Charles Snow - The Sleep of Reason

Without emphasis Bosanquet led Matthew Gough over the descriptions Cornford had given. It was a good examination, designed to show that Gough was as unprejudiced as the other men. Yes, Miss Ross had lived on the fringe of a free-living group. If she had been less timid or inhibited, that might have “liberated” her. Actually it had driven her further into herself. It was hurtful to live in a Venusberg without taking part oneself.

As for her relation with Kitty, he had some doubts about Cornford’s analysis. He wouldn’t dismiss it altogether: but “guilt” used in that fashion was a technical term. He wasn’t easy about this concept of the escalation of guilt. Many homosexual or perverse relations were quite free of it. “Bad sex”, in Cornford’s sense, was very common: it did not often lead to minor violence, let alone to sadistic killing; it was very dangerous, and unjustified, to try to define a simple causation.

Bosanquet : You would not accept then, Dr Gough, that this relation in any way diminished their responsibility?

Gough : No.

Bosanquet : Or that any other feature of their personal history did so?

Gough : No.

On Kitty Pateman, he said one puzzling thing (which I half-missed, since just at that time the judge’s clerk entered our box, giving me his lordship’s compliments, and asking if I would care to lunch with him on the coming Monday). He was speaking about her environment: while Cora had grown up solitary, Kitty had lived her whole childhood and youth in a close family life — as intense, I was thinking, as the fug in that stifling sitting-room. That was a good environment, said Gough. Stable, settled, affectionate. This must have been his own interpretation of Kitty’s account — or had she misled him? Gough was disposed to believe devotedly in family life, I was thinking. It was then that he surprised me. But even in a stable family, he said, there could be wounds — which only the person wounded might know. Was he being massively fair-minded, or had he picked up a clue?

In the specific case of Miss Pateman, it seemed that she might have had an excessive attachment to her father. But he, Gough, could not regard that as a cause of her later actions. That was over-simplifying. Her relation with Miss Ross, her part in the crime — no one could identify the origins.

Bosanquet : You discussed the crime with her, doctor?

Gough : With each of them. On several occasions.

Bosanquet : Were they willing to describe it?

Gough : Up to a point.

Bosanquet : Will you elaborate that, please?

Gough : They were prepared to describe in detail, almost hour by hour, how they planned to kidnap the boy. They told me about what happened at the cottage and how they brutalised him. But they wouldn’t go beyond the Sunday afternoon. Miss Pateman said they had finished punishing him by then. Neither of them at any time gave any account of how they killed him.

Bosanquet : Were they at this stage still pretending that they hadn’t done so?

Gough : I think not.

Bosanquet : Why wouldn’t they speak of what they did to him after the Sunday afternoon, then?

Gough : They each said, several times, that they had forgotten.

Bosanquet : That is, they were concealing it?

Gough : Again I think not. I believe it was genuine amnesia.

Bosanquet : You really mean, they had forgotten killing that child?

Gough : It is quite common for someone to forget the act of killing.

In his last question Bosanquet had, quite untypically, inflected his voice. For once he was at a loss. We realised that he was getting an answer he didn’t expect, and one that the defence might return to (Benskin was muttering to his junior). In an instant, Bosanquet had recovered himself: with steady precision he brought out his roll-call of final questions, and the doctor’s replies fell heavily into the hush.

“It has been suggested by some of your colleagues,” said Bosanquet, “that a sadistic killing of this kind couldn’t be performed by persons in a state of unimpaired responsibility. You know about that opinion?”

“Yes. I know it very well.”

“How do you regard it?”

“I respect it,” said Gough. “But I cannot accept it.”

“This kind of planned cruelty and killing is no proof of impaired responsibility, you say? I should like you to make that clear.”

“In my judgment, it is no proof at all.”

“People can perpetrate such a crime in a state of normal responsibility?”

“I believe so. I wish that I could believe otherwise.”

He added those last words almost in an aside, dropping his voice. Very few people in court heard him, or noticed the sudden lapse from his manner of authority. Later we were remarking about what had moved him: did he simply feel that, if to be cruel one had to be deranged, there would be that much less evil in the world? And he found that thought consoling, but had to shove it away?

“And that was true of the actions of Miss Pateman and Miss Ross?”

“I believe so.”

“You are certain?”

“Within the limits of my professional knowledge, I am certain.”

“You would not agree that either of them had a real abnormality of mind?”

“We must be careful here. In each of them there is a degree of abnormality. But not enough, in the terms of the Act, to impair substantially their mental responsibility.”

“Their responsibility was not impaired? Not substantially impaired?”

“No.”

“That is true of neither of them?”

“Of neither of them.”

That was the last answer before the lunchtime break. Hurrying out of court in order to catch up with George, we saw him walking away, not looking back. When I called out, it was some time before he heard or stopped. He didn’t greet us, but as we drew near him, stared at us with a gentle, absent-minded, indifferent smile. He gave the impression that he had not noticed we had been present in the court. Instead of insisting on showing us a place to eat, as he had done with Margaret and me on the first morning, he scarcely seemed to know where he was going. He was quite docile, and when Martin suggested having a sandwich in a snack bar George answered like a good child, yes, that would be nice.

As the three of us sat on backless chairs at the counter, George in the middle, he did not speak much. When he replied to a question, he did not turn his face, so that I could see only his profile. Trying to stir him, I mentioned that, the previous day, the defence doctors had given strong evidence, precisely contrary to what he had just heard.

“Yes, thank you,” said George. “I rather assumed that.”

He was just as polite when he replied to Martin, who made some conversation on his other side. I brought out the name of Bosanquet, hoping to hear George curse again. He said: “He’s leading for the prosecution, isn’t he?”

After that, he sat, elbows on the counter, munching. One could not tell whether he was daydreaming or lost in his own thoughts: or sitting there, dead blank.

When we led him back into the courtroom, Martin and I exchanged a glance. It was a glance of relief. There was a larger crowd than in the morning, but still the lower tiers of seats were not full, and we sat, George once more between us, three rows back from the solicitors, gazing straight up into the witness box. Then, the judge settled, the court quiet, Gough took his place. At once Benskin was on his feet, neat and small, wearing a polite, subdued smile.

“I put it to you, doctor,” he began, “we agree, do we not, that Miss Ross suffers from a defective personality?”