'Yes.'
'Then how is it that he did not kill you? He did not even wound you. How was that?'
'Because he was a bad shot, I suppose.'
'He would have to be a particularly bad shot to miss you by a yard, wouldn't he?'
'Yes.'
Was your gun in your hand when Lisman came into the room?'
'No.'
'Where was it?'
'It was lying on a chair by my side.'
Not in your pocket?'
'No.'
'Then you were prepared to use it at a moment's notice?'
'I was prepared to present it. Not to use it.'
'When did you first pick it up from the chair?'
'When I saw Lisman.'
'But if he had you covered how could you pick it up?'
'Lisman hadn't a revolver when he came in.'
'Then you were the first to present a weapon?'
'No. I reached for my gun, and when I looked up he was covering me.
'Then if he had you covered why did he shoot?'
'I don't know.'
'I suggest that you shot Lisman before he had time to take aim at you.'
No. What I told you is the truth. I shot because he meant to kill me. I never meant to shoot.'
'But you killed him, and his shot went a yard wide of the mark?'
Kif did not answer, and Kingsley abruptly sat down. Arden-Davis glanced at the jury and wondered how far sob-stuff would go and far the straight-from-the-shoulder touch. He got to his feet still debating.
In convicting a man of murder, he said, they had to prove the will to kill. The accused had said that he had no intention of killing anyone, and since in law a man was presumed innocent until he was proved guilty they might accept the accused's word for it, as hypothesis if not as fact. Let them, in the absence of evidence, consider the probabilities. Here was a man who had joined the British army in 1914. He was then fifteen. They taught him how to kill, and for the next four years—that was, for the whole period of what would normally have been his boyhood—he killed and risked being killed daily at the bidding of his country. At the end of the war he was discharged, and invested his gratuity in a perfectly honourable business. His partner swindled him and he was left penniless. His grateful country showed no anxiety to help him to the work he sought for. On the other hand, an old army acquaintance, met by chance, proved a good samaritan if incidentally a bad friend. The friend and his friends were what is popularly known as crooks, and the accused assimilated their point of view. When on business he carried a revolver as naturally as another man carried a heavy-headed stick on a lonely tramp; not because he anticipated having to use it, but because he felt happier with it. For a man who had spent his 'teens as a fighting soldier on the western front to go into any adventure without a potential weapon would be as unthinkable as that a soldier would be willing to go into no-man's-land without a rifle. The accused had not the faintest intention of killing anyone when he put his friend's gun into his pocket that night. Even at the moment when he was confronted with Lisman, gun in hand and intention in eye, he had no will to kill. He answered Lisman's attack as mechanically as his training had taught him to do. That he killed Lisman was also due to the mechanical reaction of his training. If he had been deliberate he could have disabled Lisman without doing him serious injury. He had no reason to kill him. It was enormously to his advantage that he should not. That Lisman was killed and the accused unscathed was due to the fact that Lisman was a bad shot and had had too many drinks, and to the fact that the accused was taken unawares, and without time to think, shot by instinct, as he would at an enemy, to kill. If his country had never taught the accused the trade of killing Philip Lisman would be alive to-day. His country had taught him that and nothing but that, and as long as he killed in their service they approved of him. But now that in a mad unthinking moment he instinctively tell back on what they had taught him they called him a murderer and wanted to hang him. They called that justice. 'But justice is for you to dispense, you twelve persons of the jury, and for no one else. It is for you to say how blameworthy this boy is. There is nothing in his favour but the probabilities and the sworn evidence that of the two shots the first was the heavier report. Beyond that you have only his word. Do you think it is so difficult to accept?'
Arden-Davis waited a long silent moment, and then sat down slowly.
It was late afternoon when Kinsley rose to address the jury.
There was no need, he said, in this instance to decide whether or not the accused had fired the fatal shot. Even if the evidence for the Crown had not been sufficiently conclusive on that score they had the accused's own word for it that he had shot Lisman. Since his word was backed by incontrovertible evidence they were ready to believe his statement. But they were then asked to believe, with no more corroboration than that of a half-deaf woman who had been half asleep at the other end of the house at the time, that the shot had been fired in self-defence. That was to say, they were asked to take the uncorroborated word of a man who was confessedly on the premises with criminal intent. The net of the law had closed so quickly and so securely round him that he had no chance to deny, with any hope of belief, the fact of his presence there on the night in question. Now he said that he would never have fired at all if his victim had not used his weapon. If that were true it was strange that it was the man who had fired first who had missed his target, and that the man who had fired in flurried self-defence was the one to kill. It might, of course, be a mere matter of marksmanship, as counsel for the defence had suggested. But if probabilities, in the absence of evidence, were to be taken into consideration, it was much more probable that the very erratic course of Mr Lisman's bullet was due to the fact that he had already been shot.
Again, whether or not he had fired in self-defence, the accused was responsible for the killing of a human being, and that killing had become necessary, as the accused would term it, only through the accused's own criminal practices. Was that to be termed manslaughter? Was a burglar who shot one when one showed signs of defending one's possessions to be described merely as criminally negligent, or something equally absurd and inapplicable. It was for the jury, under the judge's direction, to decide, of course. He held that the shooting of Philip Lisman was murder, and should be punished as such.
