The Jury (26 page)

In order to save my learned friend trouble, I am going to ask you the crucial question in this case. Did you add chloral to that malted milk?—No.

Did you add anything whatever to it?—No.

Have you at any time, so far as your knowledge goes, administered chloral to your wife?—No.

On October the 31st you were in Southampton, in the company of Fräulein Andersch, and you had dinner with her at the Zenith Hotel?—Yes.

You have heard that a certain message was broadcast at nine o'clock, and received by a receiving set in the lounge-bar of that hotel. What can you tell us about that?—I know nothing about that but what I have heard in this court and in the coroner's court. I did not hear the message. I was not within hearing distance of the loud-speaker. I was with Fräulein Andersch in the dining-room.

Will you now tell us about your encounter with Detective-Sergeant Bolton outside the hotel?—What am I to tell you? His evidence was not far wrong. My first thought was that
he was some kind of tout. Then the thought of blackmail crossed my mind. That is why my first answers to him were evasive. I was taken by surprise.

When he said he had news for you, did you say, as has been alleged: 'Is it about my wife?'—I believe so.

Was the possibility of blackmail in your mind when you said that?—Vaguely, yes. And also I had a sudden feeling of alarm about my wife.

Because you thought she was more ill than she had admitted, or for what reason?—It is difficult to say what I thought. I didn't formulate my thoughts. I merely felt uneasy. I think it was already in my mind that she might have taken something.

Taken something?—Yes, suicidally.

And when the officer said that she was dead, was that notion strengthened in your mind?—It was a horrible shock. I couldn't believe it, if you know what I mean. But yes, I thought it must be suicide. And everything seemed to fit in with suicide.

And did you——?

MR JUSTICE SARUM: Just a moment, Mr Harcombe. I should like to hear the prisoner amplify that remark: that everything seemed to fit in with suicide.

THE PRISONER: She had seemed a little excited, my lord. Almost gay. There was a—a sort of happiness, as though nothing could hurt her any more. And when I looked back I felt that it must have been a false gaiety, consistent with a resolve to commit suicide. I don't know if I can make myself clear.

MR HARCOMBE [
continuing examination]:
At this point you said something to the police-officer, did you not? Can you give us the exact words?—Not the exact words. I know what I meant. I know what I felt. I certainly didn't say: 'I killed her.' I may have said: 'So I've killed her!' because that was exactly what I was feeling.

You must try to be a little more explicit. What were you feeling?—I was feeling guilty of her death. I felt like a murderer.

You are speaking in a metaphorical sense?—Yes, of course. What I mean is that I thought I had asked too much of her,
that she had broken down under the strain of those months and had taken her own life.

At the beginning of this examination, in answer to a question of mine, you said you had taken your degree at Cambridge. What was that degree?—The usual thing. An honours degree in arts.

That is to say, you are a Bachelor of Arts?—Yes.

In what subjects did you read, for the purposes of that degree?—History and modern languages.

Did you read any science?—No.

Have you any knowledge of science? Of physics or chemistry, for example?—No.

You learned some rudiments of those subjects at school, no doubt?—I learned very little of them.

And you have not studied them since?—No.

So far as you remember, when did you last have a textbook on chemistry in your hand?—I suppose about sixteen years ago, when I was last at school.

RODERICK WILLIAM STROOD, cross-examined for the Crown by SIR JOHN BUCKHORN, His Majesty's ATTORNEY-GENERAL: You have told my learned friend that you and your wife were reconciled early in September, and that you resumed your life with her?—Yes.

Are we to understand that the differences between you were settled?—-Yes.

That means, presumably, that you had promised to discontinue your intrigue with Fräulein Andersch?—No.

That was one of the conditions of your agreement with your wife, was it not?—It was not.

During that period of separation from your wife, did you frequently visit Fräulein Andersch as her lover?—

MR JUSTICE SARUM
[to the
PRISONER]: You are not bound to answer that question, but you may do so if you wish.

