Soul

‘Indeed.’ Dr Jefferies unrolled two charts and a court clerk then hung them from a display stand for all the court to see.

The phrenologist pointed to the first chart. ‘This shows the skull of a normal woman—one, in fact, who displays a great facility for maternal warmth, indicated in the dip just here at the left of the cranium. The other chart shows Mrs Lavinia Huntington’s skull. Here is the equivalent area: note there is a slight rise—this would appear to indicate that Mrs Huntington was, and is still, lacking in maternal love.’

Again Erasmus leapt to his feet. ‘Objection, Your Honour. This is irrelevant information. A lack of maternal affection does not make one a murderess.’

‘Objection sustained. Continue, Dr Jefferies.’

Dr Jefferies shifted his finger to another area on the second chart. ‘But what we are concerned with today is this projection. Set firmly in the right lobe, it is a clear indication of severe hysteria—almost certainly untreatable.’

The prosecutor, watching the jurors’ reaction, waited until the phrenologist’s words had taken effect, then turned to the judge. ‘Thank you, Your Honour. That is all for today.’

Mr Cohen stood. Posing with his chin in his hand, he seemed the embodiment of classical contemplation. After a long sigh, he turned to Dr Jefferies.

‘Tell me, why would Colonel Huntington, himself a minor authority on phrenology, allow his wife to continue to assist him if he thought she was mentally unstable?’

‘That is a question that lies between a man and his wife. I suppose that he loved her.’

‘Would it not be that he trusted her?’ The defence lawyer directed the question towards the twelve seated men, as if they were the great moral arbiters upon whom he depended.

‘Dr Jefferies, you are considered to be an impeccable authority in your field?’ he continued.

‘I am indeed.’

‘In that case, would you agree to a little test?’

‘Objection, Your Honour,’ the prosecutor shouted to the bench.

The judge, after glancing at Erasmus, shrugged. ‘Objection denied. Continue, Mr Cohen.’

‘Dr Jefferies, I repeat, will you agree to have your professionalism put to a little harmless test?’

‘I will.’

Erasmus turned to his assistant, a thin dark Hebrew who looked as if he might be his son. At a nod from the barrister, the youth pulled the top half of a skull from a sack at his feet. There was a ripple of expectation throughout the courtroom. With a flourish, he handed it to Erasmus who then placed the skull on the witness stand before Dr Jefferies.

‘I wish you to diagnose the skull before you,’ he said, ‘from a phrenologist’s point of view. That is, to describe in as much detail as you can deduct from the cavities and bumps of the skull the psychology of its original owner.’

Picking up the skull, Dr Jefferies, his eyes shut, ran his fingers across the white bone almost as if he were caressing it.

‘It belonged to a Caucasian female, approximately thirty years of age at death,’ he pronounced. ‘She was affectionate, poetic, given to frugality. She had an overly developed penchant for spirituality—moreover, for any religious activity—but also was not unknown to suffer occasional fits of rage. In fact, I would venture to say that she might have been an artist of some kind.’

‘Indeed, Dr Jefferies, she was an artist of some kind.’

The spectators gasped at the prophetic skills of the esteemed scientist. Acknowledging the faint applause, Dr Jefferies smiled smugly. Erasmus raised his arms to silence them.

‘She was an artist of some kind, sir, because the skull belonged to Bobo, a deceased member of the troupe of performing chimpanzees with Monsieur Flaubert’s travelling circus.’

The spectators’ admiration swung instantly to ridicule and the courtroom was filled with loud laughter. Banging his gavel, the judge tried in vain to regain order, while Erasmus shouted over the commotion.

‘I put it to you, sir, that the art of phrenology is an unproven science! It is mere conjuncture, open to manipulation of the most unethical kind!’

Dr Jefferies, flushed, spun around in the witness box. ‘How dare you, sir! I have it on the utmost authority that Colonel Huntington was indeed attacked by his wife, and indeed she did, and still does, suffer from hysteria!’

‘While you, sir, suffer from a surplus of imagination!’ the barrister fired back.

His

eyes glued to the two accused, Samuel observed Lavinia’s glance towards the rows behind him. He turned to see a cleric sitting there, a man in his late fifties with an air of anguish about him that isolated him from those around him. Lavinia faltered as she met the man’s eyes, and she seemed to shrink further into her prison smock. The cleric soberly indicated his heart then the leather-bound Bible he held in his left hand, and Samuel realised this must be Lavinia Huntington’s father, of whom Aloysius had spoken.