The Jury (25 page)

Exactly nine o'clock?—The clock in the dining-room sounded nine times. And my watch said also nine o'clock.

How long, after that, did you and Mr Strood remain in the dining-room?—A half-hour. A little more.

We know that at nine o'clock a message was broadcast by radio and received by a receiving-set that stood in the lounge-bar. Now a witness has declared that Mr Strood was standing in the bar when that message came over?—At nine o'clock he was with me in the dining-room.

When you are in the dining-room, is it possible to hear voices from the lounge-bar?—I think not.

Even when the door is open?—If the door is open, one should know that people are talking and laughing, yes. But what is said, no.

It would be impossible to distinguish words at that distance?
—If you listen very carefully, and the words are very loud, perhaps you hear a word or two. But I think not.

When Mr Strood rejoined you in the dining-room at nine o'clock, did you notice anything unusual in his manner?—No.

We have heard that when you and Mr Strood left the hotel, Mr Strood was accosted by a plain-clothes police officer. Did you hear the conversation that took place between them?—Yes.

Did you hear the officer say that Mrs Strood was dead?—Yes.

Did you hear your friend say “My God!”?—Yes.

Did you hear him say “My God! I've killed her!” or anything like that?—No.

If you
had
heard him say such a thing, would it have greatly surprised you?—No.

Will you explain why?—He is a very good man, very strict. He has sometimes been afraid that his wife should injure herself or take her own life, in anger, you understand. He has said that if such a thing should happen, he should feel to blame himself, he should feel that he had killed her.

The police-officer has said that in his presence Mr Strood exchanged some words with you in a foreign language. Would you tell us the substance of what was said?—Mr Strood tells me not to wait, but to go to the ship. He was very anxious that I must go. But I said No. I wished to stay with him in his trouble. I said also that the man, the officer, was not a good friend.

One last question, Fräulein Andersch. Have you ever had the intention of marrying Mr Strood?—No.

Would you have married him if he had been free to marry? —No.

And had you made that clear to him?—Perfectly. He knows that I have no time for marriage.

Cross-examined by MR TUFNELL: You have told my learned friend that you have no time for marriage. What does that mean?—I am an artist. That is my career.

You have no time for marriage, but you have time to entice a married man from his duty?—Please?

I am suggesting that you have time to alienate a man's affections from his wife?—

MR HARCOMBE: I strongly object to that question. It is not an honest question.

MR TUFNELL: Am I to understand that my learned friend accuses me of dishonesty?

MR HARCOMBE: My learned friend may understand what he pleases. I submit, my lord, that insinuations against the moral character of this lady cannot help the case for the Prosecution. They are entirely gratuitous. The lady is a distinguished visitor to this country and has come forward, in the interests of justice, to give evidence. She is entitled——

MR JUSTICE SARUM: You will have an opportunity of making a speech later on, Mr Harcombe.
[To Mr Tufnell]
Do these questions you are putting bear upon the issue?

MR TUFNELL: I am attacking the witness's credibility, my lord.

MR JUSTICE SARUM: Members of the jury, you must be at great pains to remember that this is not a court of morals, and that you are not to allow any moral disapproval to colour your judgement on matters of fact.
[To Mr Tufnell]
You may proceed.

MR TUFNELL: Thank you, my lord. I will not, however, press that particular question. Fräulein Andersch, am I right in saying that you are on terms of the greatest intimacy with the prisoner?—Of course.

And that you and he are in fact lovers?—Of course.

You are very fond of him?—Yes.

You would do anything to help him?—I would do anything I could. But I would not marry, no.

Short of marriage, you would do anything to help him?—If he needed my help, naturally. Is not that right? I do not understand.

Let me make myself clearer. The prisoner is in grave danger. He is in danger of his life. Now you, since you love him, you would do anything, would you not, to protect him, to save his life?—I would do anything I could.

You would do or say anything?—It is not necessary to say anything except the truth.

But if you thought it necessary, would you hesitate to say what was not true, if your lover's life were in danger?—It is not necessary. I have told the truth.

MR JUSTICE SARUM: That is a proper answer. I do not think, Mr Tufnell, that I can say as much for the question.
What the witness thinks she would do in hypothetical circumstances is altogether too remote a speculation.

MR TUFNELL: As your lordship pleases.
[Continuing cross-examination]
I suggest to you that at some time during your relationship with the prisoner you have allowed him to believe that you would be willing to marry him if he were free to marry?—It is not so.

There is such a thing as coquetry, is there not? I mean this: that though you may have told him that marriage was out of the question, you cannot be sure that he took your statement seriously?—We are serious people, both. He knew very well.

But may he not have thought that you would change your mind, once the obstacle to marriage was removed?—You must ask him. I do not think so.

As a married man, having to keep up appearances, he could not see you as often as he wished?—No.

Did he complain that the situation was a difficult one?—No.

Isn't that rather extraordinary?—We are not children. We had other things to talk about.

Did he not say that he wished to spend more time with you?—He has said so.

Did he ever say that he wished he need never leave you?— Of course.

Why 'of course'?—When one is in love one says such things, is it not so?

If he had been unmarried, he need never have left you. That is so, isn't it?—No.

What was there to prevent his being always with you except the existence of his wife?—There was his work.

Yes. You are right. But his work occupies him only so many hours a day. There was nothing to prevent his living with you continuously, was there?—Yes.

What was it?—My work. My temperament. I do not want a man always with me. I am not the good wife.

[Further evidence for the Defence showed that the mother of Daphne Strood had died of heart disease at the age of fifty-six, a sworn copy of the death-certificate being produced. The prisoner, RODERICK WILLIAM STROOD, was then called into the witness-box.]

