REPORT OF THE PROCEEDINGS (continued 2)

Mr. Walters: It does. I want you to agree with me. I think you were in the habit of listening to Mr. Jasper when he had a little opium?

Witness: That is so.

Mr. Walters: Ever hear him say the word “Ned”?

Witness: I can’t recollect. I should think he did.

Mr. Walters: What made you hit upon the name “Ned” as a threatened name?

Witness: He talked about him in a very unkind way.

Mr. Walters: You say the man threatened was in danger. Did you think “Ned” in danger?

Witness: I heard what he said. Shall I tell you?

Mr. Walters: Not what he said. It doesn’t matter. But I want to know that “Ned” was a threatened name.

Witness: That’s right, deary.

Mr. Walters: Were you giving warning to anybody of the name of “Ned”?

Witness: I told him it was a threatened name.

Mr. Walters: Did you know he was called “Ned”?

Witness: I asked him.

Mr. Walters: Did you know who called him “Ned”?

Witness: I don’t know.

Mr. Walters: If I told you that Jasper, and Jasper alone, called him “Ned”?

Witness: I should believe you, deary. I should believe you.

Mr. Walters: And you would therefore also believe that Jasper was threatening him?

Witness: Yes, deary.

Mr. Walters: And that he meant it?

Witness: Yes, deary.

Mr. Walters: So you think there was murder in the mind of John Jasper?

Witness: I think he wanted to do him harm.

Mr. Walters: Do you love John Jasper?

Witness: No, I don’t.

Mr. Walters: I suppose you don’t love any of your customers?

Witness: I don’t care much about ’em.

Mr. Walters: But you don’t turn them away? When they come to you you take their money?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Walters: Do you always follow your customers down to their private residences?

Witness: No.

Mr. Walters: Why this one?

Witness: He had money.

Mr. Walters: What! A poor man in a choir had got money?

Witness: He had money.

Mr. Walters: It was worth all your while to go all the way to Cloisterham after one customer?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Walters: He had such a lot of money?

Witness: Yes; to me he had. I’m only a poor woman.

Mr. Walters: He was richer than all your other customers?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Walters: You think so?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Walters: You don’t know where all this money came from?

Witness: No.

Mr. Walters: You hated him?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Walters: And you wanted his money?

Witness: Yes. He was always a-listening.

Mr. Walters: I thought it was you listening?

Witness: Sometimes I would listen, and once he spoke to me of a hazardous journey, and he said, “I did it a hundred million times; I did it so often, that when it came to be really done, it was not worth the doing, it was done so soon, and when it comes to be real, it was so short that for the first time it seemed to be unreal. No struggle, no sign of danger, no consciousness of peril! I never dreamt that before.” That’s what he said, my deary dear.

Mr. Walters: Well, he said, when it came to be done it was so short it was not worth doing?

Witness: He said it was not real for the first time.

Mr. Walters: He talked about a real thing?

Witness: He says, deary, “When it comes to be real it seems to be unreal for the first time,” my deary dear.

Mr. Walters: He said, “when it comes to be real”?

Witness: “It seems unreal for the first time,” my poppett.

Mr. Walters: But when a man says “a real thing,” he means a real thing?

Mr. Chesterton: My Lord!

Judge: There is some element of paradox involved here. I cannot consent to allow the witness to be attacked merely because a criminal says that that which seemed real before it happened appeared unreal when it happened, because I suppose most of us in this room have committed crimes at some time or other, and that is a possible state of affairs.

Mr. Walters: I will not ask any more questions, my Lord.

Mr. Chesterton (re-examining): When you say that you imagined the prisoner was rich as compared with your other clients—they would be Chinamen and sailors and Lascars?

Witness: They was very poor, deary.

Mr. Chesterton: He was a different class of man?

Witness: He was, my poppett.

Mr. Chesterton: The other question I want to ask you is this: When you told Mr. Drood that “Ned” was a threatened name, what did Mr. Drood say?

Witness: He says, “But threatened men live long.”

Mr. Chesterton: What did you say?

Witness: “Then,” I says to him, “Ned, so threatened is he, whoever he be, while I’m a talking to you, that he should live to all eternity.”

Mr. Chesterton: Thank you. Call Thomas Bazzard.

Usher: Thomas Bazzard!

[That gentleman entered the witness-box and was duly sworn.]

[Evidence of Thomas Bazzard.]

Mr. Chesterton: Your name is Thomas Bazzard?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Chesterton: What is your profession?

Witness: I am a clerk and investigator to Mr. Grewgious, of Staple Inn.

Mr. Chesterton: Mr. Grewgious is not, as he is wrongfully described I believe, in the indictment, a solicitor?

Witness: No; Mr. Grewgious is a member of the Bar, but is not practising. He is Receiver and Manager of two large estates.

Mr. Chesterton: And what sort of work do you do?

Witness: I believe the work that I am at present engaged in is colloquially known as that of a “noser.” That is to say, I am engaged partly in collecting the rents, and partly in inquiring what is going on with his tenants—whether they are stealing the game, and improperly dispersing the stock. Largely work of investigation outside the office.

Mr. Chesterton: When did you enter his employment?

Witness: Ten years ago.

Mr. Chesterton: Where were you born?

Witness: I am the son of a Norfolk farmer, I am sorry to say.

Mr. Chesterton: If your employer said, “It would be extremely difficult to replace Mr. Bazzard,” that would refer to your inquiry work?

Witness: I think that would refer to my inquiry work. Yes.

Mr. Chesterton: Mr. Grewgious treats you rather respectfully?

Witness: Mr. Grewgious is extremely kind to me, and as he values my work outside, he allows a great deal of latitude as to my behaviour inside.

Mr. Chesterton: Now, when did you first see Edwin Drood?

Witness: I think I saw him—by the way, I should like to point out that Mr. Grewgious was not the legal adviser to Edwin Drood.

Mr. Chesterton: You might explain that to the Court.

Witness: I noticed in the copy of the Agreement that he was the legal adviser to Edwin Drood. So far as I know, that is not the case. I first saw him some time before Christmas 1860, at the office of Mr. Grewgious.

Mr. Chesterton: Did Mr. Grewgious tell you about Mr. Drood’s coming?

Witness: He did. Yes.

Mr. Chesterton: And what was the general instruction that Mr. Grewgious gave you?

Witness: These instructions: he said he was going to have a private conversation—more or less private conversation—with Mr. Drood, and if I appeared to be very interested in it, it might embarrass Mr. Drood, and that therefore I should not pay any particular attention to it.

Mr. Chesterton: What did you do?

Witness: What happened was this: I think we all had dinner, and then Mr. Grewgious had the private conversation in question. I understood that what happened was that he admonished Mr. Drood as to his proper feelings towards his future bride.

Judge: You did not hear that?

Witness: No; I didn’t hear that. I took the opportunity to have a snooze. Waking up, Mr. Grewgious said to me, “I have handed a ring of diamonds and rubies to Mr. Drood.” Mr. Drood handed a case and said, “You see?” I said, “I follow you both, sir, and I witness the transaction.”

Mr. Chesterton: What was the next occasion you saw him?

Witness: The next occasion I saw Mr. Edwin Drood was Jan. 1st, 1861.

Mr. Chesterton: That was a week after you first met him?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Chesterton: Where did you meet him?

Witness: At a hotel in Holborn.

Mr. Chesterton: Did you hear what happened to him after that?

Witness: After that, I was informed that he was very seriously ill with rheumatic fever, and was sent abroad to the South of France to get his health back.

Mr. Chesterton: Did Mr. Grewgious ever tell you how he came across Edwin Drood?

