THE VERDICT
"If you will tell me the points on which you are disagreed," said the
judge at length, "I may be able to throw some light upon them, and
also, perhaps, advise you."
"The points are these," said the foreman of the jury. "First of all,
some among us are far from being convinced that the prisoner, if he
were the murderer, would be likely to leave the knife in the murdered
man's body. If he had struck the blow in a passion, and had then,
overcome by panic, run away for fear of the consequences of what he had
done, we could have understood it. But as we are dealing with
circumstantial evidence, it seems utterly unlikely that a man who had
premeditated a murder should have run away leaving a weapon which could
be easily traced to him. That, at least, is the feeling of some
members of the jury, and is one of the points which causes us to be
divided.
"The second is this: there are some among us who feel very strongly the
point of the prisoner's remarks concerning the probability of his
knowing where the deceased was at the time of the murder. As he has
stated, he would probably have been in bed at the time when he was
actually killed. If the murder was premeditated, there are some who
feel the utter unlikelihood of the prisoner going out alone at midnight
on the chance of finding his victim.
"These are the points, my lord, on which we are not agreed, and unless
further light is thrown upon them, there is no likelihood of agreement."
The juryman spoke in a hesitating fashion. He was evidently labouring
under a very strong emotion, and was unable to control his voice or to
express his thoughts with anything like clearness. Still, what we have
just stated conveys a rough idea of the difficulties which faced them.
Again an intense silence pervaded the court as the foreman of the jury
sat down. The suspense seemed almost too horrible to be borne. There
was not a man in the court who was not pale to the lips, and whose
nerves were not quivering with painful excitement. Again the reporters
almost forgot their duty. In their eagerness to know what would be
said they forgot to write. Suppressed sobbing was heard almost
everywhere. Even the judge looked exceedingly grave, and for the
moment seemed unable to decide what to say.
As for Paul, it seemed to him as though his fate hung on a delicately
poised balance. The weight of a hair in either scale might decide
either his life or his death. It was one of those tragic moments which
seldom occur in any man's life, and it was only by a tremendous effort
that he remained outwardly calm. But pride came to his aid even now.
He had not shown weakness yet, and he would not show it now. He would
not break down before this gaping, excited crowd, but retain quiet
dignity even to the last. In spite of the intense excitement, too, he
was becoming almost callous. Nature has its own way of alleviating
pain, and the way she chose now to help Paul to continue to bear the
dreadful strain was to numb his feelings, and to make him almost
indifferent concerning what should take place. For the past few hours
every nerve had been at full tension, and so greatly had he been
wrought upon that he could not have remained in such a condition much
longer. And so kindly Nature had lessened the pangs he was suffering,
and made him able to bear to the end by her own anaesthetics.
"I quite understand your position, gentlemen," said the judge, "and I
will do my best to help you. We will take the points in the order in
which you mention them. First, there is the question of the knife, and
in order to fully understand the sequence of this, we will again
consider it from the very beginning. We must remember that the
prisoner was very careful about locking his office. No one was allowed
to enter it when he was absent. He kept the key in his own pocket. We
have to remember, too, that his own partner declared that he knew of no
one who entered the prisoner's office that day, and even if anyone
entered the office, there was no one who, as far as he knew, would dare
to take that knife from the prisoner's desk. The fact remains,
however--and it is facts we must consider, gentlemen, and give them
their due significance--the fact remains that the murdered man was
found with this knife in his heart. Now, gentlemen, it is for you to
decide how that knife could have left the prisoner's office. Was there
someone who could have entered the office, and, with set purpose, take
it away without the prisoner's knowledge, and use it in the way
mentioned? Or, did the prisoner take it away himself and use it as has
been described by the counsel for the prosecution? I say you must
decide on this question because it is most vital. You have heard all
the evidence in relation to this matter, and it is for you to decide
now first whether any outsider obtained entrance into the prisoner's
office and took away that knife and used it for the purpose of murder,
or whether the prisoner himself took it away in the way described?
That is the first point to be considered in relation to the knife. Now
with regard to the ostensible difficulty which appears to you. From
one standpoint, it seems utterly unlikely that a man of the prisoner's
evident intellectual acumen should have used this knife, known to be
his, for the purpose of murdering an enemy, and then have left it in
his body in such a way that it would be inevitably traced to him. I
understand your difficulty, gentlemen, and I appreciate it, and it is a
point that you must keep clearly before your mind. There is, however,
another side which you must also keep just as clearly in view. It is
this. If the prisoner had made up his mind to do this, would not a
clever man, such as he undoubtedly is, probably come to the conclusion
that it would seem so absurd that he should leave the knife in the body
of his victim that he might do so as a mere matter of bluff? A clever
man, a far-seeing man will sometimes do things which a duller man would
not do, and it is for you to decide whether these things might not have
been in the mind of the prisoner when he decided to act in this way.
