THE BENCH OF MAGISTRATES――EXAMINATION OF THE PRISONER.
Mr. Wrench had frequently declared that he sometimes came upon a
culprit of whom he was in search when he least expected, and this
observation was borne out by the capture of Chudley, which was as
unlooked for as it was extraordinary and fortuitous.
He had good reason to congratulate himself upon the issue. After
seeing his man safely under lock and key he sent off that night a
telegram to Broxbridge, informing Lord Ethalwood of the arrest of the
accused.
Early on the following day he took his prisoner per rail to
Broxbridge, Nell Fulford and Joe Doughty returning with him.
The prisoner’s first examination before the bench of magistrates
created a degree of excitement which was almost without a parallel.
It so chanced that his examination took place on market day.
A country town is only awake once a week, and that is only on market
day. At other times houses may be open, shops may be open, and eyes
may be open, but houses, shops, and people are fast asleep. The houses
resemble mausoleums, the shops are cold and still as pictures, and the
citizens who walk about do not seem to know where they are going, what
they are doing, or why they are out of doors.
But on market days everybody and everything is alive. The tradesman no
longer props his front door and yawns down the empty streets――he is
behind the counter bowing and skipping like a French dancing master.
His shop is not filled with impatient customers like a shop in London
on Saturday night, but with patient customers like a shop in the
country on Saturday morning, for the good old housewives only go
shopping once a week, and consider it too serious and sacred a
business to be lightly hurried over.
Everything is full. The inns fill the farmers as the farmers fill the
inns――the yards are full of carts, the stables full of horses, heads
are full of business, hands full of wares, hearts full of hope or joy
or discontent.
The streets are filled with ragged idlers indigenous to the town and
its vicinity, with market women who erect temporary barricades with
donkey carts, and hen coops, and fruit baskets, towering towards the
sky.
With clumsy cubs of peasant farmers, with felt hats, fustian frocks,
plush waistcoats, brown leather breeches, sky-blue stockings, and
great greasy shoes big as wheelbarrows.
In addition to all these there are to be found home-spun specimens of
agriculture, who shone years and years ago in Mr. Morton’s comedies,
with grey hairs, red faces, and top boots, heavy riding whips, and
sentimental hearts――for all but their day labourers.
There are also to be seen a set of mysterious blades who drive
dog-carts as high as Haman’s ladder, and steeds strong and fiery as
the coursers of Phaeton, who wear smart green frocks, fancy waiscoats,
jockey boots, peach-blossom corduroy breeches, and hats lodged
jauntily on the left ear――who, once settled in the market-room of
their favourite tavern, drink like fishes, smoke like lime-kilns, and
sit like hens, and who display three sample bags in the corn market
with all the grace of a Rothschild who negotiates a loan upon ’Change.
The news had spread abroad that the murderer of Phil Jamblin had been
captured by a clever London detective, who had been on his track for
weeks past.
It also became known that he was to be had up before the bench of
magistrates, of which no less a person than Lord Ethalwood himself was
chairman; and his lordship was a “sharp ’un,” they averred. “He could
see his way through a four inch deal board.”
It was a busy day for Mr. Wrench when “his man,” as he termed him, was
brought before the “beaks.”
He had seen the earl immediately after his return, for the purpose of
arranging all the necessary preliminaries.
Enough evidence would be offered to warrant a remand――there would not
be much difficulty about that; but before the committal the case would
have to be gone more fully into.
Giles Chudley, in common with most criminals of his class, hoped to
escape the punishment he so justly deserved.
A man put upon his trial for a capital offence has so many chances in
his favour that nothing but the strongest and most conclusive evidence
will suffice; and even when this has been offered by the prosecution,
the jury will not return a verdict of “guilty,” and when once
acquitted, as we all of us know, a prisoner cannot in this country be
put upon his trial a second time for the same offence.
This surely ought to be amended.
In Scotland the jury, when there is not sufficient evidence to justify
them in returning a verdict of guilty, return one of “not proven,” and
the prisoner can be tried again if any additional evidence is
obtained.
Many years ago a man, named Spollin, was charged with the murder of a
railway official in Dublin; the trial was conducted in a hasty and
slovenly manner, and he was acquitted.
It transpired afterwards that two witnesses who could have proved the
guilt of the prisoner were never examined at all.
If he could have been retried there was abundance of evidence to
ensure a conviction.
What was the sequel?
The wretch Spollin had the audacity to deliver a series of lectures
upon murder in general, and the one he had been charged with in
particular.
People paid their money to listen to the scoundrel’s statement.
Spollin declared that he was giving these lectures to realise a
sufficient sum to take him abroad, as he had no chance of obtaining
employment in this country.
He was an ignorant illiterate man, and his “lectures” as he called
them were contemptible; they were worse than this――they were an insult
to the public, whose indignation became aroused.