Witness: What he told me was this: that on Christmas Eve, 1860, he received very late at night, a letter from Miss Rosa Bud, his ward, to whom he was very much attached, and, if I may be allowed to remark, to whose mother he was very devotedly attached also. This letter was written by Miss Bud immediately following her conversation with Mr. Edwin Drood, which is in the Official Record, I think, and it entreated Mr. Grewgious, in very strong terms, to be with her in Cloisterham on Christmas Day. The letter reached Mr. Grewgious very late in the evening, and owing to the defects of the railway system, some of which, I am glad to learn, have been altered since, it was impossible for Mr. Grewgious to get to Cloisterham except by posting down, which he accordingly did.

Mr. Chesterton: There was no train after eight o’clock?

Witness: At that time no train after eight o’clock—from Victoria.

Mr. Chesterton: He posted down, and what do you understand he did when he arrived at Cloisterham?

Witness: He told me that he drove into Cloisterham somewhere about 5.30. Passing the Postern Gate, he stopped his carriage, and asked it to wait a minute.

Mr. Chesterton: Why?

Witness: He wanted to walk through the gate into the Churchyard, a few yards—some 40 or 50 yards, I think—in order to put some flowers on the grave of Miss Rosa Bud’s mother, as I think it is stated in the official documents, he was very much attached to Miss Bud’s mother.

Mr. Chesterton: When he got there, whom did he find?

Witness: He found Edwin Drood lying prone.

Mr. Chesterton: And what did he do?

Witness: I believe the first thing he did was to pick him up. He then shook him together, begged him to speak to him, and questioned him, and Edwin Drood entreated him to take him out of Cloisterham without any delay.

Mr. Chesterton: I understand, Mr. Bazzard, from your narrative, that Mr. Drood could give practically no coherent account of what had happened?

Witness: None whatever, beyond the fact that somebody had tried to strangle him, as he thought.

Mr. Chesterton: When you saw him, what sort of memory had he of that night?

Witness: Vague and unsatisfactory.

Mr. Chesterton: He could not have sworn that either Neville Landless or Jasper had attacked him?

Witness: He could not swear anything, except that he had been attacked.

Mr. Chesterton: His sympathies leaned, of course, to Jasper rather than to Landless?

Witness: He was very loath indeed to think that his uncle, whom he had cherished with very great respect and esteem, had been concerned in the attempt to murder him.

Mr. Chesterton: If he could have given evidence then, I take it he would have given evidence rather in favour of Jasper than of Landless?

Witness: That depends on the Jury.

Judge: I was going to remark that the question goes a little outside anything the witness is called upon to answer.

Witness: He was more inclined to——

The Foreman: On this point the witness has made a very remarkable statement; that Mr. Grewgious shook Mr. Drood together. May I ask how many pieces Drood was in?

Judge: I think the question should be answered.

Witness: I was not there, my Lord, at the time. I merely repeat what Mr. Grewgious told me.

Judge: You attribute it to a violent metaphor on the part of Mr. Grewgious?

Witness: It is right that I should put the Jury in possession of all matters.

A Juryman (Mr. William Archer): May I ask where Mr. Grewgious is in the meantime? Met with a violent death?

Mr. Chesterton: If the Jury will look at the Official Record——

The Foreman: I am sorry to explain, my Lord, that all our documents have gone, covered with our autographs. (Further copies of the Official Documents were handed to the Jury by the Clerk of Arraigns.)

Mr. Chesterton: If the Jury have the Document, they will see the last paragraph but one explains the matter. (To Witness.) You then saw Mr. Grewgious. What did Mr. Grewgious say?

Witness: What he said was this: that he personally very strongly suspected Jasper, but that Drood’s recollections as to what happened on that evening were so confused and incoherent that any testimony he might have to give would not either clear Landless, or incriminate Jasper. He therefore said this: that if Landless were committed for trial it would be necessary to produce Drood, but failing that, he had better keep his continued existence a secret until matters had died down at Cloisterham, and until Jasper thought he was entirely secure.

Mr. Chesterton: And therefore, what was Mr. Grewgious’s plan?

Witness: His plan was this: that if I went down to Cloisterham prosecuting inquiries there, I should detect Jasper.

Mr. Chesterton: And you did so?

Witness: I did so. Yes.

Mr. Chesterton: When you went down, how did the case present itself to you as a problem?

Witness: I thought from what Mr. Grewgious told me about the case, that there were three cardinal mysteries. One was why Drood, if he had been murderously assaulted, could give no clear account, as to who had assaulted him; the second was why, if the prisoner was the author of that murderous assault, he had not effected it; and in the third place, why, having failed to kill Drood, he obviously thought he had killed him.

Mr. Chesterton: Having put those three things to yourself, you went down to Cloisterham and disguised yourself?

Witness: I went to a costumier.

Mr. Chesterton: You did not make up your face?

Witness: No.

Mr. Chesterton: You were not known there?

Witness: As far as I know, no.

Mr. Chesterton: But there might be an offchance, and so you put on a costume?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Chesterton: You went to the Crozier, and ordered a veal cutlet, a mutton chop, and a pint of sherry?

Witness: Yes—and I drank the sherry!

Mr. Chesterton: And asked the waiter about lodgings?

Witness: I did.

Mr. Chesterton: You asked for something Cathedrally?

Witness: I thought I ought to get something near the Cathedral, so as to be near to Jasper.

Mr. Chesterton: They recommended you to Mr. Tope’s?

Witness: They did.

Mr. Chesterton: And you set out to go there?

Witness: I did.

Mr. Chesterton: What happened?

Witness: I was told I should find the house on the right-hand side. It was so obvious that I went past it. I went on up a lane called Crow Lane, I believe, into the Vineries, and somewhere about there I met the boy named Deputy. I asked him to take me to Tope’s, which he did.

Mr. Chesterton: He took you to within sight, didn’t he?

Witness: Yes; I beg pardon.

Mr. Chesterton: He pointed out a window?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Chesterton: You said, “That’s Tope’s”?

Witness: Yes; I thought it was.

Mr. Chesterton: He said it was Jasper’s?

Witness: Yes; and I looked at it with some interest.

Mr. Chesterton: You saw Jasper subsequently?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Chesterton: You called on him to inquire about the Tope’s? You made that opportunity to call?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Chesterton: You walked about the Cathedral; met Sapsea and Durdles?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Chesterton: You met Deputy again?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Chesterton: And there was a conversation, I think, between you and Deputy, in which you said he was to take you to Durdles’s house when you wished?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Chesterton: After you installed yourself in the Tope’s lodgings, how did you propose to keep a record of your successes?

Witness: I rather amused myself by opening the cupboard door in my room, and chalking it up as is done in taverns which on occasions I have visited in Ceylon—I mean Norfolk.

Mr. Chesterton: You were brought up as a boy in Norfolk?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Chesterton: And they keep chalk scores there?

Witness: They used to chalk it up by means of long or short lines.

Mr. Chesterton: Generally according to the date of the week?

Witness: The big lines at the end of the week.

Mr. Chesterton: You kept this record in this fashion?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Chesterton: Will you carry your mind back to one evening, I think in July, when Jasper came home comparatively late, and went under the archway, and passed up the staircase?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Chesterton: Do you remember an old woman following?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Chesterton: What passed between you?

Witness: I asked her if she was looking for anybody, and she, in substance, said that she would like to know the name and address of that gentleman. Then we had some further conversation, and she asked me, first of all for money for her lodgings, and then she asked for money for what she described as opium, which I gave her.

