Ronnie, shaking off Spillcroft, spent the luncheon1 adjournment2 alone. His bouts4 with the last witnesses, followed by the shock of Bert Bishop's proof, had rattled5 him. As he was leaving the court, the doorkeeper handed him another shock--a telegram. Opening it, he read, to his relief: "All love and all success. Julia." But the growing crowd in the street, the multiplying posters, the comments which reached his ears as he made his hasty way towards Holborn, rattled him still further.
His luck only added to his fears. Had it not been for the two anonymous6 notes, Maggie Peterson's evidence would have stood unchallenged. Now he could smash that evidence. But even now---even if the jury believed his side of the case sufficiently7 to discount Brunton's plea of premeditation--even if Bob Fielding and Lucy came well through the ordeal8 of Brunton's cross-questions--how, how the devil could he hope, unless some miracle gave his halting oratory9 genius, to secure a complete acquittal?
Lunching alone in the crowded grill-room of the South-Eastern & Chatham Hotel, Ronnie's thoughts went back to other days. He saw himself soldier again, and remembered the particular type of moral courage, of self-control, necessary for the winning of battles. That moral courage, that self-control must be his again if he would win this fight against Brunton. "This is my chance," he thought. "My one chance of downing the brute10. I mustn't muff it."
Gradually solitude11 restored his balance. Gradually, his mind reconcentrated. Weeks of thought crystallized to short sentences. Lucy, Lucy Towers must be saved. Nothing but that mattered. The personal issue dwindled12 to unimportance.
Walking back to the court, he found that he could think, even of his enemy, logically.
2
But when, a few minutes later, Ronald Cavendish, rising to open the defense14 of Lucy Towers, saw Hector Brunton bowed over his brief, nothing of him visible except a patch of gray wig15, the hump of a black back, and one gentlemanly hand clutched round the gold pencil-case--then, for a moment, logic13 failed; and only the fear-stricken eyes of the woman in the dock, only his personal enmity for the man keyed him to the struggle.
"M' lord, members of the jury," he began, and there was no attempt at oratory in his beginning, "it will be no part of my case to prove to you that Lucy Towers did not shoot her husband. She did shoot him. She shot him exactly as counsel for the Crown has proved to you. But when the Crown asks you to find my client guilty of wilful16 murder, when my learned friend brings what he is pleased to call evidence in support of malice17 and of premeditation; then I join issue with him. My submission18 to you is that there was, in what my client did, neither malice nor premeditation.
"Yet even if my learned friend fails--as it seems to me he must fail--to convince you of premeditation, that failure will not furnish me with sufficient grounds on which to ask you for my client's complete exoneration19. Only on one ground can I ask you, as I intend to ask you, for your verdict of not guilty; and that ground, members of the jury, is justifiable20 or excusable homicide.
"Excusable homicide!" For a full ten minutes, the voice, grave, low, meditative21, calm as the voice of the judge himself, dealt with the legal aspect of excusability; and all the while Hector Brunton listened, motionless. But suddenly, as Ronnie's tone changed to the tone of the pleader, the "hanging prosecutor22" shifted on his seat; and savagely23 he stared at his enemy.
"Those, members of the jury, are some of the grounds on which our law excuses the killing24 of one human being by another. But there are other grounds, grounds which not only excuse but justify25. It is such justification26, the fullest possible justification, which I purpose to plead. My learned friend, you may have noticed, was very careful to avoid any reference to the character or disposition27 of my client's husband. I, on the contrary, intend to deal with that point rather fully28."
Already the very quietness, the very certainty of that opening had impressed the court; and as, still quietly, yet with a hint of mounting passion behind it, the speech went on; as, point by point, counsel for the defense traversed the statements of counsel for the Crown, it seemed, even to the obtuse29 Spillcroft, as though the capital charge against Lucy Towers might fail.
"While as for the minor30 charge," continued Ronnie, "the charge of manslaughter--of which, as his lordship will tell you, even though it is not pleaded on the indictment31, it will be open to you to find my client guilty--on that charge, too, I intend to ask you for the completest acquittal."
Brunton's stare relaxed. He hunched32 himself once more over his notes. And abruptly33 instinct, the instinct of the born advocate, warned Ronnie that he had spoken long enough. He glanced at the clock, at the jury. The jury--and especially the three women--were losing interest. Those women wanted neither argument nor oratory. They wanted drama. They were waiting, as spectators in a theater, for him to put Lucy Towers in the witness-box. So, abruptly, he regalvanized their interest.
