Although this case has many complications, the issue itself is an
extremely simple one. Was Edwin Drood killed? If so, was Jasper
the murderer? The defence has made one amazing, and I think fatal
admission. It admits that John Jasper attacked Drood, attacked
him with the intention of murdering him, and by that admission it
consents that John Jasper’s character has gone—that he is a monster,
that he is a hypocrite, that he is a man of no moral pretension,
that he is a scheming criminal, and that murder was actually in
his heart. A stranger defence could scarcely be conceived, and yet
there is something in it, because it tries to ride off upon a side
issue, and says that “Whereas you may convict this man of a certain
attempt, we say that half way there he failed.” It is our duty,
therefore, to try to prove to you that this man must inevitably have
succeeded, and that he knew he had succeeded, and acted as if he had.
What are the facts that demonstrated to you most conclusively that
John Jasper committed the murder, and that Edwin Drood could not
escape? Our contention is that he was the victim of a most carefully
and elaborately prepared plot, carried out systematically, arranged
most carefully, of such a character that there was no loophole by
which he could possibly escape. John Jasper interviewed the right
people, chose the exact spot, arranged the very hour when he would
have all his material together for the completing of that dreadful
task to which he had given himself. He had decided that his rival
must be removed—that secret rival who was between him and the great
passion, the all-absorbing passion of his life; having once made up
his mind, he was inexorable. He knew nothing whatever of pity; he was
a complete criminal; and all his acts show that his crime was carried
out with a sort of hideous triumph.
But you are asked to believe that he failed, after making all these
arrangements, and failed because he was dazed by opium, and only
dreamed of the particular act which he thought he had committed.
First remember the nature of the attack—the double nature of the
attack. It included strangling with a silk scarf, and that was to be
followed by the use of quicklime. If Drood escaped the one, surely
it was nothing short of a miracle that he escaped the other? And,
in any case, if he escaped why should he obligingly disappear to
the convenience of the man who attacked him, and to the very great
inconvenience of all the friends who loved him? John Jasper was a
lasting danger to all who remained behind. Edwin Drood could not so
entirely disappear from the realms of civilisation that he would not
possibly know what was going on in Cloisterham, and yet you are asked
to believe, Gentlemen, that this man upon whom a murderous attack had
been made, went away at a convenient moment, leaving his friends to
the persecution of the man who had assailed him, and leaving the way
clear for the assailant to pursue his own evil courses! I should say
it is almost inconceivable—or I should if my learned friend had not
so ingeniously conceived it; but that it is believable I don’t think
you will for a moment agree.
And what definite evidence has been produced to show that Jasper,
who had arranged all this for a definite period—Christmas Eve—was
suffering from opium at about that time? You have the evidence of
Canon Crisparkle that on the very morning of that day, when he met
him, he was in wonderfully fine voice, clear-headed, cheerful, in
a good temper. All this is absolutely proved by the direct and
unimpeached testimony of Canon Crisparkle. Where are the traces of
opium? There are no traces of opium. The supreme moment had come,
and Jasper was supremely ready for it. There were no traces of opium
on him when those two young men departed from his home. He could
not have soaked himself in opium during their short absence, and
then have recovered in time to make his accusation against Neville
Landless by the morning. But you are asked to believe that in that
short interval he had time to recover—that he was in a trance so deep
that he really thought he had committed a murder which he had not,
and yet, early the next morning was so clear-headed, so resolute
in purpose, so ready with a connected story which would fix the
crime on another person. And why should he have been eager to give
the alarm if he had the slightest doubt? A man risen from a trance
of opium might have some doubts: but he had none, and within a few
hours he was setting things in motion himself, giving the alarm. He
had Neville called back, a course he had decided on from the first;
he was going to fix the crime on Neville Landless; and within those
few hours he had carefully and deliberately carried out the entire
scheme. Why this immediate suggestion of murder? Why not a little
lapse of time? Because he was confident that the murder had been
committed and that the body would not be recovered; and therefore
he could be resolute and speedy in his actions, and proceed at once
to the second part of the crime which had been the motive for the
original crime.
What did he do? Not only did he pursue Neville Landless
remorselessly, but he set about persecuting Rosa Bud, whom he could
afford to threaten, because he was aware it was safe—that the one
rival who had been in his path had been swept out of his way, and
that his way was clear. Does a man dazed with opium act in this
decisive, rational fashion? He carefully robbed the corpse of those
particular jewels of which he had an inventory. My learned friend
makes the point—Why did he not feel in his pockets? Why did he not do
this, that, and the other? He had inquired of Durdles what quicklime
would do. He knew that it would not destroy metal. He had told a
jeweller in Cloisterham that he knew exactly what jewellery Edwin
had. It consisted of the watch and chain and the scarf pin. It was
exactly those things which disappeared and were found in the weir
by Canon Crisparkle. What a curious coincidence that the very three
things he had an inventory of, and no more, should disappear! And why
did he not seek further? Coppers and buttons are no means of certain
identification; he could afford to ignore them. Moreover, a murderer
does not linger about the body of his victim; besides, he was already
convinced that having removed those three items of jewellery, by
which Drood could be identified, he was secure, and the quicklime
would do the rest; then he hastened back, for he had to get home
again in order to be prepared for the morning, to make his charge
against Neville Landless.