Mr. Chesterton: She also mentioned an interview with a young gentleman on the previous Christmas Eve?

Witness: Yes, she told me she had been to Cloisterham before on Christmas Eve, and that she had met a youth named Ned, I think it was, who had also given her money. I took it she had been down on the same business as that night—following the prisoner.

Mr. Chesterton: When you had done that, you went to your score?

Witness: When I had done that, I met Deputy, and he told me that “’Er Royal Highness the Princess Puffer” was staying at the Travellers’ Tuppeny, and that she kept an opium den in the East End of London, and then I had very little doubt that that was the place from which she had followed the prisoner.

Mr. Chesterton: You told her where she could see the prisoner next morning?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Chesterton: She saw him, and shook her fist at him?

Witness: She used dreadful language which is not even in the Official Records.

Mr. Chesterton: When she came out, did you say to her, “Have you seen him?”?

Witness: I did.

Mr. Chesterton: And did she say that she had seen him, and knew him better than all the Reverend Parsons put together?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Chesterton: You then went to the cupboard door, and what did you do?

Witness: I made a great score.

Mr. Chesterton: What was its meaning?

Witness: That my interview with, and observations of the opium woman had settled the three main questions as to which I had gone down to Cloisterham to decide.

Mr. Chesterton: Let us take them seriatim. First, how was it Drood——

Witness: From my conversation with her I gathered that Jasper took opium, and having opium, I had no doubt at all that he drugged Drood’s wine, and that Drood was so affected as not to be able to give any clear account as to the event.

Mr. Chesterton: The second question—How was it that, if the prisoner was the author of the assault, he had not achieved his purpose?

Witness: My views as to that also were clear. He had been at the opium den on the night before the Christmas Eve, when she last visited Cloisterham, and I have no doubt at all that he failed because he had an opium seizure—such a seizure as Mr. Grewgious saw him in, and as his nephew Drood saw him in.

Mr. Chesterton: The third question—How came it, that having failed to kill Drood, he obviously thought he had done so?

Witness: That, I thought, was obvious, because he would have completed the murder in an opium trance, such a trance as, later, the “Princess Puffer” described to me, as Jasper having experienced inside the opium den.

Mr. Chesterton: We have already heard from the “Princess Puffer” about its being unreal for the first time. That would fit in with your theory?

Judge: I am afraid the witness must have no theory. As soon as the examination has put its main point, we must go on.

Mr. Chesterton (to witness): Then, did you get any confirmation of that view from Mr. Grewgious?

Witness: Yes, I wrote to Mr. Grewgious, and he told me of the seizure on Boxing Day—I think it was Boxing Day—when he had an interview with Jasper, the prisoner.

Mr. Chesterton: And also did he tell you that Edwin Drood remembered his uncle in a seizure?

Witness: I remember that also.

Mr. Chesterton: Did you gather that Drood had had his wine drugged on a previous occasion?

Witness: I gather that from the Official Records.

Mr. Chesterton: Then, did you claim your promise from Deputy?

Witness: I did.

Mr. Chesterton: We have been told in evidence that a ring was put in the crypt.

Witness: Yes?

Mr. Chesterton: Does that surprise you?

Witness: Not in the least.

Mr. Chesterton: Why?

Witness: Because I put it there.

Mr. Chesterton: What was your object in pursuing that course?

Witness: This was the ring, I may say, that I had seen pass from Mr. Grewgious to Drood, of the existence of which, I may perhaps point out, it is obvious from the study of the Official Records, Jasper knew nothing at all; and acting under instructions from Mr. Grewgious, who had received the ring back from Drood, I obtained with the assistance of my friend Durdles access to the Sapsea vault, and therein I placed the ring. My object in doing that was, that subsequently, when Mr. Grewgious offered a reward for the discovery of the ring, the prisoner could be entrapped into a visit to the vault.

Mr. Chesterton: I take it, Mr. Grewgious would plaster Cloisterham with the description of the ring as believed to be on the person of Edwin Drood?

Witness: That is what he did.

Mr. Chesterton: It would be a large placard?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Chesterton: Rather like this? (Handing to the witness a reproduction of the original cover design for the book.)

Witness: Very like the second illustration from the top on the left-hand side.

Mr. Chesterton: Very well: that was your plan—that Jasper should be caught taking the ring, and thus be convicted of attempted murder?

Witness: Quite.

Mr. Chesterton: Of which you believed him to be guilty?

Witness: Beyond doubt.

Mr. Chesterton: It is not my business to ask you what happened, but I suppose somehow or other he got arrested for actual murder. Is that correct?

Witness: Quite right.

Mr. Chesterton: Thank you.

[Thomas Bazzard Cross-examined.]

Mr. Walters (cross-examining): I think you have said several times that you come from Norfolk?

Witness: I was born in Norfolk.

Mr. Walters: Is that the country where the dumplings come from?

Witness: Some, no doubt.

Mr. Walters: Where you come from also!

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Walters: Curious coincidence! You are a farmer’s son?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Walters: And very ambitious?

Witness: I have not said so.

Mr. Walters: Don’t you want to get on?

Witness: I don’t think that is very ambitious. I think being very ambitious is more than wanting to get on.

Mr. Walters: In order to get on you came to London from Norfolk?

Witness: A good many people have done that before, I am afraid.

Mr. Walters: You wanted to give London the benefit of any genius you had?

Witness: Thank you very much indeed. I wanted to be usefully employed.

Mr. Walters: And you became professionally engaged to Mr. Grewgious?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Walters: And you occupied the responsible and honourable position of “Noser”?

Witness: Quite right. The best position I could get.

Mr. Walters: And he treated you with great respect?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Walters: Remarkable respect from a barrister to his clerk?

Witness: That is due to the fact that he is a man of exceptional graciousness.

Mr. Walters: And you treated him with great respect?

Witness: I worked for him, I think, very hard, and with very great fidelity.

Mr. Walters: I said you treated him with great respect. I did not ask about your fidelity.

Witness: You will forgive my mentioning it, won’t you?

Mr. Walters: Now do you mind replying to the question? You treated him with very great respect?

Witness: I hope so.

Mr. Walters: If you ever gave him a surly answer, would that be respectful?

Witness: I don’t know. It would depend on the degree of surliness.

Mr. Walters: And you took his money as a good and faithful servant?

Witness: I hope so.

Mr. Walters: And were absolutely devoted to his interests?

Witness: I hope so.

Mr. Walters: So that on one occasion you fell asleep while he was talking?

Witness: Yes; but in pursuance to his instructions. He told me that a conversation was going to take place which was no affair of mine, and that he was not particularly anxious for me to overhear it. But he was very anxious that I should witness the transaction at the end of the conversation.

Mr. Walters: Would it not have been more respectful to walk out of the room?

Witness: I think not. It would place him in an extremely awkward position.

Mr. Walters: You preferred to fall asleep and snore?

Witness: May I answer? If I had gone out, Mr. Grewgious would have had to come for me, and to have told Edwin Drood that he required a witness.

Mr. Walters: You preferred to fall asleep and snore in the presence of a client?

Witness: I had forty winks after dinner.

Mr. Walters: You had forty winks, as you call it, while your employer was engaged with an important client?

Witness: In a conversation which I was not supposed to hear.

Mr. Walters: Do you frequently fall asleep?

Witness: No; I have no desire to slumber at present.

Mr. Walters: No; I think we shall wake you up presently. Do you usually sleep when respectable clients enter your office?

Witness: No; I don’t usually receive such instructions.

Mr. Walters: That was the only respectful way of treating your master and client?