The last he gave imperilled his life, for a portion of the audience
boldly accused him and would not allow him to proceed till he had
confessed to the murder. He admitted himself to be guilty.
A rush was made towards the platform and Spollin made his escape by a
side door.
Giles Chudley was advised by his friends to say nothing himself but to
engage a solicitor to defend him. He agreed to this proposition, and
sent for a gentleman who was supposed to be a sharp practitioner.
His learned adviser told Chudley to leave the matter in his hands. He
spoke so confidently, and was really so delighted in having the case,
that the prisoner plucked up courage, and began to think that he
should ride over the difficulties with which he was surrounded.
It was a most singular circumstance――but it was true, nevertheless――that
Giles, who was but a poor farm labourer, should have ample funds at
his disposal to pay his solicitor handsomely for his defence.
As he alighted from the prison van, which drew up by the side of the
court-house, Giles was saluted with a storm of groans and hisses.
Mr. Philip Jamblin was a young man who had been universally respected,
and his murderer, as a natural consequence, was as universally
execrated, and in all probability, had the populace got hold of
him――had he not been protected by a cohort of constables and
warders――he would have been subjected to Lynch law.
The magistrates had taken their respective seats, the chief clerk had
mended and nibbed a favourite quill pen, Mr. Chicknell was busily
engaged in arranging his papers at one of the tables in front of the
chief clerk, and Mr. Wrench was rushing about in the greatest state of
anxiety. He had his witnesses safely ensconced in an adjoining room.
The court was crowded to excess, and it is perhaps needless to say
that it was about as inconvenient and ill-ventilated one as it is well
possible to conceive.
Every eye was directed towards the prisoner as he entered the dock.
Low murmurs arose from the crowd.
“Silence――order!” shouted out the usher. “Hoosh! less noise if you
plase.”
Mr. Wrench was called.
He gave a brief but circumstantial account of the arrest of the
prisoner, Giles Chudley, together with a number of other immaterial
matters relative to the case.
The worthy host of the “Carved Lion” was the next witness.
He deposed to all the facts which had come to his knowledge on the
night of the murder.
Mr. Slapperton, the prisoner’s legal adviser, rose to cross-examine
this witness.
“Pray, Mr.――For the moment I forget your name.”
“Brickett.”
“Ah! yes, precisely. Well, Mr. Brickett, you say you saw a man
stooping down and washing his hands in the pool at Larchgrove-green?”
“Certainly, I did.”
“Yes. Where had you come from――that is, what brought you to the
Green?”
“Why, my legs, of course,” returned Brickett.
At this there was a titter in the court which was immediately
suppressed by the watchful and industrious usher.
“Don’t bandy words with me, man,” said Slapperton.
“I again ask you where you had been?”
“To a customer of mine.”
“Oh! Had you partaken of any refreshment, or, not to put too fine a
point on the matter, had you been drinking?”
“I had not.”
“You were perfectly sober?”
“About as sober as you are now.”
At this last observation there was another titter.
“Your answers are by no means satisfactory, and personal remarks are
both unseemly and impertinent,” said the lawyer, in a severe tone. “I
will not ask you any further questions. The Court will be able to draw
their own inference of your conduct and demeanour. You may stand
down.”
Henry Adolphus, radiant in his new livery, was placed in the box.
His statement was much the same as that sworn to on the inquest.
“And that’s all you know about the matter?” said Mr. Slapperton.
“Yes, sir, that is all,” answered the footman.
“Look at the prisoner. Does he resemble the man you saw running across
the fields?”
“I shouldn’t like to say for certain, but he does resemble him.”
“Oh! indeed. In what way?”
“In many ways. His eyes are like the man I saw, but since the night of
the murder he has grown a beard.”
“Be careful, sir,” cried Slapperton. “He has grown a beard since the
night of the murder? You don’t happen to know that he is not the man
at all?”
“No, I do not happen to know that,” returned Henry Adolphus. “My
impression is that he is the man I saw.”
“Why, just now you said you could not say whether he was or not. Do
you know that you are contradicting yourself――perjuring yourself, in
fact?” said the lawyer, turning triumphantly towards the bench.
“I think you are in error, Mr. Slapperton,” said Lord Ethalwood. “The
witness says he was, and still is, under the impression that the
prisoner was the man. He has never said positively that he was. I
think you will find that he has not contradicted himself.”
“I bow to your decision, my lord,” observed the lawyer. “It is quite
clear that your servant is unable to identify the prisoner.”
“Identification under the circumstances described must necessarily be
difficult.”
Mr. Slapperton bowed, and the witness left the box.
Ellen Fulford was then called.
She gave a detailed account of her interview with the deceased in
Dennett’s-lane, and in addition to this she described the recognition
and capture of the prisoner in the parlour of the “Lord Cornwallis.”
