Tragedy at Law

by Cyril Hare

  It was a little time before Pettigrew pulled himself together sufficiently to get out of the car and inspect the damage. When he finally scrambled out on to the wet, slippery pavement he collided with two almost invisible objects which proved to be Barber and Marshall. They were standing very close together, as though for mutual support, and even in the darkness their attitude had an appearance of helplessness. The next thing he observed was a small spot of light in the road immediately behind the car. Shaken as he was, it was a little time before he realized that this light proceeded from a policeman’s lantern and that it was focused upon something—no, upon someone—lying in the middle of a pedestrian crossing close to the car’s tail lamp.

  “Oh Lord,” Pettigrew groaned, rubbing his head. “This is a pretty kettle of fish.”

  He pulled himself together, and walked out into the road.

  “Yes,” said the constable shortly. “There’s no bones broken. We might move him.”

  He bent down, grasped the unconscious man beneath the shoulders, Pettigrew took him by the legs, and together they carried him to the side of the road. There the constable arranged his cape to form a rough support for his head, while Marshall, who had now come forward, brought a rug from the car to put over him. There followed a pause of a few moments during which no one spoke. It suddenly occurred to Pettigrew that this was a very young officer and that he was probably racking his brains as to the next step in the road accident procedure. Obviously, the proper thing to do in normal circumstances would be for the Shaver to drive his victim to the nearest hospital, but he had not offered to do so, and Pettigrew could see several good reasons why he should not. The less publicity about this business, the better for all concerned, he reflected.

  “Shall I see if I can get an ambulance?” he said aloud.

  The young policeman came to life at once.

  “You stay here—all of you,” he commanded.

  He walked a few paces away, to where in the gloom Pettigrew could now just discern a telephone box. He was only away a few moments, but it seemed quite a long time to those who waited. The Judge was still standing quite still and silent, his slightly bent form a picture of dejection. Pettigrew did not feel equal to addressing him. To Marshall he said quietly:

  “Lucky there’s nobody about, anyway.”

  “There was someone just now,” Derek answered softly. “I saw him just as I got out of the car. He made off when the bobby came up, though.”

  “Hell!” said Pettigrew.

  “I say, sir, do you think he’s badly hurt?”

  “M’m. ’Fraid so.”

  The officer returned, his steps sounding now brisk and confident.

  “The ambulance will be here in a moment,” he announced. His notebook came out with a flourish, and he turned to Barber. “You were the driver of this vehicle, I think, sir?” he said. “Your name and address, if you please?”

  “Perhaps, officer, I can explain matters,” began Pettigrew smoothly.

  “One at a time, if you please, sir,” interrupted the constable, now evidently completely the master of himself and the proceedings. He turned to Barber once more. “Your name and address, if you please?”

  Barber gave it. It was the first time he had spoken since the accident had happened, and his voice sounded even harsher than usual. The young policeman, who had begun to write automatically in his book, stopped abruptly, and his lantern wavered perceptibly for an instant. Then discipline reasserted itself and he finished his writing, breathing heavily as he did so. It was an awkward moment, and one for which no instructions are laid down in the manuals issued for the guidance of recruits to the Markhampton Constabulary.

  “Er—just so, my lord,” he said. “Just so. I——” he paused and gulped, but went on bravely—“I’m afraid I shall have to ask for your lordship’s driving licence and insurance certificate.”

  “Just so,” said Barber, repeating his words with what sounded like almost ironic emphasis. Going to the car, he took from it a small folder, which he handed to the constable.

  “You will find them both in there,” he grated.

  At this point a diversion was effected by the arrival of the ambulance. In what seemed to Pettigrew an amazingly short space of time, the injured man was examined, bandaged, picked up and borne away, leaving nothing to mark his passing but the constable’s cape, lying neatly folded on the pavement. It’s owner took it up, shook it, and, the rain having by now stopped, rolled it up and put it under his arm. Then he resumed his study of the documents handed to him by the Judge.

  In a well-conducted world—let it be repeated—all motorists without exception, but particularly Judges of the High Court, renew their driving licences when they expire. Further, well before the due season, they take advantage of the reminders which their insurance companies are good enough to send them and provide themselves with the certificate required by the Road Traffic Acts, 1930 to 1936. The fact that from time to time they carelessly forget to do so, and thereby commit quite a number of distinct and separate offences, only goes to prove once more how far from perfectly conducted the actual world is. The fact that even Judges of the High Court are not immune from lapses of memory is perhaps an argument in favour of the proposition that in a well-conducted world they would not be allowed to drive motor-cars at all.

  “I’m afraid, my lord,” said the officer, “there seems to be something wrong with these here.”

  Barber looked at them under the lantern.

  “They appear to be out of date,” he remarked sadly, almost humbly.

  “In that case, my lord, I must ask you——”

  But Derek at this point suddenly and unexpectedly asserted himself.

  “Don’t you think, officer,” he said, “that the best thing would be for you to report the whole matter to your superior, and then perhaps the Chief Constable could come and discuss the matter quietly with his lordship at the Lodgings? All this is—well, a little unsuitable, perhaps.”

