Four times the stumbling, mechanical stories were repeated to set the officer yawning, and then there was a change. It was the turn of Hake, the large black-bearded man who had threatened Andrews from the dock. When he rose the candles were being lighted in Court and his shadow swung across the ceiling in the manner of a gigantic bird. His voice boomed into the corridor like struck metal deeply toned.
“My lord, the gentlemen of the jury have a responsibility on them today the like of which will never come their way again. Whose word are they going to take? Those gaugers, afraid of losing their jobs the whole lot of them, ours—men they’ve drunk with—that sneak’s, that Andrews with his loose woman, or ours? If they hang us and the truth comes out who’ll speak for their souls in the day of Judgment? Who’ll defend their bodies here?”
“Prisoner,” a high petulant voice, “are you threatening the jury? The jury have nothing to do with the punishment. They have only to decide whether you are innocent or guilty.”
“I only warn them …”
“The jury will be protected in the performance of their duty. Threats do not strengthen your case.”
“Are you going to hang us?”
“I am anxious to be fair, but unless you proceed with your defence, you must sit down.”
“My defence is the same as these others. I wasn’t there. I’ll prove it with witnesses as these will. But a man’s been killed, you’ll say, you can’t get over that. Well, I’ll tell you who killed him. He did,” and his finger pierced across and emphasised the desert which surrounded Tims. Tims leapt to his feet. “You don’t mean it,” he said, “you are lying. Tell them you are lying.” He sank down again on his chair and covering his face with his hands began to cry with a peculiar moaning sound like a sick animal’s. Mingled with the booming voice it made a peculiar orchestral effect in the corridor.
“I’ve heard him, I tell you, talking about it. He’s a half-witted loon, you can see that for yourself, more fit for the asylum than for the gallows. He used to tell me many a time what he intended to do to Rexall. Rexall used to tease him in the street. You’ve heard a gauger say so himself, but there’s more evidence than that to it. I wouldn’t expect you to take a gauger’s word. But listen here—you are honest men and will bring us in innocent.”
“You are not addressing the jury, you are addressing the Court.”
“I’m sorry, my lord, what I mean to say,” he leant forward over the edge of the dock towards the jury, “the jury will want to know what’s to happen to that Judas and his woman. Let them leave it to us, I say, let them leave it to us.”
Before Sir Edward Parkin could speak he sat down. The officer stole a glance at Andrews. He slept on.
The Court seemed peculiarly silent when that booming voice was still. They were waiting for the last prisoner to make his defence, but he remained seated, his face covered by his hands which shook spasmodically in time with his moans.
“Richard Tims, this is the time that it becomes your duty to make your defence.”
He made no reply, no sign even that he had heard the judge’s voice.
“Mr. Braddock, you represent the prisoner, do you not?”
“I, my lord?” Mr. Braddock rose, sweeping his gown round him, as though to escape pollution. “This prisoner? No, my lord. I represent the other prisoners.”
“No one ever seems capable of making out the lists correctly. You are put down for all the prisoners, Mr. Braddock.”
“I was never so instructed, my lord.”
“Which of you represents this prisoner?”
There was no reply.
“Has this prisoner had no legal advice?” Sir Edward Parkin protested with a faint note of annoyance.
“If he had wished, my lord, he could have had counsel.”
“This is very trying. The case has gone on long enough as it is. I don’t want any delay. The Assizes is a very full one.”
“My lord,” an elderly little man with blinking eyes rose to his feet, “I will represent the prisoner if you so wish it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Petty. Will you explain to the prisoner that he must make his defence?”
Mr. Petty stepped delicately to the edge of the Court and holding a handkerchief to his nose spoke to the boy.
“It’s no use, my lord, the prisoner is not in a fit state to make his defence.”
“The jury will take it that he merely asserts his innocence. Mr. Braddock will you call your witnesses?” Sir Edward Parkin leant back and dabbed his fingers furiously in his snuffbox. He was annoyed. The case had been held up for at least two minutes. His breakfast had been a bad one, his luncheon worse, and he was hungry. The trial showed no sign of reaching an end, but his hunger, far from leading to an adjournment, only confirmed his obstinacy. He would sit till midnight if necessary, but he would finish the trial.
One after another men, women and children filed into the witness box and committed mechanical perjury. This woman was in bed with that man at the time of the murder, this man was toasting another in whisky, a child had heard its father undressing upstairs. Sir Henry Merriman shrugged his shoulders at Mr. Farne. “They have us,” he seemed to say. “That man Andrews,” Mr. Farne whispered, “was worse than useless.” Only occasionally did they trouble to cross-examine. The witnesses had been too well primed in their stories. Mr. Petty, having magnanimously undertaken the task of representing the half-wit, closed his eyes and went to sleep.
Mrs. Butler scrambled up the steps of the witness box and allowed her ample breasts to flow over the edge. Yes, she had seen Andrews at a certain woman’s
