by Cyril Hare
“I think it would be as well to ascertain exactly what the witness did say, since we seem to be at variance. Mr. Shorthand Writer, will you be good enough to turn up your notes of Mr. Greetham’s evidence and give us his exact words?”
There followed an embarrassed silence while the shorthand writer struggled with a mass of paper and finally, after several false starts, succeeded in finding the passage he wanted.
“It was on a Monday or a Tuesday, I am not sure which but I think it was Tuesday,” he read in a thin Cockney voice.
“Ah! ‘I think it was Tuesday.’ Thank you, Mr. Shorthand Writer. Proceed, Mr. Pettigrew.”
The whole incident had not lasted more than two or three minutes, but it had been enough fatally to break the thread of Pettigrew’s discourse. Worse still, it had broken the invisible thread that binds speaker and listener together. The relationship which with such care he had been building up between himself and his hearers was dissipated and all was to do again. It would have mattered less if he had been less nervous, less anxious not to put a foot wrong on the difficult path which he had to tread. That the interruption had been so irrelevant and unnecessary added to his annoyance. The fact that it had come from Barber, of all men, irritated him profoundly. He had appeared in his time before judges who simply could not stop talking. Words bubbled from them irresistibly, whether in the middle of the speech for the defence on a capital charge or on less grave occasions. For them he had learned to make allowances, to bear with equanimity a burden which fell upon everybody’s shoulders as much as on his own. But Father William was not ordinarily a talkative judge. During the course of this particular trial he had said little, and that to the point. This meaningless and aggravating incursion might have been made expressly for the object of putting him, Pettigrew, out of his stride.
It was a badly rattled Pettigrew that resumed his speech when the question of Mr. Greetham had been settled at last. And a badly rattled man does not make a good speech. Having once allowed himself to be caught out in a minor inaccuracy, he became nervously anxious over small points of detail, and in consequence naturally found himself making further blunders of equal insignificance, each of which was gravely corrected from the Bench. The jury, he was aware, began to lose interest. He could feel them slipping away from him as the clock ticked on. If he had had at his command Babbington’s mighty organ stops of eloquence, it might still have been possible to recover them with a burst of fine phrases in his peroration. But he could not do it. He gave them all he had—sincerity, plain speaking, an argument closely knit. He had done his best, but he sat down at last, discouraged and with a sickening sense of inadequacy.
Barber’s summing up was a masterly performance. Pettigrew, who read and re-read it later when he was seeking to find grounds on which to launch an appeal, had to admit that, technically speaking, it was faultless. Yet nobody who heard it delivered could doubt that essentially it was a strong recommendation to the jury to convict. And the recommendation was conveyed largely by means which did not appear on the shorthand note—by subtle inflections of the voice, by pregnant pauses, by expressive glances.
Perhaps the most deadly moment in the summing-up, from the point of view of the defence, came near its end. The Shaver had reserved till the last consideration of the theory that the prisoner’s wife was in fact the guilty person. He discussed the suggestion in clear, cold phrases that, read afterwards, seemed quite colourless and academic; but the tone of scorn which he injected into them left no doubt as to what he thought of it, and what he desired the jury to think. Finally, with the only dramatic gesture that he allowed himself during the course of his observations, he picked up from the desk in front of him the home-made dagger which had figured so prominently in the case and displayed it to the jury.
“It has been argued,” he grated, holding up the wicked little object, its blade still rusty with poor Fred Palmer’s blood, “it has been argued that this is not the kind of weapon that one might expect a blacksmith to use if he were minded to commit murder. You are twelve reasonable men and women of the world, and you can judge for yourselves whether that is a reasonable argument or not. This at least you do know, because it has been proved in evidence and the defence has not sought to deny it, that it is the kind of weapon that a blacksmith might make, and that this particular blacksmith did in fact make this particular weapon. For what purpose? You have heard his explanation, and it is for you to say whether it satisfies you. And you may go further, and ask yourselves whether it is the sort of weapon that Mrs. Ockenhurst, whom you have seen in the witness-box, would be likely to use; or whether she is the sort of woman likely to use a weapon of any kind. It is entirely a matter for you, but if you are satisfied upon the rest of the evidence that the prosecution are right in pointing to the prisoner as the man responsible for the death of the deceased, I do not think that you will attach much weight to the circumstance that the means by which he elected to fulfil his criminal purpose, instead of being one of the hundred and one means that might have been chosen, happened to be—this.”
The dagger fell to the desk with a little clatter.
A few general words completed the summing-up, and the jury retired.
*
Three quarters of an hour later, all was over. The crowded court had emptied itself, the jury were on their several ways home and the prisoner was on his way to the condemned cell. The Clerk of Assize was wrangling about the costs of the prosecution and the witnesses in the case were impatiently waiting until the wrangle should have settled itself and the County Treasurer be at liberty to pay them their expenses. Babbington and his Junior were gossiping over the case in the robing-room and the Judge was enjoying the cup of tea which Greene had ready for him in his room behind the bench. In the court itself the police officers in charge of the case were clearing up the débris of the trial.
