Sir Herbert Templewood did not believe the evidence of the specialist,
and he did not think the witness believed it himself. Sir Herbert did
not think any the worse of the witness on that account. It was one of
the recognised rules of the game to allow witnesses to stretch a point
or two in favour of the defence where the social honour of highly
respectable families was involved.
Sir Herbert saw in the present defence the fact that the hand of his
venerable friend, Mr. Oakham, had not lost its cunning. Mr. Oakham was a
very respectable solicitor, acting for a very respectable client, and he
had called a very respectable Harley Street specialist--who, by a most
fortuitous circumstance, had been staying at the same hotel as the
accused shortly before the murder was committed--to convince the jury
that the young man was insane, and that his form of insanity was
epilepsy, a disease which had prolonged lucid intervals.
A truly ingenious and eminently respectable defence, and one which, in
his heart of hearts, perhaps, Sir Herbert might not have been sorry to
see succeed, for he knew Sir James Penreath of Twelvetrees, and was
sorry to see his son in such a position. But he had his duty to perform,
and that duty was to discredit in the eyes of the jury the evidence of
the witness in the box, because juries were prone to look upon
specialists as men to whom all things had been revealed, and return a
verdict accordingly.
Sir Herbert made one mistake in his analysis of the defence. Sir Henry,
at least, believed in his own evidence and took himself very seriously
as a specialist. Like most stupid men who have got somewhere in
life, Sir Henry became self-assertive under the least semblance
of contradiction, and he grew violent and red-faced under
cross-examination. He would not hear of the possibility of a mistake in
his diagnosis of the accused's symptoms, but insisted that the accused,
when he saw him at the Durrington hotel, was suffering from an epileptic
seizure, combined with _furor epilepticus_, and was in a state of mind
which made him a menace to his fellow creatures. It was true he
qualified his statements with the words "so far as my observation goes,"
but the qualification was given in a manner which suggested to the jury
that five minutes of Sir Henry Durwood's observation were worth a
month's of a dozen ordinary medical men.
Sir Henry's vehement insistence on his infallibility struck Sir Herbert
as a flagrant violation of the rules of the game. He did not accept the
protestations as genuine; he thought Sir Henry was overdoing his part,
and playing to the gallery. He grew nettled in his turn, and, with a
sudden access of vigour in his tone, said:
"You told my learned friend that it is quite consistent with the
prisoner's malady that he could have committed the crime with which he
stands charged, and remember nothing about it afterwards. Is that a
fact?"
"Certainly."
"In that case, will you kindly explain how the prisoner came to leave
the inn hurriedly, before anybody was up, the morning after the murder
was committed? Why should he run away if he had no recollection of his
act?"
"I must object to my learned friend describing the accused's departure
from the inn as 'running away,'" said Mr. Middleheath, with a bland
smile of protest. "It is highly improper, as nobody knows better than
the Crown Prosecutor, and calculated to convey an altogether erroneous
impression on the minds of the jury. There is not the slightest evidence
to support such a statement. The evidence is that he saw the servant and
paid his bill before departure. That is not running away."
"Very well, I will say hastened away," replied Sir Herbert impatiently.
"Why should the accused hasten away from the inn if he retained no
recollection of the events of the night?"
"He may have had a hazy recollection," replied Sir Henry. "Not of the
act itself, but of strange events happening to him in the
night--something like a bad dream, but more vivid. He may have found
something unusual--such as wet clothes or muddy boots--for which he
could not account. Then he would begin to wonder, and then perhaps there
would come a hazy recollection of some trivial detail. Then, as he came
to himself, he would begin to grow alarmed, and his impulse, as his
normal mind returned to him, would be to leave the place where he was as
soon as he could. This restlessness is a characteristic of epilepsy. In
my opinion, it was this vague alarm, on finding himself in a position
for which he could not account, which was the cause of the accused
leaving the Durrington hotel. His last recollection, as he told me at
the time, was entering the breakfast-room; he came to his senses in his
bedroom, with strangers in the room."
"Does not recollection return completely in attacks of petit mal?"
"Sometimes it does; sometimes not. I remember a case in my student days
where an epileptic violently assaulted a man in the street--almost
murdered him in fact--then assaulted a man who tried to detain him, ran
away, and remembered nothing about it afterwards."
"Is it consistent with petit mal, combined with _furor epilepticus_, for
a man to commit murder, conceal the body of his victim, and remember
nothing about it afterwards?"
