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?”
“To an extent, yes.”
“You agree that she has a defect of personality, but as a matter of degree you don’t think that it brings her within the terms of the Act?”
“I certainly don’t consider that she comes within the terms of the Act.”
“But it is a matter of degree?”
“In the last resort, yes.”
“I suggest, doctor,” Benskin said, “that any opinion in this matter of degree, about defect of personality or of responsibility — in the sense we are discussing them in this case — any opinion is in the long run subjective?”
“I am not certain what you mean.”
“I think you should be. I mean, that of a number of persons as highly qualified as yourself; some might agree with your opinion — and a proportion, possibly a high proportion, certainly wouldn’t. Isn’t that true?”
“I have said several times,” said Gough, showing no flicker of irritation nor of being drawn, “that I can speak only within the limits of my professional judgment.”
“And many others, as highly qualified as yourself, would give a different professional judgment?”
“That would be for them to say.”
“You would grant that neither you nor anyone else really has any criterion to go on?”
“I agree that we have no exact scientific criterion. These matters wouldn’t cost us so much pain if we had.”
“That is, your expert opinion is just one opinion among many? You can’t claim any more for it than that?”