Witness: I have had no remonstrance from Mr. Grewgious for it. I am still in his employment. He thought it was worth his while to go on employing me.

Mr. Walters: Mr. Bazzard, the story you have told proves to me that you have rather a strong imagination. Am I right?

Witness: If it proves it to you, my good sir, by all means. I prefer to answer questions.

Mr. Walters: But probably you have also convinced the Jury that you are a gentleman of some imagination?

Witness: It’s not for me to say—only to tender my evidence.

Mr. Walters: I believe you have written a Drama?

Witness: Once, many years ago, when a young man, I did write a Tragedy. A dreadful admission! I hope no other witness whose veracity is challenged——

Mr. Walters: What was the name of that Tragedy?

Witness: It is “The Thorn of Anxiety.”

Mr. Walters: Has it ever come out?

Witness: No.

Mr. Walters: It is, I suppose, a work of great genius?

Witness: I should not like to say.

Mr. Walters: But all plays are!

Witness: Do you think so! If you would like to read it, I should be delighted.

Mr. Walters: I don’t wish you to be modest. Dramatists usually are not. I suppose there are such things as good dramas and bad dramas?

Witness: There are certainly bad dramas.

Mr. Walters: Just to give us your opinion: do you think yours was good or bad?

Witness: I don’t know. I am naturally impressed in its favour, but several people—some people to whom I submitted it—they rather doubt it.

Mr. Walters: They don’t think there is any “Magic” in it?

Witness: No.

Mr. Walters: I don’t want you to think for a moment that all dramatists are bad people. I only mean that you may possibly have written a bad drama.

Witness: There are several dramatists on the Jury, and they can take their impression.

Mr. Walters: You would not give a reason why it has not come out?

Witness: I don’t think it is up to me. If I am asked for a reason, one is I have had very little time to push its merits.

Mr. Walters: I suppose though, that even bad plays are produced sometimes?

Witness: No doubt.

Mr. Walters: It’s not only the bad ones, though, that are accepted?

Witness: No.

Mr. Walters: It must be a bad play that does not get accepted in these days? When a man of genius such as you——

Witness: Please; if you don’t mind.

Judge: It is not in evidence that this man is a genius.

The Foreman: I respectfully submit that it is in evidence that he has written a play.

Judge: Very true.

Mr. Walters: When a man of your ability, of some little ambition, cannot get his play accepted, he sometimes resorts to other means—other than the ordinary means?

Witness: I could not tell you. I have only tried the ordinary.

Mr. Walters: You are a legal gentleman?

Witness: No, sir.

Mr. Walters: You are connected with the law?

Witness: No, sir.

Mr. Walters: Not connected with a lawyer?

Witness: No, sir.

Mr. Walters: Know nothing about the law?

Witness: I wouldn’t say that. I thought all Englishmen were supposed to understand the Statutes under which they live. I am in the office of a barrister who is not acting as a barrister, but as Receiver and Manager of two large estates.

Mr. Walters: And therefore no lawyer.

Witness: It is not for me to say that.

Mr. Walters: Do you think you can give a straightforward answer to any plain question?

Witness: I think I have done so.

Mr. Walters: You have probably heard that unsuccessful authors and dramatists, when they cannot get their plays or books accepted by ordinary means, adopt little devices?

Witness: I don’t think I have.

Mr. Walters: You have never heard of an actress losing her jewels, or an author pretending to commit suicide?

Witness: I have heard of them actually doing it.

Mr. Walters: Ever heard of an author saying he has been to the North Pole, and writing a book? Would it not be absolutely providential if something occurred to you to bring you into notoriety?

Witness: No.

Mr. Walters: It would not relieve your “Thorn of Anxiety”?

Witness: No.

Mr. Walters: In other words, would it not rather be to your advantage to be talked about as a hero.

Witness: I have never seriously considered the proposition.

Mr. Walters: You are rather fond of theatricals, are you not?

Witness: No, sir.

Mr. Walters: Fond of the Drama?

Witness: I am rather too busy to be interested in it. As I have told you, I am too busy——

Mr. Walters: Yes or no?

Witness: You ought to take my answer. I say I have been too engaged in looking after my livelihood to take a lively interest in the British Drama.

Mr. Walters: You do take an interest?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Walters: Does your employer know it?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Walters: He has seen your play?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Walters: It rather interested him?

Witness: I think what interested him was my work for him.

Mr. Walters: He is a keen man, you know.

Witness: I know. I can tell you he is not interested in the Drama.

Mr. Walters: You have a few friends who are interested in the Drama? Do you meet a few fellow Dramatists?

Witness: No, sir.

Mr. Walters: But it is in the Official Records that you do!

Witness: Then, I must be wrong, and I do. I was told to answer “yes or no.” I meet a few people who are interested in the Drama, having attempted plays as I have. I meet them at rather long but happy intervals.

Mr. Walters: I suppose they would like their plays produced?

Witness: I dare say.

Mr. Walters: Once more I ask you—and do please give a straightforward answer—

Witness: With great respect, I very much resent that.

Mr. Walters: Do you think it would be to your advantage to be a little famous?

Judge: I must interpose, because I don’t think I know any human being in the world who would not think it to his advantage to be rather famous. Also I must remind the Court that two speeches have to be made on both sides, and we are all in high hopes of hanging somebody, and it really ought to be abbreviated if possible. I don’t think anyone can say that the answers of the present witness have been such as in any way to expose him to discredit, but if the barrister examining desires to ask a few more questions, by all means let him do so, and then I think we should pass on as quickly as possible.

Witness: I could achieve very great notoriety if I were hanged.

Judge: Yes: live in hopes.

Mr. Walters (continuing his cross-examination): Datchery is rather a famous person at present?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Walters: And I suppose you consider it an honour to be considered Datchery?

Witness: I am proud to have worked down there.

Mr. Walters: You knew a little about the Drood case?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Walters: You knew a little of it from Mr. Grewgious?

Witness: I have stated that it was Mr. Grewgious’s idea that I should go down there and investigate in character.

Mr. Walters: It was not a dramatic inspiration?

Witness: The inspiration was Mr. Grewgious’s.

Mr. Walters: When you fell asleep on that occasion, were you pretending?

Witness: No.

Mr. Walters: You were not preparing for the part of Datchery in advance?

Witness: Datchery never snored, did he?

Mr. Walters: You were not preparing a part?

Witness: I had no idea that Mr. Drood was going to be murdered.

Mr. Walters: You were not pretending, therefore?

Witness: I was not.

Mr. Walters: You are a man of short sentences, according to the Official Record?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Walters: Very abrupt?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Walters: Have you given us only two or three words to-night in your sentences?

Witness: I have been answering under some provocation.

Mr. Walters: Did your Counsel provoke you to your long sentences?

Witness: I trust not.

Mr. Walters: Were you pretending when you gave those short sentences in Mr. Datchery’s character?

Witness: No; but a man in the witness-box is not a good criterion.

Mr. Walters: I suppose you can write?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Walters: I suppose your professional standing teaches you to keep correct records?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Walters: You did not keep the usual records making your investigations in Cloisterham?

Witness: What are the usual records?

Mr. Walters: I put it to you that you did not write anything down?

Witness: I did.

Mr. Walters: Why did you use the chalk marks?

Witness: Merely as a matter for my own amusement.

Mr. Walters: Were they to be used in any way?

Witness: I should say not.

Mr. Walters: You valued your time so much that you wasted it by putting chalk marks on a door!

Witness: The amount of time would not be much.

Mr. Walters: You were not going to take the cupboard door to London as evidence?

Witness: No.

