The Black Diamond

by Francis Brett Young

Mr Mortimer adjusted his glasses and sat for a moment in silence, turning over his paper:.

‘Now, gentlemen,’ he said at last, ‘you have heard this . . . er . . . very distressing evidence. In this type of case—and I am glad to say they are rare in the district—it is usual to find a great conflict of evidence. Here the . . . ah . . testimony is unusually clear. In the first place you have a public-house. A public-house which, I am bound to say, appears to me to have been managed with a considerable degree of laxness. In this part of the country we . . . ah . . . suffer from the presence of a floating population, gipsies, cloggers, and at the present moment the men engaged on the North Bromwich Waterworks. These men have to spend their evenings somewhere, and it appears that the Pound House . . . ah . . . found favour with them. They were in the habit of drinking here every night, sometimes under the supervision of a girl of twenty. The sergeant has said that he considers this young woman . . . ah . . . advanced for her years. That may well be; but none the less I think Hind has been lacking in responsibility. Very good. . . . Among the men who frequent this house are three notorious poachers: Connor, Atwell, and Fellows. Poaching is another of the pests that this floating population brings in its train. Badger, the keeper, who gave his evidence very clearly and straightforwardly, was in the habit of visiting the Pound House to keep an eye on this . . . ah . . . disorderly trio. As he had a right to do, he enlisted the help of the deceased. The affair began in the usual way of a public-house brawl. What Connor said to Badger; whether Badger assaulted Fellows: these are matters that do not concern you. Only, in passing, I say that the whole business could not have occurred in a properly managed house. There was a struggle. The deceased constable, in the plain performance of his duty, entered the bar and . . . ah . . . commenced to separate Badger and Fellows. If his desire was to protect Badger, well and good . . . but even that is immaterial. Now comes the important part. Malpas says that he . . ah . . . says that he put his hand on the arm of the deceased and that thereupon Bastard turned on him and tried to take him in charge. He then, by his own admission, resisted arrest. He and Bastard struggled together and fell in each other’s arms. The medical evidence tells us that Bastard died from a fractured base of the skull, the result of this fall. You may ask yourselves the question: “Was Bastard within his rights in arresting, or trying to arrest Malpas?” You need not find an answer to it. Legally the answer is “Yes;” but all that is expected of you is to determine how the deceased met his death. He met his death in a struggle with Malpas. Malpas, by his own admission, first laid hands on him, thus obstructing an officer in the performance of his duty. Next, again by his own admission, he resisted arrest. As a result of this resistance Bastard fell. As a result of the fall he fractured his skull and died . . . ah . . . instantaneously. You may trace, if you like, the responsibility for his death backward through Connor, Badger, and Fellows to Hind; but the immediate cause of it was Malpas.’

The coroner took off his glasses and pushed his notes aside. He spoke slowly, waving the pince-nez to mark his points.

‘Very well. . . . Now it is your duty to determine the degree of Malpas’s responsibility. Did Malpas intend to kill the deceased? The sergeant of the police has tried, very improperly, to make a statement as to Malpas’s general character.’

The sergeant shuffled his feet and swallowed, but succumbed to a sense of discipline and was silent.

‘I am bound to say that there is no evidence pointing to Malpas having killed Bastard of malice aforethought. There is no reason to suppose that he lied when he told you that he had never spoken to Bastard before. Did he, then, desire to attack Bastard on the spur of the moment with intent to kill. He has told you that he wanted to see fair play between Fellows, whom he describes as his “pal,” and Badger, and I am inclined to believe him. Another question presents itself: “Did he become murderous under the influence of drink?” This is negatived by all the evidence. Now you must be careful. If Malpas laid hands on Bastard with intent to kill, either under the influence of an old grudge or in a sudden fit of passion, whether drunk or sober, he is guilty of murder, and it is your duty to say so. If, on the other hand, he laid hands on Bastard without intending to offer him any violence, and if, in the course of a struggle in which he was resisting arrest, he caused Bastard to fall and thus brought about Bastard’s end, his crime lies on the borderland between murder and homicide . . . ah . . . manslaughter. If Malpas had no part in the death of the deceased, you may say that the constable died by misadventure. I think this is a case in which you may be left to decide for yourselves. Nothing that you know of Malpas’s private life, and I presume that you all know something of it, must influence your verdict. The death of a policeman, a man whom the law provides for your protection and the protection of your property, is a very serious matter. If policemen are to be obstructed in their duty with impunity the whole fabric of life in these remote districts becomes . . . ah . . insecure. You may now consider your verdict. You had better retire.’

Mr Mortimer put on his glasses. The jury, led by Williams, shuffled out like a group of sidesmen collecting in church. The sergeant bent over the coroner, whispered and handed him a paper which he put aside. ‘You’re in too great a hurry, sergeant,’ he said. The witnesses sat motionless in the back of the court: Susie, as before, staring straight in front of her as pale and tragic as a young widow; Mr Hind with his hands clasped in front of him, bunched up like a sack, and his pouched, owl-like eyes paler than ever, waiting for a rider to the verdict; Badger, obstinate, with his head thrust forward; Mick and Atwell stolidly masticating tobacco. Abner saw them all petrified by the gloom of suspense. George’s finger had ceased from its mechanical tattoo. All through the coroner’s summing up he had listened intensely; once or twice his lips had moved and his muscles stiffened as though he wanted to say something. Now he sat quite still with his hands on his knees, staring, as it seemed, at the buffalo’s head.

One after another the witnesses were called up to sign their evidence. The coroner looked at his watch and sighed. It seemed as if he would not have time to take tea with the Delahays, and this annoyed him, for Lady Delahay was a very attractive woman and a visit to Lesswardine Court always left him with a pleasant afterglow and made him feel that but for his wife he might have become an ornament of county society. The sergeant stood like a waxen policeman in Madame Tussaud’s. By a combination of frowns, winks, and rollings of the eyes, he indicated to his bewildered subordinate that the Testaments on the table might now be collected. The young constable stumped round the table on noisy tiptoes. No other sound was heard but the settling of thawed snow on the roof, the tinkle of a distant anvil, and the noise of a blob of nicotined saliva which Atwell privily dropped upon the floor and then obliterated with a sideways motion of his foot.

The jury re-entered and took their seats at the table. The sergeant insensibly stiffened. Mr Williams held a paper in his hand.

‘Well,’ said the coroner. ‘You have arrived at your verdict?’