"Members of the jury, my learned friend who leads for the Crown has been at great pains to convince you, out of the mouths of his witnesses, that Lucy Towers is both murderess and adulteress. I propose to afford him yet another opportunity of convincing you--by putting both my client and her cousin in the witness-box."
At that, the whole court stiffened34 to attention, and even the judge, who seemed to have been dozing35 throughout the speech, leaned forward. "Isn't he even going to deal with the evidence for the prosecution36?" thought the judge.
But Ronnie purposely played his highest card last.
"Nevertheless, before you hear my client's story from her own lips, I must ask you to weigh very carefully certain evidence which the Crown has thought fit to call against her. With the testimony37 of John Hodges and of James Travers, honest testimony, let us hope, I shall deal at a later stage of these proceedings38. But the evidence of Maggie Peterson calls for different treatment. Because Maggie Peterson has lied--and lied deliberately39!
"Lied--and lied deliberately." Now, as passion mounted and mounted, kindling40 the quiet voice to rage, Brunton's head twitched41 from his brief, and his eyes, the cold gray eyes under the gray wig, glanced fearfully about the packed court-room.
"Because, on the night of July 4, the night when Maggie Peterson swears that she saw my client making her way to Robert Fielding's room, Maggie Peterson was not at 25 Laburnum Grove43 at all."
Ronnie paused, letting his every word sink home. Rain, pattering suddenly on the glass dome44 above, seemed to emphasize the silence below. Then passionately45 the speech ended. "My lord, members of the jury, I ask for no mercy. I ask only for justice. I ask you to remember, even while you are listening to my client's testimony, that the main evidence against her, the evidence of this woman Peterson is, from beginning to end, one tissue of deliberate lies, of the most wilful and corrupt46 perjury47, as I shall prove to you out of the mouth of a competent witness, the landlord of the Red Lion Tavern48, who will testify to you beyond the shadow of a doubt that from eight o'clock till after ten on the night of July 4, Maggie Peterson never left his establishment; who will testify, moreover, that Maggie Peterson's companion on the night in question was none other than my unfortunate client's husband, William Towers himself."
And on that, satisfied with the utter hush49 which followed, Ronald Cavendish put his client in the box.
3
There are seconds in every man's life when the conviction of his own wrong-doing shatters the edifice50 of conceit51 and flings illusion headlong.
Such a second came to Hector Brunton, K.C., as he watched Lucy Towers step down from the side of the dock and make her way past the packed benches to the witness-box. With her--he could feel--went a wave, a great wave of human sympathy, the wave against which he, Hector Brunton, had been swimming for more than a year.
Paralyzed he watched her--watched her take the oath, kiss the book. His mind was a torment52, a torment of conscience. Conscience howled: "You knew! You knew all the time that your principal witness was lying. You knew! You knew all the time that this woman was no adulteress. She's innocent, innocent, Hector Brunton; as innocent in intention as that other woman you've been hounding."
Cavendish's voice, the voice of his enemy, broke the spell.
"Mrs. Towers, while the oath you have just sworn is still fresh in your mind, I want you to answer this question. Have you ever, at any time in your life, been guilty of immorality53 with your cousin, Robert Fielding?"
"Never." The answer, so diffident yet so definite, might have been Aliette's; and to Ronnie, his brain still throbbing54 from its own unaccustomed eloquence55, it seemed, just for a fraction of a second, as though the woman he defended were indeed his own.
"Various witnesses for the Crown have stated that you were on bad terms with your husband. Are those statements true?"
"I did my best to get on with him." The brown eyes never flinched56. "But he was a cruel man, especially when he was in drink."
"Nevertheless, you were faithful to him?"
"Yes. Always."
"You heard Mrs. Peterson's evidence? She said," Ronnie referred to his notes, "that at half-past nine o'clock on the night of July 4, she saw you go into Robert Fielding's room. Have you any comment to make on that evidence?"
"It's a lie. I never visited him at night. Only by day."
"At half-past nine on the night of July 4, where were you?"
"I was in my own room, washing up the supper things."
"Was your husband with you?"
"No."
"Where was he?"
"I don't know."
