‘I don’t need representation.’
Godfrey looked flummoxed. ‘For God sake, boy, do you want them to hang you?’
Pyke didn’t answer him.
Once the recorder, Lord Chief Justice Marshall, had read out the indictment, he turned his attention to Pyke, who was standing across the courtroom from him in the dock, and asked how he wished to plead.
‘Not guilty,’ Pyke said, loud enough for the whole courtroom to hear him.
Under his horsehair wig, Marshall frowned. ‘I am led to believe that you are without legal representation. Is that correct?’
‘It is, Your Honour.’
Marshall nodded gravely. ‘I want to make it clear that this sorry state of affairs provides you with no legal grounds for arguing for a new trial at some later date.’
‘I understand, Your Honour.’
‘Very well. Let the trial begin.’
Once the jury was sworn in and two further judges had taken their place on the bench next to Marshall, beneath the sword of justice, the Crown’s barrister, William Gregson, started to outline the case against Pyke. Emphasising certain elements of the Crown’s case over others, he drew attention to the testimony they would hear from Maggie Smallman, the barmaid who worked at the accused’s ‘sordid’ gin palace: she would tell the court that Pyke had threatened to kill Lizzie Morgan, his mistress, on numerous occasions. He drew attention to a neighbour’s claim that he had heard the deceased call out to Pyke on the night she was murdered, begging for her life. He also told the court that Pyke’s flight from the murder scene was undoubtedly a sign of his guilt. He acknowledged that the Crown’s case relied on circumstantial evidence but pointed out that solid circumstantial evidence was often superior to eyewitness testimony. Pyke listened to his speech with interest but said nothing.
When Pyke offered no cross-examination of the first four prosecution witnesses, the recorder felt compelled to intervene. He asked Pyke whether he thought it aided his defence to allow the testimony of witnesses, even ones with questionable reputations and social standing, to go uncontested. He seemed puzzled. Pyke said he would try to play a more active role in the proceedings. Marshall replied it wasn’t a question of what he wanted; rather, Pyke’s liberty and indeed his life were being threatened by his indifference. Again, Pyke promised he would try to do better. Marshall shook his head, as though he were dealing with a simpleton.
So when the next witness, James Hardwick, was introduced and outlined his own area of expertise - phrenology, or the relationship between the shape and size of a skull and the mind it contained - Pyke decided to involve himself in the proceedings.
He agreed to allow his own cranium to be measured and scribbled a few notes while Hardwick explained that Pyke’s ‘enlarged organ’ revealed a propensity for ‘recklessness, combativeness, destructiveness, self-esteem and secretiveness’.
When Hardwick had finished, Marshall asked whether Pyke cared to cross-examine the witness, and was about to move on when Pyke said, ‘I do have one question, Your Honour.’
‘Oh?’ Marshall looked up at him, a little surprised. ‘Go on, then.’
Pyke turned to the witness box and said he was very interested in Hardwick’s claim about the relationship between ‘anomalies’ in the skull and ‘enlarged cranial lobes’ and an individual’s propensity for recklessness and aggression.
‘Am I correct in concluding that, according to your theory, such cranial features suggest a less developed mind?’
Hardwick nodded. ‘Suggest is perhaps too modest a word.’
‘Such features demonstrate a less developed mind, then.’
‘Indeed,’ Hardwick said, looking at Pyke warily. ‘This was the thesis of Gall and Spurzheim and I see no reason to question it.’
‘And this propensity for violence, even murder, demonstrated in one’s skull shape and size, takes no account, you say, of social standing or class?’
‘That is correct.’
Pyke smiled. ‘Then since good science, as you well know, is based on the principles of scrutiny and observation, perhaps we might test this hypothesis, taking as our example the most esteemed of all men gathered here in this courtroom.’
Hardwick looked around him nervously. ‘And who might that be, sir?’
‘Why, of course, the King’s much venerated brother, Ernest Augustus, duke of Cumberland and earl of Armagh.’
Hardwick stammered that such a request was both impertinent and counter-productive. Beads of sweat appeared on his brow. Attention in the courtroom shifted from the dock to the bench. The duke himself, who had been watching proceedings through a pocket telescope, did not seem to welcome the interest. He whispered something angrily in Edmonton’s ear.
The recorder stepped in and scolded Pyke for his impudence. ‘Either proceed with an alternative line of questioning or permit the witness to stand down.’
‘But, Your Honour, this particular issue goes right to the heart of this man’s credibility, and since the prosecution has chosen, perhaps unwisely, to build its case using what I can only describe as pseudo-scientific evidence, then I am surely within my rights, particularly given the gravity of the charges, to test this evidence using any appropriate means at my disposal.’
This time, the recorder looked baffled. Next to him on the bench, the duke and Edmonton conferred with one another in a manner that indicated their unease.
‘Of course, I understand if the duke feels that participating in such an experiment is beneath him . . .’
This time Cumberland himself rose to speak. ‘This is preposterous . . .’ The way in which the light reflected on his facial scars made him seem demonic.
The recorder stepped in. ‘I will not permit common prisoners to address esteemed members of this bench.’
‘If he feels uneasy about availing himself . . .’
Cumberland, who had a reputation for impetuosity, interrupted. ‘I have nothing to hide.’ Then to Hardwick, he said, ‘Go ahead, sir, do your tests on me.’
A ripple of approval spread through the courtroom and the duke seemed to warm to his new-found popularity. The recorder looked on, helpless, perhaps feeling unable or unwilling to overrule royalty. Dressed in military regalia, Cumberland stood up while Hardwick wrapped a measuring tape around his skull and peered closely at the point where the ends of the tape met. Hardwick was sweating profusely. Back in the witness box, he did not know where to look: at the recorder, Cumberland or Pyke.
Pyke decided to push things along. ‘If I remember, the circumference of my own skull measured twenty-three and a half inches at its widest point. Is that correct?’ Hardwick nodded blankly. ‘Would you tell the court what the duke of Cumberland’s skull measured?’
Hardwick stared at him, ashen-faced, then, with a pleading expression, turned to the bench. The recorder looked similarly perturbed but knew that, in the circumstances, Hardwick had to answer the question. Cumberland seemed oblivious to their concerns.
‘Go ahead, sir,’ Pyke said, calmly.
‘One cannot judge character on the circumference of the skull alone. It is also a question of cranial shape . . .’
‘The measurement, if you please, sir.’
‘Your Honour?’ Hardwick looked pleadingly at the recorder.
Marshall did not seem to know what to say.
‘The measurement.’
Hardwick’s voice fell to a whisper. ‘Twenty-seven inches.’
‘Could you repeat that figure, sir, and this time so that the whole court may benefit from your wisdom?’
Hardwick was crestfallen. ‘Twenty-seven inches.’
Gasps of astonishment were accompanied by a ripple of nervous laughter emanating from the public gallery.
