The Man Within (16 page)

‘Gentlemen, the crime with which the prisoners stand charged is one of great enormity, the death of a man.’ He was flinging his words against a wall of prejudice. To them he knew very well it was not the death of a man, but only the death of a gauger. It was useless to try and convince them that the life lost had any value. The only way in which he could get a conviction was by leaving them no loophole for acquittal.

‘The murdered man, Edward Rexall, was a revenue officer for the County of East Sussex and was stationed at Shoreham. His superior officer, Mr Thomas Hilliard, acting on certain information, proceeded with Rexall and ten other men on the night of February 10 to a point on the shore three miles east of Shoreham. The officers then concealed themselves behind the sand dunes which at that particular point fringe the shore. This was at 12.15 a.m. At a little after one a red light appeared to seaward hung apparently from the mast of a small lugger. Mr Hilliard then exposed a lantern found on one of the pack horses. Seven minutes later a ship’s boat grounded on the sand. In
it
were ten men, six of whom we hope to satisfy you are the men now in the dock. They were on the point of unloading a number of casks, when the quietness of the beach and the absence of their friends apparently aroused their suspicions, and they began hastily to re-embark. Mr Hilliard then showed himself and called upon them to surrender. The smugglers thereupon scattered and ran in various directions along the shore. Mr Hilliard had, however, so posted his men that they were able to drive the smugglers together again, when they would undoubtedly have captured the whole band, if the smugglers had not opened fire. In the momentary confusion which followed three of the smugglers escaped in the boat. Six, however, were captured, and it was then found that Edward Rexall had been shot dead. From start to end of the struggle no shot was fired by the revenue officers, and if there should be any doubt in your mind on this point, I propose to bring evidence to show that the bullet found in Rexall’s body was of a type carried by the smugglers and not of the type served out to officers of His Majesty’s service. It is not necessary for the prosecution to prove which of the men in the dock fired the fatal shot. It is not even necessary to prove that it was fired by one of the prisoners and not by one of the band who escaped. It was fired by one of the smugglers, whether he at this moment is standing in the dock or is flying for his life a hundred miles from here, and every member of the gang who took part in the resistance to His Majesty’s officers is as guilty of murder as if he was himself seen to fire the bullet which killed Rexall. It is seldom, gentlemen, that murder is committed under circumstances which enable us to bring forward eye-witnesses of the crime. This case, therefore, is an unusually simple one for you to decide. I have detailed to you the principal facts which it is now my duty to establish by competent evidence. I have forborne to state anything which I do not believe will come out in that evidence. If any doubts should arise in your minds, sincere
doubts
quite apart from any personal knowledge you may have of the prisoners, you will, as you are bound in conscience to do, give the prisoners the benefit of them; but if the case shall be established clearly and satisfactorily, you are equally bound by the oath which you have taken before God, to find that verdict which the well-being of society and the demands of justice require.’

Mr Hilliard was called. His evidence seemed to leave no loophole for acquittal. Sir Henry Merriman, watching the jury between every question, saw them stir restlessly, uneasily. Mr Braddock, who led for the defence, rose to cross-examine. He was a large man with an apoplectic face which might well have been formed by an undue consumption of contraband liquor. His hair was black, just mottled with grey, but his eyebrows made a continuous dead white streak like a scar across his face. He scowled at Mr Hilliard, leaned a long way backward, as though the better to spring, wrapped his gown tight round his arms by a fierce circular movement and pounced.

‘Are you considered by your superiors an efficient officer, Mr Hilliard?’

Mr Hilliard flushed crimson and gazed appealingly at the judge.

‘Is that a relevant question, Mr Braddock?’ said the judge.

‘It is, my lord,’ Mr Braddock returned briskly. Sir Edward Parkin was visibly put out. ‘The witness cannot be asked what his superiors think, Mr Braddock.’

Mr Braddock glared and gulped and turned again on the witness.

‘You have been in command of the revenue post at Shoreham for over four years?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you or have you not received complaints from headquarters that you are not properly fulfilling your duties with regard to the prevention of smuggling?’

‘Mr Braddock,’ the judge again interrupted, his eyes on the young women in the gallery, ‘that is not a relevant question.’

