The 12.30 from Croydon (31 page)

He was indeed faced with a twofold ordeal. He would be tried separately, so Quilter had told him, on the two charges: first, the complete Crowther case would be taken, and then that of Weatherup. Charles was bitterly resentful of this arrangement. He considered that not taking them together was an unnecessary aggravation of his suffering. Quilter, however, explained that it was the invariable custom and could not be altered.

Charles was given a quite good breakfast, but he found it hard to eat. The journey to the court was a nightmare. In a sort of dream he reached it and was taken to a room off a stone passage. Here there were benches, and between two warders he sat down to wait.

But not for long. There was a sudden movement, a call at the door, and the warders sprang to their feet. ‘Now his lordship’s in,’ said one. ‘Come after me up these stairs.’

Charles stepped up after the first warder and was closely followed by the second. Then in a moment he was in court. The sudden change from the silent and gloomy waiting cell to this thronged and brightly illuminated room was upsetting. Charles blinked, and then felt – yes,
felt
– the eyes all round him. The court was filled to overflowing, and of all that crowd of people every one was staring at him. What
beasts
they were to stare like that! He glanced round, but couldn’t bear those eyes. He dropped his own, moved forward to the front of the dock as the warder motioned, and stood waiting. For a moment nothing seemed to happen and he glanced round him again.

He remembered the court, in which he had once been to give evidence in a case of theft. Down below him, in a sort of well, was the table at which the barristers engaged on the case sat with their advisers, while a little farther away were the pressmen. Beyond the well were court officials and behind them was the raised tribune or bench, on which was seated a little old gentleman in a wig and red gown. On the wall behind him, symbolic, was a representation of the Royal Arms. To the right was the empty jury-box, to the left the witness-box, and behind at each side were rows of thickly packed seats.

So much Charles observed in his hasty look, and then his attention was attracted to a movement in front. A court official in front of the judge’s bench was standing up and speaking. With a shock Charles realized that he was addressing him.

‘Charles Hargrave Swinburn, you stand here indicted that on the 25th of August, 1933, you did feloniously and of malice aforethought murder one Andrew Crowther, of The Moat, Cold Pickerby, Yorkshire. How say you? Are you guilty, or not guilty?’

Now that the peril was here Charles was suddenly cool and collected. He surprised himself by the steadiness of his voice as he answered, ‘Not guilty!’

The plea was entered and slowly, but relentlessly, the business of the court proceeded. To Charles this commencement, awaited by everyone present with tense excitement and involving his own life or death, seemed extraordinarily tame and wanting in drama. Indeed, before he realized that a beginning had been made, the case was under way.

The jury was first called. Neither side challenged any of the members and the business proceeded smoothly. Charles eagerly tried to picture the mind of each of its members, nine men and three women, as his or her name was called and as he or she moved into the jury-box. First came the foreman, a thick-set man with greying hair, a determined manner, and the appearance of an upper-class tradesman or small shopkeeper. A man who would know his own mind, this foreman, but it would be a terribly limited mind. Charles was sure he belonged to the hard-headed ‘practical’ type, a man without imagination and who would pride himself on accepting the obvious solution to every problem, and ruling out metaphysical or psychological considerations as ‘tommy rot’. His name was Jinks.

However, he was counterbalanced by the second person to be called. This was a tall, lanky individual, with dark, dreamy eyes, pale cheeks, and long, thin fingers like claws. A man, this, who would instantly feel himself in opposition to the views of his chief, who would instinctively reject the ‘practical’ view and found his opinion on what he would call psychological considerations, but which would really be his own prejudice. He followed his leader into the box.

As one by one the other ten came forward, Charles had to admit they were as representative a crowd as he could well imagine. There was the small man with the receding chin, who would always hold the opinions of the previous speaker, and his opposite, an individual with an expression of overwhelming stupidity, whose opinions no speaker on earth could move. There were ordinary commonplace decent-looking men, who, while trying to be fair, would be anxious to temper justice with mercy. Of the women, two looked over at Charles with a kindly sorrowful glance, but the third was thin and acid-looking, probably dyspeptic and probably a shrew. This third woman completed the tale of the jurors, and they were then sworn with due ceremony.

