The Glass Village

“My dear sir,” said Casavant with a kindly smile, “one cannot answer a question like that in a phrase. Now you will recall that a moment ago I referred to Fanny Adams’s work habits. They had one further oddity. Just as she never deviated a hair’s breadth from the now-object, so she never deviated a hair’s breadth from her work habits. I call your attention to the F.A. in the lower left-hand corner of this canvas, which is the manner in which she invariably signed her works; and I repeat for the information of the court and jury that never in the case of any canvas from Fanny Adams’s brush, in the course of her entire career, did she stroke in that F.A. until the painting part of the picture was consummated. Never! However, that’s a childishly oversimplified reason. When we deal with an artist we deal with a living, pulsing personality, not a lifeless thing under a microscope. There are esthetic reasons, there are emotional reasons if you will, for pronouncing this painting utterly, irrevocably, perfectly finished.”

“I think the oversimplified reason you’ve already given, Mr. Casavant,” murmured Judge Shinn, “will suffice.”

Ferriss Adams flung the Judge a look of sheer worship. “Now, Mr. Casavant, an analysis of the defendant’s movements indicates that he must have quit these premises at approximately the time Aunt Fanny Adams was assaulted and murdered. Also, there is a statement, now part of the court record, made by defendant on the night of his arrest. We’re interested in testing defendant’s statement for truthfulness—”

Andrew Webster opened his mouth, but he shut it again at a sign from Judge Shinn.

“—for if in any particular it can be shown that his statement lies, there will be a strong presumption that his denial of guilt is a lie, too.”

Old Andy struggled, and won.

“In his statement defendant claims, Mr. Casavant, that a moment before leaving this house he pushed the swinging door from the kitchen open a crack and looked into the studio. He says he saw Aunt Fanny at her easel, her back to him, still working on this painting. Since that was just about the time she was murdered, and since you have pronounced the painting finished, wouldn’t you say that the defendant, then, is lying when he maintains that the painting was still being worked on?”

“My God, My God,” mumbled Andy Webster.

“My dear sir,” said Roger Casavant with an elegant whimsicality, “I can’t tell who saw what or when, or who was lying or telling the truth. I can only tell you that the painting on this easel is finished. For the rest, you’ll have to work out your personal conclusions.”

“Thank you, Mr. Casavant.” Ferriss Adams wiped his streaming cheeks. “Your witness.”

Judge Webster strode up to the witness chair so determinedly that the witness recoiled slightly.

“As you’ve no doubt gathered, Mr. Casavant,” began the old lawyer, “this is a rather unusual trial. We’re allowing ourselves more latitude — to say the least — than is customary. Let’s take this in detail. A study of the relative times and certain other factors shows that the defendant must have left the Adams house at approximately the time Mrs. Adams was murdered, as Mr. Adams has stated — within two or three minutes, at most. The time of the murder is fixed as having taken place at exactly two-thirteen P.M. I ask you, sir: Isn’t it possible for the defendant to have left this house at, let us say, two-ten, and at two-ten Mrs. Fanny Adams was still working on this painting?”

“I beg pardon?”

“Let me put it another way: Isn’t it possible that in the three minutes between two-ten and two-thirteen Fanny Adams finished this painting — the last brush stroke, the initials of the signature, or whatever it was?”

“Well, naturally,” said Casavant in an annoyed tone. “There comes a moment — one might say the moment — when a painting, any painting, is definitely and finally completed. Whether that moment came before the defendant looked in, or as he looked in, or after he looked in, is not, sir, within my competence.”

“How right you are,” muttered Andy Webster; but Johnny heard him. “No, just another minute, Mr. Casavant. You have asserted that Fanny Adams painted only what she saw. Tell me, did she paint everything she saw?”

“What’s that, what’s that?”

“Well! Suppose she was painting the barn and cornfield as seen through her window. Suppose there was a pile of firewood in the lean-to within her view. Would she include the firewood in her painting?”

“Oh, I see what you mean,” said Casavant languidly. “No, she did not paint everything she saw. That would be an absurdity.”

“Then she might decide to include the firewood or she might decide not to include the firewood?”

“Exactly. Every painter must be selective. Obviously. By the simplest laws of composition. However, what she did include in a painting was at least a part of the scene she was painting.”