'Why? The suggestion creeps in that the victim heard something pretty bad about the prisoner. You haven't heard what it was; you've heard only that they can't tell you what it was. They simply say: 'Where there's smoke there must be some fire'; but you haven't even heard about any smoke. They can't supply any reason why Avory Hume suddenly seemed to act like a lunatic. 'But, d'ye see,
There was no doubt that he had caught his audience. He was speaking almost off-handedly, his fists on his hips, and glaring over his spectacles.
'The facts, the actual physical facts in this case, aren't in doubt. It's the causes for these facts that we're goin' to question. We're goin' to show you the real reason for the victim's conduct: we're goin' to show you that it had nothing whatever to do with the prisoner: and we're goin' to suggest that the whole case against this man was a deliberate frame-up from end to end. The Crown can't supply any motive for anybody's actions; we can. The Crown can't tell you what happened to a large piece of feather that mysteriously vanished; we can. The Crown can't tell you how anyone except the prisoner could have committed the crime; we WILL.
‘I said a minute ago that the case has been presented to you: 'If the prisoner didn't commit the crime, who did?' But you can't say to yourselves: 'It is very difficult to think that he didn't do it'; if that's what you think, you'll have to acquit him. But I don't mean to bother with merely provin' a reasonable doubt of his guilt; we mean to show that there's no reasonable doubt of his innocence. Why, burn me -'
Lollypop warningly flourished that curious typewritten sheet as H.M. began to thrust out his neck.
'All right, all right I In other words, you'll hear an alternative explanation. Now, it's not my business to indicate who really committed this murder, if the prisoner didn't. That's outside our inquiry. But I'll show you two pieces of a feather, hidden in a place so obvious that nobody in this dazzlin' investigation has thought of looking there; and I'll ask you where you really think the murderer was standin' when Avory Hume was killed. You've heard a whole lot of views and opinions. You've heard all about the prisoner's sinister leers and erratic conduct: first they tell you he's so nervous he can't hold on to his hat, and next he's so coldly cynical that he smokes a cigarette: though why either of them acts should be suspicious is beyond my simple mind. You've heard how first he was supposed to threaten Hume with murder, and then how Hume got up and bolted the door so that he could do it more conveniently. You've heard what he might have done and what he probably did and what he never could have done in this broad green world; and now, by the flaming horns o' Tophet, it's time you heard the truth. I call the prisoner.'
While H.M. gobbled at a glass of water, one of the warders in the dock touched Answell's arm. The door in the dock was unlocked, and he was led down through the well of the court. He walked nervously, without looking at the jury as he passed. His neck-tie was a little loose from much fingering; and his hand would go up to it frequently. Again we had an opportunity of studying someone under fire. Answell's^ light hair was parted on one side; he had good features which showed imagination and sensitiveness rather than a high intelligence; and his only movement, aside from touching his tie or moving his big shoulders slightly, was to glance up at the roof of the witness-box. In this roof there is a concealed mirror - a relic of the days when light was thus focused - and it seemed to fascinate him at times. His eyes looked a little sunken and completely fixed.
Despite H.M.'s truculence - he was drinking water with the effect of gargling it -1 knew he was worried. This was the turn of the case. During the time a prisoner is in the box (usually more than an hour and sometimes a day) he carries his fate in his mouth every second. It is a good man who will not falter before the pulverizing cross- examination that is waiting for him.
H.M.'s manner was deceptively easy.
'Now, son. Your name?'
'James Caplon Answell,' said the other.
Although he was speaking in a very low tone, hardly audible, his voice flew off at a tangent. He cleared his throat a few times, turning his head away to do so, and then gave a half-guilty glance at the judge.
'You've got no occupation, and you live at 23 Duke Street?'
'Yes. That is - I lived there.'
'At about the end of December last, did you become engaged to be married to Miss Mary Hume?' 'Yes.'
'Where were you then?'
'At Mr and Mrs Stoneman's house at Frawnend, in Sussex.'
H.M. led him gently through the part about the letters, but it did not put him at his ease. 'On the Friday - that's January 3rd - did you decide to go up to town next day?'
'Yes.'
'Why did you decide to do that?' An indistinguishable mutter.
'You will have to speak up,' said the judge sharply. 'We cannot hear a word you are saying.'
Answell looked round; but the fixed, sunken expression of his eyes never altered. With some effort he found his voice, and seemed to catch up things in the middle of a sentence. and I wanted to buy an engagement ring. I had not got one yet'
'You wanted to buy an engagement ring’ repeated H.M., keeping his tone to an encouraging growl. 'When did you decide to go? I mean, what part of Friday d'you decide this?'
'Late Friday night.'
'Uh-huh. What made you think of this trip?'
'My cousin Reg was going up to town that evening, and he asked me whether he could get an engagement ring for me.' A long pause. 'It was the first time I had thought of it.' Another long pause. 'I suppose I should have thought of it sooner.'
'Did you tell Miss Hume you were goin'?'
'Yes, naturally,' replied Answell, with a sudden and queer ghost of a smile which vanished immediately.
'Did you know that on this Friday evening she had put through a telephone-call to her father in London?'
'No, I did not know it then. I learned it afterwards.'
'Was it before or after this call that you decided to come to town next day?'
'Afterwards.'
'Yes. What happened then?'
'Happened? Oh, I see what you mean,' said the other, as though with relief. 'She said she would write a note to her father, and she sat down and wrote one.'
'Did you see this note?'
‘Yes.’
'In this note, did it mention what train you were takin' in the morning?'
'Yes, the nine o'clock from Frawnend station.'
'That's about an hour and three-quarters' run, ain't it? Thereabouts?'
'Yes, on a fast train. It is not quite as far as Chichester.'
'Did the note mention both the time of departure and the time of gettin' there?'
‘Yes, ten-forty-five at Victoria. It's the train Mary herself always takes when she goes up.'
'So he knew the train pretty well, eh?' 'He must have.'
H.M. was allowing him plenty of time, and handling him with the softest of gloves. Answell, with the same fixed and sunken look, usually started off a sentence clearly, but allowed it to tail off.
'What'd you do after you got to London?'
'I - I went and bought a ring. And some other business.'
'And after that?'
'I went to my flat.'
'What time did you get there?'
'About twenty-five minutes past one.'
'Was that when the deceased rang you up?'
'Yes, about one-thirty.'
H.M. leaned forward, humping his shoulders and spreading out his big hands on the desk. At the same time the prisoner's own hands began to tremble badly. He looked up at the edge of the roof over the box; it was as though they were approaching some climax where wires must not be drawn too tightly or they would snap.
'Now, you've heard it testified that the deceased had already rung up your flat many times that mornin',
