Saltmarsh Murders

CHAPTER XIII

bats in the jury box

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The trial of Robert Candy for the murder of Margaret Tosstick began on October 20th, which happened to be a Tuesday, and ended at mid-day on the following Saturday. I obtained leave from old Coutts to stay in the town until the trial was ended, and promised to write every day and let him know how things were going. It was eleven weeks and a day since the murder of Meg Tosstick, and exactly eleven weeks since the murder of Cora McCanley. As we had expected, Bob was accused of murdering both mother and child, and he pleaded not guilty on both counts. The inquest on the exhumed body of Cora McCanley, which had been held on the day following the exhumation, had resulted in a verdict of murder by person or persons unknown, although a small but rowdy school of thought, not in our own village of Saltmarsh, but in Much and Little Hartley and the purlieus of Lower Bossingbury, were of the strong opinion that poor Bob was the culprit here as well, and had all three murders to his account. Even Mrs. Gatty, now happily restored to normal and the proud president of the new Saltmarsh and District Amateur Dramatic and Operatic Society, told me that once you began thinking over Bob’s ancestry, you didn’t know where you were. There was a lot of truth in it, of course, but fortunately Bob had an alibi for that Tuesday, which even the police now considered must have been the day of Cora McCanley’s death. He had been employed all day at the vicarage getting the garden into some sort of order, for the bishop was expected, I remember, and Mrs. Coutts had a feeling that he would accept an invitation to stay for two or three days. I presume that news of the murder choked him off, for he never came at all. Anyway, that was Bob’s alibi, and it lasted until opening time at the Mornington Arms on that Tuesday evening. After six-thirty the whole of the Mornington Arms’ staff were prepared to swear to Bob, especially as he even shared a bedroom with the other barman, Peachey, who lay awake that night with a poisoned finger, poor fellow.

I had often attended Petty Sessions, of course, but never a big trial.

I was horribly nervous. What if they should find Bob guilty? It would be perfectly beastly to think of his hanging—perfectly beastly. I studied Sir Ferdinand Lestrange. I am a fair lip-reader. I could see him quoting Horace to his junior. You know the bit, I expect. His junior replied with a bit of—well, Terence, I think. Burt would have appreciated it, anyhow.

The jury were a leery-looking lot, and included five women. Just as well, I thought. Women are so much more practical than men. I felt certain that these good ladies would be able to devise a better fate for poor Bob than standing him over a beastly trap door with a noose round his neck.

I wasn’t listening much. I was trying to think what the judge would look like in a black cap… But he wasn’t going to put on the black cap in this case… I began to take in what the counsel for the prosecution was saying. He was a big, florid man, and he had a curiously soft and yet perfectly audible voice, and his words dripped, like honey and venom mixed, into the minds of his hearers. I began to think Bob must have done it. Still, I comforted myself with the thought that when Sir Ferdinand got up, I should be equally certain that Bob had not. I was not deceived, of course. Sir Ferdinand was wonderful. Of course, the whole thing struck me as being a kind of cricket match between counsel, with the judge as keeper of the score and the jury as umpires. And a frightfully confusing business,the umpiring was, I should think. I did not take down the thing in shorthand, but it seemed to me that the great stunt was to confuse the witnesses and get them to contradict themselves. Old Lowry, fat as ever, quite as chinful and even more hairless, was the chief witness for the defence. His evidence, elicited by Sir Ferdinand, was to the effect that no living man would have had time to get up those three dozen bottles of beer, transport them to the jug and bottle department and go upstairs and strangle Meg Tosstick within the time limit sworn to by three independent witnesses (who were produced in due course), Charles Peachey, Mabel Pusey and the saloon barmaid, Susan Gait. A plan of the Mornington Arms, showing the route from the cellar under the garage to the doorway of the jug and bottle department with the distances clearly marked in feet and inches, was passed to the jury. Then the prosecution dealt with Lowry, and tried to force him to declare the minimum of time ever taken

(a) by Candy and the knife and boots together to bring up beer,

(b) by Candy alone,

(c) by Peachey and the knife and boots,

(d) by Peachey alone, and elicited the somewhat moot point that he had never timed any of the above by watch, clock, stop-watch, or other mechanical device, and so could not possibly swear that a quarter of an hour was not sufficient time for Candy to have dealt with the bottles and committed the murder. The prosecution further discovered that the barmaid, Mabel Pusey, could not swear that fifteen minutes was the exact time taken by Candy. She was compelled, under rigorous cross-examination, to admit that the time Candy was absent from the bar might have been twenty minutes. On the other hand again, she protested, it might just as easily have been twelve. This voluntary cry-from-the-heart did not suit the prosecution, I suppose, and Mabel was allowed to stand down. Poor girl! She was considerably flustered, but had done what she could for Bob. “If Bob gets off all right, he ought to marry Mabel,” I thought to myself. Another bit of Lowry’s evidence was an account of the affection which Bob undoubtedly had had for the dead girl. As the prosecution were putting jealousy and thwarted love as the motive for the crime, however, this went about fifty-fifty with the jury, I suppose, but Sir Ferdinand evidently thought it was worth while to bung it in, even if the prosecution could score off it. As a matter of fact, he made a rather nice thing of it in his closing speech. I suppose these counsel have to be looking ahead the whole time. Fearfully wearing, of course.

