“That is no doubt another woman. There’s no need to tell the jury of all the women with whom you have consorted.” Mr. Braddock sniggered and the jury tittered. Sir Edward Parkin allowed himself a faint smile as he watched the young women in the public gallery.
The faces in front of Andrews, the solicitors at the table, the usher, the now soundly sleeping Clerk of Arraigns, the bearded prisoners in the dock, the spectators in the gallery, the twelve hostile cow-like jurymen, were becoming rapidly an indistinct blur, one large composite face of many eyes and mouths. Only Mr. Braddock’s face, red and angry, protruded very distinctly out of this mass, as he leant forward to shoot out his questions, which seemed to Andrews absurd and meaningless.
“Do you still persist in saying that you landed with the prisoners on the night of February 10?”
“But it’s true, I tell you.” Andrews clenched his fists and longed to beat back that red aggressive face into the grey mists which surrounded it. Then I could sleep, he thought, and his mind dwelt with longing on the cool white sheets and warm clean blankets which had been wasted on his restless mind and body the night before.
“Carry your mind back two days. Were you not in the company of a notoriously loose woman?”
“No. I don’t understand. I haven’t been with a woman like that for weeks. Can’t you take my answer and have done.” Staring at the face of Mr. Braddock, as it darted back and forth, Andrews was surprised to see it apparently disintegrate under his eyes. It softened and collapsed and reformed itself into a kind of tigerish amiability.
“I don’t want to tire you. This must be a very trying experience for you.” Mr. Braddock paused, and even in his weariness Andrews smiled, remembering the weaver Bottom—“I can roar you as softly as any sucking dove.”
“I think we are talking at cross-purposes. I am sure that you don’t wish to hinder the course of justice. Only tell the jury where you were staying two nights ago.”
“At a cottage out Hassocks way.”
“Not all by yourself, surely?” The red face creased itself into a sneer, the coarse mouth with two great gravestone teeth sniggered out loud, seeming to give a lead and a cue to laughter from gallery and jury. The usher, grinning himself, called perfunctorily for silence.
“What do you mean?” The laughter confused Andrews. It was like a mist between himself and any clear thought.
“Answer the question,” Mr. Braddock snapped at him. “It was plain enough. Were you alone?”
“No. Why? I was with—”
“With whom?”
He hesitated. He did not know her name, he realised.
“A woman?”
The word woman seemed too general and too coarse a name to describe the banner under which he now fought. A woman? He had known many women, and Elizabeth was not like one of them. She was something more remote and infinitely more desirable.
“No,” he said, and then seeing Mr. Braddock’s great mouth open for another question, he grew dismayed—“at least …” he said and stood confused, hopelessly barren of words.
“Don’t jest with us. It must have been either a woman, a man or a child. Which was it?”
“A woman,” and before he could add some qualifying phrase he was struck by a wave of laughter from every corner of the Court. He came out of it, as though half drowned, red, gasping, blind to everything but the face of his questioner, which was already darting forward for another question.
“What is her name?”
“Elizabeth,” he murmured indistinctly, but loud enough for Mr. Braddock to hear. He gave it to the Court with the air of a jester. “Elizabeth. And what is the young woman’s surname?”
“I don’t know.”
“What was that the witness said?” Sir Edward Parkin tapped the sheet of paper in front of him with his pen.
“He doesn’t know her surname, my lord,” Mr. Braddock replied with a grin. Sir Edward Parkin smiled, and as though his smile gave an awaited sanction, laughter again swept the Court.
“My lord,” Mr. Braddock continued, when silence had been restored, “the witness’s ignorance is not as astounding as it may seem. Opinion on the point differs a great deal among her neighbours.”
Andrews leant forward and banged the edge of the box with his clenched fist. “What are you insinuating?” he said.
“Be quiet,” Sir Edward Parkin turned on him, fingers poised in the act of taking snuff. He turned and smiled ingratiatingly at Mr. Braddock. The case was proving more amusing than he had foreseen.
“Well, my lord, I shall bring a witness to show that the girl is the daughter, probably illegitimate, of a woman called Garnet. The woman is dead and no one knows whether she ever had a husband. They had a lodger staying with them and he took over the farm when the woman died. It is a common idea in the countryside that the girl was not only the daughter of this man, but also his mistress.”
“Where is the man?”
“He is dead, my lord.”
“Do you propose to call the girl as a witness?”
“No, my lord, the information has only this moment come into my hands, and in any case the girl would not be a witness in whom the jury could place any credence. The whole story is a very sordid one.”
“My God, do you know what’s beautiful?” Andrews cried.
“If you cannot keep silent,” Sir Edward Parkin said, “I shall commit you for contempt of court.”
“My lord,” Andrews appealed, and hesitated, trying to shake off the mist of weariness that clung round his brain and clogged his words.
“Is there something you want to say?”
Andrews lifted a hand to his forehead. He must find words in the mist which shrouded him, words to express the