‘My lord,’ Mr Braddock fired up, ‘I am very well aware of what is relevant and what is not relevant. If the defence is to be hampered…’

‘That is not the way to address the Bench. You must learn to keep your temper, Mr Braddock. I am anxious to give the defence every latitude. Well, Mr Hilliard?’

‘I have received complaints, my lord.’

‘He has received complaints, Mr Braddock. There you have your answer. Will you proceed?’

‘Did you receive a complaint within the last month?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you say in the hearing of a number of your men that unless something was done quickly you and they would be dismissed the service?’

‘No.’

‘Now, Mr Hilliard, think carefully upon that point and remember that you are upon your oath.’

‘I cannot remember saying so.’

‘Yes or no, Mr Hilliard.’

Sir Edward Parkin fluttered a white hand impatiently. Attention in the public gallery was becoming too centred on counsel. ‘The witness has already answered you, Mr Braddock. He cannot remember.’

Mr Braddock snorted and shrugged his shoulders with an eye on the jury.

‘Now, Mr Hilliard, listen carefully. I suggest to you that there was urgent need, if you were not to be dismissed from the service, for – shall we say a
grand coup
?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I suggest, Mr Hilliard, that your whole story, and the story your men will tell, is a complete fabrication?’

‘That’s a lie.’

‘These men are known to be smugglers. I suggest that you arrested them not on the shore but in their homes?’

‘That’s another.’

‘Don’t laugh at me, Mr Hilliard. This is a serious matter for you. The jury have only your word and the word of your men against the word of these prisoners in the dock.’

‘Counsel for the defence,’ Sir Edward Parkin interrupted, ‘cannot address the jury. Confine yourself to cross-examining the witness, Mr Braddock.’

‘Can I say something, my lord?’ Mr Hilliard asked. ‘It’s not only our word. There’s the body.’

‘I shall come to the body in good time,’ Mr Braddock said. ‘In the last three years, Mr Hilliard, are these the first successful arrests you have made?’

‘Yes.’

‘I suggest to you that it is curious that after three years of apathy you are able suddenly to hit on the exact portion of shore where these men landed?’

‘I acted on information.’

‘Information is a vague word. Do you mean your imagination?’ Mr Braddock grinned fiercely at the jury and they tittered nervously back.

‘No, I received an anonymous letter.’

‘Have you made any attempt to trace the writer?’

‘No.’

‘Is that letter going to be produced in Court?’

‘Are you asking for it to be read, Mr Braddock?’ the Judge asked.

‘No, my lord.’

‘Well, then, you know as well as I do that it cannot be produced. It’s not evidence.’

‘Your source of information then was an anonymous letter?’

‘Yes.’

Mr Braddock laughed. The sound was like the clang of
iron
gates. ‘An anonymous letter!’ With a rough sweep of his hand he seemed to brush away incredulously the whole story. ‘I have no more to ask this witness, my lord,’ he said, and sat down.

‘Do you wish to re-examine, Sir Henry?’

Sir Henry Merriman with a faint smile shook his head. Mr Braddock was behaving exactly as he had foreseen.

The next witness was the elderly gauger with whom Andrews had had his encounter. He repeated the same story as his chief. Mr Braddock rose to cross-examine. He adopted a friendly, insinuating manner which sat on him less naturally than his previous bullying ways.

‘Have you been at all afraid of dismissal during the last year?’

‘We were all afraid of that.’

‘Thank you. Did you know the dead man, Rexall, well?’

‘Middlin’.’

‘Are you aware of any quarrel he has had during the last year?’

‘Lots.’

Laughter broke out in the gallery and the usher had to call for silence several times. Mr Farne spoke rapidly in Sir Henry Merriman’s ear.

‘He was of a quarrelsome disposition?’

‘Middlin’.’

‘Did you know personally any of the men in the dock?’

‘All of ’em.’

‘Did Rexall?’

‘Aye.’

‘Thank you. That is all.’

Sir Henry gave a nod to Mr Farne and Mr Farne rose.

‘Are you aware of any quarrel which Rexall may have had with any of the prisoners in the dock?’

‘No. We got on middlin’ well wi’ ’em all.’

Mr Farne sat down.

One after the other the gaugers were called to testify to
the
truth of Mr Hilliard’s story. Mr Braddock let them troop in and out of the box without stay, until the last had given his evidence. Then he rose again. He smiled triumphantly at Sir Henry Merriman as he did so, and Sir Henry returned the smile, for he had kept back a trump card, of which Mr Braddock was unaware.