  The constable, obviously relieved, jumped at the offer.

  “Perhaps you’re right, sir,” he said. “If I can just have your name and the other gentleman’s.”

  The notebook was flourished for the last time, and a moment or two later the incident was closed—for the time being, at least. Pettigrew, who found himself close to his hotel, walked away, while Derek, in his new-found position of authority, firmly announced that he would drive the Judge home, and got into the driver’s seat without waiting for permission.

  “Damned old fool! Damned old fool!” Pettigrew found himself repeating again and again as he walked the short distance back to the County. His head was aching from the blow that it had received when the car hit the pavement, his thin soles let in the damp from the pavement, he was tired, bruised and angry. Particularly was he angry. From first to last the responsibility for his plight rested on the Shaver, but for whom he would at that moment have been snug in bed in London. In the reaction from the hilarity of the evening, he began to feel as if the mishap which had succeeded it had been deliberately planned by the Judge to cause him annoyance. The Shaver’s lapse in the little matter of the driving licence and insurance certificate only served to increase his wrath. In a way, it gave him a certain grim pleasure to find his enemy in this undignified predicament, but this was more than counterbalanced by disgust that one of His Majesty’s Judges should have disgraced himself in such a way. There was probably not a judge on the bench whom Pettigrew had not at one time or another criticized, lampooned or held up to ridicule in some post-prandial recitation for the benefit of the mess. As individuals, he liked not a few, admired many, but reverenced none. He knew them too well, had studied them too closely, to have any illusions about them. But for the Bench as a whole, he felt a deep unspoken respect which went to the very roots of his being. It was the symbol of what he lived by and for, and anything that would tarnish the good name of the order in the eyes of the outside world, as distinct from the little charmed circle of lawyers, affront
ed him deeply. As the sense of his own personal grievance wore off, the greater did the enormity of Barber’s conduct appear, and by the time that he had finished his short walk, he was possessed by one thought only—that at all costs this affair must if possible be kept out of the papers.

  “The City Chief Constable’s a sensible man,” he mused. “There won’t be any criminal proceedings, anyhow. We can bank on that. Let’s hope he can put the fear of death into that young copper and see that he keeps his mouth shut. As for Marshall, obviously he’s got his head screwed on the right way. He ought to be safe. Better have a talk to him in the morning, all the same. Lucky there weren’t any outside witnesses, except one, and he wasn’t there when the old idiot gave his name. Odd thing, incidentally, the way he sheered off…. It’s always a job to stop people talking, but it might be managed….”

  Still pursuing his train of thought, he pushed open the swing door of his hotel and stepped into the momentarily dazzling light of the hall. His way through to the stairs led him past the inner entrance to the saloon bar, and as he passed he heard the cry of “Time, gentlemen, please!” He was astonished to find that it was no later. True, the mess had dined at its usual early hour, and, thanks to the Judge, the evening had not run its full course. But so much had happened since that he could hardly believe that the County was in fact keeping legitimate hours, and he peered in through the door to glance at the clock.

  The bar was full and noisy with the mellow voices of patrons putting away their last drinks. The air was cloudy with tobacco smoke and rich with a warm, moist smell of beer and humanity. Pettigrew noted the time by the clock on the far wall and was about to withdraw when his eye was caught by an animated group beneath it. Three or four soldiers and one or two civilians were clustered round a darts board, at which a short, tubby middle-aged man in a dazzling check pullover was taking aim. Evidently the game was in its concluding stages, and excitement was running high. Evidently, also the thrower was a master of the craft. He threw, and a shout went up. “Thirty-four you want!” someone shouted. “Careful now, Corky. Go for——” But Corky evidently knew exactly what he wanted. With a look of perfect confidence he threw again. Another shout. “Double seven!” “Twenty now,” said the voice. Pettigrew, who knew nothing whatever of the game felt the rising tide of emotion grip him. He became desperately anxious for Corky to do whatever was necessary, and waited breathlessly for the last throw. He need not have worried. Amid a sudden breathless silence, Corky raised his fat form on his toes with the grace of a dancer, took careful aim and loosed his last shaft. “Double ten!” The noise seemed to make every glass in the bar ring again. Sweating, but otherwise perfectly calm, the triumphant Corky suffered his hand to be wrung, his back to be thumped again and again, and retired to finish his glass, while, the barman thundered, “Time, gentlemen, please!”

  From the moment that he had set eyes on him, Pettigrew had felt positive that Corky was no stranger; but it was not until he saw the air of quiet dignity with which he submitted to the attentions of his admirers, that he recognized him. This was the more remarkable considering that he had seen him last only that same afternoon. In view of the difference of the surroundings, however, it was not altogether surprising. Pettigrew had attended the beginning of the murder trial less for the sake of hearing Frodsham’s opening address to the jury than for the sheer æsthetic amusement it gave him to listen to the modulations of Beamish. Beamish in Court, sombrely resplendent in tail-coat and striped trousers and Corky in the saloon bar, the champion of darts players, seemed about as far apart as two persons could possibly be, but that they were one and the same could not be doubted.

