The Jury (27 page)

Were you indifferent to the state of your wife's health?—No.

You knew she was suffering from insomnia?—Yes.

Then I must ask you again: Did you not feel it your duty to urge her to consult her medical man, and did you not in fact do so?—No.

A moment ago, you couldn't remember.—I still can't remember.

You can't remember that you did?—No.

Can you swear that you didn't?—I swear that I can't remember doing so.

You knew that on a previous occasion Dr Cartwright had prescribed oscitalin for your wife?—No.

You didn't know he had given her a sleeping-draught on a previous occasion, when she was complaining of neuritis?— A sleeping-draught, yes. But I knew nothing about what it contained.

Do you not remember saying to your wife: 'Why not get Cartwright to give you another dose of oscitalin?' or words to that effect?—No. I couldn't have said that. I knew nothing about his having given her oscitalin.

I suggest to you that you knew perfectly well.—It is not so. And you have no evidence for your statement.

During those last ten days you and your wife were, to use your own phrase, on uncomfortable terms. May I take it that she was bitterly resenting your continued visits to Fräulein Andersch?—Yes.

Yet in answer to my learned friend you said that your wife made no objection to your going off to America with the lady, that in fact she urged you to do so?—Yes. That was the last day. Her attitude had changed.

Are you asking us to believe that in the morning she was bitterly resenting your adultery and in the evening was urging you to it?—In effect, yes.

What do you mean by 'in effect'?—I mean that there is more in it than what you are pleased to call 'adultery'.

Indeed?—Quite apart from all that, my wife thought it would be a good thing for us both if I went away for a while.

A good thing for whom?—For herself and me. For our future relationship. For our marriage.

She thought it would be good for your marriage for you to dishonour your marriage?—Oh, if you like.

It is not a question of what I like, Mr Strood. It is a question of what is true. Have you ever practised the art of fiction?—No.

But you are a pretty good actor, I believe?—Nothing of the kind.

When you were an undergraduate did you not distinguish yourself in amateur theatricals?—I took part in them.

I have here a copy of a Cambridge weekly journal of that time. Would you like me to read what is said about your abilities as a character-actor?—If it pleases you.

MR JUSTICE SARUM: It does not please
me,
Sir John.

ATTORNEY-GENERAL: Quite so, my lord. It is quite unnecessary, I agree.
[Continuing cross-examination]
You booked your passage to America on the morning of October the 31st?—Yes.

You do not deny that it was your intention to sail with the
Mercatoria?
—I do not deny it.

You had come to a definite decision on the point?—I definitely decided to go after that talk with my wife.

When you left your wife did you feel any sort of anxiety about her?—Yes.

You left her, however, to go to another woman that very night?—Yes. With her consent.

By next morning, I take it, your anxiety concerning your wife had magically disappeared?—No.

You still had her welfare at heart?—Yes.

Did you take any steps to communicate with her or with your household, in order to find out whether she had had a good night?—No.

Not so much as a telephone call?—No.

Did you inform your partner, Mr Cradock, that you were leaving that day for America?—I wired that I should not be coming that day and that a letter would follow.

Was it not very extraordinary behaviour on your part: to absent yourself for an indefinite period and without a word to your partner except this enigmatic telegram?—Very extraordinary.

You are content to leave it at that?—Yes.

There's one little point I want you to clear up for me concerning what happened at the hotel at Southampton. You said that at nine o'clock you were with Fräulein Andersch in the dining-room?—Yes.

What makes you so sure?—I don't understand.

You do not deny going into the lounge-bar that evening to get brandy?—No.

At what time was that?—It must have been a minute or two before nine, since the dining-room clock was striking nine when I got back to Fräulein Andersch.

You heard Fräulein Andersch say in evidence that the clock was striking nine?—Yes.

Until you heard what she had to say about it, you did not remember, did you, that the clock was striking at the very moment of your entry?—I really don't know.

Then you are unable to confirm her evidence on that point?—It really doesn't matter.

Very well. Now a moment or two ago you said that when you left your wife for the last time, on the fatal night, you were in a state of anxiety about her?—Yes.

Was that why you slammed the door when you left her?—I did not slam the door.

You have heard Mrs Tucker's evidence?—Yes.

