The Day of Judgment

by Joseph Hocking

"It has come out in the evidence that at the first election at Brunford the deceased man did his utmost to ruin me. He not only tried to tarnish the name of my mother as well as my own, but he did his best to ruin me financially. This has been proved, proved beyond a doubt; and as a result of what he did I lost that election. I say, if I had intended to murder him, would not that have been the time when I should have done it? Or again, would it not have been likely that I should have done it while in the heat of passion? As far as I can remember, the quarrel, which took place between us on the evening prior to the murder, has been correctly described. When I left him he struck me down. Gentlemen, I am not a weak man, but a strong man. If it was my desire to do him bodily harm, should I not be likely to do it then? We were there alone. As far as I knew, no eye was watching us, and naturally my passions would be roused by the cowardly blow he struck me; but I did nothing. I, so it was said, uttered a threat that I would be equal with him for this blow which he had struck, and then went away. Then, the learned counsel has urged, after I had walked nearly two miles back to my own home, after I had dressed for dinner, I waited until midnight, and then, with cool calculation, went out to kill this man. Can anyone in his senses believe such a thing? Besides, think of another thing. I was in a position to laugh at Wilson's enmity. I had won an eminent position in the town of my adoption. I had risen from obscurity to be a member of Parliament for that town. I had made a speech in the House of Commons which had attracted notice throughout the whole country. I was the subject of leading articles in newspapers. What was Wilson's enmity to me? I could have afforded to have left Brunford altogether. I could have lived in London, where I need never have seen him. Was I likely, then—not in a moment of mad passion, mark you—not in resentment for a coward's blow which had been struck immediately before, but after seven hours—was I likely to go out into the dead of the night to kill him? Forgive me for urging this matter, but the question of motive must come in, and to say that this deed was the outcome of a long personal feud is, under the circumstances, preposterous. Is this link in the chain strong enough to hold? Nay, is it a link at all? And does not the chain break in consequence?"

It was at this point that Paul held both judge and jury strongly. I know I altogether fail to convey the impression he made. In cold print, while his words may seem reasonable, and even forcible, they only give a hint at their power when they were uttered as he uttered them.

The next point with which he dealt was with that of the knife. This knife, known to be Paul's, was found driven through Edward Wilson's heart, driven from behind. And it had been used with great skill by the counsel for the prosecution. He had considered it from every standpoint, and it had seemed, at the time, that no one but Paul could have used it.

"This," said Paul, "is the one definite thing urged against me. Everything else is pure surmise, but the knife was known to be mine. The knife was in my office, an office which is always locked when I have occasion to leave it. Therefore, no one but myself could have used it. Such is the counsel's argument. Again I ask you to consider this carefully. Remember that no secret was ever made about my possessing this knife. It had been sent to me by a customer from abroad. It had been used as a paper-knife. It had been frequently seen by those who visited me lying on my office desk. It was not some secret thing, something about which the world knew nothing. It was known to be mine by scores of people—please bear that in mind. Then there is another thing-. It has come out in the evidence that I was not in the habit of carrying it. It is a sharp, murderous-looking blade, and it has been examined, my lord, not only by you, but by every member of the jury. I admit that this knife is mine. I admit all that my partner, Mr. George Preston, has said about it. But I want you to consider the tremendous gap between the fact of the knife known to belong to me, and the accusation that with this knife I murdered Mr. Edward Wilson. Now, will you please think carefully. It has been urged that I did this deed in cold blood. It was between three and four o'clock in the afternoon when I had a quarrel with Wilson and he struck me down. My servants have given testimony to the fact that I came home, talked with my mother, went into my study, stayed there for several hours. Then it is urged that I went out, carrying this knife with me; and, mark you, they did not see the knife in the house, no one saw me take it away from the office; but it is urged that I went out, after several hours' cool and calculated thought, at midnight; that I caught the murdered man unawares, drove the knife into his body, and then ran away and left it there. Now, think of this, gentlemen, and remember that my life or death depends upon the reasonableness of it, depends upon this link in the chain of circumstantial evidence. It has been urged again and again that whatever I am, I am not a fool, that I am capable of careful and connected thought, that I commenced my career in Brunford in a very small way, and that in a few years I have made it to be what it is, large and prosperous. It has been urged that I am far-seeing, careful, calculating, and that as a rule I am not a man who acts upon sudden impulses. Now, my lord and jury, I ask you, would such a man as I be likely to do this? I could have understood the accusation if in the heat of the passion which I naturally felt when the deceased man struck me a cowardly blow, I had, if I carried such a knife with me, which I never did, seized it and struck the murderous blow, and then in a state of panic rushed away for fear of the consequences. But after several hours had elapsed, during which time I should have time to think about it, and to realise the results of such a deed, that I should then, in a cool and calculated fashion, seek out a victim, strike the blow, and then leave the weapon in the body which must be inevitably traced to me, is a deed of such madness that I can only wonder that a gentleman with the erudition of the counsel should have thought it worth while to mention it!"

