seizing a chance of publicity.

  “And during that time you have had many opportunities of observing closely not only his work but the man himself?”

  “Certainly.”

  Sir Ernest then elicited the great number of times that Ferrers must have seen, observed and had converse with Mr Todhunter, both in business hours and out of them.

  “And during all those years did you form the opinion that the accused was a man fully responsible for his actions?”

  “Decidedly.”

  “You never saw signs of any abnormality about him?”

  “Never, in the larger sense.”

  “What do you mean by that?” asked Sir Ernest scornfully.

  “I mean, he had his small eccentricities, as bachelors are reputed to have.”

  “No doubt we all have that. But outside these small eccentricities common to everyone, you never at any time observed anything in his conduct which could have led you to suppose that he might be in any way mentally abnormal?”

  “Todhunter always struck me as one of the sanest men I knew,” replied Ferrers with a courteous little bow towards the dock.

  “Thank you,” said Sir Ernest and sat down.

  Ferrers turned with an air of polite and helpful enquiry towards Mr Jamieson.

  “Mr Ferrers,” said the latter, “you are an editor?”

  “I am.”

  “That means you have a great deal of reading to do, concerned with fact as well as fiction?”

  “I have.”

  “Books of all sorts, no doubt. Have you, for instance, in the course of your duties had to read many books dealing with psychology?”

  “Very many.”

  “Including criminal psychology?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would it be too much to say that as a result of your reading you are perfectly convairsant with the modern principles of psychology, including criminal psychology?”

  “I’m no expert,” replied Ferrers, so deprecatingly that everyone instantly decided that he must be an expert, “but I have a working knowledge of the subject, yes.”

  “And have you, in the course of your reading, ever come across such an instance as that of a man who persuades himself that he is going to carry out some great and important action, requiring perhaps much moral courage, and carries all his intentions and preparations up to the very point of action and then his nairve fails him and he recoils at the last moment?”

  “That is a very common phenomenon,” agreed Ferrers with an expert’s air.

  “Such a man might even persuade himself that he was going to murder some pairson whom he had taken upon himself to consider obnoxious, and he might buy a revolver with this intention and even visit the pairson fully determined to carry out this murder, and then at the last moment his nairve might fail him and he would content himself with brandishing the revolver in a threatening manner?”

  “Quite so.”

  “You agree that this is possible?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “So that if, in those circumstances, the revolver went off accidentally, owing, it might be, to the pairson’s inexperience of firearms, would your knowledge of criminal psychology suggest to you that such a pairson was a deliberate murderer or not?”

  “That he was not.”

  “Thank you, Mr Ferrers,” said Mr Jamieson with the air of one who has obtained more than he expected. “That is very illuminating. Now you have told my lord and the jury that you considered the accused one of the sanest pairsons you knew. You made that statement on the basis of your psychological knowledge?”

  “Such knowledge of psychology as I have,” replied Ferrers rather neatly, “must, I suppose, have contributed to it.”

  “Exactly. And you still maintain that statement?”

  “I do.”

  “Now in the case of the hypothetical pairson whom we have just been considering, Mr Ferrers, the man who had persuaded himself that he was going to commit murder and bought a revolver for that purpose and even approached his victim with it but at the end did not fire it off deliberately: would you consider such a pairson as that perfectly sane and normal?”

  “On those facts alone,” said Ferrers carefully, “there is nothing to determine that such a person was not sane.”

  “Perhaps you could expand that explanation a little for the benefit of my lord and the jury?”

  “It would merely be a case of the person’s nerve failing,” explained Ferrers gently to the judge. “There is nothing to indicate an abnormal mentality in that so far as I can see. The nerves of most of us fail at times. But of course I’m no expert in these matters.”

  “Yes,” said the judge. “Mr Jamieson, I must ask you one question. I am not quite clear as to the drift of your cross-examination. Is it your intention to suggest that the accused was not responsible for his actions?”

  “No, my lord,” replied Mr Jamieson with much indignation, which caused his accent to become redoubled in vigour. “With the greatest respect, my intention is precisely the revairse. In my respectful submission, my client was fully responsible for his actions.”

  “Then there is no dispute between counsel on that point, since Sir Ernest also takes that view, so I don’t quite see why you need labour it.”

  “For this reason, my lord: that I understand that the point may be raised in another quarter,” said Mr Jamieson darkly, “and that an attempt will be made to throw doubts on my client’s state of mind. I wish to bring out such evidence as these witnesses who knew him can give, the point having been already raised by my learned friend, so that the jury may be able to hear the views of those best able to speak with authority.”

  “Very well,” said the judge patiently.