"One other point about Mrs. Peterson's evidence. She told us, if you remember, that you made a statement: that you said to her that you would never be happy till your husband was dead. What have you to say about that statement?"
"It's another lie." The lips pursed, stubbornly--it seemed to Brunton--as his wife's own. "An absolute lie."
"One moment, please!" Mr. Justice Heber--every syllable57 of his question audible as the tinkle58 of glass--intervened. "I should like to be clear on this point, Mrs. Towers. The witness to whom your counsel refers made the following statements: that at half-past nine o'clock on the night of July 4 she saw you enter Robert Fielding's room; that you were in the habit of making such visits, and that she was standing59 in the passage between your room and hers when she saw you. Do I understand you positively60 to deny all three of those statements?"
"Yes, m'lord."
"And the witness in question further stated that you said to her: 'Bill isn't fit to be any woman's husband. I wish to God he was dead.' What have you to say to that?"
The woman in the witness-box did not hesitate. Deliberately her eyes met the judge's. Deliberately she answered his question: "My lord, I may have said that Bill wasn't fit to be any woman's husband. But I never said," the shy voice rose, "either to Maggie Peterson or to any one else, that I wished he was dead."
"She never said"--word for word Mr. Justice Heber wrote down his answer--"that she wished her husband was dead."
But Hector Brunton--bent over his brief--could not write. For now, not only conscience, but all his years spent in separating truth from falsehood, all the experience of a legal lifetime, told him of Lucy's innocence61.
Again his enemy's voice broke the spell: "You heard the evidence of John Hodges. He said that you told him somewhere about the end of last June that you wished you had never married your husband. Have you anything you would like to say in answer to that?"
"Bill was there at the time. I only meant it for a joke."
"And now, before I ask you to tell his lordship and the jury, in your own words, what happened on the afternoon of July 5, I want you, if you can, to give me some idea of the feelings you entertained, before that date, for your husband."
It was a daring, an unpremeditated, though not a leading question; and, even as he put it, Ronnie perceived its danger. Suppose the woman in the witness-box, the little dignified62 woman whose hands rested so quietly on the rail, whose whole attitude indicated nothing but the intensest desire to speak truth, should speak too much truth, should destroy--with one fatal word--the house of protection he was building about her? But neither the heart nor the truth in Lucy Towers failed.
"It wouldn't be right"--the hands on the rail did not move--"for me to pretend that I cared for Bill. He made my life an absolute hell. He drank and he used to knock me about. Many's the time I've wished he was dead. But I never thought of killing him."
"Ah." Ronnie paused in his examination--one of those long, indefinable pauses which have more value than speech. Now--feeling the jury with him--he was no longer haunted by thought of his own inefficiency63, no longer afraid of Brunton. Not Brunton's self could shake such a witness. Already, the first faint foretaste of victory quickened his pulse. His questions grew more and more daring.
"You said, in your statement at the police-station: 'My husband didn't like me going to Bob's room. He was jealous of Bob.' Can you give us any further details about that?"
"Details!" Lucy, her eyes downcast, appeared to be considering the question. She shot a glance at Brunton. Then, quietly, she said, "Bill was always being jealous of some man or other--the same as Mr. Hodges said. But he hadn't got any reason to be jealous. I told him so, when he said I wasn't to go to Bob's room that afternoon. Me and Bob has always been pals--since we were kiddies. But if it hadn't been for Bob having no arms, I wouldn't have disobeyed Bill and gone to him.''
"I see. And can you tell me, coming to the afternoon of July 5, what your husband said when you threatened to disobey him--when you told him," Ronnie referred to his brief, "'I must go and help Bob because he can't feed himself'?"
"Bill said," the words were tremulous: "'If you don't stop here I'll come over and do in the pair of you.'"
"And what happened after that!"
"I just went to Bob's room."
"And did you say anything to your cousin about your husband's threats?"
"No."
"Can you tell me why you didn't?"
"Because"--unconsciously, the woman scored yet another point--"because I didn't want Bob to see I was frightened."
"And now"--Ronnie craned forward in his mounting excitement--"and now, Mrs. Towers, I want you to describe to his lordship and the jury, in your own words, exactly what happened in Robert Fielding's room on the afternoon of July 5."