Mr. Walters: It was all a waste of your time?

Witness: Yes; but harmless. Even a rejected dramatist is entitled to have some hobby.

Mr. Walters: You know John Jasper?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Walters: Did you ever see him take opium?

Witness: Never.

Mr. Walters: Do you know how long an opium fit lasts?

Witness: No. I imagine it rather depends on the amount of opium taken, and various other circumstances.

Mr. Walters: Suppose a man was in the habit of having a particular smoke of opium—mixing it in a particular way; do you think it would be over in a few minutes?

Witness: I could not tell you. Nor do I know whether he had those habits.

Mr. Walters: You don’t think it would take a few hours?

Witness: No idea.

Mr. Walters: Would it surprise you to know that after an orgy he would be clear-headed in the morning?

Witness: Nothing would surprise me, I think, from the little I have read of their literature.

Mr. Walters: You know nothing about it?

Witness: As a matter of experience, that is the exhilarating fact.

Mr. Walters: You never saw Jasper taking opium?

Witness: No.

Mr. Walters: And you watched him in Cloisterham?

Witness: In the street. He never took any there.

Mr. Walters: You believe that possibly he made a desperate attack on Edwin Drood?

Witness: Yes, I think so.

Mr. Walters: He would possibly make an attack on someone else?

Witness: Yes.

Mr. Walters: Don’t you think, therefore, you were in some danger?

Witness: I don’t think I was.

Mr. Walters: You don’t think you were in danger from a man who might make an attack? Are you a man of very great nerve?

Witness: It’s not for me to say.

Judge: I don’t think you have any right to ask him that. That is a matter of personal knowledge. It might be settled in a fight outside.

Mr. Walters: One or two more questions. Have you a great affection for Edwin Drood?

Witness: I have not.

Mr. Walters: Nor for Neville Landless?

Witness: No.

Mr. Walters: No interest in Miss Helena Landless?

Witness: No.

Mr. Walters: No interest whatever in any of the parties?

Witness: Business interest only.

Mr. Walters: Then, why did you risk your valuable life?

Witness: In the first place, I don’t think I exposed my life, valuable or otherwise, to any great risk. Why I went down there was because Mr. Grewgious asked me to do so, and because he had been a very generous and considerate employer to me, and I also thought that if I had good results he would reward me suitably.

Mr. Walters: Can you give me any explanation, if Drood has disappeared, why he has not communicated with his friends?

Judge: That is surely a point for final discussion in abstract debate?

Mr. Walters: I only ask if he can offer any explanation. (To witness.) Should you expect a man who has disappeared, and finding all his friends in danger, to communicate with his friends?

Witness: On that hypothetical case, I think I should. But that has no reference to the Drood question.

Judge: I think we should confine ourselves as sharply as we can to bringing out the actual facts, and not to abstract argument.

Mr. Walters (to witness): Can you give us any reason why he should not communicate?

Witness: I cannot: but he has communicated with his friends.

Mr. Walters: Are you going to produce any evidence?

Witness: That is in the hands of Counsel.

Mr. Walters: Don’t you think the white wig would give you away?

Witness: I can’t tell you. I was in the hands of a costumier.

Mr. Walters: You can go back to Norfolk, Mr. Bazzard.

Witness: Thank you, I am going back to the City.

Mr. Chesterton: I have no intention of cross-examining this witness. That concludes my case.

[Speech for the Defence.]

Mr. Chesterton proceeded to address the Court for the defence. He said:

My Lord, Gentlemen of the Jury:

I rise to speak in defence of the prisoner in circumstances in many ways difficult and even unfortunate. This is a case which has unfortunately been very much discussed, and very much written about, on which many people have preconceived opinions. I had, indeed, almost thought of appealing to your Lordship to commit at least one well-known man of letters for Contempt of Court, for a very improper article which appeared in yesterday’s Daily Mail. But, as I say, this is a case which we cannot pretend that any of us comes fresh to. Probably you, Gentlemen of the Jury, have some of you read about it, but I want to point out to you that, situated as you are to-day, you are bound by your oath to give us your decision quite irrespective of any previous opinions which you may have held, quite irrespective of anything that you may have read, or written, or heard; that you are bound to give your opinions on the evidence, on the evidence which has been offered to the Court to-day. And on that evidence I, without a moment’s hesitation, claim an acquittal.

What is the situation? Now, apart from the formal witnesses, whose evidence is not much disputed on either side, but to whose evidence I shall have to refer in some detail in a moment—apart from this, we have had two principal witnesses in the box to-day. Now it is obvious that one or other of them is not telling the truth. That is clear and unmistakeable. One of the questions you have to put yourselves is, Which of them was telling the truth, and which was telling falsehoods? You can test that in a good many ways, but whichever way, you will come to the same conclusion—that if there was a witness who was telling the truth it was Thomas Bazzard—if there was a witness who was romancing, it was Miss Helena Landless. What do we know about these two? Mr. Thomas Bazzard is a clerk in the office of a well-known business man; Miss Helena Landless is a young lady from Ceylon. Very much, no doubt, comes from there, but we have learned this evening, as one of the most amazing bits of her evidence, that the old English tavern scores come from there!

Now, let us consider first of all. What about the motives? Here is Bazzard. Bazzard has no motive—no motive whatever—for attempting to secure the release of the prisoner. Miss Helena Landless has admitted in that box on her oath that her hatred of Jasper had nothing whatever to do with the assassination of Edwin Drood. Her hatred of Jasper does not rest on the fact that Jasper has killed Edwin Drood at all. It rests on the fact that Jasper has treated in an unfortunate way her brother, and her friend, Miss Rosa Bud. So there you have her confession that she had a very real motive for hunting down the prisoner. Miss Helena Landless has told her story. She says she was Datchery. What is the first thing that strikes us about that extraordinary story? I asked her whether she made up her face, and she said she did not. Now, had she said that she made up her face, had she said she had painted herself wrinkles, it might have been just possible to ask a sane man to believe that she could go about Cloisterham, where she was well known, and not be recognised: but how can she have the effrontery to go into that box and ask the Jury to believe that she went about the town where she had been living for nine months, and where she was perfectly well known—round the Nuns’ House where she had been at school; round Canon Crisparkle’s house where she had been a visitor; and round the Cathedral—and that, with her face absolutely unchanged, and merely a white wig and a blue coat! And she asks you to believe that she did that, and that she called on the people who knew her best, and that they did not recognise her! Really, after that, can we be expected to believe one word of her evidence? Really, that is so strong and so monstrous an attempt on our credulity, that I am willing to waive all the other nonsensical parts of her story. There is her way of avoiding suspicion. She wishes to pass as an old buffer. Her idea is to order with a gargantuan meal an enormous quantity of wine and not to drink it! When I pressed her, she said she poured it away. Is it reasonable? It is not necessary to the character of an old buffer that she should drink a pint of sherry. But her whole story! I asked her where she learned to keep tavern scores. Gentlemen, you know what the way of keeping tavern scores means. It is the notorious old English custom of “scoring a man up.” As many of you may know, and as Mr. Bazzard has sworn, in evidence, it is a custom particularly of Norfolk. That is a perfectly natural action for Bazzard. Had Miss Landless said a Norfolk man or a countryman had told her, we might have believed her. But she said she learned it in Ceylon! I am rather surprised she did not say it was an accomplishment taught at Miss Twinkleton’s! Her theory that she could act as an old buffer is so absurd——because when she was thirteen years old she put on her brother’s knickerbockers. It is absurd. As if that would help a woman of 21 to pass as an old buffer! So I unhesitatingly ask you to accept the evidence of Bazzard, and reject that of Miss Helena Landless.