RODERICK WILLIAM STROOD, prisoner, on oath, examined for the Defence by MR HARCOMBE: I am a member of a firm of architects. I am thirty-four years old. I was married in June, eight years ago. There were no children of the marriage: this was a disappointment to me. In May of this present year I went on a visit to Heidelberg. There I met Fräulein Andersch, and fell in love with her. On returning to England I explained the situation to my wife, and our relations became very strained. We were both quick-tempered and on one or two occasions we lost our tempers and both of us said things we did not mean. We agreed that a temporary separation would be best for both of us.

Was there any question of divorce at that time?—No. I did not know whether I wanted a divorce, and my wife did not wish to divorce me. I was pulled both ways. I was in a state of indecision. My wife naturally found that very exasperating. We exasperated each other. But I think we both hoped that a disaster might be avoided. We fancied that if we left the problem alone for a while, it would work itself out. That was why we agreed to a temporary separation.

During the period of separation did you lose touch with your wife?—Not at all. We were in constant communication.

Were you at all anxious about her?—In a way, yes. She was very much on my mind.

Was your wife an impetuous woman?—Yes.

Was she angry and distressed by what was happening?— Yes.

During those conversations you had with her on the subject, when (as you have told us) tempers were lost on both sides, did she ever threaten to take her own life?—Yes.

Were you alarmed by that threat?—That's not an easy question to answer. In a way I didn't take it seriously, because I knew she was speaking in anger. I thought she was trying to frighten me. But sometimes, when I remembered it afterwards, I had moments of great anxiety.

Did you ultimately return to your wife?—Yes.

There was a reconciliation?—Yes. That was early in September.

Now you have heard the evidence of Mrs Tucker, and you know that she claims to have overheard part of a conversation which she alleges took place between you and your wife at the breakfast-table, on the morning of October the 20th?— Yes.

Do you agree that Mrs Tucker's version of that conversation is correct?—No.

Will you tell the Court, in your own way, what did in fact occur?—We were at breakfast. Mrs Tucker was looking after us because Tucker was in bed with a cold. My wife had engaged herself to go to a theatre that evening with an old friend of ours. But she suddenly told me that she was going to cancel the engagement so that she and I could spend the evening at home. I was surprised, and, I suppose, rather nettled, because, supposing that she would be out, I had made another engagement for myself. We had some dispute about it and we were both out of temper. In the course of our argument—or quarrel, if you like—my wife suddenly said she was pregnant. This gave me a shock of surprise, because we had always wanted children and for years had failed to have any. We had been married eight years. Then my wife said she had deceived me all those years.

Will you state a little more precisely what she said?—Yes. When I say she told me she had deceived me, I mean that she gave me to understand that she had consistently taken steps, without my knowledge, to prevent our having a child. I was very angry and I said that she had cheated me. I remember using the word 'cheated'. But I certainly did not say what Mrs Tucker attributes to me. I don't remember exactly what Mrs Tucker's version was, but I know it was a damned lie.

Or shall we say 'a gross distortion'?—A very gross distortion. But I should like to explain further about this point. At the time I believed what my wife said, about cheating me, as I called it. But I very soon realized that she wasn't speaking the truth. She only said what she did because she was angry, and wanted to hurt me. I'm quite sure now that there was no more in it than that. We had always been good friends, and I
know she was always loyal. All the disloyalty was on my side.

Before this dispute or quarrel reached its climax, did Mrs Tucker enter the room?—Yes. She came in answer to the bell. My wife asked her to bring some fresh coffee, and she answered my wife insolently, in my opinion. I told her as much.

You rebuked her?—Yes. Perhaps more harshly than the occasion warranted. I don't know.

Perhaps that did not make her like you any the better?—Probably not.

Now I will ask you to recall the events of October the 30th. You arrived home from your office that day at about half-past six, I believe?—About then, I suppose.

Your wife was not then downstairs, but you saw Mrs Tucker, did you not?—Yes.

And she told you?—She told me my wife was feeling a little feverish and had gone to bed.

Did you then go upstairs to see your wife?—Yes.

And did you remain with her till about a quarter-past seven?—No. Mrs Tucker is wrong there. What happened was that I spent five or six minutes with my wife and then went to my bedroom to pack a suitcase. When that job was finished I went back to my wife. I dare say it was a quarter-past seven when I finally left her. I don't remember.

What impression did you form of your wife's condition?—She said she wasn't at all ill, and I didn't think she looked ill. She was a little excited, I thought.

Had you already, at that time, formed the intention of going to America?—I had it in mind.

You knew that Fräulein Andersch was sailing on October the 31st, and you had conceived the notion of travelling with her?—Yes.

Did your wife know of this plan?—I told her about it that evening. I was still a little undecided, and her being not quite well made me more undecided.

Did your wife raise any objection to the plan?—No. She was very generous about it. She even urged me to go.

She urged you to go?—Yes.

Had you already obtained a passport in the name of Roderick Williams?—Yes.

Will you explain why you wished to travel as Roderick Williams instead of in your own name?—I thought it possible that my name had already been coupled with that of Fräulein Andersch. We had been as discreet as possible, but I couldn't be sure that we had succeeded in keeping our relationship a secret. And I thought that if it became known that we were on the boat together she would be refused admission by the American authorities.

Would such an event have meant a serious loss to her, both in money and reputation?—It would have been a disaster.

After leaving your wife, did you go downstairs and encounter Mrs Tucker on her way to your wife's bedroom with the malted milk?—Yes.

I do not wish my learned friend to say I am leading you, so will you tell the Court what occurred in connexion with this cup of malted milk?—When Mrs Tucker was passing through the hall, carrying the stuff on a tray, I encountered her and sent her back for biscuits. She left the tray on the hall-table.

Was that at your request? Or with your help?—No. It was the obvious thing to do. She put the tray down and went back to the kitchen. I did not touch the tray.