Having considered the two medical reports, the police decided to prosecute and they referred the evidence to Old Street Magistrates’ Court for a preliminary hearing.
Three magistrates agreed unanimously that there was a prima facie case of larceny, for which a younger person would undoubtedly have stood trial at the London Quarter Sessions. However, the presiding magistrate was exceedingly doubtful, considering the age of the accused. He had a grandmother of ninety-three who did not know the time of day nor even recognise her own daughter and he was very sympathetic towards extreme old age.
Whilst the charges were being read by the police superintendent, Sister Monica Joan sat between her solicitor and Sister Julienne, who was scarlet with embarrassment and kept her eyes lowered. In contrast, Sister Monica Joan sat upright and looked around her with haughty grandeur, every now and then exclaiming something-like “poof” or “tosh” or “fiddlesticks”.
When the superintendent had finished, the presiding magistrate said, “You have heard the charges?”
“I most certainly have.”
“And do you understand them?”
“Don’t be impertinent, my man. Do you think I am stupid?”
“No, Sister, I don’t. But I must be quite sure that you understand the charges brought against you by the police.”
Sister Monica Joan did not answer. She looked towards the clock on the wall and raised her veined hand towards her chin like an actress posing for a photograph.
“I am not sure that she does, sir,” said Sister Julienne quietly to the solicitor who stood up to speak.
But, before he could do so, Sister Monica Joan turned on them with quiet rage. “Do not presume to speak for me. Speak for yourselves. Bear witness to your own imperfections. We stand, each of us, alone and naked before the Judgement Throne, where none but the silent dead can testify.”
The presiding magistrate was having second thoughts. This was very different from a grandmother whose conversation was confined to: “I’m ninety-three, you know, think of that, ninety-three.” He addressed Sister Monica Joan very seriously. “Have you understood the charges brought against you?”
“I have.”
“Do you plead ‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty’?”
“Guilty! Guilty? Do you imagine, my good fellow, that I accept a charge of guilt from the hoi-polloi I see before me?” She sniffed scornfully and drew out a laced handkerchief from beneath her scapular, which she applied to her nose with an affected gesture, as though an unpleasant smell had assailed her. “Guilty indeed – huh? ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’ Does your small mind understand the hidden meaning of ‘guilt’? Before you use the word again, it behoves you to find out, if perchance you are capable of such intellectual exercise, which I very much doubt.”
Such rudeness to the presiding magistrate was Sister Monica Joan’s undoing. Had she shown a little more humility, a little more uncertainty or even contrition, it is likely that, in their discretionary powers, the magistrates would have taken the matter no further. As it was, after a brief consultation, the decision was made to accept a plea of not guilty and to refer the case to the London Quarter Sessions for trial by judge and jury.
Sister Julienne was devastated by Sister Monica Joan’s performance in the Magistrates’ Court. She had hoped that the matter would end quietly there, but now the full publicity of the Quarter Sessions would have to be faced. But Sister Julienne was not a woman easily beaten. She prayed about the matter. The inspiration granted to her from a heavenly source was that the defence of mental deterioration should be strengthened. She consulted the solicitor and it was decided to obtain a third medical opinion.
Sir Lorimer Elliott-Bartram had an enviable reputation as a psychologist. He was well known in London, having given medical evidence in several legal cases. Sir Lorimer was getting on in years but not so far on that he could not maintain a thriving practice in Harley Street. In fact, the further on he got, the more patients came flocking to his doors and therefore the more money he made. It was all very satisfactory.
Sir Lorimer had qualified as a surgeon in 1912, and had had a distinguished record as an army doctor in the First World War – distinguished, according to the military commanders, as a first-rate officer and doctor; and distinguished, according to the men in the ranks, as a butcher.
Although Sir Lorimer had never qualified, nor attempted to qualify, as a psychiatrist, he had made a fortune in Harley Street by dabbling in psychotherapy, memory loss, personality change, mental block, hypomania, dypsomania, kleptomania and related subjects. He was a tall, handsome man with a deep, resonant voice that could easily adopt a silky tone. The majority of his patients were women.