You have heard her say that she heard the bedroom door slam?—Yes.

Do you tell us that she was lying?—Not exactly.

What do you mean by that?—Precisely what I say.

MR JUSTICE SARUM: You must refrain from giving pert answers to learned counsel's questions. You will gain nothing by heat.—I am sorry, my lord.

MR JUSTICE SARUM: I am speaking in your own interest. Now let us get this point clear. Did you slam the door of your wife's bedroom on leaving her?—Not intentionally.

MR JUSTICE SARUM: “Islammed the door, but not intentionally.” Would that be a fair way of putting it?—Yes, my lord.

MR JUSTICE SARUM: Did the door slip out of your hand?— I don't think so.

MR JUSTICE SARUM: Then what happened? Give me your explanation in your own way.—I was disturbed. I was in an emotional state. Nervous, too. I tried to shut the door quietly. But I had a sort of nightmare feeling. It was like slow motion. It was as though I wasn't moving the door at all. And then I gave it a sort of jerk, and it slammed.

ATTORNEY-GENERAL
[continuing cross-examination]
: You have just told my lord that you were in a disturbed and nervous state. Can you account for that state?—I had just said goodbye to my wife. I was affected by her changed attitude.

Were you by any chance contemplating giving your wife something in her cup of malted milk, a sleeping-draught for example?—No.

Was that why you were agitated?—There is no sense in that question, since I have said No to the previous question.

You knew she was suffering from sleeplessness?—I have said so.

But the idea of a sleeping-draught never entered your head? —No.

Detective-Sergeant Bolton has told us that on hearing of
your wife's death you said: “Was it the sleeping-draught”? Did you say that?—Very possibly.

You did not know that a sleeping-draught had been given, yet almost your first words on hearing of the death were: “The sleeping-draught”?—If you like.

You did not know that a sleeping-draught had been given? —No.

Nor prescribed?—No.

Mrs Tucker has sworn to having told you that the doctor had prescribed a sleeping-draught, has she not?—Has she?

You were present when she gave her evidence.—Yes. Now you mention it, I remember she said that in evidence.

You remember her evidence. Do you also remember her telling you on the evening of October the 30th, that the doctor had brought round a sleeping-draught?—No. If she said that, I could not have heard her.

She said it, but you did not hear her. Is that your answer?— She may have said it. I didn't hear her say it. I tell you I didn't hear her say it.

Why are you so emphatic on the point? If you are an innocent man it doesn't matter, does it, whether you knew or not?—Then why do you keep asking me about it?

Of course you could not have given chloral to your wife with an innocent intention if you had known that she was having oscitalin from another source, could you?—I did not give her chloral.

Is that why you are so emphatic on the point?—I am emphatic because you keep asking me the same question over and over again. That's all.

Re-examined by MR HARCOMBE: Was it a very unusual thing for you to be away from your office in November?— No.

Will you explain that?—I have made rather a habit of avoiding the beginning of the London winter. For the last few years I have taken holidays then either in the west of England, or in the south of France.

May we take it for granted that on previous occasions such holidays had been prearranged with Mr Cradock, your partner?—Yes.

Had you some special reason for not caring to broach the
subject with Mr Cradock?—Yes, I was hideously self-conscious about the whole thing. I knew he would disapprove of what I was doing, and I couldn't bear the idea of discussing it with him. I was weak and cowardly.

You realize now that you acted unwisely and perhaps inconsiderately?—I acted like a hysterical fool. Like a baby.

Did you write a letter of explanation and apology to Mr Cradock?—Yes.

When my learned friend asked you if you were in a position to corroborate Fräulein Andersch's statement about the striking clock, you answered: “It really doesn't matter.” I think it would be helpful to the jury if you explained what you meant by that answer. Will you try?—I meant this: that it really doesn't matter whether or not I noticed the clock striking, so long as Fräulein Andersch did.

You mean that the really material point is that you were not in the lounge-bar at nine o'clock, and therefore couldn't have heard the broadcast message concerning your wife?— Exactly.

And whether you could have or couldn't have, in point of plain fact you did
not
hear it. Is that so?—That is so.

