Trial and Error Read online

  “Nevertheless, as I say, although you may consider him, and perhaps not unjustly, in the light of an inhuman and irresponsible person, with an abominably perverted conception of his duties as a member of society, you must not allow your verdict to be coloured by your indignation any more than you must allow it to be prejudiced by the fact that another man has already been found guilty of the same crime. You are to judge this case on the facts that have been presented to you and those alone.”

  The judge then concluded with a few illuminating remarks upon murder and manslaughter and what was necessary to produce a verdict in either case and dismissed the jury to talk it over.

  5

  Mr. Todhunter could hardly contain himself.

  “What business is it of that old fool’s to call me disgusting?” he burst out almost before he was out of the dock. “I don’t call him disgusting to his face, although he cleans his ears in public, I never heard a more gratuitous exhibition of smugness.”

  “Oh, they all go on like that,” returned Sir Ernest easily. “I shall one day.”

  “Then it’s time they were stopped and confined to their proper jobs,” stormed Mr Todhunter. “Contempt and loathing indeed? . . . No one has a poorer opinion of me than I have myself, but am I contemptible and loathsome?” demanded Mr Todhunter of Mr Chitterwick with singular ferocity.

  “No, no,” protested Mr Chitterwick. “Not in the least. Er—precisely the reverse, if anything.”

  “If anything? I must be something, mustn’t I?”

  “Yes, I said so,” hurriedly agreed Mr Chitterwick. “I said, the reverse.”

  “And how can I be both imbecile and sane—and responsible and irresponsible at the same time?” continued Mr Todhunter, his indignation unflagging. “Eh? Tell me that. And does it need megalomania to see that an unpleasant person is better out of the world than in it, for the world’s own sake? Damn and blast! I never heard such balderdash in my life.”

  “Now, now,” said Sir Ernest in alarm, for Mr Todhunter really seemed to be growing more, rather than less, agitated. And he added in an undertone to Mr Chitterwick: “Where’s that damned doctor?”

  Fortunately the doctor appeared before Mr Todhunter could actually burst, and led his patient away to work off his tantrum in seclusion.

  There was, however, one good result of Mr Todhunter’s temper. It lasted him for over two hours and so occupied nearly the whole period of the jury’s absence. In consequence the strain of waiting for the verdict was considerably relieved.

  The jury were absent for two hours and forty minutes. Then an official brought news that they were returning to court.

  “Now look here, Todhunter,” said the doctor anxiously, “these next two minutes are going to be a terrible strain for you. You’ve got to hold yourself together with both hands.”

  “I’m all right,” muttered Mr Todhunter, a little white.

  “Fancy yourself in a dream or something, or repeat a piece of poetry,” urged the doctor. “Horatius at the Bridge. Know it? And be prepared for any verdict. Don’t let anything come as a shock. Sure you won’t let me give you an injection?” The doctor had already offered an injection to deaden his patient’s reactions and slow up the action of his heart.

  “No,” snapped Mr Todhunter, leading the way. “It’s over now. The verdict’s been decided on, one way or another. There’s nothing more to be done; and if with luck it’s guilty, the quicker I pass out, the better. Don’t want me to live to be hanged, do you?”

  “All right, all right, have it your own way,” returned the doctor. “You’re the lucky one, either way.”

  Mr Todhunter snarled.

  In court the rapt attention of the onlookers was divided between Mr Todhunter and the returning jury. As always the faces of the latter were scanned, not least anxiously by Mr Todhunter himself, in an effort to read their minds; and as always, their solemn expressions could be interpreted in any way the onlooker chose.

  Mr Todhunter held his breath and laid an unconscious hand upon his chest as if to check disaster at least till the verdict should be known. There was no need for him to try to fancy himself in a dream; he felt in a dream. The whole scene seemed fantastic, and not least his own part in it. Was it really himself, in a court of criminal law, being tried for his life? Was it really on him that these men were about to pronounce a verdict? The thing was incredible.

  In a kind of trance Mr Todhunter heard the clerk of the court address the jury.

  “Members of the jury, are you agreed upon your verdict?”

  The foreman, a tall, middle-aged man with an untidy moustache (Mr Todhunter had set him down as an estate agent, for no particular reason), answered firmly enough:

  “We are.”

  “Do you find the accused guilty of the murder of Ethel May Binns, or not guilty?”

  The foreman cleared his throat.

  “Guilty.”

  Mr Todhunter stared down at his hands. They seemed an unusual colour. Then he realised that he was gripping the ledge of the dock so tightly as to blanch not only his knuckles but the whole backs of his hands.

  He relaxed. The jury had found him guilty. Well, that was all right. Of course. Mr Todhunter had known all along that any sensible jury, like this one, would be certain to find him guilty. There was no strain in that at all.

  Mr Todhunter bowed slightly to the jury. The jury did not bow back.

  He became aware that the clerk was now addressing him.

  “Lawrence Butterfield Todhunter, you have been found guilty of wilful murder; have you anything to say why the Court should not pronounce sentence upon you?”