Another important aspect of the matter. If you believe the testimony of Bazzard, which is unshaken—it has not been shaken on one point by my learned friend, and not challenged in one single point—if you believe the evidence of Bazzard, you must acquit the prisoner. You must find the prisoner Not Guilty, because Bazzard has sworn that he has seen the alleged murdered man since the attempted murder. If you believe that, you must acquit the prisoner. But it does not follow—and this point I want particularly to emphasise—it does not follow that if you believe the story of Miss Helena Landless you ought to convict the prisoner. As a matter of fact, Miss Helena Landless has not produced, if her story is true, one little rag of evidence in favour of the guilt of John Jasper. She has, indeed, produced a certain amount of evidence suggesting that he planned an attempt on Edwin Drood’s life, but the defence admit that. She has produced a certain amount of evidence that John Jasper thought he had murdered him; but she has produced no rag of evidence that the murder took place. I ask you to believe the evidence of Bazzard, and I point out that my learned friend has not challenged the evidence of Bazzard.

I took Miss Landless through the whole of her story. She was a wonderfully good witness, but at every point she had to give some extravagant explanation to cover herself. My learned friend, able Counsel as he is, did not ask Bazzard one question hardly about his story. He devoted the whole of his cross-examination to trying to suggest that Bazzard was a great fool, that he had written a bad tragedy which is not in evidence, and that it has not been produced. Suppose he had produced a bad tragedy, and was vain of it. My learned friend may have heard of Frederick the Great, who was very vain of very bad verses. My learned friend has confined himself to saying that he must be telling lies because he is a fool. That is self-contradictory. We have seen him in the box subjected to cross-examination by one of the ablest Counsel at the Bar, and I ask you who saw him to say whether he is a liar or a fool. If he be lying it is impossible to believe that he is not a man of very remarkable ability. The fact that he is a man of low ability is my friend’s only reason for calling him a liar! I ask you to believe the testimony of Bazzard; and you must then acquit the prisoner.

But, as I was saying just now, Miss Helena Landless does not produce any evidence; nor does Durdles; nor Canon Crisparkle; not a shred of evidence to show that the murder took place. I had Miss Landless—an able, determined witness—and I challenged her, could she produce one tittle of evidence, other than the ring, to prove that Drood was murdered? and she had to admit, unwillingly, that she could produce none. She said she still retained her opinions. I am sure she would! We can perfectly estimate the attitude of mind of Miss Landless as one of bitter hatred of the prisoner and readiness to believe anything against him. I have no doubt that if Edwin Drood walked into court, she would still think Jasper murdered him. The only thing she can produce is the ring. If you believe Bazzard’s evidence, there is no mystery about the ring. It was put there by him. But suppose you don’t believe it: there are a hundred ways by which it might have got there. I could give you half a dozen straight away. Jasper might, in going through Edwin’s pockets to take out the watch and chain, have dropped the ring in the trance. Drood himself might have taken out the ring and dropped it. There are a hundred possible explanations of the presence of the ring, but there is no possible explanation of the absence of everything else except the ring. Quicklime will destroy the body, but I do ask whether it is conceivable that Edwin Drood had absolutely no metallic objects about him of any kind. I suggest that he might have had metal trouser buttons—unless he was a member of some extraordinary religious community, or some hygienic body which disapproves of anybody wearing anything of the kind!

My friend has made a great deal of the question of the enormous risks. Miss Landless flouted her enormous risks, and Mr. Walters flouted the enormous risks in Bazzard’s face. Mr. Bazzard, who is supposed to be a boaster, did not see that he had run such risks. Nor do I. One of the propositions of the prosecution is that Jasper was an extraordinarily brilliant criminal. Of course, he was the reverse. What is admitted by the prosecution itself is ample for my purpose. We say that Jasper bungled the whole thing and did not kill his man; but supposing he did kill him, there is no doubt he bungled. Just think. This clever criminal, who kills a man, is content with his own memory that that man had nothing on him but a watch and chain and pin; drags them out; never thinks he might have some money, although he is staking his neck, or chance of survival, entirely on the assumption that everything will be destroyed by quicklime. He never takes the ordinary precaution to see if there is anything else. It is so amazingly absurd that it would be incredible if we did not know, as we do know, that he was under the influence of a drug and was not master of his faculties when the crime was being committed.

I conclude by just saying this: I am aware that I appear in one sense at a great disadvantage because I am unable to claim any sympathy for my client. I cannot put it to you that my client has been wronged morally by the accusation. I cannot claim your sympathies for him. Undoubtedly he hated his nephew, and planned his murder; undoubtedly he is morally guilty of this murder; but, Gentlemen of the Jury, those things are not within your province. You are not here to judge the soul of John Jasper. You are here to decide whether he has committed the legal crime of murder. Unless that is proved, and proved up to the hilt, you have no right to find him guilty. And I would just say this: if you go beyond your rightful province of pronouncing on that simple matter of fact, you are perhaps thwarting some purpose higher than we know of.

It may not be for nothing that this man has been reserved for this very strange destiny, to have the moral guilt of murder on his head, to have all the remorse for murder in his heart, and yet by a strangely marvellous fate to keep his hand actually free from human blood. Perhaps He who created John Jasper intended for him a destiny more terrible than human punishment, some expiation more terrible than the gallows; and I ask you to give the benefit of the doubt to the prisoner in the dock. Respect upon his brow the sign of that mysterious immunity. Let Cain pass by, for he belongs to God.

[Reply for the Prosecution.]

Mr. Walters then replied for the Prosecution in the following terms:

May it please you, My Lord, Gentlemen of the Jury—

Although this case has many complications, the issue itself is an extremely simple one. Was Edwin Drood killed? If so, was Jasper the murderer? The defence has made one amazing, and I think fatal admission. It admits that John Jasper attacked Drood, attacked him with the intention of murdering him, and by that admission it consents that John Jasper’s character has gone—that he is a monster, that he is a hypocrite, that he is a man of no moral pretension, that he is a scheming criminal, and that murder was actually in his heart. A stranger defence could scarcely be conceived, and yet there is something in it, because it tries to ride off upon a side issue, and says that “Whereas you may convict this man of a certain attempt, we say that half way there he failed.” It is our duty, therefore, to try to prove to you that this man must inevitably have succeeded, and that he knew he had succeeded, and acted as if he had. What are the facts that demonstrated to you most conclusively that John Jasper committed the murder, and that Edwin Drood could not escape? Our contention is that he was the victim of a most carefully and elaborately prepared plot, carried out systematically, arranged most carefully, of such a character that there was no loophole by which he could possibly escape. John Jasper interviewed the right people, chose the exact spot, arranged the very hour when he would have all his material together for the completing of that dreadful task to which he had given himself. He had decided that his rival must be removed—that secret rival who was between him and the great passion, the all-absorbing passion of his life; having once made up his mind, he was inexorable. He knew nothing whatever of pity; he was a complete criminal; and all his acts show that his crime was carried out with a sort of hideous triumph.

But you are asked to believe that he failed, after making all these arrangements, and failed because he was dazed by opium, and only dreamed of the particular act which he thought he had committed. First remember the nature of the attack—the double nature of the attack. It included strangling with a silk scarf, and that was to be followed by the use of quicklime. If Drood escaped the one, surely it was nothing short of a miracle that he escaped the other? And, in any case, if he escaped why should he obligingly disappear to the convenience of the man who attacked him, and to the very great inconvenience of all the friends who loved him? John Jasper was a lasting danger to all who remained behind. Edwin Drood could not so entirely disappear from the realms of civilisation that he would not possibly know what was going on in Cloisterham, and yet you are asked to believe, Gentlemen, that this man upon whom a murderous attack had been made, went away at a convenient moment, leaving his friends to the persecution of the man who had assailed him, and leaving the way clear for the assailant to pursue his own evil courses! I should say it is almost inconceivable—or I should if my learned friend had not so ingeniously conceived it; but that it is believable I don’t think you will for a moment agree.