She was infinitely more calm and self-possessed than she was when
giving her evidence on the inquest.
Mr. Slapperton rose to cross-examine her.
“Pray, Miss Fulford, will you tell us whether you met Mr. Jamblin in
Dennett’s-lane by appointment, or was it an accidental meeting?”
“I waited for him, as I expected he would pass that way.”
“Ah! I see; you desired to speak to him?”
“Yes, I did.”
“I believe he was a lover of yours――was he not?”
“We had kept company and walked together.”
“He was attached to you?”
“I believe he was.”
“And your were also attached to him? The feeling was reciprocal, I
suppose, eh?”
The witness did not make any reply. There was a dead silence in the
court.
“Why do you not answer my question?” said the lawyer.
“I don’t know that you have any right to put such a question.”
“Oh! but I have,” he returned, with a chuckle; “a perfect right. You
must allow me to be the best judge of that.”
Mr. Chicknell came to the rescue. He rose, and addressing the bench,
said――
“I strongly object to any such question being put to the witness. It
is irrelevant.”
“I do not see that it bears upon the case,” observed Lord Ethalwood,
“but if Mr. Slapperton insists――――”
“I do insist, my lord,” cried Slapperton, “and I greatly object to Mr.
Chicknell interfering with me in my line of defence.
“I have a duty to perform――a duty I shall not shrink from, but perform
fearlessly. I think I shall be able to prove that the young man who is
now under examination is innocent of the charge preferred against
him.”
As he made these observations he thumped the table, and looked
defiantly round the court.
“If it is essential for you to have an answer from the witness it
would be wrong for us to interfere. Proceed with your examination,”
said Lord Ethalwood.
The question was again put.
“He was my accepted suitor,” said Miss Fulford, after some hesitation.
“You were engaged to be married to him?”
“He would have married me if he had lived,” said the witness, bursting
into tears.
Everybody in the court felt for her, everybody but her questioner.
The situation in which she was placed was indeed a most painful one.
But the pertinacious Mr. Slapperton was determined to make himself as
conspicuous as possible.
He did not often get the chance of being engaged in such a big case,
and he was bent on making the most of it.
“Pray, Miss Fulford, were you not acquainted some time ago with a
person named Charles Peace?”
“I did know Mr. Peace when he resided in this neighbourhood.”
“Ah, I thought so! And was he also a lover of yours?”
Miss Fulford became red with indignation.
“No, he was not. He paid me some attention, it is true.”
“Very marked attention, was it not?”
“Mr. Slapperton, I think you are quite out of order,” remarked one of
the magistrates. “The man Peace has been in prison for some
considerable time, and I for one strongly object to you introducing
his name in this case.”
“I shall not shrink from doing my duty,” said Slapperton, perfectly
unmoved. “I affirm most positively and emphatically that I am quite
justified in the course I am pursuing. If the bench is of an opposite
opinion I have no alternative but to submit to their decision, but I
shall do so under protest――I say under protest.”
The magistrates conversed together, after which the chairman said――
“My brother magistrates and myself think you are exceeding the limits
which ought to circumscribe an advocate in a preliminary examination.
It has nothing to do with the charge against the prisoner, and the
fact of the witness having one or more admirers or suitors is matter
altogether irrelevant. Good taste ought to guide you, and prevent any
undue reference to subjects which must necessarily be painful to dwell
upon or even to refer to.”
“My object is to elicit the truth, my lord. The questions I have to
put are perfectly relevant. You must pardon the observation, but I
claim to be best judge in respect to my line of defence. The witness
has already admitted that she received――I will not say encouraged――the
attentions of Charles Peace, who at the present time is a convict
undergoing a term of penal servitude.”
“That is admitted.”
“That being so, I have one or two other questions to put to the
witness, which, in the interest of my client, I am constrained to
ask.”
“Proceed, sir,” said Lord Ethalwood, haughtily.
“Pray, Miss Fulford, may I ask you if you are aware that the man Peace
and the prisoner had a hostile encounter?”
“I believe they had.”
“Oh, you believe so; you are not certain?”
“I was told so.”
“By whom?”
“By many persons.”
“By Peace himself?”
“No, not by him, but by the neighbours.”
“Can you give us their names?”
“Mr. Brickett was one.”
And do you know also that the ill-fated Mr. Jamblin committed an
assault upon Charles Peace?”
“I do.”
“What was the reason for the assault in question?”
“Mr. Peace was rude to me in Dennett’s-lane. He was in a violent
passion, and dragged me forcibly along. I strove to get away and
screamed, being terrified at the time. Mr. Jamblin rescued me.”
“And did he strike Peace?”
“Yes; with a stick he was carrying.”
“And did Peace leave the neighbourhood after that?”
“Yes, immediately afterwards.”
“Were you attached to him?”
“Really, Mr. Slapperton, you are quite out of order. I object to the
question.”