“That’s all the lot, then,” said a cheerful sergeant, cramming a bloodstained waistcoat into a bulging suitcase. “All except Exhibit 4. Have you seen Exhibit 4 anywhere, Tom?”
“Which is that, Sergeant?” asked his assistant.
“Why, the blinking knife that made all the trouble, of course. Where is it?”
“Must be up on the bench still. His lordship was waving it about when I saw it last. I’ll have a look.”
But the bench was bare of everything except a few torn scraps of paper.
“I expect it got mixed up with his books and things,” said the sergeant. “Ask that clerk of his if he’s seen it.”
Beamish was sent for, and made his appearance in very ill-humour.
“Everything that came up on to the bench came down off the bench,” he said testily. “It’s no part of my business to dry nurse the police. There aren’t any exhibits up here, nor in his lordship’s pockets neither. You must find your own nasty knives. I’m off home.”
“That’s funny, then,” said the sergeant good-humouredly, after he had gone. “I could have sworn the Judge had it last. Not that I mind what’s become of it, but we ought to account for it. Perhaps Sir Henry took a fancy to it?”
But Sir Henry, who was caught just as he left the Court, was equally ignorant, though a good deal more polite about it than Beamish had been.
“I remember now,” Tom said. “I heard Mr. Pettigrew’s solicitor asking him whether he’d like it for a souvenir.”
“That’s it!” said the sergeant. “I saw him going up to the bench when the Judge went out after his summing-up. I’ll just ask him to make sure.”
But Pettigrew was not to be found anywhere. He had left the court immediately after the jury had returned their verdict and subsequent inquiries showed that he had left the town also.
“Well, that’s that,” said the sergeant resignedly. “Wherever it is, it’s gone. It isn’t worth worrying about, and I don’t expect anybody will ever ask any questions about it.”
Events were to prove him a false prophet.
Chapter 19
THE END OF THE CIRCUIT
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There was an end-of-term atmosphere at dinner in the lodgings that evening. The peripatetic little household, so often dissolved, so often renewed against a fresh background, was now to break up for good and all. It was an occasion at once joyful and mildly sentimental, to which each member of the party reacted in a different way. Savage, without going so far as to be cheerful, laid aside his usual cloak of gloom. Greene, after being presented by Derek with the guinea which immutable custom prescribes as the due of the Marshal’s man, had become positively talkative about the near approach of Christmas and waited at table with the air of a kindly ministering angel. Derek himself had his own reasons for being glad that his period of exile was over.
For Hilda, although she doubtless had troubles enough to look forward to, the fact that the Circuit with all its dangers and misadventures had ended without disaster was, she confessed to Derek, the one thing that mattered. She felt that it was a result upon which they could properly congratulate themselves and each other and one which had earned a mild celebration. Mrs. Square, without seeking for reasons, rejoiced that her ladyship had at last seen fit to order a dinner that was a dinner, and the resulting meal, if not quite on the lavish scale of her banquets at Markhampton and Southington, was a good deal more in the true Circuit tradition than its predecessors for some time back.
After dinner, one of the last rites of the Circuit remained to be performed. This was that known as “settling the circuit accounts”. Among his other multifarious duties, a judge’s clerk on circuit acts as what in even more exalted circles is known as a Comptroller to his employer. The degree of responsibility enjoyed by him in this capacity naturally varies with the individuals concerned. With Barber, as careless of his personal affairs as he was punctilious over legal technicalities, settling the accounts had been reduced to a very simple formula. On the last day of the Circuit, Beamish would leave upon his desk a neatly kept account book and a bundle of receipted bills and cheque counterfoils. With them would be a short balance sheet, showing the amounts expended, cheques cashed during the progress of the Circuit and the sum now necessary to balance the account. The Judge would glance at this last, groan heavily, sign the cheque already drawn for him, and return the whole mass of documents to Beamish. The whole process usually took about a minute and a half.
This time, however, matters did not go according to precedent. The fact that she had allowed herself a certain extravagance over dinner had not blinded Hilda to the pressing need for economy which had obsessed her for so long. Rather it had by reaction stimulated her to an even livelier appreciation of the value of money than ever. Consequently, when on entering the drawing-room she saw the usual little pile of papers neatly laid out with the cheque awaiting signature beside it, she forestalled her husband before he could reach for his pen and said firmly, “I’ll go through these first, William, if you don’t mind.”
Barber uttered a mild protest, to which no attention at all was paid. A minute later Hilda was sitting at the desk, subjecting every item of the accounts to a severe and rigid scrutiny. For nearly half an hour she toiled, checking figures and verifying additions with the air of a professional auditor. At the end of that time she looked up, and said:
“William, there are one or two items here which I don’t altogether understand.”