"Quite consistent, though the probability is, as I said before, for him
to have some hazy recollection when he came to his senses, which would
lead to his leaving that place as quickly as he could."
"Would it be consistent with petit mal for a man to take a weapon away
beforehand, and then, during a sudden fit of petit mal, use it upon the
unfortunate victim?"
"If he took the weapon for another purpose, it is quite possible that he
might use it afterwards."
"I should like to have that a little clearer," said the judge,
interposing. "Do you mean to get the weapon for another, possibly quite
innocent purpose, and then use it for an act of violence?"
"Yes, my lord," replied Sir Henry. "That is quite consistent with an
attack of petit mal."
"When a man has periodical attacks of petit mal, would it not be
possible, by observation of him between the attacks, or when he was
suffering from the attacks, to tell whether he had a tendency to them?"
"No, only in a very few and exceptional cases."
"In your opinion epilepsy is an hereditary disease?"
"Undoubtedly."
"Are you aware that certain eminent French specialists, including Marie,
are of the opinion that hereditary influences play a very small part in
epilepsy?"
"That may be." Sir Henry dismissed the views of the French specialists
with a condescending wave of his fat white hand.
"That does not alter your own opinion?"
"Certainly not."
"And do you say that because this man's mother suffered from epilepsy
the chances are that he is suffering from it?"
"Pardon me, I said nothing of the kind. I think the chances are that he
would have a highly organised nervous system, and would probably suffer
from some nervous disease. In the case of the prisoner, I should say
that shell-shock increased his predisposition to epilepsy."
"Do you suggest that shell-shock leads to epilepsy?"
"In general, no; in this particular case, possibly. A man may have
shell-shock, and injury to the brain, which is not necessarily
epileptic."
"It is possible for shell-shock alone to lead to a subsequent attack of
insanity?" asked the judge.
"It is possible--certainly."
"How often do these attacks of petit mal occur?" asked Sir Herbert.
"They vary considerably according to the patient--sometimes once a week,
sometimes monthly, and there have been cases in which the attacks are
separated by months."
"Are not two attacks in twenty-four hours unprecedented?"
"Unusual, but not unprecedented. The excitement of going from one place
to another, and walking miles to get there, would be a predisposing
factor. Prisoner would have been suffering from the effects of the first
attack when he left the Durrington hotel, and the excitement of the
change and the fatigue of walking all day would have been very
prejudicial to him, and account for the second and more violent attack."
"How long do the after effects last--of an attack of petit mal, I mean."
"It depends on the violence of the attack. Sometimes as long as five or
six hours. The recovery is generally attended with general lassitude."
"There is no evidence to show that the prisoner displayed any symptoms
of epilepsy before the attack which you witnessed at the Durrington
hotel. Is it not unusual for a person to reach the age of twenty-eight
or thereabouts without showing any previous signs of a disease like
epilepsy?"
"There must be a first attack--that goes without saying," interposed the
judge testily.
That concluded the cross-examination. Mr. Middleheath, in
re-examination, asked Sir Henry whether foam at the lips was a
distinguishing mark of epilepsy.
"It generally indicates an epileptic tendency," replied Sir Henry
Durwood.
At the conclusion of Sir Henry Durwood's evidence Mr. Middleheath called
an official from the War Office to prove formally that Lieutenant James
Penreath had been discharged from His Majesty's forces suffering from
shell-shock.
"I understand that, prior to the illness which terminated his military
career, Lieutenant Penreath had won a reputation as an exceedingly
gallant soldier, and had been awarded the D.S.O," said Mr. Middleheath.
"That is so," replied the witness.
"Is that the case?" asked the judge.
"That, my lord, is the case," replied Mr. Middleheath.
Sir Herbert Templewood, on behalf of the Crown, proceeded to call
rebutting medical evidence to support the Crown contention that the
accused was sane and aware of the nature of his acts. The first witness
was Dr. Henry Manton, of Heathfield, who said he saw the accused when he
was brought into the station from Flegne by Police Constable Queensmead.
He seemed perfectly rational, though disinclined to talk.
"Did you find any symptom upon him which pointed to his having recently
suffered from epilepsy of any kind?" asked Sir Herbert.
"No."
"Do you agree with Sir Henry Durwood that between attacks of epilepsy
the patient would exhibit no signs of the disease?" asked Mr.
Middleheath.
"What do you mean by between the attacks?"
"I mean when he had completely recovered from one fit and before the
next came on," explained counsel.