From this point Paul went on to deal with another matter, of which the counsel for the prosecution seemed to have taken no notice, but which, put as he put it, strengthened his case very considerably.

"I want you to consider the circumstances connected with the accusation again," he said presently. "It is known that I had only returned from London the day before. It has come out in the evidence that I wrote a letter to Wilson, asking him to meet me, and that Wilson replied refusing to do so. It has also been proved that I waylaid him not far from his own house, and that we had a quarrel. Concerning the nature of that quarrel I am not going to speak, but a quarrel there was, this I admit. Now, please bear in mind that I had only returned from London the previous day; that I knew nothing of Wilson's possible whereabouts; that I could have known nothing of his plans. It was impossible for me to tell what he was going to do, or where he was going to be. It has also come out in the evidence that I asked certain questions about him on the afternoon of the day before the murder. I went from one place to another where he had been, in order to find him—remember this was not done in secret, but openly—therefore I must have been utterly ignorant of his movements, or of his plans, except what I openly gathered that afternoon. Then we had a quarrel. He struck me down, and I, when I recovered from the blow, rose, said a few words to him, and walked away. I went back to my own house, and, on the testimony of the servants, was there the whole evening. I did not go out at all. It is also admitted that no messenger of any sort came to me that night, that no letters were received. Please bear these things clearly in mind. Then I went out at midnight, on a dark night, with the intent to murder 'him. Now think of the position. Would he not in all probability be in bed, as far as I knew? Brunford is not a town of late hours. Ordinarily, except when there is a social gathering, or something of the sort, people retire to rest between ten and eleven o'clock. But it is urged I went out with the intention of murdering him, carrying the knife with me, and yet having no means of even suspecting that he would be out; and that then I met him by chance, and having the knife ready, killed him, and left the knife in his body. My lord, and gentlemen, does not the chain of evidence entirely break? Is there any connecting link here at all? Can you condemn a man upon such evidence? Think of the tremendously long arm of coincidence which has to be imagined before you can connect me with it!

"With regard to the evidence which the counsel for the prosecution has urged with so much effect: I admit it is true. I was worried and perplexed that night. I did not utter the words which he has mentioned, but I do remember walking along a lane at no great distance from Howden Clough. I was troubled about a personal matter, and, if I may so put it, a secret matter, a matter which I cannot discuss, but which does not even by a gossamer thread connect me with the crime of which I am accused. And if you condemn me on such an evidence, then no man's life is safe. No man can be worried and perplexed without, under similar circumstances, being accused of a crime of which he would never dream!"

Again Paul made the jury feel as he felt, see as he saw. The evident sincerity of his tones, the force of his language, language which I have utterly failed to reproduce, carried conviction with every word. For the time being, at least, they felt that such an accusation bordered on the edge of the absurd, and to say the least of it, there was a tremendous gulf which had to be filled up, and that to fill it up by the belief in the long arm of coincidence, and to commit a man to the scaffold because of it, would be criminal indeed.

"There's only one point more that I wish to urge," said Paul. "It is this. It is plain to me that the deceased man was murdered. It is plain to us all, therefore, that someone must have been guilty of the deed. Who would be likely to be guilty? The statements which found credence here in the early part of the trial, that the deceased man had no enemy beside myself has been shattered and destroyed. It has been shown that one woman, at least, had reason to hate him with a deadly hatred, and that case alone throws a tremendous light upon the character of the deceased man. Far be it from me to throw suspicion upon any innocent person—I have suffered too much myself to think of doing such a thing—but even the deceased man's own father has made terrible admissions. Do these admissions mean nothing? Are they to count for nothing? That woman whose name has been mentioned, and who, from the evidence given, could have no connection with this crime, had a thousand times more reason to hate him than I. May there not be others? Nay, there must be others——"

At this point Paul, knowing that he was drawing near to the end of what he had to say, felt that he was indeed fighting for his life, and I will not endeavour to describe his speech further. Possessing a mind of more than ordinary clearness, having the gift of language to a marked degree, and also having the strongest motive to make the most of the facts which stood out clearly before him, he spoke almost like a man inspired. With trembling voice, he was outwardly calm in appearance. He again reviewed the evidence, showed its weakness, tore the sophistries of Mr. Bakewell to pieces, and moved the hearts of all present by his passionate appeal. More than once the spectators broke in applause, while the barristers nudged each other with nods of approval, as he made some special point in his defence. And presently, when he sat down, everyone felt that Paul had saved his own life, that he had fought a great battle and won it, that he not only did not commit the deed of which he was accused, but that he was utterly incapable of it, and that he would leave the court amid shouts of triumph. Even to this day his speech is spoken of as one of the most triumphant efforts ever made in the Manchester Assize Courts.