“Oh, if you object, sir,” returned Slapperton, in a sarcastic tone,
“then I presume the court will coincide with you.”
Without waiting for the decision Nell Fulford said in a loud voice――
“I was not attached to him.”
“Thank you, madam, I am much obliged by your courtesy,” cried the
persevering advocate in an ironical manner, casting at the same time a
withering glance at Chicknell.
Mr. Slapperton had come for the express purpose of asking every
possible conflicting and painful question of the witnesses. It was his
aim in doing so to distinguish himself as a fearless advocate, and
thus create what he termed a “sensation.” But the latitude of counsel
has increased since his day, and recently it has been a scandal to our
courts of law.
Whether, as some people tell us, the quality of the bar, and of
police-courts in particular, has deteriorated of late years, whether
it is assumed at present the plea of “public interests” covers every
excess of zeal and every abuse of privilege which an advocate may
permit himself, or whether it is that the inquiries before the
magistrate, which have of late years grown to such inordinate
dimensions, afford an entirely new field for the display of such
excesses, we will not undertake to say. But the fact is indisputable.
Nor are the discreditable scenes which distinguished the court-house
at Richmond during the examination of Kate Webster, the only ones
which have recently drawn attention to the growing coarseness and
inquisitorial tyranny with which cross-examinations are conducted.
[Sidenote: No. 32.]
[Illustration: EXAMINATION OF ELLEN FULFORD.]
It was not merely in examining witnesses that the counsel for the
prisoner on this occasion indulged in observations which ought not to
have been tolerated for a moment by anyone who may be presiding over
the proceedings in a court of justice.
It is perfectly true that great latitude must of necessity be allowed
to counsel in their efforts to extract the truth from obstinate or
interested witnesses. But in the hands of an accomplished advocate,
who is a gentleman at the same time, this need never degenerate into
bullying or browbeating.
There are witnesses, of course, on whom tenderness or courtesy would
be wasted, and for whom no cross-examination can be too searching or
severe.
But where an advocate, through want of skill or self-control, applies
to one class of witnesses a mode of treatment only applicable to
another, it is time for the judge or justice to interfere, and to
protect respectable persons from gross outrages and indignities.
Nell Fulford had a series of questions put to her by Mr. Slapperton,
which, naturally enough, raised the indignation of the bench.
It would be difficult to fetter an advocate by any hard and fast
rules, and both judges and magistrates naturally felt great reluctance
in interfering with him in the discharge of his duty.
But the former have a task to perform as well, and any delicacy which
they may exhibit in fulfilling it should be met by corresponding
delicacy on the part of the counsel in the case.
It is much to be regretted that this is not invariably forthcoming,
and that if the particular kind of cross-examination satirised in the
person of Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz has, to some extent, gone out of
fashion, something nearly, if not quite as bad, survives among our
criminal lawyers.
In inquiries conducted before magistrates this license is painfully
conspicuous.
It appears very often as if an ordinary bench of magistrates――we are
not, of course, speaking of police magistrates――were frightened by the
presence of a hectoring, genuine Old Bailey barrister.
It is absolutely monstrous that any of our fellow-citizens should be
liable at any moment to be placed in the witness-box, and compelled,
on pain of commitment, to answer the most insulting questions about
his past career, and about all his relations and connections.
Judges themselves do not always interfere with sufficient promptitude
to check these abuses of advocacy.
And magistrates, as we have already said, too often seem afraid to do
so.
But there is one person, at all events, who might do something to
check the practice, and that is the witness himself.
If it were found that witnesses made a practice of refusing to answer
questions raking up their whole past lives, in order if possible to
discredit their veracity and respectability, the system must
inevitably collapse.
A general public protest against this iniquitous practice, represented
by the frequent spectacle of witnesses being committed for contempt of
court, would soon bring counsel to their senses.
So far, therefore, the public has the remedy in its own hands.
A few martyrs to this legal tyranny, in the shape of witnesses
preferring imprisonment to submission, would work a wonderful change
in our law courts.
And it is by no means improbable that an improvement in these might be
followed by improvements elsewhere, and that the intangible entity
called “public interest” would not so often be allowed to shield the
most unwarrantable breaches of confidence and invasions of domestic
privacy.
Every man of course knows what he has to expect if he ventures to
criticise the procedure of a court of law, or the conduct of a judge
or barrister.
He is treated with contempt, as a person who must necessarily be in
total ignorance of the subject under consideration.
In all professions there is a tendency to regard the comments of the
outside public as not only worthless but impertinent.
The practice of the law is a comparative mystery to all but the
practitioners themselves.
The forms of the court, the rules which regulate the examination of
witnesses, what evidence is admissible and what is not, the very
phraseology in which lawyers communicate with each other――all subjects
of which nobody can acquire any knowledge whatever by the light of
nature; and this consciousness of ignorance on the part of the public
disposes them to look with a kind of awe on the interior of a court of
justice, and to be very much at the mercy of any one of the
hierophants who shall think proper to rebuke the presumption of an
audacious and uninstructed critic.