Motive and opportunity were the prosecution’s main lines of attack, and they scored pretty heavily, I should say. There was also a nasty bit when the prosecuting counsel, leaning forward, asked Bob what the row was about between himself and the Lowrys on the Sunday night before the Bank Holiday and the murder. Mrs. Bradley and I had both hoped that Ferdinand would not put Bob in the box, but I suppose it looks bad if the prisoner does not make his statement, and Sir Ferdinand was out for a dyed-in-the-wool, no-stain-on-the-character-of-my-unfortunate-and-much-maligned client decision. So he risked it. Bob, glowering (which was a pity with so many women on the jury), replied that the quarrel was a private matter. The prosecuting counsel, with a nasty smile, pressed the point. Bob suddenly met his eye squarely and replied:

“I were complaining about the food.”

“You were complaining about the food, were you?” asked the counsel. The jury wrote this down.

“I were,” repeated Bob, stolidly. His grim expression lightened. “Hadn’t been so bad for years.”

“I understood that you asked permission to visit the girl Tosstick in her bedroom, and that you became angry when the permission was refused,” said the prosecution counsel, silkily.

“Maybe you’re right,” said Bob. “It’s the food I remember best.”

“Pore feller,” said a woman, rather audibly. Thus encouraged, I suppose, Bob stuck to the food and nothing would budge him. Sir Ferdinand began to look happier. His junior read the note that he scribbled and grinned meaningly at the jury.

The matter of the baby was gone into next. It was a pity, I think, from the point of view of the prosecution, that they had been compelled to accept the theory that Bob had murdered the baby, because they could not get very far with it. The Lowrys had explained that, by the wish of the girl-mother, nobody had set eyes on the baby except herself and Mrs. Lowry. Mrs. Lowry explained that not even her husband had seen the baby. No, the child was not deformed… Luckily for Bob, the jury, one and all, were looking at Mrs. Lowry as she gave her evidence, and not at him. If ever a poor wretch on trial for his life looked thoroughly guilty, it was Bob Candy. He glowered, and seemed to be swearing to himself. He looked evil enough to have murdered a dozen babies.

Sir Ferdinand rose to make hay. He wanted to know what had become of the body of the baby. He wanted to know how and when it had been proved that the baby had been murdered at all, apart from whether the prosecution could prove that the accused man had murdered it. Might it not have been claimed by its natural father? Had any attempt been made by the prosecution to discover whether it was living with its natural father? Had any attempt been made—here there was what is known as a sensation in court—had any attempt been made to prove that the baby had ever been born at all?

A doctor who had been present at the post-mortem was able to assure Sir Ferdinand that the deceased girl had certainly been delivered of a child. Pressed by Sir Ferdinand, he admitted that it was beyond him to declare whether the baby had been born alive or dead.

The judge, in his summing-up, rather stressed the baby. He was noted for his leniency to murderers of the working class type, I believe. The point that, while the body of the mother had been found lying in the bed where she had been done to death, whereas no trace of the baby could be found, was in favour of the prisoner. He was accused of murdering mother and child. Of course, the jury must use their judgment and decide whether the prisoner was guilty of both murders or only of one, or of neither of the murders. If they believed that the baby had not been murdered, but was either born dead or had been taken by the father or by some other interested person, they could say so. They must weigh up the motive imputed to the prisoner and see whether, in their opinion, it was sufficiently strong to cause him to take the life of the girl he had intended to marry. They must weigh up the opportunity and remember that all-important time-limit they had heard learned counsel discussing so ably. They were to ask themselves whether any other person might have had a stronger motive or a more favourable opportunity for committing the murders for which the prisoner at the bar had been charged. (Well, of course, they had heard nothing about old Coutts, or Mrs. Coutts, so that wasn’t too simple for them! But still, really and truly, it seemed to me that the judge said everything except actually to put the words “Not Guilty” into their mouths.)

Mrs. Bradley was seated beside me in the court on that last exciting Saturday morning. As soon as the jury had retired, I turned to her and said that I supposed it was all over, bar actually conducting old Bob in triumph back to Saltmarsh. She shook her head.

“I should not care to predict the result,” she said. “There are five women on the jury, and women are notoriously hard on sexual crimes. For Bob’s sake I wish the jury had been all men. He would certainly have been acquitted. Women are still an unknown quantity on a jury. Of course, the seven men may bully them into giving in. It is surprising the way in which women will allow themselves to be bullied out of their rights by the opposite sex.”

I could not help thinking that if the opposite sex had any notions of bullying Mrs. Bradley they were in for a thin time, but I did not say so. We waited for nearly two hours and then the jury returned.

