“Only that I was waked up by hearing a scream, and got some clothes on as quickly as I could, and went up, and found Mr. Rabone dead.”
“And Miss Jones? Did you see anything of her?”
“I haven’t seen her since I went upstairs about six o’clock.”
“You don’t know whether she was in her room when you went up?”
“I know she wasn’t. Her door was open, and I looked in there first.”
“But you don’t know whether she was there at the time of the murder?”
“No, how could I?”
“I asked you.”
Francis became silent. He remembered the steps he had heard after the scream. He could not say they were hers, though he had little doubt. For all he knew, an admission might be fatal to her. Equally possibly, a lie now might make it vain to help with the truth at a later time, if that should be what her safety required.
He said: “I think I’ve told you about all I know. But if you’re not satisfied, I think I ought to have legal advice before I say more.”
Inspector Combridge became silent. The request was one which could not be refused, nor did it occur to him to make any difficulty about it, though it was the technique of these enquiries to get suspected persons to talk, and if possible to sign statements which had been worded for them, before they could have the protection of legal caution.
But his doubt was on different grounds. He had a long experience of such crimes, and of the sometimes very unexpected people by whom they are committed, and he had an instinctive feeling that he must look elsewhere for the hand which had used the razor. He was aware of a number of minor evidences which were consistent with, if they did not actually support, the account which Francis gave of how he had discovered the murdered man.
He saw also that he had as yet no material from which a complete, conclusive case could be built up. In particular, the motive and manner of Miss Jones’s disappearance must be resolved.
On the other hand, here was a man with a criminal record, penniless, and in desperate need of the money which had been in the bank inspector’s pocket-book. There was motive, opportunity, and the absence of anyone else in the house upon whom suspicion would naturally fall, if he excepted Miss Jones, and Sir Lionel Tipshift was definite in his opinion that it had not been a woman’s work. He spoke of a rather tall man, which was slightly in Francis’s favour, for he was not of more than medium height. But it was, at least, far more probable that the blow had been struck by him than by a girl of Miss Jones’s description, as that had been given to him.
In addition to these arguments of motive and opportunity, and of the absence of any other whom it would be equally natural to suspect, there was the fact that a substantial sum of money had been found upon him, together with a cheque-book, concerning which there had not yet been time for enquiry to be made, but which would, in all probability, be found to have come from the possession of the murdered man.
He knew that two of the notes certainly had, and it would require a very good explanation to induce any jury to believe that their transit had been of an innocent kind, or that the remainder of the money had not been taken from the same source.
Now, an invitation for such explanation was met by refusal, followed by request for legal assistance. That, if there were no innocent explanation to give, was precisely what Inspector Combridge’s experience would expect to hear. He saw that it gave him reasonable ground for charging Harold Vaughan with complicity in the crime, which he might otherwise have delayed to do.
He said: “As you do not offer any explanation of how the money came into your possession, it becomes my duty to charge you with the murder of William Rabone, and I have to warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence against you.”
“I have nothing to say, except that I have told you the truth already, I had nothing to do with the murder, and don’t know who did it.”
“Very well. What solicitor would you like to have?”
Francis thought of the firm who had undertaken his defence previously, on Tony Welch’s instructions. In the result, he was landed here. That might not be their fault, but they were men whom he did not like. He had known, while they had been active and cunning in his defence, that they had assumed his guilt. No doubt, most of their clients were justly charged.
He thought of Mr. Jellipot, who had been his father’s solicitor, and to whom, in his own person, he would most naturally go. Well, he supposed, in any event, his identity must be revealed now. He had a vague idea that Mr. Jellipot was not a criminal lawyer, but he felt that to be an advantage rather than otherwise. The austere respectability of that conveyancing office seemed to thrust the ideas of confidency-trickery or brutal murder further away, as though it should be sufficient for Mr. Jellipot to appear in court saying: “There is some mistake: this is Mr. Hammerton, a client of mine,” and he would be released, with respectful apologies, from the dock.
After a moment’s hesitation he mentioned Mr. Jellipot’s name.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Being returned to his cell without further questioning, Francis had the benefit of ample leisure in which to consider the position to which he had fallen.
It is an unpleasant experience to be charged with murder, which a consciousness of innocence may not greatly relieve, if it be difficult to demonstrate it to other minds. And though he might still have a fairly confident hope that the truth would be discovered in time to relieve him from any capital peril, he saw that he had done something to draw needless suspicion upon himself by his lack of frankness concerning the assistance he had received from Miss Jones during the previous day; only realizing how much it might be when he recollected those two ten-shilling notes which had come from Mr. Rabone’s pocket-book, and the numbers of which, he could have little doubt, had been traced, with the presumption following that he had obtained the whole sum from the same source.
Still, that could be, more or less, rebutted by the evidence of the cashed cheque, which must surely be traced, whether he would or no, through the cheque-book which was now in possession of the police.