It is too often forgotten by both sides that the professional man
himself labours under disqualifications scarcely less serious than
those of the intruder whom he ridicules.
The lawyer’s experience, his familiarity with technicalities so
formidable to the unprofessional mind, and his personal acquaintance
with the working of our judicial system, enable him to speak from a
point of advantage in contending with a lay disputant, by which the
latter is apt to be abashed.
But the layman, on the other hand, is free from those ideals which
upset the judgment of the lawyer; he is not defending a system in
which he has been bred, the details of which he has mastered with
great difficulty, and which long habit has taught him to consider
irrepressible.
It is always a moot point whether professional or non-professional men
make the better reformers.
For our own part we incline to think the latter more likely to become
so, from the very fact that they are enabled to take an independent
and unprejudiced view of the law as it stands.
The first have the knowledge and experience; but they cannot see
themselves from without or appreciate the criticism of common sense,
when brought to bear upon their long-established maxims.
The second can take broader views of the questions submitted to their
judgment, and see the immediate defects of existing rules and
regulations, though they are not always able to comprehend the full
consequences which might flow from their suggestions.
It must readily be owned, therefore, that such animadversions ought to
be uttered with some diffidence, and received with considerable
caution.
But he must stand up for the right of the public, to protect itself
against the abuse of privilege, when those who ought to protect it are
forgetful of their duty.
Witnesses in our courts of law are entitled to be treated with common
courtesy.
They ought not to be exposed to the insolence and contumely of
pettifogging lawyers and tenth-rate barristers, who have nothing to
recommend them but their wigs and their unblushing impudence.
An incalculable amount of mischief accrues from the latitude allowed
to counsel. Witnesses have a natural dread of being subject to the
painful ordeal of impudent questions being put to them by a bullying
coarse-minded legal freelance, and hence it is that there is a natural
reluctance on the part of many persons to give their testimony at all,
and the consequence is that many scoundrels escape the punishment
which they so justly merit.
Mr. Slapperton was a bright sample of an unscrupulous cross-examiner.
He was not to be put down.
It is true that the magistrates on the bench were gentlemen, but that
did not matter to Slapperton. He had come into court to make a sort of
gladiatorial display, to produce as much effect as possible, and, to
do him justice, he did his best to carry out his object.
“I have been successful in getting certain admissions from the
witness,” said the lawyer, addressing himself to the bench; “and I
suppose I may proceed with my cross-examination without further
interruptions?”
“You are at liberty to ask what questions you deem requisite,” said
one of the magistrates.
“Do you know, Miss Fulford, if the late Mr. Jamblin ever met Charles
Peace after the conflict in Dennett’s-lane?”
“I dunno, but I think not. Mr. Peace left Broxbridge on the day after,
or it might be two days afterwards. I be pretty sure he never saw Mr.
Jamblin agen.”
“I think you said that you were engaged to Mr. Jamblin?”
“I have not said so.”
“Indeed! Then I must have misunderstood you.”
“She said she kept company with him,” observed the chief clerk,
referring to his notes.
“Ah well, that’s pretty much the same thing, I suppose,” returned the
lawyer, with a short, dry laugh.
“It depends upon what construction you put upon the declaration,”
suggested Mr. Chicknell.
“Just so. Well, that is how I construe it. The witness said Mr.
Jamblin would have married her if he had lived. Did you not?”
This last query was directed to Nell.
“I believe he would ha’ done so,” she answered, hanging down her head.
“As an honourable man he was bound to do so. Was he not?”
“He was an honourable, good young man.”
“Ah, no doubt, but that is no answer to my question.”
“I cannot gi’ ee any other answer,” said the trembling girl.
“Oh, but you must. In plain words, you were already his mistress, and
hoped to be his wife. Was that not so?”
“Mr. Slapperton, I must tell you plainly that I think your conduct is
most unwarrantable,” cried Lord Ethalwood, “and will not allow such a
gross act of indecorum to pass over without expressing my disapproval
of the same.”
There was loud applause in the court as these words fell from the lips
of the chairman.
“Order!――Silence!” shouted out the usher, in his usual nasal twang.
“I am sorry to differ with your lordship,” observed Slapperton. “It is
not my practice to act in an indecorous manner, but――――”
“Silence, sir!” exclaimed Lord Ethalwood. “Your conduct is most
reprehensible. Have you no consideration for the young person in the
box? Have you no regard for her feelings? I will not and cannot sit on
this bench and allow any female to be insulted.”
“Insulted?”
“Yes, grossly insulted! How dare you presume to make such an
observation as you have done in an open court?”
