“Do you think that with a little more time you may be able to reach an agreement?”
“I’m afraid not, my lord.” The foreman glanced savagely at one corner of the jury box, where the elderly spinster sat with her head bowed and her hands tightly clasped. “I see no prospect at all of our ever agreeing.”
“Can I assist you in any way?”
“No, thank you, my lord. We quite understand the evidence, but we cannot agree about it.”
“That is unfortunate. I think perhaps you had better try again, and then, if you are still unable to come to a decision, you must come back and tell me. In the meantime, if my knowledge of the law can be of any assistance to you, it is, of course, quite at your disposal.”
The jury stumbled sullenly away. The judge trailed his scarlet robes out at the back of the bench. The murmur of conversation rose and swelled into a loud rumble.
“By jove,” said Freddy Arbuthnot, “I believe it’s your Miss Climpson that’s holdin’ the jolly old show up, Wimsey. Did you see how the foreman glared at her?”
“Good egg,” said Wimsey, “oh, excellent, excellent egg! She has a fearfully tough conscience—she may stick it out yet.”
“I believe you’ve been corrupting the jury, Wimsey. Did you signal to her or something?”
“I didn’t,” said Wimsey. “Believe me or believe me not, I refrained from so much as a lifted eyebrow.”
“And he himself has said it,” muttered Freddy, “and it’s greatly to his credit. But it’s damned hard on people who want their dinners.”
Six hours. Six hours and a half.
“At last!”
As the jury filed back for the second time, they showed signs of wear and tear. The harassed woman had been crying and was still choking into her handkerchief. The man with the bad cold looked nearly dead. The artist’s hair was rumpled into an untidy bush. The company director and the foreman looked as though they would have liked to strangle somebody, and the elderly spinster had her eyes shut and her lips moving as though she were praying.
“Members of the jury, are you agreed upon your verdict?”
“No; we are quite sure that it is impossible for us ever to agree.”
“You are quite sure?” said the judge. “I do not wish to hurry you in any way. I am quite prepared to wait here as long as ever you like.”
The snarl of the company director was audible even in the gallery. The foreman controlled himself, and replied in a voice ragged with temper and exhaustion.
“We shall never agree, my lord—not if we were to stay here till Doomsday.”
“That is very unfortunate,” said the judge, “but in that case, of course, there is nothing for it but to discharge you and order a fresh trial. I feel sure that you have all done your best and that you have brought all the resources of your intelligence and conscience to bear on this matter to which you have listened with so much patient and zealous attention. You are discharged, and you are entitled to be excused from all further jury service for the next twelve years.”
Almost before the further formalities were completed, and while the judge’s robes still flared in the dark little doorway, Wimsey had scrambled down into the well of the court. He caught the defending counsel by the gown.
“Biggy—well done! You’ve got another chance. Let me in on this and we’ll put it off.”
“You think so, Wimsey? I don’t mind confessing that we’ve done better than I ever expected.”
“We’ll do better still next time. I say, Biggy, swear me in as a clerk or something. I want to interview her.”
“Who, my client?”
“Yes, I’ve got a hunch about this case. We’ve got to get her off, and I know it can be done.”
“Well, come and see me tomorrow. I must go and speak to her now. I’ll be in my chambers at ten. Good night.”
Wimsey darted off and rushed round to the side door, from which the jury were emerging. Last of them all, her hat askew and her mackintosh dragged awkwardly round her shoulders, came the elderly spinster. Wimsey dashed up to her and seized her hand.
“Miss Climpson!”
“Oh, Lord Peter. Oh, dear! What a dreadful day it has been. Do you know, it was me that caused the trouble, mostly, though two of them most bravely backed me up, and oh, Lord Peter, I hope I haven’t done wrong, but I couldn’t, no I couldn’t in conscience say she had done it when I was sure she hadn’t, could I? Oh, dear, oh, dear!”
“You’re absolutely right. She didn’t do it, and thank God you stood up to them and gave her another chance. I’m going to prove she didn’t do it. And I’m going to take you out to dinner, and—I say, Miss Climpson!”
“Yes?”
“I hope you won’t mind, because I haven’t shaved since this morning, but I’m going to take you round the next quiet corner and kiss you.”
IV
The following day was a Sunday, but Sir Impey Biggs cancelled an engagement to play golf (with the less regret as it was pouring cats and dogs), and held an extraordinary council of war.
“Well, now, Wimsey,” said the advocate, “what is your idea about this? May I introduce Mr. Crofts of Crofts & Cooper, solicitors for the defence.”
“My idea is that Miss Vane didn’t do it,” said Wimsey. “I dare say that’s an idea which has already occurred to you, but with the weight of my great mind behind it, no doubt it strikes the imagination more forcibly.”
Mr. Crofts, not being quite clear whether this was funny or fatuous, smiled deferentially.
“Quite so,” said Sir Impey, “but I should be interested to know how many of the jury saw it in that light.”
“Well, I can tell you that, at least, because I know one of them. One woman and half a woman and about three quarters of
