THE VERDICT.
The secrets of the jury-room are little understood. Doubtless this is
because all the more intellectual classes are exempted, by a beautiful
provision of our law, from serving on juries, and the remainder have
not yet produced a man competent to chronicle his experiences.
The Mynyddshire jurymen were very much like their brethren all over
the country. They had sworn a solemn oath to well and truly try, and
true deliverance make, between our sovereign lady the Queen and the
prisoner at the bar, and they honestly tried to act up to their
obligation.
Mr. Jenkins, the Queen Street stationer, was among them, and his first
words, after the door was closed on them, were:
'Well, I don't know what you think, sir, but I couldn't make out
whether he was for her or against her.'
The person addressed was the foreman, a rich building contractor from
a large seaport at the end of the county. He was a man of judicial
mind, a model foreman, and wisely abstained from committing himself at
this early stage. He turned round and asked his next neighbour, who
happened to be the farmer from near Porthstone, whose remarks to Mr.
Jenkins were given in the fourth chapter:
'How did it strike you, sir?'
'I thought he was against her,' was the answer. 'Didn't you hear him
say, "The prisoner must suffer by that line of defence"? And then he
didn't say nothing about reasonable doubts.'
'No; but the young barrister did--the one that prosecuted,' observed a
tall, thin man, a tailor by trade.
'He's got nothing to do with it,' said the farmer. 'I thought him a
fool all along. I know his whole family, and they're all alike.'
'What a terrible speech Mr. Tressamer made!' ventured a fifth
juryman, a short, stumpy watchmaker from Porthstone itself. 'I believe
he's her lover.'
'What!' cried the foreman, losing his calm demeanour in the presence
of this interesting revelation. 'How d'ye know that?'
'Oh, it was common talk in Porthstone,' was the answer. 'They knew
each other ever since they was children, and he used to come down
every summer and go about with her. That's what made him so fierce
against Mr. Lewis, you may depend.'
'And did you know her?' 'What was she like, really?' 'What do you
think of her?' broke from several voices as the whole jury clustered
round the little man.
But he drew in his horns at once.
'Don't ask me anything,' he said. 'I've mended her watch, and I
always thought she was all right up to this, but the Lord only knows
whether she did it.' He paused, and then, as if there were some vague
connection in his mind between this charge and a general disposition
towards acts of dishonesty, he added: 'She always paid me regular.'
Perhaps the jury scented an underlying distrust in this. At any rate,
one of them said:
'I watched the judge carefully all through, and I saw him frown at her
several times. To my mind he meant us to say guilty.'
The word came with a little shock to the men. They instinctively
realized its terrible gravity as falling from their lips. The tall,
thin tailor put in his word again:
'Anyhow, he said there was no evidence of motive.'
'Except they jewels,' corrected the farmer.
'Ah, but there was nothing came out about them.'
'Phoo! that there was. Didn't you see how her counsel was fighting to
keep it back? You may depend she knew all about them, and could tell
us where they are now if she liked.'
'You seem to have made up your mind,' said another man, who had been
talking aside to a little knot of three; 'but for the life of me I
couldn't make it out one way or the other. What did you think he
meant about that latchkey?'
This was offensive. It was reminding them of their weak point. It
threw the whole room into confusion. Eight or nine of the jury all
began to speak at once, and four or five could find no listeners.
When the hubbub had a little subsided, the foreman said:
'Gentlemen, it's no use talking it over in this way. We must argue it
out one at a time. I propose that we all sit round the table, and the
one that has anything to say stands up and says it properly.'
This suggestion was well received, but it had a fatal effect on three
of the jury, who were wholly unable to attempt anything so much like a
set speech as this course involved.
As soon as all were seated the foreman commenced:
'Gentlemen this is a doubtful case, a very doubtful case. Talk of
reasonable doubts, there's nothing but reasonable doubts, so far as I
can see, from beginning to end. Now, it would have been a great help
to us if the judge had showed us which way he thought we ought to go,
but I must confess I couldn't tell which side he meant to lean. If any
other gentleman thinks otherwise, we shall be glad to hear him.'
But no other gentleman thought otherwise. The man who had thrown out
the suggestion about the latchkey, and who was a fishing-boat
proprietor from a seaside suburb of Abertaff, murmured from his seat:
'I call it a shame. I should like to know what a judge is for. We
might as well try the case ourselves as this.'
'So we are trying it, aren't we?' rebuked the man who had been the
first to blurt out the fatal word, and who was a farmer from near the
same place.
'You may be, Mr. Rees,' returned the boat proprietor, with what was
intended for biting sarcasm.
'Come, gentlemen, gentlemen,' said the foreman impressively, 'let us
remember that we are engaged on a case of life and death. We have got
to come at the truth somehow, and we must do what we can by
ourselves.'