And what definite evidence has been produced to show that Jasper, who had arranged all this for a definite period—Christmas Eve—was suffering from opium at about that time? You have the evidence of Canon Crisparkle that on the very morning of that day, when he met him, he was in wonderfully fine voice, clear-headed, cheerful, in a good temper. All this is absolutely proved by the direct and unimpeached testimony of Canon Crisparkle. Where are the traces of opium? There are no traces of opium. The supreme moment had come, and Jasper was supremely ready for it. There were no traces of opium on him when those two young men departed from his home. He could not have soaked himself in opium during their short absence, and then have recovered in time to make his accusation against Neville Landless by the morning. But you are asked to believe that in that short interval he had time to recover—that he was in a trance so deep that he really thought he had committed a murder which he had not, and yet, early the next morning was so clear-headed, so resolute in purpose, so ready with a connected story which would fix the crime on another person. And why should he have been eager to give the alarm if he had the slightest doubt? A man risen from a trance of opium might have some doubts: but he had none, and within a few hours he was setting things in motion himself, giving the alarm. He had Neville called back, a course he had decided on from the first; he was going to fix the crime on Neville Landless; and within those few hours he had carefully and deliberately carried out the entire scheme. Why this immediate suggestion of murder? Why not a little lapse of time? Because he was confident that the murder had been committed and that the body would not be recovered; and therefore he could be resolute and speedy in his actions, and proceed at once to the second part of the crime which had been the motive for the original crime.

What did he do? Not only did he pursue Neville Landless remorselessly, but he set about persecuting Rosa Bud, whom he could afford to threaten, because he was aware it was safe—that the one rival who had been in his path had been swept out of his way, and that his way was clear. Does a man dazed with opium act in this decisive, rational fashion? He carefully robbed the corpse of those particular jewels of which he had an inventory. My learned friend makes the point—Why did he not feel in his pockets? Why did he not do this, that, and the other? He had inquired of Durdles what quicklime would do. He knew that it would not destroy metal. He had told a jeweller in Cloisterham that he knew exactly what jewellery Edwin had. It consisted of the watch and chain and the scarf pin. It was exactly those things which disappeared and were found in the weir by Canon Crisparkle. What a curious coincidence that the very three things he had an inventory of, and no more, should disappear! And why did he not seek further? Coppers and buttons are no means of certain identification; he could afford to ignore them. Moreover, a murderer does not linger about the body of his victim; besides, he was already convinced that having removed those three items of jewellery, by which Drood could be identified, he was secure, and the quicklime would do the rest; then he hastened back, for he had to get home again in order to be prepared for the morning, to make his charge against Neville Landless.

But there was one article about Edwin Drood’s person of which Jasper knew nothing—the ring, which Drood was to return if his betrothal was broken off, but which we say Grewgious never received. That ring would hold the murderer, and bring him to his doom. It would not be destroyed by the quicklime, and would be there intact and the means of bringing him to the scene of his desperate crime. Remember, he courted inquiry immediately after Drood’s disappearance—a sign of his supreme confidence and his colossal audacity. The man who has the slightest doubt that the murder may not have been completed does not at once set the law into motion, go to the magistrate and bring a charge. But if he knows it is completed and the body has gone, he can afford to do so. Everything he had designed to do, he did. It was only something that he did not know of which caused him to bungle. He was not by nature a bungler. He was one of the completest types of criminals that you can imagine, a man who for months and months had been meditating on the closest details of the crime—been to the crypt, talked with Durdles, spoke to Mr. Crisparkle, started his theory that Neville Landless was the person to be charged—and a man who does all those things cannot be accurately described as a bungler.

Canon Crisparkle told you the part Jasper played in fomenting quarrels between Drood and Landless. It is exactly the course that a calculating murderer would pursue. And you have heard the evidence of Durdles, a man who probably scarcely understood the purport of his own remarks. How valuable his testimony was! Jasper had spoken to him of quicklime and of tombs, and Jasper had gone with him on a midnight expedition. Was all this vain and useless? Was the expedition at midnight merely a pleasant little picnic for no particular purpose, or merely for fun? Not for fun, when we find that it all fits the composite scheme of murder which was carried out.

My learned friend has spoken about Helena Landless. I say she is a witness entirely beyond reproach. She was the very woman framed by nature to carry out her arduous part. She had every need for her action and the capacity for her daring work—every essential qualification for that difficult part was possessed in advance by Helena Landless. She had had experience; in her youth she had dressed as a boy, and shown the daring of a man; she was the leader of her brother, and when everything else had failed, when six months had passed by and she was able to do nothing by ordinary means, she adopted this extraordinary means of disguise in order to carry out her work. We are asked why she did not paint her face. I don’t know whether my learned friend wanted her to black her face or what he wanted her to do; but she was brought up in a warm climate with a rich dark complexion and she chose the part of the “old buffer,” which means, if it means anything, something of the sailor type. Her complexion was ready for her. She wore a large white wig to hide her luxuriant tresses. Why Bazzard should wear a large wig I don’t know. She had the only effective disguise for her, the disguise of an elderly man, because she had to live up to the white wig to conceal her woman’s figure. She was no stranger in Cloisterham and was perfectly equal to the task of conversing with those whom she had already met before.

One word on Bazzard. If you reject Helena Landless, there is only one alternative. You must put Thomas Bazzard in her place. Is this Mr. Bazzard, the man who fell asleep while his employer was discussing crucial matters with a client, one who was likely to appear as the elderly Mr. Datchery in Cloisterham? This man, who thinks more of his drama than his law work, is he a likely man to have devoted himself to confronting a man already suspected of murder? You have seen a Mr. Bazzard in the box, and I put it to you that he was specially got up to produce a false impression upon you. The Bazzard in the box was bright and alert and voluble. The official record says that he was “a pale, puffy-faced, dark-haired person of thirty, with big dark eyes that wholly wanted lustre, and a dissatisfied, doughy complexion that seemed to ask to be sent to the baker’s.” That is the gentleman who was to act the part of the brave and daring Datchery! I say it is impossible, and that his own vanity has tempted him to claim these honours. He told you he “placed” the ring in the crypt for any passer-by to pick up, and that, knowing Drood was alive, he still allowed Neville Landless to be accused of murder and Rosa Bud to be persecuted by Jasper. This from a man connected with law! It is an absurd story, and utterly incredible. I ask you to reject it.

Gentlemen, a solemn duty rests on you in this crisis which I am sure gentlemen of your ability and intelligence will faithfully discharge. It is with infinite pain that I have to ask that this man shall pay the penalty of his sin. But John Jasper himself showed no mercy. He fondled the victim whom he intended to butcher; he lured to his doom one who he had made to feel was his nearest and dearest friend; he destroyed a life full of promise, a life which might have been fruitful and happy. I do not ask for vengeance, but only for the fulfilment of the law, that justice may be trusted to maintain the sanctity of human life. If you fail in your duty this man will henceforth be free. I charge you, in the name of humanity and human rights, to quit you as men, to act on the facts which have been placed before you. This mystery, Gentlemen, has lasted long enough. It is in your power to-day to elucidate what has seemed to be obscure, to solve this deep and complex problem. Yours is an enviable opportunity, and to-day you may strike a very great blow for the truth. The eyes of the nation are upon you, the whole world is anxiously awaiting your decision. I beg you, Gentlemen, resolutely and earnestly to sweep away all this fantasy which has been placed before you by my learned friend, to forget his extraordinary story of a half murder, which I think I have shown to be impossible, and by one bold and emphatic stroke to solve for ever the Mystery of Edwin Drood.