No sounds save the scratch of reporters' pencils, the occasional tap of a boot-sole on the bare floor-boards, and the suppressed breathing of her tense audience interrupted the story Lucy Towers told her counsel and the court--a story so utterly65 resembling, yet so utterly differing from the toneless confession66 which the "hanging prosecutor" had read out the day before, a story so redolent of life and truth and certainty that, listening to it, it seemed as if one could actually see the dead man standing at the doorway67 of that bare tenement68 room, see the lifted stick in his hand, and hear his harsh, grim voice.
"Bill said, 'I'll do you in. I'll do you both in, damn you.' He had his stick in Ms hand. He lifted his stick. I was frightened. I thought he meant to kill Bob. I thought he meant to kill both of us. I remembered the pistol. I ran to the cupboard. I pulled out the pistol. I pointed69 it at him. Bob said, 'Look out, Bill. The gun's loaded.' Bill said, 'You can't frighten me.' I thought he was going to kill Bob, so I fired.
"So I fired." The little story ended to the indescribable, unbearable70 silence of men and women whose emotions are near to breaking-point. Through that unbearable silence, Ronnie's next question cut like a razor through taut71 string.
"You say that your husband carried a stick. Can you describe that stick?"
"It was a heavy stick."
"Can't you tell me any more about it?"
"Yes; it had a bit of lead in the handle."
"Was he holding the stick by the handle?"
"No. By the other end."
"And you thought he meant to kill your cousin with that loaded stick?"
"Yes. I felt sure of it. That was why I shot him."
Ronnie paused again, making sure that his point should sink home in the minds of the jury. Then, picking up his copy of the confession, he put his last questions: "I have here the statement which you made at the time of your arrest. You say, 'I'm not sorry I killed my husband.' Why did you say that?"
"Because I wasn't sorry--then."
"But you are sorry now?"
"Yes. I didn't mean to kill him. I don't know why I said that. I didn't quite know what I was saying."
"And there was one other thing you said. You said, 'I love Bob very much.' Is that true?"
"Yes." Lucy Towers answered fearlessly. "I do love him, but not in the way"--her eyes, which had scarcely left Ronnie's since the examination began, turned for a moment to Hector Brunton, huddled72 in his seat--"not in the way that he tried to make out."
"Thank you, Mrs. Towers. That's all I have to ask," finished Ronald Cavendish; and, seating himself, waited for Hector Brunton's onslaught.
But the onslaught tarried. Almost it seemed as if Hector Brunton were going to leave that cross-examination, on which the whole case hung, to his junior. For now Hector Brunton heard, louder than the whisper of conscience, the very whisper of God. "Thou art the man," whispered God; "thou art the murderer."
The "hanging prosecutor" looked at the woman in the dock, and his courage failed before the accusing glance of her. The "hanging prosecutor" looked at the judge, at the massed spectators; and his heart quailed73 before the doubting glances of them. Then the "hanging prosecutor" looked at his enemy; and rage, the rage of the lusting74 male, took him by the throat. God's whisper forgotten, man's duty forgotten, all save this one last chance of vengeance75 forgotten; he rose, heavy as the wounded bull, to his ungainly feet. His brain, the cold sure-functioning legal brain, had not yet failed. He still knew his strength. But a red mist blinded his eyes, and through that red mist he saw, not Lucy Towers but Aliette; Aliette, whom every cheated fiber76 of his body yearned77 to torture--and, torturing, possess.
"You admit that you shot your husband?" The words--grim, bitter, devil-prompted--grated in Brunton's throat.
"Yes."
"You admit that you said, just after you had shot him, that you were not sorry for the deed?"
"That's written down."
"Answer my question, please. Do you admit that you said, just after your husband's death at your hands, that you were not sorry you had killed him?"
"That's written down," repeated Lucy Towers stubbornly. And the stubbornness sent a chill through the red mist; a chill that pierced to Hector Brunton's very marrow78. Thus--thus stubborn and unwrithing--thus clear-eyed and contemptuous, had this same woman outfaced him, long and long ago in the bright, miserable79 drawing-room at Lancaster Gate.
"You have admitted"--there was a singing in the K.C.'s ears; he could hardly hear his own voice--"that you love your cousin, Robert Fielding. I put it to you that you are Robert Fielding's mistress."
"No."
"I put it to you that you went to Robert Fielding's room nightly."
"It's a lie."