"I quite agree with that," replied the witness.
"How long does it usually take for a man to recover from an attack of
epilepsy?"
"It depends on the severity of the attack."
"Well, take an attack serious enough to cause a man to commit murder."
"It may take hours--five or six hours. He would certainly be drowsy and
heavy for three or four hours afterwards."
"But not longer--he would not show symptoms for thirty-six hours?"
"Certainly not."
"Then, may I take it from you, doctor, that after the five or six hours
recovery after a bad attack an epileptic might show no signs of the
disease--not even to medical eyes--till the next attack?"
"I should say so," replied the witness. "But I am not an authority on
mental diseases."
"Thank you."
The next witness was Dr. Gilbert Horbury, who described himself as
medical officer of His Majesty's prison, Norwich, and formerly medical
officer of the London detention prison. In reply to Sir Herbert
Templewood, he said he had had much experience in cases of insanity and
alleged insanity. He had had the accused in the present case under
observation since the time he had been brought to the gaol. He was very
taciturn, but he was quiet and gentlemanly in his behaviour. His
temperature and pulse were normal, but he slept badly, and twice he
complained of pains in the head. Witness attributed the pains in the
head to the effect of shell-shock. He had seen no signs which suggested,
to his mind, that prisoner was an epileptic. In reply to a direct
question by Sir Herbert Templewood, he expressed his deliberate
professional opinion that the accused was not suffering from epilepsy in
any form. Epilepsy did not start off with a bad attack ending in
violence--or murder. There were premonitory symptoms and slight attacks
extending over a considerable period, which must have manifested
themselves, particularly in the case of a man who had been through an
arduous military campaign. His illness might have had a bad effect on
the brain, but if it had led to mental disease he would have expected it
to show itself before.
From this point of view the witness, a dour, grey figure of a man,
refused to be driven by cross-examination. His many professional years
within the sordid atmosphere of gaol walls had taught him that most
criminals were malingerers by instinct, and that pretended insanity was
the commonest form of their imposition to evade the consequence of
their misdeeds. The number of false cases which had passed through his
hands had led him to the very human conclusion that all such defences
were merely efforts to defraud the law, and, as a zealous officer of the
law, he took a righteous satisfaction in discomfiting them, particularly
when--as in the present instance--the defence was used to shield an
accused of some social standing. For Dr. Horbury's political tendencies
were levelling and iconoclastic, and he had a deep contempt for caste,
titles, and monarchs.
He was too sophisticated as a witness to walk into Mr. Middleheath's
trap and contradict Sir Henry's evidence directly, but he contrived to
convey the impression that his own observation of accused, covering a
period of nine days, was a better guide for the jury in arriving at a
conclusion as to the accused's state of mind than Sir Henry's opinion,
formed after a single and limited opportunity of diagnosing the case. He
also managed to infer, in a gentlemanly professional way, that Sir Henry
Durwood was deservedly eminent in the medical world as a nerve
specialist, rather than as a mental specialist, whereas witness's own
experience in mental cases had been very wide. He talked learnedly of
the difficulty of diagnosing epilepsy except after prolonged
observation, and cited lengthily from big books, which a court constable
brought into court one by one, on symptoms, reflex causes, auras, grand
mal, petit mal, Jacksonian epilepsy, and the like.
The only admission of any value that Mr. Middleheath could extract from
Dr. Horbury was a statement that while he had seen no symptoms in the
prisoner to suggest that he was an epileptic, epileptics did not, as a
rule, show symptoms of the disease between the attack.
"Therefore, assuming the fact that Penreath is subject to epilepsy, you
would not necessarily expect to find any symptoms of the disease during
the time he was awaiting trial?" asked Mr. Middleheath, eagerly
following up the opening.
"Possibly nothing that one could swear to," rejoined the witness, in an
exceedingly dry tone.
Mr. Middleheath essayed no more questions, but got the witness out of
the box as quickly as possible, trusting to his own address to remove
the effect of the evidence on the mind of the jury. At the outset of
that address he pointed out that the case for the Crown rested upon
purely circumstantial evidence, and that nobody had seen the prisoner
commit the murder with which he was charged. The main portion of his
remarks was directed to convincing the jury that the prisoner was the
unhappy victim of epileptic attacks, in which he was not responsible for
his actions. He scouted the theory of motive, as put forward by the
Crown. It was not fair to suggest that the Treasury note which the
accused paid to the servant at the inn was necessarily part of the dead
man's money which had disappeared on the night of the murder and had not
since been recovered. The fact that the accused had been turned out of
the Grand Hotel, for not paying his hotel bill, was put forward by the
Crown to show that he was in a penniless condition, but that assumption
went too far. It might well be that a man in the accused's social
standing would have a pound or two in his pocket, although he might not
be able to meet an hotel bill of £30.