Guilty of both murders.

So the black cap was needed after all, and I was able to see how the judge looked in it. A little older, and a little more sad, I thought. I was absolutely stunned, of course. It had never occurred to me for one single instant that we should not be taking Bob back with us to Saltmarsh. The poor fellow cried when the judge put on the black cap. He was led away, still weeping, and rubbing away the tears with the sleeve of his jacket. It was horrible.

Mrs. Bradley slid her skinny arm in mine when we got outside.

“Never mind, Noel,” she said quietly. “We shall appeal, of course, and if the poor boy doesn’t throw up the sponge and begin confessing or any rubbish of that sort, we shall get him off. The verdict was directly contrary to the summing-up, you noticed. I’m not coming back to Saltmarsh for about ten days. At the end of that time I will return armed to the teeth. Perhaps the verdict is the best thing that could have happened, as things stand. Poor Bob! That dreadful manner of his was all against him. He stood there looking such a thug!”

“How inconsistent your sex is,” I exclaimed. “You believe him innocent now the court declares him guilty!”

“Oh, no,” rejoined Mrs. Bradley. “I have always believed him innocent. Did you spot the witness who was lying?”

“No,” I said.

“I did,” she said, with a kind of fat satisfaction in her dulcet voice. “Good-bye, dear child. Don’t pine. In ten days, or maybe less, I shall be in Saltmarsh with Jove’s thunderbolts. Look after Daphne, whatever happens. Good-bye.”

Daphne cried for nearly an hour when I returned to Saltmarsh with the sad news of Bob’s conviction. Even Mrs. Coutts seemed rather dashed. The Lowrys were mobbed at the station by villagers anxious to hear the news. Burt came down to the vicarage and we told him. He was thoughtful, and didn’t use any strong language. He said at last:

“Do you think he could have done for Cora as well?”

“Impossible!” we all said. After all, we ourselves had provided Bob’s alibi for the Tuesday.

“Oh,” said Burt, “that’s all right, then. If I knew for certain who had killed Cora I would—” The rest of the sentence was quite unprintable, but even Mrs. Coutts made no adverse comment except for a grim tightening of her lips, and a clenching of her nervous hands.

The Gattys were the next to hear the news from us.

“Poor fellow! Poor young fellow,” was the burden of their song.

We got all the visitors out of the house at last, and Daphne said:

“I couldn’t say so in front of all those people, because I suppose it would be contempt of court or something, but I still think those Lowrys did it! I hate that fat, bald-headed old man!”

“That’s no reason for thinking he murdered Meg Tosstick,” I retorted. “Besides, neither of the Lowrys went near the pub at the time of Meg Tosstick’s murder, and neither of ’em left the pub on the morning, afternoon, or evening of Cora McCanley’s death. You can’t fix it on them, dearest, however much you dislike them.”

“Well, who did do it, then?” she persisted. We went over the whole thing again; hammered out all the suspects and their alibis, just as we had done so many times before.

“Uncle is easily the likeliest,” said Daphne dolefully. I chewed it over until far into the night. I mean, dash it all, he so absolutely was, you know! And what about Cora McCanley? If he had seduced one girl, why not another? Ah, but he had an alibi for the Tuesday. I knew that. We had been together all that day, and during the night we had patrolled the shore, of course. If only somebody could find out all Cora’s movements on the afternoon and evening of her death, I felt we might get somewhere. But at Wyemouth Harbour railway station she had simply disappeared. We could trace her to the booking office but not a step beyond. I knew that Mrs. Bradley felt sure she had returned to the Bungalow, but there was no proof of it.

I went to the Bungalow next day and talked to Burt about it. A risky thing to do, of course, but it occurred to me that if we could only discover the murderer of Cora, it would give us just that much firmer ground of appeal for Bob. One of these psychology stunts, I mean, of course. Burt was surprisingly mild and very sympathetic.

“Of course I don’t want the bleeding fellow to be hanged if he’s innocent,” he said. “But I tell you what it is, Wells. When I find Cora’s murderer, I’m going to get my hands round his throat first, and then I’m going to knock the neck off my last bottle of Veuve Clicquot, and then I’m doing a dive into the stone quarries before I’m arrested.”

The remark was a bit of a revelation to me, of course, in more ways than one. To begin with, Burt was now giving us every indication that his feeling for Cora McCanley had been very much stronger than we had ever imagined. Secondly, I had always laboured under the—I think rather excusable—delusion that the term “the Widow,” used in describing champagne, was some kind of a—complimentary, of course—reference to Queen Victoria.

But my conversation with Burt got me no further. I was not at all keen on mentioning Sir William’s name in connection with Cora, and, in any case, if Cora had indeed been murdered on the Tuesday, Sir William could not possibly have been concerned in her death.

As I walked home, however, another horrible thought struck me. If Cora had been murdered later than the Tuesday, the squire had no more of an alibi than, say, Lowry, for instance, or myself, or old Coutts… !