  But Mr Jamieson had made his point and cleverly indicated with his early questions what the line of defence would be, and Ferrers was allowed to leave t
he witness box; which he promptly did, with a courteous little bow to the judge.

  3

  “I’d never have said old Jamie had it in him,” pronounced Sir Ernest with ungrudging admiration. “Dam’ clever line to take, that guff about your nerve failing at the last moment, so it’s only manslaughter. Dam’ clever.”

  The three sat at lunch in a small restaurant in Fleet Street, for the Old Bailey, unlike the Law Courts, contains no facilities for feeding hungry counsel and witnesses. The other lunchers were obviously gratified to have such a celebrated person as Mr Todhunter among them and scarcely took their eyes off him in consequence, conveying the food to their mouths by a sort of homing instinct.

  Mr Todhunter, who was by now becoming more or less accustomed to being the focus of the rude herd’s gaze, agreed that Mr Jamieson had evolved an ingenious defence.

  “Cunning of him to get his whack in first about you being dotty too,” remarked Sir Ernest in an interval between two pieces of steak-and-kidney pie.

  “Yes,” said Mr Todhunter and looked thoughtful.

  He was not looking forward to that part of his ordeal at all. For it had been decided that in order to get the whole matter thrashed out once and for all in open court it would be best to let a representative of the police cross-examine him in the box and afterward address the jury. In this way the police theory that Mr Todhunter was entirely innocent of any hand in the death of Miss Ethel May Binns would receive adequate presentment and would be duly considered by the jury, as indeed it should be. But Mr Todhunter was not at all sure that he would be able to stand up to a hostile counsel, intent on proving his innocence. Like most of us, Mr Todhunter distrusted his own capabilities as a witness; and in addition his memory was now so very poor that he secretly feared that a clever counsel would be able to tie him up into the most hopeless knots.

  “In any case, how do you think we’re doing?” he asked, sipping his milk.

  “Not so bad, not so bad,” said Sir Ernest with great heartiness. “The jury are still looking a bit bewildered, but we’ll straighten it out for them. You’ll see.”

  4

  The jury certainly did look bewildered.

  As witness after witness appeared before them during the afternoon and testified to Mr Todhunter’s murderous, if, at first, somewhat nebulous intentions, their bewilderment seemed to deepen rather than straighten out. Not one of them looked capable of realising that a man might wish to commit a perfectly altruistic murder, of some person or persons unknown, in order to do a little good to his fellow creatures.

  And yet it must be becoming plain, even to such a jury, that Mr Todhunter had once nourished such an intention. Every single member of the dinner party was called to support the evidence of Ferrers (with the exception of Mr Chitterwick, who was to make a star appearance later); and after them came certain selected members of the staff of Consolidated Periodicals Ltd. Young Wilson, for instance, testified to having told Mr Todhunter the whole Fischmann story and described the other’s horror and disgust; Ogilvie described Mr Todhunter’s interview with him and repeated the latter’s indignant exclamation, “The man ought to be shot!”, Staithes, young Butts and Bennett gave an outline of the discussion in the office of the last named at which Mr Todhunter had been a concealed auditor, Bennett adding how he had discovered Mr Todhunter in the room after the others had gone—a rather nervous Bennett, though the reason for his nervousness was suspected by Mr Todhunter alone.

  Young Butts testified, too, to the fact that Mr Todhunter had asked, when he met him on the stairs, where he could buy a revolver. He added that Mr Todhunter’s expression had been set and determined, and he was breathing quickly, like a man who has arrived at a terrible decision. The gunsmith was then called to prove Mr Todhunter’s visit to him that same day and his purchase of a revolver, which he now identified as the one produced in court.

  In this way and with so many witnesses Sir Ernest was able to prove, to the evident satisfaction even of the jury, that Mr Todhunter undoubtedly had cherished an intention to murder some time before he had ever met Miss Norwood. Mr Todhunter was thankful that the Fischmann episode had taken place, even though it had seemed a fiasco at the time. Its value was now enormous, and without it there was a grave doubt whether a conviction could ever have been obtained.

  “The jury was impressed,” he confided to Sir Ernest as the latter almost lifted him, with the tenderness of a mother, into a taxi outside the Old Bailey, while Mr Chitterwick and young Mr Fuller tried to keep back the curious crowd. “You bet the jury was impressed,” agreed Sir Ernest thrusting his head in at the window. “I meant ’em to be.”

  Mr Chitterwick scrambled nimbly inside, and the taxi drove off amid the cheers of the crowd.

  “Well, what does it feel like to stand in a dock, Todhunter, now you’ve got there at last?” asked Mr Chitterwick, crossing his plump little legs as he leaned back in his corner.