Had it been foolish not to be frank in immediate explanation? He saw that he had acted on an instinctive impulse rather than any reasoned calculation—an impulse prompted by vague fear that he might involve the girl in some trouble which he could not estimate while he remained ignorant of what had actually happened on the attic floor; of which, as far as his knowledge went, she and Rabone had been the only occupants.
Did he therefore judge her himself as being guilty of that brutal murder? Surely that went beyond a logical deduction from what he did. His own position showed that innocence was no safeguard against suspicion and even conviction of serious crime.
But, in fact, what did he know of her? An acquaintance of a few hours. One who had told him a tale which might be fiction from end to end; or, more probably, compounded of false and true, as expediency or fear might have prompted her to invent or withhold in the precarious confidence she gave to a stranger who was himself under something more than suspicion of criminality.... Well, he supposed that Mr. Jellipot would be here soon, and he could resign his difficulties to the solution of that cautious, judicial mind
But it was while he reflected thus that a warder entered his cell bringing an enquiry from the Inspector. Had he another lawyer whom he would like to call, or should they communicate with Moss & Middleton, who had defended him at his previous trial? It appeared that Mr. Jellipot had declined to come.
Francis would have been more dismayed at this information had not incredulity dominated his mind.
“Why,” he said, “he’d never do that! He’s been our lawyer from my grandfather’s.” And then he perceived the trap in which he was caught. What did Mr. Jellipot know of Harold Vaughan?
Was it consonant to the dignity of that quiet and elderly lawyer to undertake the defence of a convicted confidence-trickster who had broken jail, and was now accused of robbery, and a most sordid and brutal murder? P
robably he had been resentful of the effrontery which had dared to misuse his name!
Actually, Mr. Jellipot’s reaction to the unexpected call had been somewhat different. He had been mildly surprised; and puzzled as to how the accused man should have been led to call upon him.
He had had little practice in the criminal law, but, like many others, he had a secret confidence in his ability to excel in that direction in which he was of an untested skill. He had been somewhat flattered, even tempted. But he was no longer young. His practice, always solid and sound, had been greatly increased since he had won the respect and confidence of Sir Reginald Crowe, in connection with earlier events with which this narrative is not concerned, and that energetic banker had rewarded him with a bulk of business which would not otherwise have found its way to his office.
Now he remembered several matters of importance with which tomorrow and the following days should be fully concerned. He looked at the clock, and became aware that it was the time at which he was accustomed to pick up any papers which he wished to study in uninterrupted leisure, and go home to dine at his comfortable flat in Hartington Gardens. He felt a most natural reluctance to start off in an opposite direction at such an hour, to be detained—who could say how long?—in a police-court cell while his dinner spoiled.
He said, with polite firmness, that he did not know the prisoner, and that it was a class of business which he did not usually undertake.
Doubtless, it would have been a final decision, with consequences, bad or good, for several people who were unaware of the trembling of the scales of fate, had not Francis had a fortunate inspiration. He asked for, and received, permission to speak to the solicitor on the telephone himself.
Mr. Jellipot, already rising to leave his office, returned to the telephone, and heard a voice which seemed vaguely familiar, though he could not place it. He heard it pleading with him to grant an interview, however short, before declining the case. It did not sound, to his trained instinct, like that of a vicious and murderous criminal. It was human, personal, more difficult to refuse than the formal police request he had received a few minutes before.
Hesitating, he was lost. He found himself saying that he would be there within half an hour.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Jesse Banks was an alert lean man, with a hard keen face, and a reticence, both of speech and expression, which fitted him for success in the peculiar profession that he practised, and judging by the extent of his staff, or the manner of his private life, he had not failed to attain it.
Now Miss Jones sat in his office, and gave an account of her night’s adventures. The narrative was long, but he listened without interruption, regarding her the while in an expressionless manner, giving no indication of what he thought. He had no reason to complain of any lack of clarity on the part of one whom he rightly considered to be of exceptional ability for such investigations, and of a character not often united with the special qualifications which her occupation required.
She concluded: “I don’t suppose I could prevent the police finding me sooner or later, even if it were wise to attempt, but I thought you ought to have my report first. So I went straight home, and stayed there till I was sure that they were not on my track.... But I suppose they’ll trace that cheque here, sooner or later, even if they don’t find cause to look in this direction about anything else.”
It was midday when this conversation took place, and, knowing the office routine, she had no doubt that the betraying document would have been deposited in the London & Northern Bank about two hours earlier.
But it appeared that the usual routine had not been followed. The cheque was still in the safe.
“They won’t trace you through that. Not yet,” Mr. Banks said. “But it must be paid in at once.” He touched a bell to give the necessary instructions. He answered her puzzled silence with more explanation than he would often give: “Because it’s the obvious thing to do.”
She saw that his first thought had been that he did not intend that his own office should appear to be implicated in irregularity of any kind.