THE PRISONER: I do not mind answering it, my lord. The answer is Yes.

ATTORNEY-GENERAL
[continuing cross-examination]:
And when you returned to your wife, to live with her as her husband, was it not understood that such visits would cease? Whether anything was said on the point or not, was it not understood?—No.

Was the contrary understood? Was it understood between your wife and you that you would continue to commit adultery with Fräulein Andersch, at your whim and pleasure? —Yes.

Are you asking my lord and the jury to believe that your wife condoned your misconduct, withdrew her objection to it?—I have answered the question. I have nothing to add to my answer.

Was it merely a tacit understanding between you and your wife that you should be free to continue in your adulterous courses, or was it explicitly agreed?—It was explicitly agreed.

Was your wife quite happy and friendly about it?—She was quite friendly.

And happy?—She did her best to make me believe so.

And did you believe so?—Does it matter?

You are to answer my questions, not to ask questions of me. Did you believe so?—Sometimes I believed so. Sometimes I doubted. It was a difficult situation.

Did this situation in fact exist, this fantastic situation in which a wife tolerates her husband's habitual infidelity? Did it in fact exist, or is it an invention of your fertile imagination? —I have already told you.

Will you nevertheless answer my question?—I cannot answer meaningless questions. If you are asking me whether I am a liar or not, I say I am not a liar. I have told you the truth.

You had a nice friendly arrangement with your wife whereby you were free to resort to your mistress as often as you pleased, and no questions asked?—If you choose to put it that way, yes.

Is it not an accurate way of putting it?—Oh, yes. Yes.

It was early in September that this arrangement was entered into?—Yes.

Did you know that your wife, during October, engaged a private detective to observe and report your movements?— No.

Are you aware of the fact now?—It may be so. I don't know.

Is that fact consistent with your story of this extraordinary toleration on your wife's part?—My lord, is it necessary for me to answer questions of that kind?

MR JUSTICE SARUM: It is not an unreasonable question. In your own interests I think you must answer it.

ATTORNEY-GENERAL
[continuing cross-examination]:
Let me help you, if I can, by altering the form of the question. If, as you have just told us, your wife was perfectly willing that you should visit Fräulein Andersch, is it not extraordinary that she should have caused you to be shadowed in this way?— Yes.

You see for yourself that it makes your story the harder to believe, don't you?—My story is true, all the same.

So you have said. But you will admit, perhaps, that it is an unlikely story?—

MR JUSTICE SARUM: That is surely a question for the jury, Sir John. Not for the prisoner.

ATTORNEY-GENERAL: Quite so, my lord. And I fancy they will know how to answer it.
[Continuing cross-examination]
Now you have admitted, in answer to my learned friend, that you exchanged angry words with your wife on the morning of October the 20th. The quarrel began by your wife telling you that she was with child, did it not?—No.

MR JUSTICE SARUM
[reading from his notes]
: “In the course of our argument or quarrel my wife suddenly said she was pregnant.”

ATTORNEY-GENERAL: The mistake is mine. I am obliged to your lordship.
[Continuing cross-examination]
But I am right, am I not, in saying that you were displeased by this piece of information?—I was astonished.

I asked if you were not displeased?—There was no question of being pleased or not pleased. I was merely surprised.

Come, Mr Strood. You must surely know whether you were pleased or not by the information that you were likely to become a father?—I don't know. My emotions were mixed.

The remark with which you greeted the news hardly suggests acute pleasure, does it?—I don't know what you are alluding to.

When your wife confided that secret hope to you, your first words, I believe, were: “Well, I'm damned!”?—Were they?

A witness has said so. Do you deny it?—If Mrs Tucker said so, it is more likely to be false than true.

Will you be good enough to answer the question?—I may have said: “Well, I'm damned!” That only bears out what I have just told you. I was surprised.

But not pleased?—The information was blurted out in the middle of a dispute about something quite different.