"Can you conceive this young man, this gallant soldier, this heir to an
old and honourable name, with everything in life to look forward to,
committing an atrocious murder for £300?" continued Mr. Middleheath.
"The traditions of his name and race, his upbringing, his recent gallant
career as a soldier, alike forbid the sordid possibility. Moreover, he
had no need to commit a crime to obtain money. His father, his friends,
or the woman who was to be his wife, would have instantly supplied him
with the money he needed, if they had known he was in want. To a young
man in his station of life £300 is a comparatively small sum. Is it
likely that he would have committed murder to obtain it?"
"On the other hand, the prisoner's actions, since returning to England,
strongly suggest that his mind has been giving way for some time past.
He was invalided from the Army suffering from shell-shock, with the
result that his constitution became weakened, and the fatal taint of
inherited epilepsy, which was in his blood, began to manifest itself.
His family doctor and his fiancée have told you that his behaviour was
strange before he left for Norfolk; since coming to Norfolk it has been
unmistakably that of a man who is no longer sane. Was it the conduct of
a sane man to conceal his whereabouts from his friends, and stay at an
hotel without money till he was turned out, when he might have had
plenty of money, or at all events saved himself the humiliation of being
turned out of the hotel, at the cost of a telegram? And why did he
subsequently go miles across country to a remote and wretched inn, where
he had never been before, and beg for a bed for the night? Were these
the acts of a sane man?"
In his peroration Mr. Middleheath laid particular emphasis on the
evidence of Sir Henry Durwood, whose name was known throughout England
as one of the most eminent specialists of his day. Sir Henry Durwood,
Mr. Middleheath pointed out, had seen the prisoner in a fit at the
Durrington hotel, and he emphatically declared that the accused was an
epileptic, with homicidal tendencies. Such an opinion, coming from such
a quarter, was, to Mr. Middleheath's mind, incontrovertible proof of
the prisoner's insanity, and he did not see how the jury could go behind
it in coming to a decision.
Sir Herbert Templewood's address consisted of a dry marshalling of the
facts for and against the theory of insanity. Sir Herbert contended that
the defence had failed to establish their contention that the accused
man was not in his right mind. He impressed upon the jury the decided
opinion of Dr. Horbury, who, as doctor of the metropolitan receiving
gaol, had probably a wider experience of epilepsy and insanity than any
specialist in the world. Dr. Horbury, after nine days close observation
of the accused, had come to the conclusion that he was perfectly sane
and responsible for his actions.
The general opinion among the bunch of legal wigs which gathered
together at the barristers' table as Sir Herbert Templewood resumed his
seat was that the issue had been very closely fought on both sides, and
that the verdict would depend largely upon the way the judge summed up.
His lordship commenced his summing up by informing the jury that in the
first place they must be satisfied that the prisoner was the person who
killed Mr. Glenthorpe. He did not think they would have much difficulty
on that head, because, although the evidence was purely circumstantial,
it pointed strongly to the accused, and the defence had not seriously
contested the charge. Therefore, if they were satisfied that the accused
did, in fact, cause the death of Mr. Glenthorpe, the only question that
remained for them to decide was the state of the prisoner's mind at the
time. If they were satisfied that he was not insane at the time, they
must find him guilty of murder. If, however, they came to the conclusion
that he was insane at the time he committed the act, they would return
a verdict that he was guilty of the act charged against him, but that he
was insane at the time.
His lordship painstakingly defined the difference between sanity and
insanity in the eyes of the law, but though his precise and legal
definition called forth appreciative glances from the lawyers below him,
it is doubtful whether the jury were much wiser for the explanation.
After reviewing the evidence for the prosecution at considerable length,
his lordship then proceeded, with judicial impartiality, to state the
case for the defence. The case for the prisoner, he said, was that he
had been strange or eccentric ever since he returned from the front
suffering from shell-shock, that his eccentricity deepened into
homicidal insanity, and that he committed the act of which he stood
charged while suffering under an attack of epilepsy, which produced a
state of mind that led the sufferer to commit an act of violence without
understanding what he was doing. In view of the nature of this defence
the jury were bound to look into the prisoner's family and hereditary
history, and into his own acts before the murder, before coming to a
conclusion as to his state of mind.
