CHAPTER IV
THE CASE THAT FAILED
Bobby Herrick was sound in wind and limb; healthy in heart and brain; but for a moment or two he sat dazed and helpless in face of the position that confronted him. The whole thing seemed unreal, impossible, and the monotonous calling of the names of the jurymen fell upon his ears like a buzzing sound of no intelligible significance. The faces in Court blended into a sort of misty phantasmagoria, until out of the mist one face immediately opposite him riveted his attention. Presently it stood out, distinct and well defined, with a watchful look in the dark and piercing eyes, and a sardonic smile on its upward curving lips. It was a face to be remembered; a face he was destined to see again in the course of those tragic episodes which the history of events in London was shortly to unfold.
The Treasury Solicitor, he found, was plucking at his gown. “You must ask for an adjournment,” he whispered urgently; “it is the only thing to do.” Almost at the same moment the judge’s voice was heard. His lordship spoke with eye directed towards the vacant seats of the prosecuting counsel.
“Where are your leaders, Mr Herrick?”
Herrick rose amid the silence that succeeded the inquiry, conscious that every eye in Court was fixed upon him.
“My lord,” he said, in a voice slightly tremulous at first, “by a most unfortunate and remarkable combination of events, my learned friends are prevented from being present.”
“Surely not all of them!” exclaimed the judge. “I heard some rumour of an accident to Mr Boulton--is it true?”
“He was attacked and maltreated in the street last night, my lord, and is now in hospital.”
“Another example of the growing spirit of lawlessness which prevails in this city,” said the Chief Justice sternly. “I deplore the absence of Mr Boulton, especially for such a reason; but where is the Solicitor-General?”
“I regret to inform your lordship that he has been seized with sudden and, I fear, serious illness.”
“This is most extraordinary,” said the Chief Justice, leaning back and taking off his glasses.
“Silence!” cried the usher, as a hum of subdued comment arose in the body of the Court.
“What makes the position still more serious, my lord,” continued Herrick, “is the absence of Mr Dutton also, for reasons of a family nature.”
“Is there no likelihood of his being here presently?”
“He has been summoned to the north of England, and left Euston this morning, my lord, as stated in this telegram.”
“A chapter of accidents, indeed! Well, Mr Herrick, _you_ are here.”
“Yes, but being taken by surprise, I am quite unable to do justice to the prosecution, and my instructions are to ask your lordship to adjourn the trial.”
“To that the defence cannot possibly assent,” interposed Mr Jacobs, on his feet instantly. “I speak at any rate for the prisoner whom I represent.”
“I say the same on behalf of my client, my lord,” added Mr Brill.
“Well, Mr Herrick----?” from the judge.
“My learned friend is too modest,” said Jacobs.
“_Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes_,” retorted Herrick, with happy inspiration.
Lord Malvern laughed a silent little laugh, and an audible little laugh went round the Court from those who understood the tag, and from those also who laugh because others laugh; for always man, as Lord Beaconsfield truly observed, is mimetic.
Then the brief flash of merriment died out, and the Court came back to business.
“It is perfectly clear that the trial must proceed,” said the learned judge. “Much public time has already been devoted to the case, and, I may add, much public money. The convenience of the jury and of many witnesses must be considered. This is the fourth day we have been here, and it is desirable on every ground that it should be the last.”
“But, my lord, the Crown will lose the benefit of Sir John Westwood’s reply on the whole case.”
“Sir John Westwood is not here, Mr Herrick.”
“And the privilege of a law officer of the Crown in the connection mentioned is thought by some to be the more honoured in the breach than in the observance,” remarked Mr Jacobs.
“On this occasion you are for the defence, Mr Jacobs,” said his lordship. “On another occasion----” His lordship paused, with a humorous twinkle in his eye, and the gap was filled with a burst of laughter this time; for it was well known that the successful Hebrew advocate had his unsatisfied ambitions.
“Are there any witnesses for the defence?” asked the Chief Justice, when silence was restored.
“I call none,” said Mr Jacobs; and Mr Brill merely shook his head by way of answer for his client.
“Very well, then, it only remains for Mr Herrick to address the jury. Counsel for the prisoners will follow, and my summing-up will not occupy more than an hour. The jury will understand,” said his lordship, turning towards them, “that however unfortunate the absence of the leading counsel, and however valuable the speeches of those who are present, it is upon the facts, and the facts alone, that their verdict must be based, according to the evidence. Now, Mr Herrick.”
* * * * *
Thus it came about that greatness of a sort was thrust upon Aldwyth Westwood’s lover. Thus did fortune place in his way a golden opportunity. But this is no story of a young barrister’s triumphant achievement, according to the interesting precedents recorded by the lady novelists. Young Herrick, at this stage of the strange and terrible game then opening, was little better than a pawn on the chessboard of a master-player. Throughout the moves that followed on that Saturday in April, he felt half conscious of the fact, and the face which had looked out of the mist at the beginning seemed to dominate him until the end.
Herrick, thought most of his friends, rose to the occasion, dealing effectively with the complex facts and figures of the case. There were others who shrugged their shoulders, and merely conceded that he “did his best,” considering how heavily he was overweighted. In reality, the performance was nothing to be ashamed of; nothing to boast of. The older and more experienced advocates on the other side paid him some handsome compliments when their innings came. But that did not prevent them from making mince-meat of his arguments, and hammering home their own. It may be doubted, however, whether the most powerful advocate who ever breathed the air of the Criminal Courts of England would have drawn a verdict of Guilty from the jury.
The judge, in his lucid summing-up, virtually told them to convict; but there were other and more powerful influences at work. As the trial proceeded, the voice of a great crowd outside the walls of the Court rose in tumultuous sounds at intervals. In spite of the efforts of the police, it became only too plain that there was a demonstration--organised, determined; and that, for reasons then but imperfectly understood, the acquittal of the prisoners was demanded. It was, in effect, the first skirmish in that campaign against the forces of law and order, of which, presently, London was to be the battleground. The voice of the people prevailed. After an hour’s absence, and sundry messages of inquiry from the Chief Justice, the jury returned into Court with a verdict of “Not guilty.”
“And that is the verdict of you all,” echoed the Clerk of Arraigns in the usual formula.
Here and there in the packed Court there was an involuntary exclamation.
“Silence! silence!” came from the ushers and police.
“The prisoners will be discharged,” said the judge, whose manner had assumed the utmost gravity, “and,” he added significantly, “the jury will be discharged also from further duties in the box during the present sessions.”
Lord Malvern left the Bench as the two prisoners disappeared down the steps leading from the dock.
A babel of voices arose outside the building, and grew, unchecked, until it became a mighty roar of triumph from the mob.
The verdict was known; cheer after cheer broke out, and the accused, prisoners no longer, were received as heroes, and borne shoulder high from the gates of the prison, through the streets of London.