You were disconcerted?—Well, yes.

It was awkward that your wife should be an expectant mother when you were on the point of leaving her for another woman, was it not?—I was not on the point of leaving her.

It would have looked so bad, wouldn't it?—The question does not arise.

It would have made a disagreeable story in the Divorce Court, would it not? To say nothing of the extra provision that would have to be made on account of the child?—Those questions don't arise either.

Are you sure that in fact they did not arise in your own mind?—Quite sure.

That was October the 20th, ten days before your wife's death. Now it has been stated in evidence that on the 30th, the day on which you last saw her alive, she was suffering from lack of sleep. Were you aware of that sleeplessness?—Yes.

Do you know what caused it?—We were both of us worried and unhappy.

About what?—About the situation.

The matrimonial situation? Your personal relationship to each other?—Yes.

The question whether your marriage should go on or be brought to an end?—Not quite that.

The question of your relationship with Fräulein Andersch? —Yes. That of course was part of it.

But didn't that involve the other question, of your marriage, and whether it would survive or crash?—I suppose it did.

And therefore the possibility of a final break, and perhaps of divorce, must have entered your mind?—It wasn't so definite as that. It was just a general unhappiness and indecision.

Indecision as to what? As to whether to make a final break
with your wife or not?—I felt a final break with my wife to be impossible.

There was no indecision on that score then. Was it perhaps the question of a final break with Fräulein Andersch that you were undecided about?—That seemed impossible too.

I see. There were two possible courses open to you, and both seemed impossible. Is that it? I am not being ironical; I am trying to understand you. Two courses were in fact possible, but you could not make up your mind to either. Is that a fair way of putting it?—Yes.

Did it never occur to you that the death of one of the two women concerned would solve the problem for you?—No.

Do not misunderstand me, Mr Strood. I am not suggesting that the idea of such an event was not painful to you. But it would, wouldn't it, have cut the Gordian knot for you?—The idea did not occur to me.

It never occurred to you to say to yourself: “If I were a single man, or if I were a widower, I could marry the woman I love”?—There was no question of marriage.

There was, however, a question of your giving up either your wife or your mistress?—In a sense, yes. But the question wasn't definitely in my mind.

Whatever questions were in your mind, and in your wife's mind, I suppose you discussed them with her during those last ten days?—No.

Why was that?—We were unhappy. We talked very little.

Do you mean you were not on speaking terms?—We were not on comfortable terms.

The quarrel of October the 20th still rankled?—Yes.

There was, in fact, hostility between you?—Misery rather than hostility.

It was during those ten days that you planned to go to America with Fräulein Andersch, was it not?—I was contemplating the possibility.

Wouldn't it be fair to say you planned it?—It was hardly as definite as that.

But you don't deny that you applied for and obtained a passport in a false name during that period?—No.

That suggests planning, doesn't it?—I should call it providing for a contingency.

Did you also pack some clothes, mainly new clothes, into a new cabin-trunk, bought for the purpose, and did you deposit that trunk in the Left Luggage Office of a certain London railway terminus?—Yes.

And did you, in your agitation, or for some reason of your own, neglect to reclaim that trunk when, on October the 31st, you travelled to Southampton
en route
for America?—I forgot it, yes. But not because of agitation.

You were perfectly calm and collected, yet you forgot the main part of your luggage?—Yes. I often forget things. I'm an absent-minded person.

You obtained a false passport, and you packed and deposited a trunk. Is that your idea of providing for a mere contingency?—Yes.

When you realized that your wife was suffering from insomnia, did you suggest a sleeping-draught?—I don't remember doing so.

It would have been a natural suggestion, wouldn't it?—I may have suggested it. I don't remember.

Did you suggest her consulting Dr Cartwright and getting a prescription from him?—I think not.

Try to remember. Perhaps on the morning of October the 30th, or perhaps on some previous day, did you not urge her to consult Dr Cartwright?—I can't remember doing so.