Kinsley's gown made a soft s-s-sh in the silence as he turned to his seat. The court stirred, and breathed, and fell to silence again. In the quiet the small, awful, red and brown god above it turned over the pages of his notes with the stealthy rustle of dried leaves. Below him in the hot stillness they waited for the oracle. The blood thudded thickly in their ears. But in Kif's ears was a sound that was more the beating of his heart than any artery's spasm—the sound of London's traffic. Sudden and distinct it sounded, and a wave of agony rose in him.
Out there. Just out there. Just that link distance away. People would be going home now; it was raining probably; it had been raining when they brought him in the morning; the pavements would be wet and the buses full. He could see the yellow Star placards wrinkly and damp. People buying evening papers and going home and to theatres and things, just as usual. All over the world people doing things just as usual. But he—! What was it Danny had said? 'Luck always gets you in the end'—something like that. Luck—that's all it was. And he'd drawn a loser. Or perhaps he'd played badly. Who dealt anyhow? Oh, well, what did it matter? It was done now. This was the card he was left with.
Mr Justice Faver began to address the jury. His slow precise words fell into the silence as if they were distilled from some precious retort. The jury were there, he said, to weigh the worth of facts, not to decide upon matters of sentiment. As the prosecution had pointed out, the accused had gone to a certain house on the night in question to commit a burglary. When confronted with the owner of the property he shot him and killed him. The accused said that the owner was the aggressor, and that he, the accused, shot in self-defence. That was to say, he asked them to believe th
at a householder, well armed, well aware that there were trespassers on his property, and having the intruders at a distinct disadvantage in that he could take them by surprise, was yet so devoid of all reason as to shoot without provocation. Well, there were distinct limits to human credulity, and quite frankly he did not find that story credible. Provocation there must have been, and provocation could have been provided only by the accused, either overtly with his weapon or covertly in a gesture. It was, he thought, too unlikely for credence that Lisman, having all the advantages of the situation on his side—having, quite literally, the accused at his pistol's point—should go to the extreme course of firing. There was evidence that Mr Lisman was of a placid temperament. The defence, it is true, had in the course of evidence suggested that Mr Lisman was not habitually responsible for his actions at that hour of the morning. But subsequent and incontrovertible evidence had been led to show that he left his friends about half-past twelve in a perfectly sober condition. It was not, then, any inflamed condition of Mr Lisman's own mind which induced him to use violence. The defence had brought forward a witness who swore that of the two shots the first had been the report of Mr Lisman's revolver. The witness was very positive on the question, and there was no reason to suppose that the facts were other than she had stated. There was nothing in her statement incompatible with the case for the prosecution. It was quite possible that Lisman had fired first. It was even probable. He was the more prepared of the two. But it was something which the accused did which caused him to fire. Did they think that if the accused had meekly held up his hands on the appearance of Lisman there would have been any further trouble?
The defence had sought to enlist their sympathy by pointing out at what school the accused had been taught the use of firearms. His readiness to shoot, they had said, was a weakness for which the nation and not the accused was responsible. But half a million men—many of them as the accused—had also been taught to use firearms with speed and accuracy, and had evidently found no difficulty in resisting any inclination to use the talents for their private ends. It was not unwisdom on the part of the nation, but idiosyncrasy on the part of the accused which had brought about the tragedy. It was that very idiosyncrasy that predisposition to recklessness—which led to the accused's being on the premises. Illegally armed, illegally on the premises with criminal intent, the use of his revolver came, it had been admitted, fatally natural to him. But one could not provoke a man to a trial of arms and then attribute his death to self-defence on one's own part. One could not threaten a man to the point where he defended himself with violence, and kill him, and call it manslaughter. Let the jury go and consider it, without bias and without sentiment. Let them not say: 'The accused is young and badly brought-up.' Nor, on the other hand, must they say: 'There is too much of this type of lawlessness. One must be ruthless.' Let them consider this one case and this alone, on the facts as they were before them.
* * *
As the court rose respectfully at the talking god's slow departure a man whispered to his neighbour: '—little devil! How he loves himself! And how he hates Arden-Davis!'
'Hasn't much of a chance, has he?' said his neighbour, indicating Kif, who was being led below.
'Not an earthly. Shall we wait? I do want my tea.' But they waited.
In seventeen minutes the jury came back. They would have been back in five if it had not been for one juryman—a plumber—who was filled, it appeared, with queer theories. Some heated minutes passed before the other eleven could convince him that they were not concerned with ideas, but with Facts and Justice.
They found the prisoner guilty of murder, but recommended him to mercy on account of his youth. (That was the plumber's salve.)
The bright hooded eyes turned to the boy in the dock, the sunken mouth opened for speech. But the expected speech did not come. The god paused. For the first time in history Mr Justice Faver quite obviously changed his mind. What was it? Had he suddenly recollected the lateness of the hour? Had he caught himself on the point of being inartistic? Or did he find in the indifferent dark eyes that met his a wholly new estimate of himself, an estimate that made him, shockingly, of less account than the hum of the traffic outside? Mr Justice Faver paused and became mechanical.