“Because I deemed it requisite――for that simple reason. The prisoner
at the bar is a poor man, in a humble position in life. It is my
bounden duty to see that he is not the victim of prejudice. It is also
my duty to lay before you all these facts which bear directly and
indirectly on the case, and in doing so I am constrained to be
plain-spoken. I don’t create these painful facts. It is no fault of
mine that I am, from the force of circumstances, compelled to put
questions which, although painful for me to ask, and are perhaps still
more painful for the witness to answer, have nevertheless to be
submitted. I must tell you frankly that I will not shrink from doing
my duty.”
“You cannot proceed, Mr. Slapperton, in opposition to the ruling of
the bench. That you know as well as I do,” said Mr. Chicknell.
“But as yet the bench have not decided the point.”
“We have,” said one of the magistrates; “and our decision is
unanimous. Your last question to the witness is not admissible, and we
cannot reprobate your conduct too strongly in putting such a query, or
the bad taste you have displayed by the innuendo accompanying it.”
“I have done,” said Slapperton. “Let it pass, then. I have no
alternative left but to bow to the wise decision of the bench. It
appears to me that I am so restricted and subject to so many
indecorous interruptions, while vainly endeavouring to pursue a just
and proper course of cross-examination, that I am unable to do justice
to my client.”
“I think your remarks are quite uncalled for, and are, at the same
time, in very bad taste,” observed one of the sitting magistrates.
“You have full liberty to ask any questions of the witness which may
bear upon the case; but to enter into private matters, which are
altogether irrelevant, cannot be permitted.”
“I maintain that the private matters, as you are pleased to term them,
do bear upon the case. You, however, appear to be of a different
opinion――so I will proceed with other points.”
Then, turning towards the witness, Mr. Slapperton said――
“You stated before the coroner that, when you were conversing with Mr.
Jamblin in Dennett’s lane on the night of the murder, you saw the face
of a man through the hedge. Is that so?”
“Yes, it is.”
“And did you see his features distinctly?”
“Most distinctly.”
“The night was a dark one――was it not?”
“Rather dark.”
“And there are no lamps in the lane?”
“No. None.”
“And yet you were able to distinguish the features of the stranger?”
“He wasn’t a stranger.”
“How do you know?”
“’Cause I saw his face, and knew him to be Giles Chudley.”
“You must be gifted with wonderful eyesight. Do you mean to say, upon
your oath, that the prisoner at the bar was the man?”
“I do. It was none other than he.”
“This you swear most positively?”
“Yes, I swear it agen an’ agen.”
“Once will do, Miss Fulford. It seems almost incredible that you could
recognise a man under the circumstances. Pray, did you expect to see
the prisoner there?”
“No, I did not.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause he had left the neighbourhood, and hadn’t been seen for a
goodish while.”
“I have no doubt that you are speaking conscientiously, Miss Fulford;
still at the same time you must not be offended if I suggest that you
are mistaken. It would, I dare say, astonish you to learn that the
prisoner was not in the neighbourhood on the night of the murder.
Perhaps you would not believe this if I proved the fact upon
evidence?”
“I should be astonished certainly.”
“Are you about to prove an alibi?” said Lord Ethalwood, in a tone of
surprise.
“I am instructed to say that evidence will be offered upon that
point,” returned Mr. Slapperton; “and I am, therefore, most anxious to
hear all that Miss Fulford has to say. She is positive, but she may be
mistaken. It is a very common thing for a witness to be mistaken as
far as the identification of an individual is concerned.”
“Ah, that is generally admitted, I think, by most professional
gentlemen. You are quite right in your course of cross-examination as
far as that is concerned, for it is one of the leading and most
important points in the case.”
“You will pardon me, my lord,” returned Slapperton, “but my hypothesis
is that the witness is mistaken. We must bear in mind that there are
so many persons in this neighbourhood who might be taken for the
prisoner, especially if they were behind a hedge on a dark night.
“In the first place people are much more similar than we always
remember, without disputing or accepting the extraordinary idea which
exists in so many countries, and is the basis of so many fables, that
every man has his ‘double’ somewhere――an individual absolutely
identical in appearance with himself. It is quite certain that most
extraordinary likenesses do exist among persons wholly disconnected in
blood; that there are faces and forms in the world which are rather
types than individualities; people so like one another that only the
most intimate friends and connections can detect the difference. I
trust, my lord, that you do not deem the observations I am making out
of place, seeing the importance of the subject in hand.”
“Not at all――I think them both right and proper.”