There is an old saying in medical circles that if you want to make a study of invective, you should listen to two doctors talking about a third. In psychiatric circles Sir Lorimer, a mere psychologist, was regarded as a pompous old windbag and a chancer, who fuelled the tank of his Rolls-Royce with the blood of rich old ladies.
Oozing opulence, Sir Lorimer entered Nonnatus House and was taken to Sister Monica Joan’s room. He kissed her hand and called her “dear reverend lady”.
She murmured, “What a relief to meet a mature gentleman of experience and understanding.”
He kissed her hand a second time, whispering: “I understand everything, dear lady, everything.”
She sighed and smiled: “I am sure you do, Sir Lorimer, quite sure.”
Later that day, just before Compline, I asked Sister Monica Joan if she liked Sir Lorimer.
She was sitting comfortably by the window knitting. Her face assumed a bright, plastic smile as she cooed, “He is charming, my dear, perfectly charming -” the smile vanished, and a hard edge entered her voice – “and determined to be so.”
Sir Lorimer’s report was very long and technically complex. For the benefit of the lay reader who is unfamiliar with medical terminology, I have attempted to summarise and simplify it. The report stated:
Sister Monica Joan is a lady of the Leptosomatic type with a nervous affinity to the Cyclothymic make-up on the one hand and a tendency to Catatonic excitement on the other. Neologism and Disconnection, though slight, could not be discounted. Whereas elucidation of the former may throw light upon the latter, comprehension of the latter seldom throws light upon the former, from which it may be deduced that individual psychological symptomatology must be sought in personal biography. The Korsakaw Psychosis of Registration, Retention and Recall is important. A link between Retrograde Amnesia is consistent with the facility, richness and rapidity of association. Whilst Depersonalisation is not a factor, Derealisation is and Catatonic symptoms are not evidence of Catatonia, though significant to the trained mind. Kleptomania is consistent in Cyclothymic behaviour, but inconsistent with Leptosomatic tendencies.
Although they could not understand it, Counsel for the Defence and the Sisters were very impressed by this report.
The trial of Sister Monica Joan at the London Quarter Sessions attracted much attention. The public gallery was full. Many costers, and several jewellers from Hatton Garden, were present. Several older women, who remembered the accused as a young midwife and who owed their lives to her, had come out of sympathy. The press gallery was full. A shoplifting nun was good news to a hard-bitten reporter.
Sister Monica Joan sat in the dock. She was knitting quietly and seemed completely unconcerned with what was going on around her. Sister Julienne sat beside her, and attended throughout.
The usher entered.
“Silence in Court,” he shouted. “Be upstanding for His Lordship.”
Everyone rose to their feet – everyone, that is, except Sister Monica Joan, who remained seated. “Stand for His Lordship,” shouted the usher.
There was no movement from Sister Monica Joan. The usher moved towards her, banged the floor with his staff and shouted louder.
Sister Monica Joan gave a surprised little squeak. “Are you addressing me, young man?”
“I am.”
“Then let it be known that I will not be addressed in this rude fashion.”
“Be upstanding for His Lordship,” shouted the usher.
“Did your mother never teach you to say, ‘please’, young man?”
The usher swallowed hard and banged his staff down on the floor a second time. Sister Monica Joan sat immobile, her beautiful eyes half-closed, her lips pursed in disdain.
“Please stand up, madam.” whispered the usher.
“That’s better. That is much better. Courtesy is a virtue and costs nothing. I am sure your mother would be proud of you.” Sister Monica Joan leaned forward, patted him kindly on the shoulder and rose to her feet.
Cheers from the public gallery.
“Be silent for His Lordship,” screamed the usher, striving to restore his authority.
The judge entered, mumbled, “Please be seated,” and everyone sat down, including Sister Monica Joan.