  Mr Todhunter repressed a mad impulse, first to giggle and then to snap at the clerk: “Don’t call me Butterfield.” He pulled himself together and replied:

  “Nothing at all.”

  More or less master of himself now, he watched with interest a little square of black cloth being laid by an official on top of the judge’s wig.

  So that’s the black cap, thought Mr Todhunter; well, all I can say is that it makes the judge look very silly.

  “Lawrence Butterfield Todhunter,” came the aged voice for the last time, “it is now my duty to pass sentence upon you, in accordance with the verdict which the jury have pronounced upon you, and I shall do so without further comment. Is there any question of law, Sir Ernest, as to the sentence I have to pronounce? You will understand what I mean.”

  Sir Ernest bobbed up. “So far as I can ascertain, my lord, no question.”

  “Then, Lawrence Butterfield Todhunter, the sentence of this Court upon you is that you be taken from this place to a lawful prison and thence to a place of execution, and that you there be hanged by the neck until you are dead; and that your body be afterwards buried within the precincts of the prison in which you shall have been confined after your conviction, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul.”

  “Amen,” said the sheriff’s chaplain, at the judge’s side.

  Mr Todhunter, no longer bearing any grudge, bowed with respectful courtesy to the judge.

  “Thank you, my lord. May I make a final request?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t listen to you now.”

  “I’m afraid,” retorted Mr Todhunter, courteous still but firm, “that you must listen, my lord. My request is that I may now be arrested.”

  Mr Todhunter was gratified to perceive that his words had caused what would undoubtedly be described in the papers the next morning as a sensation. In the solemn routine of verdict and sentence those responsible had quite overlooked the fact that Mr Todhunter had never been arrested. Now, in accordance with the verdict, arrest was automatic.

  The judge whispered to the clerk of the court, the clerk whispered to an usher, the usher whispered to one of the friendly policemen, and the policeman lumbered into the dock and touched Mr Todhunter on the shoulder.

  “Lawrence Butterfield Todhunter, I arrest you for the murder of Ethel May Binns, on the night of twenty-eight September last, a
nd I warn you that anything . . . that is . . . and . . . and . . .”

  “And about time too,” suggested Mr Todhunter.

  PART V

  Gothic

  DUNGEON CELL

  CHAPTER XIX

  To say that the verdict on Mr Todhunter caused a sensation in the country would be to put it mildly.

  Everybody had always told the British (and the British had always told everybody) that their judicial system was the best in the world; yet here were two persons lying under sentence of death for the same crime, and one of them must be innocent. Did the incomparable British judicial system then contain such traps as might catch an innocent man and let the guilty escape?

  The Times had a thoughtful leader proving that there was nothing wrong with the system and inclined to deplore the fact that, in spite of the cautious attitude of the judge, Mr Todhunter should have got himself convicted, at the same time equally deprecating the fact that Vincent Palmer had not somehow managed to get himself acquitted. The Daily Telegraph had an equally thoughtful leader saying at some length exactly nothing at all. The Morning Post was inclined to believe that some subtle Communist propaganda had been at work. The News Chronicle was more certain than ever that the civil war in Spain was the indirect outcome of the whole unfortunate affair. The popular press openly and vociferously exulted and called the jury by every flattering superlative it could dig out of its vocabulary. For some reason unknown to him, the popular press had been Mr Todhunter’s champion from the beginning.

  The public as usual waited for a lead. And the government, equally as usual, waited for a lead from the public.

  In point of fact the public wavered for exactly forty-eight hours. During that period opinion was about equally divided between the two alternatives of Mr Todhunter’s guilt and his altruistic innocence, with perhaps a tiny balance in favour of the latter as being the more romantically sentimental.

  The turning point was characteristic. Somehow, somewhere, from some unknown source the whisper went round: Fascism! Mr Todhunter had decided, all on his own, that someone ought to be killed and had set about killing her. If that wasn’t Fascism, what was? Never mind whether he had actually done the deed himself or not; he had intended, and that was just as bad. Anyhow, a jury had said he did do it, hadn’t they? What was good enough for a jury was good enough for us. Un-British! Fascism!

  The Daily Telegraph, in an inspired leader, drew a most interesting parallel between the habits of Fascist dictators in ridding themselves of persons they disliked and Mr Todhunter’s action.

  In the relieved indignation the slur on the British judicial system was quite forgotten.

  The government, with the people now solid behind it, could go on comfortably to hang Mr Todhunter with an easy political conscience.

  2

  Of all these developments Mr Todhunter knew nothing. In any case, now that his anxieties were over he was far too interested in the routine in which he was now caught up to bother about such trivialities as public opinion. Mr Todhunter doubted whether a really intelligent person had ever had the chance before of observing at first hand the exact procedure followed by a condemned murderer between his conviction and execution, and he realised his responsibility.

  It was therefore with an alert interest that he prepared to leave his friends in the dock and follow the warder who had now attached himself. That he was leaving these friends and all they stood for, forever, did not worry him. The novelty, to say nothing of the exaltation, of finding himself a condemned prisoner made Mr Todhunter only agog with curiosity.