My learned friend has been at pains to elicit from you
(a)
that you were anxious about your wife when you left her,
(b)
that you did not make any inquiry about her next morning. He did not, however, ask you to explain the superficial discrepancy. I think the jury would like to hear an explanation.—When I said I was anxious, I didn't mean anxious about her physical condition. I meant anxious about her state of mind, her happiness.

A happiness which, as I understood you, was a new-found happiness?—Yes.

A matter which could hardly be discussed very fruitfully on the telephone?—Exactly.

Again, my learned friend has professed to find matter for wonder in the fact that though you knew your wife lacked sleep you never thought of suggesting a sleeping-draught?— She had been worrying and therefore couldn't sleep. But that day she seemed to be different. She seemed to have got rid of the burden. So I never doubted that she would get a good night's rest.

Further cross-examination by the ATTORNEY-GENERAL: You have said that you wrote a letter to Mr Cradock explaining and apologizing. Would it surprise you to learn that Mr Cradock has never received that letter?—No. I didn't post the letter.

You didn't post the letter?—I had it with me at Southampton. I intended to post it before we sailed.

Can you produce that letter?—No, I destroyed it.

Did you in fact ever write such a letter?—Yes.

Were you not in fact anxious that no one should know of your movements and your destination?—No.

Were you not in fact fleeing from justice?—No.

COUNSEL for the Defence and Counsel for the Prosecution having finally addressed the jury, after luncheon on the fourth day MR JUSTICE SARUM began his summing-up. After a detailed review of the evidence the learned Judge said:

Before leaving this grave matter in your hands, before sending you away to consider your verdict and to discharge the duty that rests upon you, I will recapitulate what I said to you at the beginning of this summing-up. The evidence in this case is what is known as circumstantial evidence. Now circumstantial evidence is not necessarily bad or inconclusive evidence. Many men have been convicted, and rightly convicted, on circumstantial evidence; indeed, in premeditated and carefully planned murder, direct evidence, such as that of an eye-witness, is more than we can reasonably expect. Circumstantial evidence may be good and sufficient, but it is so only if it is unequivocal: that is, if it points unmistakably to one conclusion, to the exclusion of others. It is not enough that it should establish a probability: it must also exclude alternative theories: by which I mean, of course, other reasonable theories. It would be wrong of you to take refuge in merely fantastic suppositions, on the ground that all things are possible: it would be equally wrong of you to convict on the strength of a mere probability. No man should be
convicted of murder, or indeed of any crime, merely on probabilities, unless they are so strong as to amount to a practical certainty. You cannot, in such a case as this, look for the kind of absolute proof that you get in the case of a mathematical proposition, such as the proposition that two and two make four. You cannot get mathematical certainty, and it would be weak and frivolous to expect it. What I call reasonable certainty, practical certainty, is another matter, and if that is lacking in your minds you cannot convict. You are the judges of the facts, not I: I am here only to give you the law, and to help you, if I can, to look fairly and squarely at all the evidence. It is for you to sift that evidence and to decide whether or not the case against the accused is proved beyond reasonable doubt. That, I must remind you, is the question, and ultimately it is the only question. Various considerations may enter in, but that alone is the question you must answer.

Let me be more explicit on this point. It has been suggested to you by the Defence that this may be a case not of murder at all, that it may be a case either of suicide or of accidental death. I make no comment on that beyond saying that if, on the facts presented to you, you think there is reasonable warrant for such a doubt, you are entitled so to think, and the case against the prisoner must break down: that is obvious enough. If on the other hand you are convinced that murder has been done, you will then have to ask, not “Who committed this murder?”—that is not the question before you—but “Did the prisoner do it?” or rather, to put it more accurately: “Is it proved beyond reasonable doubt that the prisoner did it?” The burden of proof is upon the Prosecution. You may find it difficult to think that the prisoner did not do it; you may, at the same time, find it difficult to think that he did do it; and if any reasonable doubt exists in your minds the prisoner is entitled to the benefit of it. You, I repeat, are the only judges of fact. You have heard the evidence and you have heard the speeches of learned counsel on both sides. It is by the evidence that you must judge. If anything has been said by way of argument or exhortation which is not warranted by the evidence, you must disregard it; and if I myself, in my survey of the evidence,
have in your view made too much or too little of any matter, well, it is your view, your considered view, that must prevail.