[The Summing Up.]

His Lordship then proceeded to sum up, as follows:

Gentlemen of the Jury—

You will not be the first Jury empanelled in this great country who will have to come to your decision with unreasonable speed. The proceedings have been so interesting that I cannot hope to do them justice; but I will merely go over, as far as I can, the main features of the case, and then my duty will be to leave it to you. First of all, it should be remembered, because it is indeed included in what is referred to as the Official Record——

A Spectator: Louder, please.

Judge: I am speaking to the Jury. If you think you can hang that man for us, you are mistaken.—I say it is included even in the Official Record by an indirect admission that we owe a great deal of information that we have heard this evening to a man of letters. I must therefore ask the Gentlemen of the Jury to put themselves for one moment in the position of such a person. You must forget that you are solid and good citizens summoned to decide a serious matter, nay, I must forget that I am an experienced Judge seated on this Bench for many years; and we must all try to think—both the Jury and myself—try to think we are authors. Supposing that to be the case, it is all the easier, of course, to imagine oneself the author of a crime. I will, therefore, very rapidly divide up the evidence, as I see it, on the two sides, and then leave the matter to you.

I need not tell you how serious is the issue put before you. If it were only the solemnity of ending the Mystery of Edwin Drood it would be almost as solemn as that of ending a human life, but if any doubt exists in your minds at all as to whether the Mystery of Edwin Drood has been solved by the prosecution, you must permit the prisoner in the dock to go forth, even if from a merely personal study of his countenance you think he is going forth to murder other people. Unless the prosecution has convinced you that the Mystery is at an end, you have no right to convict him, and he has the right to the benefit of the doubt.

The next thing necessary clearly to distinguish is the evidence of the two principal witnesses. The others were rather entertainers than witnesses. There were two very genuine witnesses, one of whom perjured himself or herself—that is to say, would have done so had we permitted profanity to enter into these proceedings. I want to say one thing about that. It is a remarkable fact, and in that point the Jury ought to really fairly balance their minds, because there is a case for possible perjury in both instances. So horrible a crime as perjury can only be committed either from a very low or a very high motive. The character of Mr. Bazzard, as revealed by himself with picturesque clearness, appears to me an entertaining and attractive but, shall I say? not a saintly character, and it appears to me to be arguable that he might possibly tell a lie from general amusement at the absurd way in which the world is run. On the other hand, it is admitted, I think, for Miss Landless that though she would not tell a lie or forswear herself for money, she might conceivably do it as counting religious observance beneath some affection she had for her brother. I therefore put it to the Jury as possible that both are liars. But I should distinguish between their motives if I were writing a spiritual treatise. It is tenable in both cases. Undoubtedly if one is telling the truth the other is lying.

About the wearing of a wig, I think the point has been somewhat unduly pressed on one side. I think it is a strong argument for Datchery being Helena Landless, but not a very strong one that she feels the weight of the wig. I suppose there are many of us here this evening who have been not unconscious of the discomfort of wearing a wig when you have too much hair already. So I should not press forward the argument that it must have been a woman’s hair—or I should not press it too far. Edwin Drood is represented in the picture as having monstrously long hair—but that does not concern us here. I think it should be conceded as a point, but not a very great point, to the prosecution. We come to the second broad distinction which amounts to this: that very few of the witnesses, and I daresay very few of the Jurymen, are acquainted with the proper use and enjoyment of two substances, one of which is opium, and the other quicklime. Most of us, I conceive, indulge in these things, if at all, in great moderation, but anyhow, a great deal depends upon the operation of these two things; and it appears to me on that point that the whole of this Court, not having called any expert evidence, either of morphia maniacs, or of persons partially buried in quicklime, (who are, I imagine a select class)—as the trial has not called any kind of technical evidence about the effects of these things, I think it my duty to put it to the Jury that they must reserve their judgment and allow a wide space for human ignorance about the effects of these things. I certainly do not know how quick opium confuses the mind, or how quick quicklime destroys the body, and if the Jury know it, I, in the best traditions of the Bench and Bar, command that they dismiss it from their minds.

We have placed in front of us two allegations. On the one side it is alleged by the prosecution that there is, after all is said and done, a very strong argument for the death of Drood, in the fact that he did not return; it is alleged by the defence that you have an even stronger argument against any theory of the murder of Edwin Drood, because, again, he did not return, even as a corpse. “If he is dead,” says the defence, “where is the corpse?” “If he is alive,” says the prosecution, “where is he?” That, I think, is a fair summary of the arguments, and it is obvious that if you come to think it out, these two theories depend on those two suppositions. Is it possible for opium to make a person half commit a murder? or Is it possible for quicklime so to destroy all traces, including buttons, and so that the disappearance of the body is evidence of the murder? That is the question I shall leave entirely to you—as to whether there is enough of what I may truly call “quicklime evidence” to warrant you regarding Jasper as a real murderer, or enough of “opium evidence” to warrant you saying that it was a visionary or dream murder. Those, I should say, would be the broad lines on which you have to decide. For the rest, you have to be answerable to the highest conceivable Authority as to how you deal with a very fascinating romance. Gentlemen of the Jury, you will retire and consider your verdict.

[The Verdict.]

Immediately his Lordship had concluded, the Foreman of the Jury rose and said:

My Lord,—I am happy to be able to announce to your Lordship that we, following the tradition and practice of British Juries, have arranged our verdict in the luncheon interval. I should explain, my Lord, that it undoubtedly presented itself to us as a point of extraordinary difficulty in this case, that a man should disappear absolutely and completely, having cut off all communication with his friends in Cloisterham; but having seen and heard the society and conversation of Cloisterham here in Court to-day, we no longer feel the slightest surprise at that. Now, under the influence of that observation, my Lord, the more extreme characters, if they will allow me to say so, in this Jury, were at first inclined to find a verdict of Not Guilty, because there was no evidence of a murder having been committed; but on the other hand, the calmer and more judicious spirits among us felt that to allow a man who had committed a cold-blooded murder of which his own nephew was the victim, to leave the dock absolutely unpunished, was a proceeding which would probably lead to our all being murdered in our beds. And so you will be glad to learn that the spirit of compromise and moderation prevailed, and we find the prisoner guilty of Manslaughter.

We recommend him most earnestly to your Lordship’s mercy, whilst at the same time begging your Lordship to remember that the protection of the lives of the community is in your hands, and begging you not to allow any sentimental consideration to deter you from applying the law in its utmost vigour.

Mr. Walters: I should like to urge that the Jury be discharged for not having performed their duties in the proper spirit of the law. We have heard from the Foreman that the verdict was arranged in advance, and I decline to accept that verdict, and ask for your Lordship’s ruling.

The Foreman: The Jury, like all British Juries, will be only too delighted to be discharged at the earliest moment: the sooner the better.

Mr. Chesterton: I want to associate myself with my learned friend.

Judge: My decision is that everybody here, except myself, be committed for Contempt of Court. Off you all go to prison without any trial whatever!

The Court rose at 11.35, the actual hearing having occupied four hours and twenty minutes.

FOOTNOTES: