Chapter 27

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.