'They should have give us more evidence,' objected Mr. Jenkins. 'What
did they want to make so much fuss about those jewels for?'
'Aye, and there was another thing,' said the Porthstone farmer; 'did
you notice that when Mr. Lewis wanted to say why he suspected her, the
judge wouldn't let un?'
'Well, she's an orphan,' said the tailor, 'and her father was Rector
of Porthstone for thirty years, and I say we ought to let her off.'
'For shame, John,' said the watchmaker, who happened to be his
next-door neighbour; 'don't you know we've got to decide according to
the evidence?'
The tailor hung his head.
Then the foreman interposed again.
'Really, gentlemen, I think it will save time if we go round the
table, and let each man express his opinion in turn. Of course, I
don't say his final opinion, but just any remarks that strike him on
the evidence. Will you begin, sir?'
Mr. Jenkins rose from his seat on the foreman's right and cleared his
throat.
'Mr. Foreman and gentlemen, I think this is, as our foreman has told
us, a case of very great doubt. At the same time, it is our duty to
punish the guilty, and not let the prisoner off simply because she is
a woman and good-looking, and that sort of thing.' (Subdued applause.
The foreman raises his hand for silence.) 'Now, what I look at in this
case is the motive, and that is, I take it, the jewels. I don't
believe she would have done it simply on the chance of getting
something under the will. I don't know whether you remember, but the
judge said Miss Lewis might have parted with the jewels, because they
weren't found after her death. Now, it seems to me that that points
just the other way. I mean, it looks as if she had been murdered for
the sake of them. It seems to me the only question is, Who murdered
her? Was it Mr. Lewis or was it Miss Owen? That's my difficulty.'
He sat down. The farmer, who sat next him, stood up in turn.
'I say what the judge said; let us decide according to the evidence.
Now, what evidence is there against Mr. Lewis? Why, you say the judge
didn't speak out clearly, but he did say there wasn't any evidence
against him. All the evidence is against her, and we ought to act upon
it.'
The next speaker was a rather young man, who occupied a position of
superintendence in a large millinery establishment, exclusively
patronised by ladies. With such associations he was naturally disposed
to be chivalrous. He said:
'I know a lady when I see her. Miss Owen's a lady; anyone can see that
with half an eye. As for Lewis, I didn't like the looks of him at all.
You know they're a wild lot out in Australia. I heard that he came
back for good reasons, if the truth was known. Then look how he lost
his temper in the witness-box! And then, as Mr. Tressamer said, the
very night he got there the murder happened. That looks as if he did
it. He said she didn't give him a latchkey, but I believe she very
likely did, else why did the barrister ask him? And then look at the
hand being cut off. No young lady would go and do such a thing as
that, surely!'
The jury were impressed. The next man was of a shy and gentle
disposition. He did not venture to get on his feet, but threw out a
suggestion as he sat: 'I suppose it must have been one of the two.
There couldn't have been somebody else, could there?'
A withering look from eleven faces rewarded this disconcerting query.
The foreman expressed the general feeling:
'Really, sir, I can't think what ground you have for suggesting such
a thing. The case is difficult enough as it is, without having fresh
doubts raised.'
'Ah, there should ought to have been a London detective brought down,'
muttered another juryman, who had taken little part hitherto. 'One of
them would have puzzled it out, you may depend.'
'Well, I don't see what more you would have,' said the other farmer,
Rees, rising in his turn. 'Here is this young woman, sleeping in the
next room, going out at night secretly, under some pretence of
headaches--why didn't she tell other people about them beside that
chemist?--and here you have her mistress murdered, and the blood found
on the door of her own room the next morning. What more do you want?'
He sat down. It was now the tailor's turn.
'And how do you know Lewis didn't put the blood there?' he asked. 'I
believe it's Lewis myself. Anyway, one of them must have done it,
that's clear.'
But this was felt to be a weak defence, and the next two jurymen shook
their heads, and professed themselves unable to throw any light upon
the question. Then it was the turn of the boat proprietor.
'Look here,' he said, 'what's the good of our trying to come to a
verdict when we're none of us sure which of them did it? Better give
it up, and tell the judge we can't agree.'
But the foreman would not hear of this.
'No, sir,' he said, 'we are here sworn to do justice between man and
man and mete out punishment to the guilty, and we must not shrink from
our task. We have heard the case through, and if we are not competent
to give a verdict on it, who is?'
This was felt to be unanswerable. Not only were the foreman's words
worthy of attention in themselves, but he was a great man, the reputed
possessor of twelve thousand a year; he wore a frock coat and a white
waistcoat as well, and his word was, therefore, practically
equivalent to law.