The defence, he thought, had proved sufficient to enable the jury to
draw the conclusion that Lady Penreath, the mother of the prisoner, was
an epileptic. The assertion that the prisoner was an epileptic rested
upon the evidence of Sir Henry Durwood, for the evidence of Miss
Willoughby and the family doctor went no further than to suggest a
slight strangeness or departure from the prisoner's usual demeanour. Sir
Henry Durwood, by reason of his professional standing, was entitled to
be received with respect, but he had himself admitted that he had had no
previous opportunity of diagnosing the case of accused, and that it was
difficult to form an exact opinion in a disease like epilepsy. Dr.
Horbury, on the other hand, had declared that the prisoner showed
nothing symptomatic of epilepsy while awaiting remand. In Dr. Horbury's
opinion, he was not an epileptic. Therefore the case resolved itself
into a direct conflict of medical testimony, and it was for the jury to
decide, and form a conclusion as to the man's state of mind in
conjunction with the other evidence.
"The contention for the defence," continued his lordship, leaning
forward and punctuating his words with sharp taps of his fountain pen on
the desk in front of him, "is this: 'Look at this case fairly and
clearly, and you are bound to come to the conclusion that this man is
not in a sound frame of mind.' The prosecution, on the other hand, say,
'The facts of this case do not point to insanity at all, but to
deliberate murder for gain.' The defence urge further, 'You have got to
look at the probabilities. No man in prisoner's position, a gentleman by
birth and upbringing, the heir of an old and proud name, with a hitherto
unblemished reputation, and the prospects of a long and not
inconspicuous career in front of him, would in his senses have murdered
this old man.' That is a matter for you to consider, because we do know
that brutal crimes are committed by the most unlikely persons. But the
prosecution also allege motive, and you must consider the question of
motive. It is suggested, and it is for you to consider whether rightly
or wrongly suggested, that there was a motive in killing this man,
because the prisoner was absolutely penniless and wanted to get money."
"Gentlemen, you will first apply your minds to considering all the
evidence, and you will next consider whether you are satisfied that the
prisoner knew the difference between right and wrong so far as the act
with which he is charged is concerned. You must decide whether he knew
the nature and quality of the act, and whether he knew the difference
between that act being right, and that act being wrong. I have already
pointed out to you that the law presumes him to be of sane mind, and
able to distinguish between right and wrong, and it is for him to
satisfy you, if he is to escape responsibility for this act, that he
could not tell whether it was right or wrong. If you are satisfied of
that, you ought to say that he is guilty of the act alleged, but insane
at the time it was committed. If you are not satisfied on that point,
then it is your duty to find him guilty of murder. Gentlemen, you will
kindly retire and consider your verdict."
The jury retired, and there ensued a period of tension, which the
lawyers employed in discussing the technicalities of the case and the
probabilities of an acquittal. Mr. Oakham thought an acquittal was a
certainty, but Mr. Middleheath, with a deeper knowledge of the ways of
provincial juries, declared that the defence would have stood a better
chance of success before a London jury, because Londoners had more
imagination than other Englishmen.
"You never can tell how a d----d muddle-headed country jury will decide
a highly technical case like this," said the K.C. peevishly. "I've lost
stronger cases than this before a Norfolk jury. Norfolk men are
clannish, and Horbury's evidence carried weight. He is a Norfolk man,
though he has been in London. One never knows, of course. If the jury
remain out over an hour I think we will pull it off."
But the jury returned into court after an absence of forty minutes. The
judge, who was waiting in his private room, was informed, and he entered
the court and resumed his seat. The jury answered to their names, and
then the Clerk of Arraigns, in a sing-song voice, said:
"Gentlemen, have you agreed upon your verdict? Do you find the prisoner
guilty or not guilty of wilful murder?"
"Guilty!" answered the foreman, in a loud, clear voice.
"You say that he is guilty of murder, and that is the verdict of you
all?"
"That is the verdict of us all," was the response.
"James Ronald Penreath," continued the clerk, turning to the accused
man, and speaking in the same sing-song tones of one who repeated a
formula by rote, "you stand convicted of the crime of wilful murder.
Have you anything to say for yourself why the Court should not give you
judgment of death according to law?"
The man in the dock, who had turned very pale, merely shook his head.
The judge, with expressionless face and in an expressionless voice,
pronounced sentence of death.