Here Sir Impey Biggs interposed and begged with submission to suggest that his lordship should remind the jury of the evidence given by Mr. Challoner.
“Certainly, Sir Impey, I am obliged to you. You remember that Mr. Challoner is Harriet Vane’s literary agent. He came here to tell us that he had discussed with her as long ago as last December the subject of her forthcoming book, and she told him that it was to be about poisons, and very probably about arsenic. So you may think it is a point in the prisoner’s favour that this intention of studying the purchase and administration of arsenic was already in her mind some time before the quarrel with Philip Boyes took place. She evidently gave considerable thought to the subject, for there were a of books on her shelves dealing with forensic medicine and toxicology, and also the reports of several famous poison trials, including the Madeleine Smith case, the Seddon case and the Armstrong case – all of which were cases of arsenical poisoning.
“Well, I think that is the case as it is presented to you. This woman is charged with having murdered her former lover by arsenic. He undoubtedly did take arsenic, and if you are satisfied that she gave it to him with intent to injure or kill him, and that he died of it, then it is your duty to find her guilty of murder.
“Sir Impey Biggs, in his able and eloquent speech, has put it to you that she had very little motive for such a murder, but I am bound to tell you that murders are very often committed for what seem to be most inadequate motives – if, indeed, any motive can be called adequate for such a crime. Especially where the parties are husband and wife, or have lived together as husband and wife, there are likely to be passionate feelings which may tend to crimes of violence in persons with inadequate moral standards and of unbalanced mind.
“The prisoner had the means – the arsenic – she had the expert knowledge, and she had the opportunity to administer it. The defence say that this is not enough. They say the Crown must go further and prove that the poison could not have been taken in any other way – by accident, or with suicidal intent. That is for you to judge. If you feel that there is any reasonable doubt that the prisoner gave poison to Philip Boyes deliberately, you must bring her in ‘Not Guilty’ of murder. You are not bound to decide how was given, if it was not given by her. Consider the circumstances of the case as whole, and say what conclusion you have come to.”
CHAPTER III
“They won’t be long, I shouldn’t think,” said Waffles Newton, “it’s pretty damned obvious. Look here, old man, I’m going to push my stuff in. Will you let me know what happens?”
“Sure,” said Salcombe Hardy, “if you don’t mind dropping mine in at our place as you go. You couldn’t send me a drink by ’phone, could you? My mouth’s like the bottom of a parrot’s cage.” He looked at his watch. “We shall miss the 6.30 edition, unless they hurry up. The old man is careful but he’s damned slow.”
“They can’t in decency not make a pretence of consulting about it,” said Newton. “I give them twenty minutes.
“They’ll want a smoke. So do I. I’ll back at ten to, in case.”
He wriggled his way out. Cuthbert Logan, who reported for a morning paper, and was a man of more leisure, settled down to write up a word-picture of the trial. He was a phlegmatic and sober person and could write as comfortably in court as anywhere else. He liked to be on the spot when things happened, and to note down glances, tones of voice, colour effects and so forth. His copy was always entertaining, and sometimes even distinguished.
Freddy Arbuthnot, who had not, after all, gone home after lunch, thought it was time to do so now. He fidgeted and Wimsey frowned at him. The Dowager Dutchess made her way along the benches and squeezed in next to Lord Peter. Sir Impey Biggs, having watched over his client’s interests to the last, disappeared, chatting cheerfully to the Attorney-General, and followed by the smaller legal fry. The dock was deserted. On the bench the red roses stood solitary, their petals dropping.
Chief-Inspector Parker, disengaging himself from a group of friends, came slowly up through the crowd and greeted the Dowager. “And what do you think of it, Peter?” he added, turning to Wimsey, “rather neatly got up, eh?”
“Charles,” said Wimsey, “you ought not to be allowed out without me. You’ve made a mistake, old man.”
“Made a mistake?”
“She didn’t do it.”
“Oh, come!”
“She did not do it. It’s very convincing and water-tight, but it’s all wrong.”
“You don’t really think that.”
“I do.”
Parker looked distressed. He had confidence in Wimsey’s judgment, and, in spite of his own interior certainty, he felt shaken.
“My dear man, where’s the flaw in it?”
“There isn’t one. It’s damnably knife proof. There’s nothing wrong about it at all, except that the girl’s innocent.”
“You’re turning into a common or garden psychologist,” said Parker, with an uneasy laugh, “isn’t he, Duchess?”
“I wish I had known that girl,” replied the Dowager, in her usual indirect manner, “so interesting and a really remarkable face, though perhaps not strictly good-looking, and all the more interesting for that, because good-looking people are so often cows. I have been reading one of her books, really quite good and so well-written, and I didn’t guess the murderer till page 200, rather clever, because I usually do it about page 15. So very curious to write books about crimes and then be accused of a crime oneself, some people might say it was a judgement. I wonder whether, if she didn’t do it, she has spotted the murderer herself? I don’t suppose detective writers detect much in real life, do they, except Edgar Wallace of course, who always seems to be everywhere and dear Conan Doyle and the black man what was his name and of course the Slater person, a scandal, though now I come to think of it that was in Scotland where they have such very odd laws about everything particularly getting married. Well, I suppose we shall soon know now, not the truth, necessarily, but what the jury have made of it.”
“Yes; they are being rather longer than I expected. But, I say, Wimsey, I wish you’d tell me -”
“Too late, too late, you cannot enter now. I have locked my heart in a silver box and pinned it wi’ a golden pin. Nobody’s opinion matters now, except the jury’s. I expect Miss Climpson is telling ’em all about it. When once she starts she doesn’t stop for an hour or two.”
“Well, they’ve been half-an-hour now,” said Parker.
“Still waiting?” said Salcombe Hardy, returning to the press-table.
“Yes – so this is what you call twenty minutes! Three-quarters of an hour, I make it.”
“They’ve been out an hour and a half,” said a girl to her fiancé, just behind Wimsey. “What can they be discussing?”
“Perhaps they don’t think she did it after all.”
“What nonsense! Of course she did it. You could see it by her face. Hard, that’s what I call it, and she never once cried or anything.”
“Oh, I dunno,” said the young man.
“You don’t mean to say you admired her, Frank?”
“Oh, well, I dunno. But she didn’t look like a murderess.”
“And how do you know what a murderess looks like? Have you ever met one?”
“Well, I’ve seen them at Madame Tassaud’s.”
“Oh, wax-works. Everybody looks like a murderer in a waxworks.”
“ Well, p’raps they do. Have a choc.”
“Two hours and a quarter,” said Waffles Newton, impatiently. “They must gone to sleep. Have to be a special edition. What happens if they are all night about it?”
“We sit here all night, that’s all.”
“Well, it’s my turn for a drink. Let me know, will you?”