‘Do you know,’ Mr Braddock asked, ‘of any quarrel which Rexall had with one of the prisoners?’

‘Aye, it was that scared-looking one in the front row,’ and the witness, a wizened rat-like man, raised a finger and pointed at the boy Tims.

‘Can you tell us about it?’

‘Why, ’e met the boy in the street and ’e started a teasing of ’im. An’ the boy up an’ slapped ’is face.’

‘And what did Rexall do?’

‘Nought. That’s only a mad boy.’

‘Thank you.’

Mr Braddock sat down. Sir Henry turned to Mr Farne and spoke under his breath. ‘The swine. They are going to throw suspicion on that half-wit. Shall we re-examine?’

‘No need,’ said Mr Farne. ‘Our next witness smashes their whole tale.’

‘Andrews.’ The name, his own name, overwhelmed him where he stood by the window. He turned and faced the officer who called him as he would face an enemy, with clenched fists. ‘Get on, you sneak.’ A voice came to him from the benches. He wanted to stay and explain, to tell them that he was about to stand in greater danger than did the prisoners in the dock – ‘betraying them thus openly I stand above them.’ But bowing his head so that he should not see their contemptuous faces as he passed from the room, he passed down the long corridor into the Court. As he went he fingered his cheek, which smarted where it had been struck.

He allowed himself to be pushed forward into the witness
box
, murmured without noting them the familiar words ‘the whole truth … nothing but the truth,’ but still did not raise his eyes. He was afraid of the anger and astonishment on the faces of the prisoners. He knew too well how each would look, how Druce would finger his lower lip, how Hake would pull at a particular portion of his beard. He knew, as though he heard them, the words they would whisper to each other. Haven’t I lived with them, eaten with them, slept with them, for three years? he thought. He was afraid to look at the gallery. There would be young, desirable women there who would watch him with contempt – ‘The informer, traitor, Judas.’ Not even honour among thieves. And he was afraid, too, damnably afraid. Suppose that he should raise his eyes and see Carlyon there, the ape-like face he had seen transfigured with an ideal, the face which, during three years of misery, he had come near to worshipping, now filled with loathing. It was not incredible. It was just the kind of quixotic, romantic, foolish thing that Carlyon loved – to venture his neck voluntarily into the noose for the sake of his companions.

‘Are you Francis Andrews?’ It was Sir Henry Merriman who spoke, but the question struck the witness like an accusation, like another blow on the cheek. His blood quickened to meet it. Elizabeth had said to him, ‘Go to Lewes, go to the Assizes, bear your witness and you will have shown yourself to have more courage than they.’ You are here for lust of your body, the inner critic murmured, but with a gesture of the hands visible to those in Court, he renounced that motive and that reward. ‘No,’ he whispered, his lips moving, ‘for Elizabeth.’ The sound of her name gave him courage. It was like a trumpet blown a long way off by a pale courageous spirit. He raised his eyes.

‘I am,’ he answered.

Imagination had steeled him to meet the expected gestures. They did not affect him. For the unexpected he was not ready. Tims leant forward with a smile of recognition
and
of relief. His smile said as clearly as though he had spoken, ‘We are all right now. Here’s a friend.’

Andrews turned his eyes hastily away and watched the gallery.

‘Where were you on the night of February 10?’

‘On board the
Good Chance
.’

‘What were you doing there?’

Thank God! Carlyon was not there. ‘I was engaged in smuggling. We were to run a cargo that night.’

Mr Farne smiled triumphantly along the table at Mr Braddock and Mr Braddock scowled back. His purple face turned an unpleasant shade of blue. He rose and began to speak hurriedly to one of the men in the dock.

‘How long had you been engaged in this – profession?’

‘Three years.’

‘Do you see any of your companions in the Court?’

Still watching the gallery in fear of seeing a familiar face Andrews nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Will you point them out to the jury?’

Out of the vague turmoil of unfamiliar faces, faces old and young, fat and lean, fresh and faded, swam towards him a man’s face, thin, livid, cunning, with receding chin and squinting eyes. The eyes avoided his, but presently returned with a kind of terrified fascination.