There remained only the watchmaker. He felt a friendly feeling towards
the prisoner, but he was troubled by real misgivings as to her
innocence.
'The judge said we oughtn't to go against Mr. Lewis,' he said, 'and I
stand by what the judge says. Besides, I look at what he said when he
gave her in charge.'
'What was that?' said the foreman eagerly.
'I'll tell you, sir. It was in the paper at the time, and I happened
to keep it by me, and so when I was summoned as a juror, thinks I to
myself, "This may come in useful if I should happen to be on the jury
that's to try her," so I just cuts it out and brings it in my pocket.'
The other men looked on keenly, as he slowly drew out his pocket-book
and extracted a newspaper cutting, embracing some two and a half
columns of the _Southern Daily News_. Everyone hoped that something of
a decisive character would now be forthcoming.
The watchmaker ran his finger down the columns.
'Here it is!' he exclaimed, and read it aloud.
'"On reaching the police-station, of which Constable Smithies was then
in charge, Mr. Lewis said: 'I charge Eleanor Owen with the murder of
my aunt, Ann Elizabeth Lewis. I have made some money, and, please God,
I'll spend every penny of it rather than my poor aunt shall remain
unavenged.'
'"Constable Smithies at once summoned Sergeant--" that's it,'
concluded the watchmaker, looking up from his extract.
A murmur and shaking of heads followed, and the foreman again
felicitously voiced the general feeling:
'_That_ doesn't sound like guilt,' he said, with emphasis. 'May I see
that paper? Perhaps it has some other things which we have forgotten.'
'Certainly, sir. But I don't know whether we ought to be reading
this,' hazarded its owner, handing the slip across.
'Why not? We're only doing it to refresh our memory.'
This reply was again felt to be worthy of its author. It had a fine
flavour of legality about it too, which gave confidence to the other
jurymen. They realized that they were fortunate in their foreman.
That gentleman meanwhile proceeded to glance down the document before
him. Presently he stopped, frowned, pursed up his lips, and breathed a
stern sigh. The others watched with anxiety. He proceeded to enlighten
them.
'Gentlemen, listen to this, and tell me what effect it has on your
minds. Sergeant Evans said, "I arrested the prisoner on the morning of
the second. I told her she was charged with the wilful murder of Ann
Elizabeth Lewis. She turned pale and said, 'It is impossible.' I
cautioned her. She said nothing more, and _shed no tears_." Gentlemen,
is that like innocence?'
He laid down the paper. The prisoner's doom was sealed. The waverers
among the jury went over at once, and even the friends of the prisoner
no longer dared to hold out. The tailor would have resisted if he had
dared, but his sense of social inferiority was too much for him. What
was he, a humble little tradesman, to set himself against eleven men,
headed by a wealthy contractor who wore three spade guineas on his
watch-chain?
Then a solemn awe settled down over the faces of the twelve men. They
did not hesitate in doing what they believed was their duty, but they
felt some natural horror of the result. At last the foreman said:
'Gentlemen, are we all agreed?'
And, as there was no reply, he led them back into court.
They had not been out quite an hour, but the interval seemed terribly
long to those they left behind.
When they came in one by one, with drooping heads and set faces, the
verdict was read before it was heard. Only the prisoner still held
out, with that obstinate unbelief in the worst which is a part of
strong natures. Only the prisoner and the prisoner's counsel. He
manifested no sorrow and no surprise. Prescott put his stoical
calmness down to over-exhaustion, others of the Bar attributed it to
his confidence in the point reserved. The public hardly noticed him.
Their eyes were fixed upon the dock.
The clerk of arraigns stood up, and went as best he could through the
tedious process of calling each juryman by name. Then followed the
routine question, followed by the awful word, heavy with issues of
death, pealing forth through the hushed, agitated hall:
_'Guilty!'_
The prisoner neither moved nor answered, as the clerk formally
summoned her to declare if there were any reasons why sentence should
not be passed upon her. Some of the women whispered that she had gone
mad, or that she was going to faint. The judge covered his wig with
the sombre square of silk.
Suddenly she looked up, cast her eyes rapidly round the court, and
fixing them full on Prescott, who was attentively watching her, she
exclaimed:
'I am _not_ guilty.'
'Eleanor Margaret Owen, the jury, after a long and patient hearing,
and after taking time for careful deliberation, have found you guilty
of the crime of wilful murder. What motive inspired you to commit such
a crime I cannot say, and it may, perhaps, never be known. It only
remains for me to discharge my very painful duty, which I do by
declaring that the sentence of the court upon you is----'
The details followed. The words are too familiar to need setting
forth. They sounded in unconscious ears. Eleanor Owen had fainted at
last, and was carried helpless and lifeless away from the scene of her
long martyrdom.