But there was one article about Edwin Drood’s person of which Jasper
knew nothing—the ring, which Drood was to return if his betrothal
was broken off, but which we say Grewgious never received. That ring
would hold the murderer, and bring him to his doom. It would not be
destroyed by the quicklime, and would be there intact and the means
of bringing him to the scene of his desperate crime. Remember, he
courted inquiry immediately after Drood’s disappearance—a sign of
his supreme confidence and his colossal audacity. The man who has
the slightest doubt that the murder may not have been completed does
not at once set the law into motion, go to the magistrate and bring
a charge. But if he knows it is completed and the body has gone, he
can afford to do so. Everything he had designed to do, he did. It was
only something that he did not know of which caused him to bungle.
He was not by nature a bungler. He was one of the completest types
of criminals that you can imagine, a man who for months and months
had been meditating on the closest details of the crime—been to the
crypt, talked with Durdles, spoke to Mr. Crisparkle, started his
theory that Neville Landless was the person to be charged—and a man
who does all those things cannot be accurately described as a bungler.
Canon Crisparkle told you the part Jasper played in fomenting
quarrels between Drood and Landless. It is exactly the course that a
calculating murderer would pursue. And you have heard the evidence of
Durdles, a man who probably scarcely understood the purport of his
own remarks. How valuable his testimony was! Jasper had spoken to him
of quicklime and of tombs, and Jasper had gone with him on a midnight
expedition. Was all this vain and useless? Was the expedition at
midnight merely a pleasant little picnic for no particular purpose,
or merely for fun? Not for fun, when we find that it all fits the
composite scheme of murder which was carried out.
My learned friend has spoken about Helena Landless. I say she is
a witness entirely beyond reproach. She was the very woman framed
by nature to carry out her arduous part. She had every need for
her action and the capacity for her daring work—every essential
qualification for that difficult part was possessed in advance by
Helena Landless. She had had experience; in her youth she had dressed
as a boy, and shown the daring of a man; she was the leader of her
brother, and when everything else had failed, when six months had
passed by and she was able to do nothing by ordinary means, she
adopted this extraordinary means of disguise in order to carry out
her work. We are asked why she did not paint her face. I don’t know
whether my learned friend wanted her to black her face or what he
wanted her to do; but she was brought up in a warm climate with a
rich dark complexion and she chose the part of the “old buffer,”
which means, if it means anything, something of the sailor type. Her
complexion was ready for her. She wore a large white wig to hide
her luxuriant tresses. Why Bazzard should wear a large wig I don’t
know. She had the only effective disguise for her, the disguise
of an elderly man, because she had to live up to the white wig to
conceal her woman’s figure. She was no stranger in Cloisterham and
was perfectly equal to the task of conversing with those whom she had
already met before.
One word on Bazzard. If you reject Helena Landless, there is only one
alternative. You must put Thomas Bazzard in her place. Is this Mr.
Bazzard, the man who fell asleep while his employer was discussing
crucial matters with a client, one who was likely to appear as the
elderly Mr. Datchery in Cloisterham? This man, who thinks more of his
drama than his law work, is he a likely man to have devoted himself
to confronting a man already suspected of murder? You have seen a Mr.
Bazzard in the box, and I put it to you that he was specially got up
to produce a false impression upon you. The Bazzard in the box was
bright and alert and voluble. The official record says that he was
“a pale, puffy-faced, dark-haired person of thirty, with big dark
eyes that wholly wanted lustre, and a dissatisfied, doughy complexion
that seemed to ask to be sent to the baker’s.” That is the gentleman
who was to act the part of the brave and daring Datchery! I say it
is impossible, and that his own vanity has tempted him to claim
these honours. He told you he “placed” the ring in the crypt for any
passer-by to pick up, and that, knowing Drood was alive, he still
allowed Neville Landless to be accused of murder and Rosa Bud to be
persecuted by Jasper. This from a man connected with law! It is an
absurd story, and utterly incredible. I ask you to reject it.
Gentlemen, a solemn duty rests on you in this crisis which I am
sure gentlemen of your ability and intelligence will faithfully
discharge. It is with infinite pain that I have to ask that this man
shall pay the penalty of his sin. But John Jasper himself showed
no mercy. He fondled the victim whom he intended to butcher; he
lured to his doom one who he had made to feel was his nearest and
dearest friend; he destroyed a life full of promise, a life which
might have been fruitful and happy. I do not ask for vengeance, but
only for the fulfilment of the law, that justice may be trusted to
maintain the sanctity of human life. If you fail in your duty this
man will henceforth be free. I charge you, in the name of humanity
and human rights, to quit you as men, to act on the facts which have
been placed before you. This mystery, Gentlemen, has lasted long
enough. It is in your power to-day to elucidate what has seemed to
be obscure, to solve this deep and complex problem. Yours is an
enviable opportunity, and to-day you may strike a very great blow for
the truth. The eyes of the nation are upon you, the whole world is
anxiously awaiting your decision. I beg you, Gentlemen, resolutely
and earnestly to sweep away all this fantasy which has been placed
before you by my learned friend, to forget his extraordinary story
of a half murder, which I think I have shown to be impossible, and by
one bold and emphatic stroke to solve for ever the Mystery of Edwin
Drood.
[THE SUMMING UP.]
His Lordship then proceeded to sum up, as follows: