“I had seen crowds outside Bow Street Police Court, when the suffragists were to appear: but never had I seen such a crowd as was assembled in Bow Street and its environs on that day. Travers Humphreys and I, in a taxi, could not approach the Court: so we drove to the mouth of an alley, and, leaving the taxi there, walked up the alley to the Magistrates’ private door. Inside the famous Court there were already more people than I would have said it could hold. But the Bench was empty, and so, with one exception, was Counsel’s box. (Who the stranger was, I never knew. But he was very reserved. I think he was an old Civil Servant.) To the box, we were escorted, I think, by the Chief Jailer, Sergeant Bush.
“The latter seldom appeared – the more’s the pity. He cut a most striking figure, did Sergeant Bush. He was a fine, big man, with a black, close-cut beard. He was always perfectly groomed and his uniform fitted like a glove. From his belt hung his bunch of keys – there must have been ten to twenty – none less than six inches long: and all were shining like silver and chinking whenever he moved. His manner was superb. Brisk, dignified, firm, Bush was a splendid officer and an impressive man.
“Williamson was already in court and, at Humphreys’ invitation, he came to sit by our side. Arthur Newton, who had been instructed for the defence, was at the solicitors’ table, just below. Dew was there, of course, to give evidence of arrest. Then ten o’clock struck, and the Magistrate took his seat.
“It was the Chief Magistrate, Sir Albert de Rutzen. That the case came before him was just pure accident; Monday was one of the days on which he sat. But we were glad it was he, for he was the best on the Bench. When Spy’s cartoon of Sir Albert appeared in
Vanity Fair
, beneath were printed the words, ‘A model Magistrate’. This was a true saying. Very quiet, very firm, very kindly, he truly adorned the Bench. His wisdom was infinite: his understanding, rare. And his polished manner was that of another age. He was a great gentleman.
“Crippen and le Neve were brought in, to stand in the dock, side by side. When evidence of arrest had been given, Humphreys requested a remand for seven days. This was a usual request, and was granted at once. As the prisoners left the dock, Arthur Newton rose. ‘I ask your permission, sir, for me to receive a copy of the sworn Information upon which the Warrant was issued for the prisoners’ arrest.’ This request was also quite usual. Before Sir Albert could reply, Travers Humphreys rose. ‘The Crown, sir,’ he said, ‘opposes this application.’ Sir Albert looked at him. ‘Not without reason, sir. But I give the Court my word that by your refusal the defence shall be in no way embarrassed. At next Monday’s hearing I will open the case in full, and I will consent to any adjournment which you, sir, may see fit to allow.’ Arthur Newton protested with all his might. Such opposition, he said, was unheard of. (So it was.) For years such a privilege had always been accorded the defence. (So it had.) And what were the Crown’s reasons? ‘I am not prepared,’ said Humphreys, ‘to disclose the reasons which the Crown has for opposing this request. I have said that it has good reason – and I leave it there.’ Arthur Newton replied with some heat. Then he sat down. Sir Albert was very wise. He knew that, without good reason, the Crown would never have dreamed of opposing so usual a request. And, of course, he knew Arthur Newton. And, since he had Counsel’s word that the defence should in no way suffer if the request was refused, he refused the request. To do so required considerable moral courage, and I can think of no other magistrate who would have done so. So Newton went empty away.”
“And the reason?” said Berry.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It was a very good reason, but I have no right to divulge it.”
“Not after forty years?”
“No. I should like to – more than I can say. But that information was secret, and I cannot give it away.
“On the following Monday, Humphreys was as good as his word and opened the case in full. Wilcox had found the poison – traces of hyoscine. (The organs were tested, of course: but until the poison was found, we had had no reason to think that Crippen had poisoned his wife.) Humphreys opened this fact. I was watching Crippen then, for I thought it would hit him hard. I was perfectly right.
“Before my eyes, the blood rose into his face, as I had never seen blood rise into a face before. It was like a crimson tide. It rose from his throat to his chin in a dead straight line…from his chin to his cheeks…from his cheeks to his forehead and hair…till his face was all blood-red, a dreadful sight. And then, after two or three moments, I saw the tide recede. Down it fell, as it had risen, always preserving its line, until his face was quite pale. Twice more I saw this happen – once under cross-examination, and once again. It was a tell-tale flush, beyond his power to control.
“That night, in jail, Crippen broke his glasses and sought to use the fragments to cut his throat. But a warder entered his cell and wrested the fragments away.
“Perhaps I had better describe him. He was on the small side, for a man, and was neither slim nor stout. He had a heavy moustache. This was red, like his hair – a sandy red. Being very short-sighted, he wore very powerful glasses – spectacles. The lenses were unusually thick. Since he had protruding eyes, the effect, when he looked at you, was really most repulsive, for the glass being thick and the eyes very close to the glass, some trick of magnification lent them a horrible look. His gaze was most disconcerting – and that is the truth.
“Le Neve was nondescript. She was not good-looking, but you’d hardly have called her plain. She gave no sign of the lively personality which she undoubtedly possessed. At the first hearing at the police-court, she seemed to have no idea of the gravity of her position: she was charged with being an accessory, and was liable, if found guilty, to be imprisoned for life, if not hanged. During the proceedings, she made no effort to control her amusement and laughed outright more than once, while Dew was relating that, when he arrested her, she was dressed as a boy. I imagine that Arthur Newton let her have it afterwards, for never again did she behave with such impropriety.
“Speaking of le Neve, Dew told me a curious thing. There was plenty of room on the ship on which she and Crippen were brought from Canada: the cabins allotted to them were on opposite sides of the ship. Crippen spent most of his time, audibly lamenting the fact that he had involved le Neve – ‘That poor girl,’ he kept saying. He need have had no concern. ‘The poor girl’ was enjoying herself. She was a wag, and her flow of quips and back-chat reduced to helpless laughter the crowd of stewards, cooks and others so often as it found time to collect outside her door. The thing became such a scandal that Dew approached the purser and had le Neve moved to a cabin which was less accessible.
“The hearings at Bow Street occupied several full days, and all the time, between them, our work in Chambers went on. To the best of my recollection, we hardly touched anything else. Sir William Wilcox, the eminent physician, then Senior Scientific Analyst to the Home Office, proved that hyoscine had been found in more than one organ which Crippen, of course, had preserved. Professor Pepper gave evidence – it was, I think, his last case. The famous Bernard Spilsbury spoke to the flesh and the scar. Mrs Nash was called, so was her husband. The Martinellis were called. An assistant from a Holloway drapers’ identified the pyjama-top as having been sold by his firm the year before: my impression is that he remembered Belle Elmore as a customer, but of that I cannot be sure. Arthur Newton reserved his defence. The two were committed for trial.
“The Treasury chose Muir to lead for the Crown, and Tobin, QC, was briefed for Crippen’s defence. Le Neve was to be tried separately: on her behalf F E Smith was retained.
“In a case so heavy, the Treasury usually gave an extra brief: that is to say, a devil in the Chambers of one of the Treasury Counsel engaged received a brief from the Crown. By the etiquette of the Bar, as Travers Humphreys’ leader, Muir had the right to say to whom the brief should go. Naturally enough, the name he submitted was that of Ingleby Oddie, who would work on the case with him and had been his faithful devil for many years. (Oddie was also a doctor and later became a famous London Coroner.) Williamson was kind enough to make a great effort to get a second brief for me, for I had done all the work, and Oddie never came in, till the case was sent for trial. But the Treasury was adamant. One extra brief was all that they could afford. Before the first hearing at the Old Bailey, Oddie came up to me with the brief in his hand. ‘Everyone knows,’ he said, ‘that this brief should be yours.’ I thought that uncommon handsome. But it was nobody’s fault.”
“It was a damned shame,” said Jill.
“I never resented it, my darling. I should have liked a brief, and I think the Treasury might have stretched a point. But their argument was that they had allowed a brief and that whose name was submitted was nothing to do with them.”
“Muir was to blame?”
“Not at all. Oddie was his rod and his staff: and Oddie would have been by his side, whether or no he had a brief in the case. I don’t suppose he gave the matter a thought. Besides, it would have been unseemly that I should have held a brief, while Oddie had none; for Oddie was certainly ten years senior to me.”
“Why, then, did Oddie say what he did?”
“Because he was a very nice man.
“The case was heard in October – at least, I think it was. At the Old Bailey, of course. It was tried by The Lord Chief Justice, Lord Alverstone, of whom I have spoken before. It was not his turn to take the Calendar, but he washed out the other Judge and came down himself. I was told that he said, ‘This man deserves to hang, and I’m not going to see him get off on a point of law.’ Be that as it may, I never remember a case more beautifully tried.
“I think it lasted one week. Humphreys brought in a second devil to help me take the note: this we did by turns, so that I had an easier time. Who was Tobin’s junior, I quite forget.
“The defence put forward was this: That Crippen had not murdered his wife or anyone else; that, to the best of Crippen’s belief, Belle Elmore was still alive; that Crippen was unaware that any remains were under the cellar’s floor; that there was nothing to show that those remains were Belle Elmore’s; that the so-called scar was nothing but a fold in the flesh – the mark which had been made when the slab had been folded in two.
“For obvious reasons, I won’t describe the trial; but I’ll give you a few side-lights which I remember well.
“Tobin, who was later made a County Court Judge, put up an excellent show. How he contrived to do it, I have no idea, but he appeared to have convinced himself of Crippen’s innocence. He afforded a perfect example of the way in which Counsel for the Defence should identify himself with the instructions which his brief contains. Of his final address to the jury, the last words were, ‘And reconcile your verdict with your conscience and with your God.’ As he sat down, I saw the tears on his cheeks.
“Muir was at his best, for the case was a dead case. He fairly screwed down the lid. For Crippen to have declined to go into the box, would have been to commit suicide: though counsel may not comment upon such a failure, the Judge may: and the Lord Chief would undoubtedly have done so. So into the box he went. The papers said that Muir’s cross-examination was deadly. Possibly it was. But it was the material that Muir had that was deadly. And Crippen made a very poor witness. He put up no fight. With such material and such a witness, almost anyone’s cross-examination must have been deadly. Of evidence against Crippen, we had
un embarras de richesse
. We never even called the man who delivered the lime. It was a dead case. Yet I have read accounts, printed and published in volumes, written by men who knew no more of that case than did the butlers of Mayfair, which have suggested that it was touch and go, that up to the last uncertainty prevailed, that the verdict of the jury was breathlessly awaited and that it is to be hoped that justice was done. Which is, of course, utter rubbish. The case was always dead.
“I think I am right in saying that Crippen declined a chair and stood the whole time. I may be wrong. He stood a little back from the bar and held his hands behind him for most of the time. He was carefully dressed and wore a frock coat, as, of course, in those days many men did. Except upon two occasions, he betrayed no emotion at all.
“Sir William Wilcox was always a deadly witness: and this was not because of the evidence he gave. Having a slight impediment in his speech, he spoke with a deliberation which magnified the importance of all he said. From the amount of hyoscine found in the various organs, he was able to calculate the dose administered. This would have been sufficient to kill half a dozen men. Bernard Spilsbury, fresh-faced and charming – it was his first big case – explained the scar. The slab of flesh upon which the scar appeared, was exhibited in court. It was lying in a large meat-dish – the kind of dish in which sirloins used to be served – soused in spirits of wine or some preservative. It was presented to counsel, and I inspected it. Even I could see it was a scar – a scar which had stretched. Pepper, sitting beside me, indicated various points. ‘No doubt at all?’ I whispered. ‘How can there be? As she grew stouter, it stretched. I’ve seen them again and again.’
“The defence called two qualified surgeons to say that it was not a scar, but the mark of a fold in the flesh. ‘When the slab had been laid in the grave, it must have been folded in two.’ Such a contention was manifestly absurd, and the Lord Chief showed that it was. He turned to the leading surgeon, then in the box. ‘You say that this is a fold, and not a scar?’ ‘That, my lord, is my belief.’ The Lord Chief held up a sheet of note-paper. This he folded in two. Then he opened it out. There was the line of the fold, quite clear to be seen.
“‘That,’ he said, ‘is the mark of the fold which you have seen me make. It is a sharp, thin line, of the same width all its length. Now look at that mark on the flesh. That is not a thin line. And it gradually grows wider, until at the bottom it measures nearly an inch. D’you still maintain that that mark on that piece of flesh is the mark of a fold?’