Presiding over this activity, but not taking part in it, Mr Justice Herriott sat motionless like a little dried-up old sphinx. In his expressionless face showed nevertheless an immense age and knowledge of life. Charles knew that he had the reputation of being a hard judge; scrupulously fair, but hard. His knowledge of law was believed to be as profound as his knowledge of life, and a successful appeal from his decisions was practically unknown.

But events were again moving. The preliminaries were by this time complete, and leading counsel for the prosecution stood up to deliver his opening address.

Charles had heard a great deal about Sir Richard Brander. His reputation was that of the judge, a hard fighter, but scrupulously fair to those unfortunates whose life or liberty it was his unhappy duty to seek. A big, broad-shouldered man, his gifts ran to cold reason and argument rather than to moving eloquence. He pinned his faith to the mercilessly clear setting out of cold facts, and no one more than he could by a few dry sentences more completely annihilate the effect of an impassioned plea for the defence.

He began to speak in a gentle voice while still bending over the table, arranging his notes. As it was not easy to hear what he was saying, this had the effect of producing immediate silence and ensuring the fullest attention. Then having achieved this end, he straightened himself up, put his left hand on his hip, a characteristic gesture, and allowed his rich voice to reverberate to every corner of the court.

A few tactful preliminary words about the gravity of the case and the importance of the duty of the jury, and he was into his stride.

‘The main features of this unhappy case are not new,’ he went on. ‘Probably as far back as history goes we could find parallels, and as long as human nature remains what it is, it will doubtless continue to be paralleled. It belongs to the type of murder for gain. The prisoner, I shall show, was embarrassed financially. He was also heir to a considerable sum. He is charged with murdering the testator to obtain that sum of money and so to relieve himself of his difficulties.

‘Charles Hargrave Swinburn who stands here in the dock to answer this charge, was born in 1898, making him now thirty-five years of age. He was educated at public schools in Buxton and York and his boyhood was full of promise. In 1913 he graduated at Leeds University. Then came the war, and in 1916 he joined up. He had two years’ honourable service in France, being twice wounded. On demobilization he returned to Leeds University to complete his studies, eventually taking his degree in science. In 1921 he entered the Crowther Electromotor Works, then the property of his father and uncle, but of which he afterwards became the sole owner.

‘In the following year, 1922, Andrew Crowther, the prisoner’s uncle, and joint owner of the motor works, retired from the business. He broke completely adrift from it, taking out of it all his money. The works then belonged absolutely to the prisoner’s father, Henry Swinburn. The accused thereupon became a partner. Five years later, in 1927, Henry Swinburn died, the accused then becoming sole owner of the property.’

After this beginning Sir Richard described the vicissitudes of the works, showing that after Charles took over the management it had first enjoyed a period of prosperity, and had then got into difficulties. Almost figure by figure he traced the gradually increasing financial embarrassment Charles had suffered since the slump set in. This information, Charles recognized unhappily, must all have been obtained from his private ledger, the book which up till then no eye but his own had ever seen. ‘These figures,’ declared Sir Richard, ‘will be put before you in evidence, and you will see from them that by the middle of last summer the accused’s position had become intolerable. Ruin, in fact, was staring him in the face. He was going to have to take some drastic step to save himself, or else go under.

‘It may be thought that his state of affairs supplied a sufficient motive for the crime which it is alleged he afterwards committed, but it happens that the prisoner had a further incentive to retain his existing mode of life. Whether that second motive was or was not more powerful than the first I cannot tell you, but you will all agree that it must have been extremely powerful. The prisoner was, in fact, in love,’ and Sir Richard went on to develop this line of argument. Charles groaned as Una was mentioned by name, and the history of his attachment to her was set out in cold and dreadful detail.

‘Money, then,’ went on Sir Richard, ‘must be had if utter ruin was to be avoided. Where might it be obtained?

