“They are directed by the judge.”
“And how much of his direction do they remember? You know how your own mind slips when you’re listening to a string of words. Besides, after he’s dotted all the ‘I’s and crossed the ‘is’s for them, they stampede and bring him in the wrong verdict.”
“Why should you assume it is wrong? They have formed their own conclusion on the testimony of the witnesses.”
“Witnesses.” In his heat the young man thumped the railing. “The witness is the most damnable part of the outfit. He may be so stupid as to be putty in the hands of some wily lawyer, or he may be smart and lie away some wretched man’s life, just to read about his own wonderful memory and powers of observation and see his photograph in the papers. They’re all out for publicity.”
The elder man laughed in a superior manner which irritated his companion to the personal touch.
“When I’m accused of bumping you off, professor, I’d rather be tried by a team of judges who’d bring trained legal minds and impartial justice to bear on the facts.”
“You’re biased,” said the Professor, “…Let me try to convince you. The Jury is intelligent in bulk, and can judge character. Certain witnesses are reliable, while others must be viewed with suspicion. For instance, how would you describe that dark woman with the artificial lashes?”
“Attractive.”
“Hum. I should call her meretricious and so would any average man of the world. Now, we’ll assume that she and that English lady in the Burberry are giving contrary evidence. One of the two must be telling a lie.”
“I don’t agree. It may depend on the point of view. The man in the street, with his own back garden, is ready to swear to lilac when he sees it; but when he goes to a botanical garden he finds it’s labelled syringa.”
“The generic name—”
“I know, I know. But if one honest John Citizen swears syringa is white, while another swears it’s mauve, you’ll grant that there is an opportunity for confusion. Evidence may be like that.”
“Haven’t you wandered from my point?” asked the conventional voice. “Put those two women, separately, into the witness-box. Now which are you going to believe?”
In her turn, Iris compared the hypothetical witnesses. One was a characteristic type of county Englishwoman, with an athletic figure and a pleasant intelligent face. If she strode across the station as though she possessed the right of way, she used it merely as a short cut to her legitimate goal.
On the other hand, the pretty dark woman was an obvious loiterer. Her skin-tight skirt and embroidered peasant blouse might have been the holiday attire of any continental lady; but, in spite of her attractive red lips and expressive eyes, Iris could not help thinking of a gipsy who had just stolen a chicken for the pot.
Against her will, she had to agree with the professor. Yet she felt almost vexed with the younger man when he ceased to argue, because she had backed the losing side.
“I see your point,” he said. “The British waterproof wins every time. But Congo rubber was a bloody business and too wholesale a belief in rubber-proofing may lead to a bloody mix-up… Come and have a drink.”
“Thank you, if you will allow me to order it. I wish to avail myself of every opportunity of speaking the language.”
“Wish I could forget it. It’s a disgusting one – all spitting and sneezing. You lecture on Modern Languages, don’t you? Many girl students in your classes?”
“Yes… Unfortunately.”
Iris was sorry when they moved away, for she had been idly interested in their argument. The crowd on the platform had increased, although the express was not due for another twenty-five minutes, even if it ran to time. She had now to share her bench with others, while a child squatted on her suitcase.
Although spoiled by circumstances she did not resent the intrusion. The confusion could not touch her because she was held by the moment. The glow of sunshine, the green flicker of trees, the gleam of the lake, all combined to hypnotise her to a condition of stationary bliss.
There was nothing to warn her of the attack. When she least expected it, the blow fell.
Suddenly she felt a violent pain at the back of her neck. Almost before she realised it, the white-capped mountains rocked, the blue sky turned black, and she dropped down into darkness.
Chapter six. The waiting-room
When Iris became conscious, her sight returned, at first, in patches. She saw sections of faces floating in the air. It seemed the same face – sallow-skinned, with black eyes and bad teeth.
Gradually she realised that she was lying on a bench in a dark kind of shed while a ring of women surrounded her. They were of peasant type, with a racial resemblance, accentuated by inter-marriage.
They stared down at her with indifferent apathy, as though she were some street spectacle – a dying animal or a man in a fit. There was no trace of compassion in their blank faces, no glint of curiosity in their dull gaze. In their complete detachment they seemed devoid of the instincts of human humanity.
“Where am I?” she asked wildly.
A woman in a black overall suddenly broke into guttural speech, which conveyed no iota of meaning to Iris. She listened with the same helpless panic which had shaken her yesterday in the gorge. Actually the woman’s face was so close that she could see the pits in her skin and the hairs sprouting inside her nostrils; yet their fundamental cleavage was so complete that they might have been standing on different planets.
She wanted some one to lighten her darkness – to raise the veil which baffled her and blinded her. Something had happened to her of which she had no knowledge.
Her need was beyond the scope of crude pantomime. Only some lucid explanation could clear the confusion of her senses. In that moment she thought of the people at the hotel, from whom she had practically ran away. Now she felt she would give years of her life to see the strong saintly face of the clergyman looking down at her, or meet the kind eyes of his wife.
In an effort to grip reality she looked round her. The place was vaguely familiar, with dark wooden walls and a sanded floor, which served as a communal spittoon. A bar of dusty sunlight, slanting through a narrow window, glinted on thick glasses stacked upon a shelf and on a sheaf of fluttering handbills.
She raised her head higher and felt a throb of dull pain, followed by a rush of dizziness. For a moment she thought she was going to be sick; but the next second nausea was overpowered by a shock of memory.
This was the waiting-room at the station. She had lingered here only only yesterday, with the crowd, as it gulped down a final drink. Like jolting trucks banging through her brain her thoughts were linked together by the connecting sequence of the railway. She remembered sitting on the platform, in the sunshine, while she waited for a train.
Her heart began to knock violently. She was on her way back to England. Yet she had not the least idea as to what had happened after her black-out, or how long ago it had occurred. The express might have come – and gone – leaving her behind.
In her overwrought state the idea seemed the ultimate catastrophe. Her head swam again and she had to wait for a mist to clear from her eyes before she could read the figures on her tiny wrist watch.
To her joy she discovered that she had still twenty-five minutes in which to pull herself together before her journey. “What happened to me?” she wondered. “What made me pass out? Was I attacked.”
Closing her eyes, she tried desperately to clear her brain. But her last conscious moment held only a memory of blue sky and grass-green lake, viewed as though through a crystal.