"I put it to you that ever since Robert Fielding came to live at 25 Laburnum Grove you have been in the habit of misconducting yourself with him."
"It's a lie."
"I put it to you"--God! if only he could make her writhe80; if only he could see one stab of pain twitch42 those cheeks--"that you love Robert Fielding."
"Not in the way you're trying to make out."
"I put it to you that it was because of your love for Robert Fielding that you shot your husband."
"No."
"Then why did you shoot him?"
"My lord,"--Cavendish's voice--"I protest. This is outrageous81."
"I'm afraid, Mr. Cavendish,"--Heber's voice--"I must allow the question."
"Why did you shoot your husband?" Brunton heard his own voice, very faint through the buzz at his ears.
"I have already told you"--he heard Aliette's voice--"I killed him because I thought he was going to kill Bob."
"You meant to kill him, then?"
Again his enemy's protest. Again the judge's doubtful, "I feel I must allow the question." Again Aliette's stubborn reply:
"No. I never meant to kill him. I didn't think about that. I only wanted to save Bob."
Momentarily the red mist cleared from Brunton's sight. He knew this woman for Lucy Towers--Lucy Towers against whom, despite the flaws in the evidence, he had advised prosecution for wilful murder; knew himself doomed82 to failure with her--as he had always been doomed to failure with Aliette; knew that, against the sheer rock of truth in the one, as against the rock of sheer truth in the other, the spray of his lawless hate must beat in vain.
Then the red mist thickened, thickened and thickened, again before Brunton's smarting eyes. Rage kindled83 in his bowels84, kindled from bowels to brain, burning away self-control. He was aware only of Cavendish--of Cavendish, utterly cold, utterly legal--of Cavendish protesting for his witness, protecting his witness--of Cavendish's will, thrusting bar after cold steel bar between himself and the woman.
The singing was still in Brunton's ears; and now it grew dark in court, so that the face of the woman faded from his sight; and now it grew light in court, so that the face of the woman showed itself to him as a white contemptuous sneer85 under the electrics; but still, blindly, he tortured her with his questions.
At last he heard his own voice clearly once again, "You deny, then, that you are an adulteress?"; heard her answer, "Yes. I deny that absolutely"; heard, as a murderer hearing his own sentence, Mr. Justice Heber's, "If that finishes your cross-examination, Mr. Brunton, I shall adjourn3 until ten o'clock tomorrow"; heard, as a murderer hears the tramp of feet outside his cell, Cavendish's quiet, "With your lordship's permission, there is one witness, one most important witness, whom I should like to call before the court adjourns"; listened, powerless to cross-examine, while the witness of Cartwright's finding tore Maggie Peterson's testimony in pieces.
4
As Ronnie, striding solitary86 home, saw on the posters "Towers Case Sensation; Witness Arrested for Perjury." it seemed to him as though victory had been already in his grasp.
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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adjournment
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| 休会； 延期； 休会期； 休庭期 | |
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adjourn
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| v.（使）休会，（使）休庭 | |
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bouts
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| n.拳击（或摔跤）比赛( bout的名词复数 )；一段（工作）；（尤指坏事的）一通；（疾病的）发作 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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dwindled
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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defense
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| n.防御，保卫；[pl.]防务工事；辩护，答辩 | |
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wig
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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exoneration
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| n.免罪，免除 | |
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justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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prosecutor
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| n.起诉人；检察官，公诉人 | |
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savagely
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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disposition
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fully
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obtuse
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| adj.钝的；愚钝的 | |
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minor
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indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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hunched
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abruptly
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stiffened
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dozing
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prosecution
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| n.起诉，告发，检举，执行，经营 | |
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testimony
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proceedings
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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kindling
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twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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twitch
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| v.急拉，抽动，痉挛，抽搐；n.扯，阵痛，痉挛 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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44
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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perjury
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| n.伪证；伪证罪 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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49
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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51
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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52
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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53
immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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54
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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58
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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inefficiency
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| n.无效率，无能；无效率事例 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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tenement
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| n.公寓；房屋 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lusting
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| 贪求（lust的现在分词形式） | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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fiber
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| n.纤维，纤维质 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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writhe
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| vt.挣扎，痛苦地扭曲；vi.扭曲，翻腾，受苦；n.翻腾，苦恼 | |
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81
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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82
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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84
bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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85
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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