  Pettigrew chuckled on his way up to bed. He had at least made an amusing discovery to end the evening with. “If anyone can inform my Lords the King’s Justices,” he said to himself, striving to recapture the opulent, over-refined tones of Beamish’s court voice, “of any treasons, murders, felonies or misdemeanours done or committed by the prisoner at the bar, let him come forth and declare it, for the prisoner now stands upon his deliverance.” He wondered whether any of Beamish’s saloon-bar friends attended the assizes to hear him do his stuff. Perhaps he kept that side of his life as secret from them as no doubt he did his trips to the County from his employer. “Does the Shaver know he’s called Corky?” Pettigrew mused.

  For the moment his delight at Beamish’s metamorphosis had put Barber out of his mind. Now the problem that had been worrying him returned with double force. In his estimate of the possibilities of keeping this distressing business dark he had forgotten to reckon with Beamish. Clerks always knew everything. Was Beamish reliable? After what he had seen, he did not feel so sure. Unless Beamish was able to keep Corky entirely distinct from his professional life, it was difficult to imagine secrecy and discretion flourishing in the atmosphere of the County bar. Pettigrew got into bed with a furrowed brow and a very wrinkled nose.

  Chapter 4

  AFTERMATH OF AN ACCIDENT

  The Chief Constable of the city made an early call at the lodgings next morning. His interview with the Judge, which might well have been a difficult one, passed off smoothly enough, thanks to the fund of tact and charm which he concealed beneath his bluff buoyant manner. Nothing in terms was said about the unfortunate omission of his Lordship to provide himself with the documents which are normally essential to the legal conduct of a car on the road. Not a word was uttered which could have suggested that the affair was to be hushed up, or, indeed, that there was any affair to be hushed up. At the same time, the effect of the interview was perfectly clear. The Judge, on his side, was deeply sorry at what had occurred, and would certainly not drive his car until what had been left undone had been done. The Chief Constable, on his, guaranteed that nothing more would be heard of the matter, so far as the police were concerned. Meanwhile, without suggesting in any way that he wished his Lordship to do anything so derogatory to his dignity as to “make a statement”, he contrived to extract from him a very detailed account of the whole occurrence, which Barber, on his side, was perfectly ready to give. The whole conversation, in fact, was a pleasant little comedy, played on both sides with perfectly grave faces.

  When this part of the colloquy was over, the Chief Constable, with a slightly too obvious sigh of relief, blew out his cheeks, sat back in his chair, and accepted the cigarette which the Judge offered him. He had still something further to say, and Barber appeared to be in no hurry to be rid of him.

  “You haven’t told me,” said the latter, “how is the poor fellow—what is his name, by the way?”

  “Sebald-Smith,” said the Chief Constable.

  “Sebald-Smith,” repeated the Judge. “An unusual name. I seem to have heard it somewhere.”

  “Not a native of this city, my lord. He was staying with friends. We had a little difficulty in tracing them.”

  “Indeed? I trust his injuries are not serious?”

  “Quite light, I am glad to say, my lord. A mild concussion, the doctor says, and a finger crushed. Actually the little finger of his left hand. That is all, apart from a few small bruises and some slight shock.”

  “Wounds, bruises and contusions generally, and a severe shock to the nervous system.” Barber’s mind went back to the formula with which he used to conclude the particulars of damage in the old days when he turned out pleadings in accident cases by the score.

  “He should be out and about in a couple of days,” the Chief Constable was saying.

  Barber sighed in relief. Apart from his salary, he was a poor man. He knew—none better—the scale of damages normally awarded to plaintiffs in such cases. This sounded like a case that could be settled—it would have to be settled, of course—quite cheaply. “Provided they don’t have to amputate the finger,” he thought. “That always inflates the damages in a ridiculous way.” He remembered with regret the substantial solatium that he had awarded a young woman only the previous term for the loss of a big toe. Hilda had said at the time that he had been inf
luenced by the fact that she was not only young but extremely pretty. That was nonsense, of course, but all the same it was unfortunate. The case had attracted some attention in the papers, too … still, at the worst, it could not amount to a very large sum. He rapidly ran over in his mind the economies he would have to make if he were called upon to find, say £200 at short notice; and was a little uneasy to discover that the majority of them would have to be at the expense of the dress and amusements of Lady Barber. On the whole, he concluded, his wife’s reception of the night’s adventure was going to be one of the most unpleasant sides of the whole affair.

  “I am very glad to hear that it is no worse,” he said. “Very glad indeed. It is a great load off my mind. Well”—he rose to his feet—“we must both be starting our day’s work, I suppose. I am very much obliged to you for coming round to see me about this—this unlucky affair.”

  “Not at all, my lord, not at all,” murmured the Chief Constable confusedly. He also stood up, but seemed somewhat loth to go.

  “There is one other little matter, my lord,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “The anonymous letter which your lordship received yesterday. The County Chief showed it to me.”

  “Yes, yes! What of it?”

  “Well, my lord, we have some reason to think that it may have emanated from a man named Heppenstall. Your lordship will perhaps remember the name——”