The recommendation to mercy would be passed on to the proper quarter. Had Kif anything to say before sentence of death was passed on him?
Kif shook his head.
The judge picked up the small black square.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Baba was not going to see Kif. She could not bear it, she said. Besides, she could he better employed otherwise. Every minute of every day must be used in adding signatures to the petition for his reprieve. The signatures of influential people. Anyone could get the man in the street to sign, his name but that didn't get reprieves. It was the influential people who counted, who must persuaded, and it was she who would see to the persuading.
Angel, coming in one afternoon, found her entertaining a delighted cub-reporter in the living-room. He surveyed the situation for a moment with bitter eyes. Then he said to the newspaper man, who had risen at his entrance, and was waiting an introduction, 'Git!' and jerked his head at the door. And the reporter, surprised but politic, went without ado.
Angel went out of the room behind him—hastily, as if he did not trust himself—leaving an indignant Baba with nothing on which to vent her rage. But later he said: 'If you ever have one of that crowd here again I'll beat you till you're half dead.' And Baba, appealing to her father for sympathy and protection—'It's to Kif's advantage to be as nice to the press as we can'—was disagreeably surprised to have Angel's prohibition confirmed.
Kif, when Angel, nervous and explanatory, broke the news of Baba's defection, seemed to his friend unexpectantly acquiescent.
'Oh, I understand,' he said. 'Tim's the same.' And he handed over the letter he had been fingering for Angel to read.
'My Dear old Kif,
I meant to see you as soon as I could after the trial, but I have been thinking it over, and have come to the conclusion that a letter will perhaps be less painful for you as well as for me, and will say better what I want to say.
I have a horribly guilty feeling that I left you in the lurch, somehow, sometime, and that all this mess is somehow due to me. I can't put it clearly even to myself, but I have the feeling all the same, and I want to say that I'm as sorry as a man can be about everything. If it would do any good to see you I would come, but I can't see that it would. I would rather wait and meet under happier circumstances. I have a real belief in the prospect of a reprieve, a belief so strong that it amounts to a hunch.
If there is anything in this world that I can do for you, I'll do it.
Yours,
Tim Barclay.
Angel's features were carefully expressionless as he handed back the letter.
'He's quite right, you know,' Kif said with a hint of defence in his tone.
'About what? Leaving you in the lurch?'
'No, no. About it being best not to come.'
'Oh, yes…Do you not want him to come?'
'Not if he feels like that about it. Things always worried him when they didn't go right.'
And Angel went out into the road thinking what a rotten world it was.
But there were others. Ann was in her sunny Surrey nursery playing with her son when Tim came in. The baby was lying on the hearth-rug kicking its seven-month-old legs in an ecstasy of enjoyment, but its mother's eyes were absent as she raised them to meet her brother's. It was the morning after the trial, and though Ann had not been there at all—'There'll be enough to stare at him,' she had said—Tim had attended from beginning to end. It was he who had telephoned the news of the verdict to the waiting Ann and Heaton.
'Well?' she said.
'I know now what the people who came back from Calvary felt.'
'Yes,' she said. 'Yes, it's like that. Have you seen him?'
No, I couldn't.'
'What d
o you mean? Wouldn't they let you in?'
'Yes, but—I just couldn't, Ann. I just couldn't!'
'Tim! You don't mean that you're not going to go at all? You're just waiting to get your courage up, is that it?'
'I haven't any. I'm a moral bankrupt. I just can't go. It's beyond me.'
'But he'll be expecting you. Murray told him you were coming home, and he probably saw you at the trial. And anyhow—You can't possibly not go, Tim!'
'I've written to him. He'll understand.'
'You've—!' Ann sat a long time silent and looked at her brother. 'I sometimes think we're a rotten family,' she said. She picked up the crowing infant, and deposited him in his cot.
'Murray will be in the stables. I heard the second lot come back. I want to see him,' she said, and went out.
And that was how Kif was told by a warder that Mrs Heaton would like to see him, and Ann came in smelling of frost and furs and violets, ignoring the warder as if he had been a shadow.
It was some time before Kif found his tongue, but Ann talked easily and happily until he recovered himself. Kif could not see the shaking hands that were hidden in her pockets. He saw only her bright small eyes with their good-fellowship, and the kindness of her mouth and chin, and he was conscious of a wave of strength and wholesomeness that flowed from her to him. So miraculous was it to have Ann—Ann—sitting there that he forgot for a little what lay in front of him, and talked and smiled and exchanged ideas and experiences as if he were once more sixteen and sitting on the beach at Birling Gap. She talked of Heaton and her baby and of horses, much of horses—'You see, I'm a much more interesting person from your point of view nowadays!'—and when she rose to go at a slight movement from the warder, Kif lifted his hand in a wholly unconscious gesture as if to deter her.
'I hope I haven't taken time that your fiancée might have had,' she said. Heaton had told her that there was a girl.
She was not coming, Kif said. It was better that way.