“Very well, my lord, that being so, I will, with your permission,
enlarge more fully on this. The likeness of Madame Lamotte and Marie
Antoinette is a well-known historic instance, and there are few
persons who have not, in their own experience, met with something of
the same kind. I have myself twice. In one case I was on board ship in
which were two passengers who neither were, nor by any possibility
could be, connected by birth or any other circumstance whatever,
except in caste. Oddly enough, they were unaware of the likeness which
was the talk of the ship, dressed in the same style; but from some
inexplicable revulsion――I am stating mere facts, gentlemen――disliked
and avoided each other. In a six weeks’ voyage, and with a tolerably
intimate acquaintance with one of the two, I never succeeded in
distinguishing them by sight; and of the remaining passengers,
certainly one half, say thirty educated persons, were in the same
predicament.”
“That appears most extraordinary,” exclaimed the bench.
“I pledge you my word and honour that it is a fact,” returned the wily
advocate, who was riding his hobby to the fullest extent.
“In the second instance the evidence is far less perfect, but
sufficient for the argument I am now advocating.”
“One day when in Bond-street I stopped short utterly puzzled by the
appearance of one of my closest connections but two yards off. Clearly
it was he, yet he could from circumstances by no possibility be there.
Still it was he, and I advanced to address him, when a momentary smile
broke the spell, yet leaving behind the impression. I could have sworn
to him in any court of justice.
“The likeness was really astounding, quite sufficient to have deceived
any number of policemen unacquainted previously with the other man.
And this just brings up the point I want to make――is it not just
possible――is it not rather a serious supposition when my client and
our criminal procedure is considered――is it not just possible that
something like colour blindness affects this matter of identification――that
there are a host of persons whose evidence upon any question of
identity, though perfectly honest, are worthy of very little trust?
That men upon this as upon most other matters are guilty of an
uncommon carelessness like that which makes testimony about figured
statements so often valueless.”
“The witness speaks most positively,” said Lord Ethalwood.
“Nevertheless, I for one, quite agree with you upon the doubts and
difficulties attending identification, but there are other witnesses
besides the one at present under examination who bear out her
testimony.”
“Not in a positive manner, my lord. I have every reason for believing
that they are mistaken.”
No further questions were put to Ellen Fulford, who was told to stand
down.
Matilda Lucas, the little girl who resided with her parents in Jawbone
Cottage, was next placed in the box.
She deposed to seeing a man washing his hands in the pool of water at
Larchgrove-green on the night of the murder.
She swore most distinctly that the prisoner was the man.
“Now look at the prisoner, if you please,” said Mr. Slapperton.
The child regarded Chudley with a curious glance.
“Now, my good girl, take your time, consider well before you answer.
Is the prisoner like the man you saw at Larchgrove-green.”
“He beant so loike him as he was,” returned the girl.
“Ah! no――I thought not,” said the lawyer, “but something like him, I
suppose.”
“Ah! yes, he be the same man as I saw, only he’s got a big beard now,
which he had not then.”
“That would make a difference, of course. You can’t swear to him. Now,
mind what you say.”
The little girl hesitated, and did not make any reply.
“Don’t you hear what I say?” cried Slapperton.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, what say you?”
“The man I seed a washin’ his hands was Giles Chudley.”
“It was?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Of that you are quite certain.”
“I be quite sartin o’ that.”
“How can you be certain?”
“Because I know’d him so well, that is why I be so sartin. I know’d
him by his brown face, beaky nose, an’ bushy whiskers.”
Mr. Slapperton was disappointed. The girl’s answers were so natural
and truthful that every person in the court was impressed with the
fact that her evidence could be relied on, and Mr. Slapperton felt
that he would be only making matters worse by subjecting her to a
severe and searching cross-examination.
“She is a truthful witness, my lord,” said the lawyer; “that is, an
honest witness who speaks what she believes to be truth, but it does
not follow that she may not be mistaken.”
“She has given her evidence remarkably well,” observed one of the
magistrates, “and is a very intelligent little girl.”
“Now I have one or two more questions to put,” said Slapperton. “When
you looked out of the bedroom window of the cottage, was the man’s
back towards you or his face?”
“His face wur towards me.”
“And it was rather a dark night――was it not?”
“Noa, not whar I seed the man. The moon was a shinin’ quite bright
loike.”
“Was his face in shadow?”
“I dunno that it wur; I know’d it wur the face o’ Giles Chudley――of
that I be sartin sure――and his mouth wur a-bleedin’.”
Slapperton felt that it would be worse for him――so ceased all further
questioning; and he therefore said in a tone of affected
satisfaction――
“That will do; I am quite satisfied――have no further questions to
ask.”
The little girl left the box.
The divisional surgeon was called. His evidence was to the effect that
he had examined the prisoner’s mouth――the front teeth (incisors) were
missing; and the two teeth picked up by the police in Larchgrove-lane
corresponded in size, structure, and colour to the others in the
prisoner’s jaw.
Mr. Slapperton affected to treat this circumstance as of quite minor
importance. He said that there were very few persons who had not shed
some of their teeth, and it was quite impossible for the most skilled
surgeon or dentist to say positively that those found belonged to the
prisoner.