  Mr Todhunter massaged his bony knees with a swaying motion of his trunk. His same disreputable hat was perched forward on his bald head, and he looked anything but a murderer.

  “It feels rather like having one’s photograph taken,” he said.

  5

  Mr Todhunter was now the most popular man in London.

  There was no need for the police to guard his house, if they had ever thought of doing so. It was guarded, from the moment he stepped out of his taxi to the cheers of a second crowd to the moment he entered it again the next morning to the applause of a third crowd, by a whole covey of reporters. At intervals one of them would break away to try some fresh dodge for obtaining an interview, which was invariably unsuccessful; but for the most part they just hung around, ready to record the slightest activity of Mr Todhunter himself, of Mr Chitterwick (who had now taken up residence in the house), of Mr Todhunter’s cousins, cook or housemaid, and even of the doctor and nurse who had been installed by Sir Ernest, in spite of Mr Todhunter’s indignant protests, to keep watch over his precious life.

  Immediately on his arrival Mr Todhunter was seized by this pair and led off, protesting warmly, to bed; but Mr Chitterwick, after a pleasant dinner with the doctor and the elderly cousins at which a bottle of Mr Todhunter’s cherished Chateau Lafite, 1921, figured with success, was allowed to spend the evening with him discussing the day’s progress and the morrow’s promise.

  Mr Todhunter also demanded to know what the doctor had said about his prospects of surviving the trial, and Mr Chitterwick was able to report that these were good.

  “He said that provided you avoid the slightest overexertion or shock there’s no reason why you shouldn’t live another couple of months,” he said, marvelling slightly that Mr Todhunter and he were able to discuss this question of the latter’s approaching death as calmly as if it were a mere visit to the theatre instead of a visit to another world.

  “Ha!” said Mr Todhunter with satisfaction.

  After that the evening was uneventful, except that at about half past eleven Mr Todhunter insisted upon sending for his solicitor in order to add a codicil to his will, leaving to the nurse (to whom he had taken a violent and quite unreasonable dislike) the sum of five pounds wherewith to purchase a complete set of the works of Charles Dickens, she having failed to recognize a growling allusion to Mrs Gamp which Mr Todhunter had privately considered rather telling.

  Mr Benson was quite resigned. There were now over a hundred codicils to Mr Todhunter’s will, and it had been redrafted completely just seven times during the last five months.

  CHAPTER XVI

  The first witness on the second day of the trial was Furze.

  Sir Ernest greeted him in the box with an unctuous subservience which Mr Todhunter, from the dock, thought a little overdone.

  “Mr Furze, it is you who are bringing this grave charge of murder against the accused?” yy

  “I am.”

  “Will you tell my lord and the jury what caused you to take so grave a step?”

  “It was because I felt conv
inced that a serious miscarriage of justice had been done and this appeared the only possible way of rectifying it.”

  “Exactly. You are acting solely out of public spirit and for no other reason at all?”

  “I hope so.”

  “That,” said Sir Ernest with a little bow, “is after all only what one would expect from one with your record of public service, Mr Furze; for I am sure there is no need to say anything to the jury of your admirable and unselfish work in connection with the Middleman’s League. Now, what was it, Mr Furze, that caused you to form the opinion that a miscarriage of justice had occurred?”

  “Two conversations that I had with Mr Todhunter,” replied Furze, blinking behind his big spectacles.

  “Will you tell my lord and the jury what the purport of these conversations was?”

  Mr Todhunter, watching from the dock, approved of Furze’s manner, deliberate as it was and evidently sincere. He made a note to the effect that Furze appeared to fulfil all the qualifications of the perfect witness. He answered only what he was asked, and no one could doubt that he was speaking the truth.

  “The first conversation,” said Furze, “took place at my club about six months ago. I remember it clearly, for it was a very unusual conversation. Mr Todhunter, to the best of my recollection, opened the chief topic by asking me if I knew of anyone who needed murdering. I enquired in a jocular way whether he was proposing to murder anyone I recommended, and Mr Todhunter agreed that he was. We then debated the possibility of his assassinating either Hitler or Mussolini, an idea to which Mr Todhunter seemed much drawn; but I recommended him not to try, for various reasons which perhaps I need not recapitulate.”

  “Quite so,” purred Sir Ernest. “Now you say that you received Mr Todhunter’s suggestion of murdering any nominee of yours in a jocular spirit. Did that jocular spirit remain with you during the whole of the conversation that ensued?”

  “It did.”

  “You did not take the suggestion seriously?”

  “I’m afraid not. I see now that I made a serious mistake.”

  “One that you can hardly be blamed for, Mr Furze. Now you understood of course that Mr Todhunter had only a few months to live. Did you give him any advice as to how he might employ this period rather than devote it to murdering somebody?”