He added: “You’ve done quite rightly. I’ve no doubt the whole thing will have to come out. You’ve got nothing to fear. But our instructions are from Sir Reginald Crowe, and it’s to him that we must report. We’ll have some lunch first, Miss Weston, and then go on to the bank.”
He rose with the word, and led the way out, only pausing to give instructions that Sir Reginald’s secretary should be rung up at the head office of the London & Northern, to say that he would be calling upon him at 2:45 p.m., on a matter of urgency.
The time was the earliest at which the banker could be expected back from his own lunch, and gave them ample time for a leisurely meal.
Mary Weston had no cause to complain of the fare which her employer provided, or of any lack of courtesy on his part, but, under more normal circumstances, she might reasonably have called the meal dull.
He was evidently occupied upon the problem of Mr. Rabone’s death, and his conversation was confined to an occasional question, with long intervals of silence, which she had too much discretion to interrupt.
He asked once: “You couldn’t give any clue to the man who went over the roof? No idea what he looked like at all?”
“No. I told you that. Not the least. He had a good start, and I didn’t catch him up. Indeed, as he went on, he got farther away. I expect he knew the roof better than I did; and I had to look where I was going, rather than try to see him. Anyway, it would have been too dark.”
She added: “I got nearest to him when he was getting in at the window. He was some time doing that. I suppose he was anxious not to make any noise. But even then I had to keep far enough away for him not to know I was there.”
“So you would. And it was a dark night. If you didn’t see, it’s no use saying you did. Should you say he was a tall man?”
“Honestly, I couldn’t say in the least.”
“Pity. But I don’t see how anyone could expect you would.”
After an interval of silence, he asked again: “You feel sure Rabone suspected you?”
“I know he did last night. He didn’t suspect: he knew. He may have done all along. I can’t say about that.”
“Perhaps so. But it doesn’t seem likely.” He added, after an interval, less to her than as one speaking aloud: “At present, it looks more like suicide than anything else—suicide as the result of something he’d just heard—but we shall have Tipshift’s opinion on that point.”
He called for his bill, and took a taxi to the head office of the London & Northern Bank.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Francis Hammerton, standing the following morning in the dock of the Magistrates’ Court, heard himself charged, in the name of Harold Vaughan, with the wilful murder of William Rabone, together with some further offences of subordinate but sufficiently serious character.
He heard Inspector Combridge give formal evidence of his arrest, after which Mr. Dunkover, who had been briefed for the Crown, rose and said that he did not propose to call further evidence. He asked for a week’s remand.
The magistrate, Mr. Garrison, looked at the solicitor to the accused: “Any objection, Mr. Jellipot?”
Mr. Jellipot replied in a hesitant manner. He lacked the carrying voice and the confident demeanour of the advocate who is accustomed to practise in the criminal courts. Mr. Garrison, who had occupied his seat of office for twenty years with an ever-increasing reputation, both for good law and good sense, and for an occasional witticism which might even be considered worthy of repetition by the American press, had a moment’s doubt as to whether the prisoner could be considered fortunate in the solicitor he had instructed.
“It is an application,” Mr. Jellipot said, with a slow formality, and in the tone of one who advises a client on an intricate point of law, “which I cannot resist. But I must ask you to allow me to express the reluctance with which I agree, my client being anxious to meet and repudiate the
charge which has been made against him at the first possible moment.”
Mr. Garrison, looking keenly at the speaker, was inclined to a revision of his first opinion. He decided that Mr. Jellipot might be more sheep-like than leonine in his aspect, but that he was a sheep who might stand his ground in a very obstinate way. The manner might be diffident, but there was a fighting quality in the words which did not suggest that there would be any lack of confidence in the way in which the prisoner’s defence would be set up.
“Very well,” he said. “Ten a.m. on the thirteenth. That convenient?”
He glanced at Mr. Dunkover, who half rose, and bowed. Francis felt a warder’s hand on his arm. He was hurried from the dock to make way for a costermonger whose barrow was alleged to have obstructed the Park Lane traffic....
An hour later, Inspector Combridge was received by Sir Reginald Crowe in his private office.
“I’ve got some rather interesting information for you,” the banker said, “but before we go into that I think I ought to tell you that I’ve just had Jellipot on the phone, and I’ve asked him to come here as quickly as he can.... The fact is that he says he’s sure you’ve got the wrong man.”
If Inspector Combridge felt any pleasure in hearing this, he concealed it successfully. He knew Mr. Jellipot, with whom he had been associated previously in a very difficult and dangerous case. He liked him personally, and respected his abilities. But that did not alter the fact that they were now on opposite sides, and he was not one who would allow personal friendships to impede his duty, or deflect his judgement. He knew that Sir Reginald was always more likely than not to take the unusual course; but, to his mind, the fact that he was personally acquainted with the accused’s lawyer was a particular reason why they should not meet to discuss the case in unofficial ways.
He replied cautiously: “Well, of course, he’s got to say that.”
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