‘The accused tried the usual methods. Evidence will be put before you that he had overdrawn his bank account by £6,000, and that on the 14th of August he approached the manager for a further overdraft. On the same date he attempted unsuccessfully to borrow £1,000 from a moneylender.

‘Ordinary means had failed him, but there remained one source of supply still untapped. His uncle, Andrew Crowther, was a rich man.’ Briefly Sir Richard described Andrew Crowther’s affairs; his money, his will, his health, his peculiar temperament. ‘Swinburn decided to appeal to his uncle, and he did so on the 15th, the 17th and the 25th of August. As a result of this appeal Andrew Crowther handed him a cheque for £1,000, and there is doubt where a further sum was or was not to follow. The accused’s own statement is that he got £1,000 and hoped to get a second. But, members of the jury, a thousand pounds or even two would have been little use to him. The figures taken from his own private ledger will show that nothing less than £6,000 or £7,000 could have saved him.

‘Where, then,’ said Sir Richard in his incisive voice, ‘might the necessary money be obtained? There was only one source. Swinburn was aware of his uncle’s will. It was obvious to him that if Andrew Crowther were to die his own future would be assured.’

Sir Richard paused, ostensibly to consult his notes, but really, even Charles could not but see, because his orator’s instinct told him that a pause was necessary to drive home his point. The audience had settled down to silence and intentness. Charles tried to rally his courage. Under this pitiless
exposé
his motive was standing out clear and unquestionable as the beam of a lighthouse on a dark night. Of course, he reminded himself, there never had been any question of his motive. He had always admitted it himself. It was his action that they could never prove.

‘Now,’ Sir Richard continued, ‘it happened that Andrew Crowther suffered from indigestion and that for this complaint he took three times a day after meals a certain pill. These pills, Salter’s Anti-Indigestion Pills, are a patent medicine and are sold in identical bottles of standard sizes. You will hear that Swinburn knew of his uncle’s ailment and of his habit of taking one of these pills after each meal. Now it must have been obvious to him that if poison could be inserted into a pill, and if that poisoned pill could be introduced into Andrew Crowther’s bottle, he would sooner or later take that pill and die, though the person who put it there might be far away from the place at the time. I shall prove to you that the poison was in point of fact inserted into one of these pills, and the pill introduced into Andrew Crowther’s bottle, and that the deceased did take that pill, and that he died as the result.’

Once again one of those ghastly attacks of fear drove down on Charles. He had, of course, known that this would be part of the case against him. All the same, to hear it announced in that definite unquestioning way somehow seemed to make it infinitely more deadly. Sir Richard seemed so sure… But of course that was his business. He was paid to seem sure. It was all right. Charles rallied himself.

‘I have mentioned that the accused had interviews with his uncle on the 15th and 17th of August,’ went on Sir Richard. ‘This second interview on the 17th was the one at which Andrew Crowther handed him the cheque for £1,000, and we may take it, I suggest, that the accused left that interview knowing that his application had failed. He had got a thousand and might get a second, but he wanted six or seven. I submit that at that time he had decided on his course of action and that his uncle’s fate was sealed.

‘On the 21st, four days after that interview, the accused drove to London, where he stayed for the nights of the 21st and 22nd. His ostensible reason for the journey was a call on a Reading firm relative to some machinery which he was contemplating buying for his works. He did pay that visit to Reading, but I shall prove that he did some other business besides: two other pieces of business.

‘The first was this. If Andrew Crowther were to be murdered, several weeks, if not months, must elapse before the prisoner would be able to handle the actual cash. Money must therefore be provided with which to carry on till the larger sum became available.

‘Now, on that visit to Town I shall prove that Swinburn took with him in his car fourteen pictures which had been collected from time to time by his father and which had a total value of about £3,000. He took them ostensibly to have them cleaned, but they were not cleaned. Instead he pledged them for a sum of £2,100. This money was not paid into his bank, but he received it in notes. You will hear further that he estimated the time during which he would leave the pictures pledged at six months, which, I suggest, indicates that he knew that by the end of that period he would be in funds.