"You have also to consider this. It is true it has been urged that the
murderous deed was uninterrupted, but we cannot be sure of this. Might
not the one who struck the blow have heard approaching footsteps at the
time, and then in a state of panic have rushed away? These things you
must carefully consider. But the real point at issue, the vital point
which you have to consider is: could anyone else have become possessed
of the knife in the first place? Did anyone else become possessed of
that knife? If not, then the difficulty in your minds is easy to
explain.
"That is the first point. Now for the second. What you urge, and most
rightly urge, too--and I fully appreciate the evident thought and care
which you have bestowed upon it--is the unlikelihood of the prisoner
going out at midnight to commit murder, when he had no knowledge
whatever that the murdered man would not be in his own home. You say
that some of you feel that his going out under such circumstances, and
depending on chance as to whether he should meet him, was altogether
unnatural. I will admit that you have to consider this point
carefully, remembering that a man's life or death depends upon the
decision at which you arrive. But there is another thought which you
must keep clearly before your minds. You have no knowledge that the
prisoner was not aware of the murdered man's whereabouts. They had a
quarrel the previous evening. How do we know that the murdered man did
not tell the prisoner something of his plans, or where he intended to
be? He has not submitted himself to cross-examination, and therefore
we have not been able to hear from him. Consequently, we have no
knowledge that the murdered man did not, during the excited
conversation, say something of his intentions, or let fall some hint
whereby a man with the quick perception of the prisoner, might find out
what he intended to do. If this were the case--and while there is no
proof that it is so, it is not at all improbable--it would remove your
difficulty. If they met, it is probable that another quarrel ensued,
and then in the heat of passion the prisoner might have struck the blow
which resulted in his victim's death, and then rushed away and uttered
the words which the man Ashley overhead. This is all I can say on
these points, gentlemen, and you have to consider, in the light of the
evidence to which you have listened, whether this might be the case.
As has been repeatedly said, the whole case rests upon circumstantial
evidence, and it is for you carefully to consider the matter again, and
may Almighty God guide you in your momentous deliberations!"
Again it was evident that the judge tried to be fair, but again his
elucidation of the points at issue was deadly, as far as the prisoner
was concerned. Rightly or wrongly, more than one felt that the judge
had made up his mind as to the guilt of Paul Stepaside, and speaking as
he did, in cold, calculated words, yet with all the authority of his
position behind him, many felt that each sentence strengthened the
chain of evidence which would hang the prisoner.
Paul listened without moving a muscle or uttering a sound, nevertheless
his eyes were fixed upon the judge with a kind of stony stare. It
seemed to him that there was a kind of malignant cunning in the judge's
words, that the man was conjuring up possibilities in support of the
evidence which seemed to point to him.
Again the jury retired, and a solemn silence reigned. This time there
was not even the sound of whispered consultations as to what the
verdict might be. It was a kind of ghastly waiting for the jurymen to
return. Slowly the clock ticked on, and it seemed to be numbering the
seconds of Paul Stepaside's life. And yet there were many who simply
could not believe that any jury could find him guilty. Standing there
alone in the dock, tall, erect, calm, his features refined by the long
weeks of suffering through which he had passed, thin and pale as a
consequence of his confinement and anxiety, many felt that it was
impossible he should be guilty of such a bloodthirsty deed. And yet in
face of the judge's summing up, in face of the terrible speech which
Mr. Bakewell had delivered, it seemed as if the gallows would surely
claim their victim.
Minute after minute passed, until the waiting seemed unbearable. At
length, however, the door of the room in which the jury sat opened, and
one by one they returned. With strained eyes, all looked at their
faces, trying to read there what their decision was. It seemed almost
grotesque that these twelve, commonplace, unimaginative men, with no
ability out of the common order, with little or no knowledge of the
law, with minds unfitted to grasp the inwardness of the evidence which
had been given, should have to pronounce the verdict of life or death
upon the young man who stood in the dock. Under ordinary circumstances
Paul's voice, Paul's opinion, would have weighed more than all theirs
put together. Yet such was the case. They held in their hands the
issues of life and death. What they had decided upon would be final.
"Gentlemen, are you agreed as to your verdict?" And as the listeners
heard the question asked it seemed as though their heart-strings were
strained, and as though they could not bear to hear the answer.
"Yes."
"Do you find the prisoner guilty, or not guilty?"
"Guilty!"
It seemed like a knell of doom in the court. The pent-up feelings of
the crowded spectators burst forth in a mighty sob. More than one
gasped, "No, no." The utmost confusion prevailed, and more than one
had to be carried out of the court, overcome by emotion. The jurymen
sat each in his place pale and evidently moved. The verdict had been
according to the best of their abilities. Perhaps had the judge's
summing up been different they would have given the alternative
finding, but the feeling was that the judge, who was far wiser than
they, believed in the prisoner's guilt, and they, carried away by his
weight and authority, and by his cold, yet telling, words, pronounced
the verdict of "Guilty."
Paul, when he heard the verdict, reeled for a moment, and felt as
though his limbs were giving way under him; but only for a moment. His
resolution and his pride, which had borne him through the rest of the
trial, should bear him through this. He would not show any weakness.