Counsel for the Prosecution addressed the jury. He outlined the facts as they were known and said that he would call as witnesses three jewellers from Hatton Garden who had lost jewellery, and eight costers who had lost sundry items from their stalls. He would also call a psychiatrist, who had examined the accused and considered her to be of sound mind and therefore responsible for her actions.
The three jewellers were all reliable witnesses. The first, a Mr Samuelson, stated that he had inherited the business with its stock from his father. A rope of antique pearls and a diamond ring had disappeared from the stock four years previously. The police had been informed. The stolen jewels had never been recovered until the police had contacted him recently saying that a cache of jewellery had been found, and asking him to examine the jewels. With the help of his record books, Mr Samuelson had been able to identify the pearls and the diamond ring.
The second jeweller stated that Sister Monica Joan had entered his shop three years previously and asked to see a tray of small items of little value, such as charms and trinkets. He had been called away to attend to another customer and left her alone with the tray, confident that, as the lady was a nun, it would be safe to do so. However, an assistant had seen the nun take a small item from the tray and slip it into her pocket. He had warned his employer, and together they had escorted Sister Monica Joan into a back room and challenged her. She had produced a small trinket, valued about two shillings, from the folds of her dress. The jeweller said that he had taken the item back and told Sister that he would not call the police on this occasion, but that she would not be admitted to his shop again.
The assistant was called to the witness box. He verified everything his employer had said and identified Sister Monica Joan as the nun referred to. He said that he had not seen her in the shop since that day but had noticed her wandering around other shops in Hatton Garden. He concluded that she must have remembered that she was barred from entering his employer’s premises and therefore he rejected any suggestion that she was suffering from memory loss or senile dementia.
Sister Monica Joan continued to knit and displayed no interest in what was being said about her. Sister Julienne, on the other hand, seemed to be on the verge of tears.
The costers were called to give evidence. They were a colourful group of seven men and one woman. The first stepped confidently into the witness box to be sworn in, giving his name as Cakey Crumb.
“Could you give your first name please?”
“Well, I’ve allus bin known as Cakey. Wiv a name like Crumb, wha’ would you expec’?”
“With what name were you christened?”
“Cuthbert.”
Shrieks of laughter from the costers, which were silenced by the judge.
Counsel for the Prosecution continued: “Could you please describe your occupation?”
Cakey stuck his thumbs into the armholes of his colourful waistcoat and drummed his fingers on his chest. “I’m a business man. Managin’ director of me own company. Bin a’ i’ since I was four’een, wiv a break for the war, when I was in the merchan’ navy; ’orrible, va’ was, real ’orrible. Never did like wa’er, I never. We was torpedoed an’ ’undreds of men was frown in ve wa’er. ’Alf of ’em drowned. ’Orrible i’ was to ’ear ’em cry for ’elp, poor sods. An’ then another time we was . . . ”
“Yes, Mr Crumb. I am sure the court would like to hear your reminiscences, but we must confine ourselves to the case against Sister Monica Joan. You are a business man, you say?”
“Yerst. Costermonger. I ’as me own cock sparrer, an’ sells in ve park its.”
The judge interrupted. “Did you say you sell cock sparrows in the park its?”
“No, no, m’lud. Cock sparrer is wha’ we calls ve barrer an’ park it is ve market.”
“I see.” The judge made a note. “Please go on.”
“I sells ladies fings, and vis nun, she comes up to me stall an’ afore you can blink an eye, she picks up a couple of bread an’ cheeses, tucks ’em in ’er petticoats, an’ is off round the Jack Horner, dahn ve frog an’ toad, quick as shit off a stick. I couldn’t Adam an’ Eve it, bu’ vats wot she done. When I tells me carvin’ knife wot I seen, she calls me an ’oly friar, an’ says she’ll land me one on me north and south if I calls Sister Monica Joan a tea-leaf. Very fond of Sister, she is. So I never says nuffink to no one, like.”