The magistrates, however, appeared to be of a different opinion, and a
long discussion ensued between them and the prisoner’s advocate.
Both agreed, however, that it would be a question for a jury to
decide.
There was a _prima facie_ case made out, and further adjournment was,
therefore, deemed unnecessary.
The bench then decided upon fully committing the prisoner for trial
upon the charge of “Wilful murder.”
Mr. Slapperton would not allow the day’s proceedings to be brought to
a close without making a last appeal on behalf of his client. He was
perfectly aware that all he might say would not alter the decision of
the stipendiary magistrates; but he had come for the purpose of making
himself as conspicuous as possible, and was bent upon having his say.
“I should be sadly neglectful of my duty to my client,” said the
pertinacious advocate, “if I suffered him to be committed upon this
dreadful charge without offering some remarks upon the evidence we
have heard. I do not for one moment impugn the veracity of the several
witnesses. All I say is, that they are mistaken; they are labouring
under a wrong impression, and at the same time I am under the
impression that their judgment is warped by a strong amount of
prejudice, which, perhaps very naturally, has influenced them in so
marked a degree. It has been said by a great thinker and writer ‘that
it is easier to remove a mountain than a prejudice.’ Without doubt
most of the witnesses believe what they have deposed to. They are
obstinate as far as their evidence is concerned, and to argue with an
obstinate man is to confirm him in his opinion.”
“I think you are mistaken, Mr. Slapperton,” observed Lord Ethalwood.
“I do not see that any obstinacy has been displayed by any of the
witnesses. On the contrary, the witness Brickett and my footman have
been very careful in giving their evidence. They neither of them would
swear positively.”
“That I admit, my lord. Do not for a moment imagine I had any desire
to complain of them. As far as that goes, they are without doubt
truthful witnesses. So, indeed, is Miss Fulford, but, nevertheless, I
find it hard to believe that she saw the prisoner through the hedge so
as to recognise him; but, even assuming she had, this fact does not
prove that Chudley was the murderer of Mr. Philip Jamblin. He might be
lurking about the neighbourhood, waiting for one of his quondam
companions. It does not necessarily follow that he is guilty of this
fearful crime, because he happened to be wandering over the fields
near to Dennett’s-lane. He might be out ‘sweetheart-hunting,’ watching
for some rustic damsel――even as Miss Fulford was watching for her
faithful swain.”
“I do not say it does,” returned Lord Ethalwood. “We none of us say
so; but, nevertheless, it is one link in the chain, and it must be
admitted on all hands that it is an important link.”
“I confess I do not attach that importance to it that you do,” said
the lawyer, in a careless tone; “but I do say that it is a question of
mistaken identity. We are all apt to believe that the difference in
faces is very great, and not dependent upon accidental features; yet
it is almost certain that no such difference exists――that men are as
nearly alike as animals appear to be.
“Take, for instance, in evidence of both these propositions, the
carelessness of our usual glance, and the similarity among men――a fact
which most persons can test for themselves. Look at the conflicting
evidence as to identification in the Tichborne case.
“No man on landing at an Indian or Chinese port for the first time can
for a few days tell one native from another, and yet they are quite as
unlike as so many Englishmen, because, in addition to every other
distinction, their complexions cover a wider range of colour, but,
being similarly dressed, they seem for a few days as much alike as so
many sheep, who are all alike to a Londoner, but among whom a shepherd
or a dog makes no mistake.
“Now, if men were much unlike――more unlike than the sheep are――no such
curious haziness would be possible, nor would it be if the observer
were unconsciously in the habit of studying the form and character of
each face.
“We have, as a rule, no such habit, but unless an artist or a
policeman relies unconsciously on accidental circumstances――colour,
hair on lip or chin, expression or peculiarity of some one
feature――and should that by any accident disappear, he is utterly
puzzled.
“One-tenth, at least, of Western mankind, is consciously or
unconsciously, short-sighted, and never see in any true sense.
“Then a great number of persons are subject to sudden and sometimes
erroneous impressions, and with country people especially, when once
an idea enters their head, they are very reluctant to part with it.
“It would be out of place for me to cite cases of mistaken identity;
that must be reserved for the trial, for it is quite clear that you
intend to send the case for trial.”
“Unquestionably, Mr. Slapperton,” said the chairman. “We cannot do
otherwise. There is abundance of evidence to warrant us in committing
the prisoner, and, whatever your line of defence may be, you had
better reserve it for a higher tribunal.”
“Enough, my lord, I will not pursue the question further. I do hope
and trust, however, that whatever little ability I may possess will
suffice to make manifest to the jury whose duty it is to try the
prisoner that he is guiltless of the heinous crime with which he
stands charged.”
The examination was at an end. The prisoner was committed on the
charge of wilful murder, and the witnesses were bound over to appear
at the ensuing sessions.