  There had been a brief scene of jubilation following the end of the proceedings, with Sir Ernest and Mr Todhunter mutually congratulating each other and the beaming Mr Chitterwick congratulating them both; so that one would have said it was a wedding and not a funeral for which Mr Todhunter was bound. The doctor, too, had taken the opportunity of having a word with the warder, to warn him that Mr Todhunter was in a very precarious state of health and was not to be allowed to walk fast, to lift or carry anything or to undergo any exertion at all, or otherwise the warder would find a corpse instead of a live prisoner on his hands; and the warder, impressed, had promised to pass this information on to Mr Todhunter’s next guardian. It was all very friendly and informal, and Mr. Todhunter’s farewells were no less casual than those of a week-end visitor.

  The warder, who was oldish and amicable, led Mr Todhunter through a door with a glass top which led into an inclined passage, or ramp, floored with concrete. A short way down this ramp was an iron gate which the warder opened and then closed carefully behind them. A few yards beyond this gate the ramp led into a long, narrow, stone-flagged corridor. Along the corridor were rows of doors, each with a glass top, and behind them Mr Todhunter could see dim forms and faces which peered at him dumbly.

  “Prisoners, I suppose?” he asked pleasantly.

  “That’s right,” nodded the warder. “Convicted or awaiting trial.”

  “Oh, they keep them here before they’re tried too? That seems a little hard.”

  “There’s nowhere else.”

  “Well, there ought to be,” said Mr Todhunter and made a mental note for the series of articles he was planning.

  Mr Todhunter himself was then placed in one of these dark little cells and duly locked in. The friendly warder professed himself without knowledge as to how long his stay would be.

  Mr Todhunter leant his nose up against the glass of his door and watched the warders, the convicted and the as yet untried, passing and repassing along the gloomy corridor with occasionally a barrister in wig and gown sweeping importantly by.

  “Most interesting,” observed Mr Todhunter to himself. “Crime does not pay.”

  In due course he found himself conducted down the corridor once more. At the far end there was a kind of office in which a police official with grey hair was making mysterious marks on a slate with a piece of chalk. Mr Todhunter asked what he was doing and was informed that the marks referred to the various Black Marias waiting in the yard, and their complements.

  “Ah, the Black Maria,” said Mr. Todhunter, pleased, as he looked out at the shining black vehicles standing ready to convey the convicts to the various prisons.

  He became aware that his warder, with a slightly apologetic air, was jingling something metallic.

  “Oh yes,” said Mr Todhunter. “Handcuffs. That is necessary in the circumstances?”

  “I don’t know anything about circumstances,” muttered the warder. “It’s the regulation.”

  “Heaven forbid that I should offend against a regulation,” replied Mr Todhunter pleasantly and held out his wrists. He looked at the results with interest. “Well, well, well. So this is what it feels like. Most interesting.

  He was then booked through the clearing office and invited to take his seat in one of the vehicles.

  To his surprise Mr Todhunter found that the interior of the vehicle was divided into miniature cells. Locked into one of these, there was just room for him to sit down. He disposed himself as well as possible on the little seat provided and considered the business somewhat barbaric. From the sounds around him it was clear that the other cells were being similarly filled; and after a short wait the vehicle set off. Mr Todhunter knew its designation: the famous prison to which convicts from the area north of the Thames were invariably sent. Had Miss Norwood lived on the other bank, Mr Todhunter would now have been on his way to Wandsworth.

  “It’s lucky,” he ruminated, “that I don’t suffer from claustrophobia. The lack of ventilation is disgraceful.”

  At last the plain van came to a halt. Mr Todhunter, straining his ears, could hear great gates being opened and shut. The vehicle moved on a little further. Then his unseen fellow passengers could be heard disembarking.

  Mr Todhunter had arrived.

  3

  The routine for prisoners condemned to death is rigid. It is laid down in the prison rules thus:

  “Every prisoner under warrant or o
rder for execution shall immediately on his arrival in the prison after sentence, be searched by or by the orders of the Governor, and all articles shall be taken from him which the Governor deems dangerous or inexpedient to leave in his possession. He shall be confined in a cell apart from all other prisoners, and shall be placed by day and by night under the constant charge of an officer. He shall be allowed such dietary and amount of exercise as the Governor, with the approval of the Commissioners, may direct. The Chaplain shall have free access to every such prisoner, unless the prisoner is of a religious persuasion differing from that of the Established Church, and is visited by a minister of that persuasion, in which case the minister of that persuasion shall have free access to him. With the above exception, no person, not being a member of the visiting committee or an officer of the prison shall have access to the prisoner except in pursuance of an order from a Prison Commissioner or member of the visiting committee.

  “During the preparation for an execution, and the time of the execution, no person shall enter the prison unless legally entitled to do so.

  “A prisoner under sentence of death may be visited by such of his relations, friends, and legal advisers as he desires to see, and are authorised to visit him by an order in writing from a member of the visiting committee.

  “If any person makes it appear to a member of the visiting committee that he has important business to transact with a prisoner under sentence of death, that member may grant permission in writing to that person to have a conference with the prisoner.”