His face was blanched, and his lips were white, but his eyes still
burned with a steady light, and in a few seconds he again stood erect
and calm, and looked at the judge's face.
The judge communicated for a moment with the Clerk of Arraigns, who
went through the usual formula, and then the clerk, addressing the
prisoner in the dock, said to him:
"Paul Stepaside, you have been found guilty of the wilful murder of
Edward Wilson. Have you anything to say why sentence of death should
not be passed upon you in due form?"
Paul hesitated a moment as if undecided whether he should
speak--everything seemed to be pure mockery now. The end of all things
had come. He knew that when a jury pronounced a verdict of guilty of
wilful murder, especially as there were no extenuating circumstances
sufficient in any way to lessen the guilt, all hope was gone. And yet
he felt as though he must say something. It seemed like allowing
himself to be led as a lamb to a butcher if he uttered no word of
protest.
"My lord and gentlemen of the jury," he said, "I feel impelled to say a
few words, even although I realise their uselessness. I have no
complaint to make concerning the motives which inspired the jury. I
have no doubt that each one has tried to do his duty. Neither do I
complain of the action of the counsel for the prosecution in doing his
utmost to fasten the guilt upon me. I suppose it was his duty so to
do, and he has done it. Neither, I suppose, ought I to complain of
your lordship's summing up, although it struck me as more like another
speech by the counsel for prosecution than the judicial analysis of
evidence by an impartial judge. But then my position has been of such
a nature that perhaps my own judgment is warped. Be that as it may,
however, and knowing that, whatever I may say, I cannot alter anything
that has been done, I wish to repeat that I am utterly and wholly
guiltless concerning this murder. My hand never struck the blow that
killed Edward Wilson, and I have no knowledge whatever concerning the
murder. In the course of events, I suppose I shall be hanged, but, my
lord and gentlemen, you will hang an innocent man, and by your finding
to-day, you will send a man into eternity who is not only altogether
innocent of the murder, but altogether unconnected with it! I shall go
into the great silence, into the land of forgetfulness, but of this I
am sure, you, my lord, and you, gentlemen of the jury, must for ever be
haunted by the thought that you have sent an innocent man to an
unmerited doom."
The tones of his voice gathered in strength and condemnatory intonation
as he proceeded, and when he had finished it seemed to many as though
he were the judge and those to whom he spoke were criminals. More than
one of the jury, who had been unconvinced, but who had given way to the
opinions of others, felt as though his words were true. They shuddered
as he spoke, and it seemed to them that they were guilty, even as he
said they were.
But the word had gone forth and could not be recalled. When once a
jury, after careful deliberation, has uttered the verdict of "Guilty,"
that verdict is final. Even although the judge were convinced of
Paul's innocence, he could only pronounce sentence of death. In that
respect he was no more responsible than the hangman who had to fasten
the rope around his neck. Each would play his part in the grim
tragedy, and each would have to do so, because he had accepted the
responsibilities of his office.
It was evident that the judge was greatly wrought upon. His hands
trembled, his face was haggard, and in his eyes was an expression that
looked like fear. He turned for a moment and saw that the chaplain was
standing behind him, a pale, cadaverous-looking man indeed, a veritable
death's-head.
The judge put on the black cap.
"Paul Stepaside," he said, "you have this day been found guilty of
wilful murder. The jury have, upon the evidence given, passed that
verdict upon you," he stopped. He had seemed on the point of saying
something else, but was unable to do so. Perhaps, as is often the
case, he was going to preach him a homily upon a wasted life, or upon a
career cut off in the middle, destroyed by an act of brutal passion,
but he did not do so. Perhaps there was something in Paul's face which
forbade him. Perhaps he almost feared the scornful smile which was on
Paul's lips, and the steady look in his eyes.
A painful silence followed, a silence of nearly a minute, and then the
judge pronounced his sentence.
"You will be taken from this place to the place from whence you came,
and from there to the place of execution, and there you will be hanged
by the neck until you are dead, and your body will be buried in the
precincts of the prison where you will have been confined after your
conviction, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul."
He spoke the words in slow, measured tones, and with deathly
impressiveness. Although he was a little man, his voice was deep,
almost sonorous, and thus when the chaplain followed him with a thin,
piping voice, "Amen!" there was something so incongruous in the
contrast that many who had been wrought up to a high state of
excitement felt like giving way to hysterical laughter. Nevertheless,
the utmost silence prevailed, until Paul spoke again.
"Thank you, my lord," he said. "I am an innocent man, and when my time
comes, I will meet death as an innocent man should!"
For a moment he looked around the court, scanned the faces of those
present with an expression almost like curiosity. It seemed as if he
realised he was looking at them for the last time. It was a look of
farewell. He was no longer a prisoner, he was a condemned man. He
nodded to some of the people whom he had known in Brunford, and then,
with a proud smile, he left the box, under the vigilance of two
policemen, who led him to the condemned cell.