The Judge reluctantly put down the book he was reading and came over to her side. As he did so, he gave Derek a look that said: “This is the kind of thing one must expect when women start concerning themselves in matters they don’t understand.” Such at least was the interpretation which Derek, who was beginning to feel himself an expert in meaning looks, put upon it. It cannot be positively asserted that Barber succeeded in conveying this rather complicated sentiment by expression alone.
It is always a little embarrassing for a third person when a married couple discuss their financial affairs in his presence; and Derek scrupulously refrained from listening to the colloquy that ensued. But he could not avoid hearing a good deal of it, and it was only too apparent that from the start the Judge was undergoing something very like a stringent cross-examination. Moreover, before very long it was borne in on Derek that he was not standing up to it very well. Clearly, there were quite a number of things that were wrong in the accounts. Equally clearly, they were things which his lordship was quite unable to explain. Finally, Hilda reached an item near the end of the account which caused her to exclaim: “But this is outrageous!” And the Judge had nothing to say in reply but:
“Well, my dear, I know that I gave Beamish a cheque.”
“You gave Beamish a cheque!” said her ladyship scornfully. “You mean, you signed whatever he chose to put before you!”
“But, I was going on to say, I certainly didn’t think it was for as much as that. I think”, he went on, in a rather firmer voice, “that this is a matter which Beamish should be asked to explain.”
“Wait a minute, before you do anything else. Have you got your paid cheques here? You should have.”
“Yes. You will recollect that you asked me to get my passbook from the bank while we were at Whitsea. I have it here.”
“Let me see.” Hilda took the book, and turned rapidly over the bundle of paid cheques. She pulled out one and scrutinized it carefully. “This cheque has been altered!” she pronounced. “Do you see? the ‘ty’ of sixty is in a different coloured ink from the rest, and an extra nought has been added on to the figures. When Beamish gave you this to sign it was for six pounds only. Now it reads for sixty. He has defrauded you of fifty-four pounds and faked the account to hide it. And if I hadn’t insisted on going through the figures——”
“Marshal, will you touch the bell?” said the Judge with awful calm. “And Hilda, you will please be good enough to leave me to deal with this matter myself.”
Savage answered the bell, and was ordered to tell Beamish that his presence was required immediately. It seemed to those who waited quite a long time before Beamish made his appearance. When he came in he had a rather dishevelled air and his face and hands were dirty. But more than this, Derek noticed something about his expression which put him in mind of the occasion at Rampleford when he had been so unexpectingly confiding. And when he spoke there was a distinct trace of huskiness in his mellifluous baritone.
“I must apologize for being so dirty, my lord,” he said. “But I’ve been packing up the books and things.”
He advanced with steps that were rather too carefully steady towards the desk, where the cheque to balance the account should normally have been awaiting him.
“Beamish!” said the Judge in a tone that brought him up short in his tracks. “Will you be good enough to explain the meaning of this?”
And he extended at arm’s length the paid cheque for sixty pounds.
“This cheque, my lord?” Beamish said flatly, taking it from him. He looked stupified, standing in the middle of the room, turning it over and over in his dirty hands.
“I wish to know how it comes about that that cheque is made out for sixty pounds.”
“I’m sure I couldn’t say off-hand, my lord. It’s all in the account there, I’ve no doubt.”
“Do you desire any time to consider your answer? If so, you are at liberty to take these papers away with you and give such explanation as you can to-morrow. I must tell you now, however, that the cheque you are holding bears signs of having been altered. Do you wish to consider?”
Beamish did not lift his eyes. He was still studying the piece of paper, which he held in one hand while with the other he ruffled his normally sleek dark hair. By now, he was visibly swaying on his feet.
“No,” he muttered in a low voice. “I don’t think it would be any use.”
“Do you mean that you have no explanation to offer?”
This time Beamish lifted his head and answered in a loud, almost defiant voice, “I mean just that, my lord.”
“You are dismissed,” said Barber in a tone in which sorrow and sternness were mingled.
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nbsp; Beamish opened his mouth as if to say something, evidently thought better of it, and walked with faltering footsteps to the door.
And there the ugly little episode might have ended if Barber had not been moved by some evil genius to speak again.
“Beamish!” he said just as the clerk reached the door.
Beamish turned and stood silently looking at him. He still wore the same dazed expression, but the colour was beginning to come back into his cheeks, and his mouth was set in a firm, hard line.
“I am not at all sure,” said his lordship, “that it is not my duty to prosecute you. But I do not propose to do so. I do not wish to add to the punishment that you have brought upon yourself by your criminal misconduct. You have betrayed the trust—the implicit trust—which I, perhaps foolishly, have placed in you over a number of years. Whether this is an isolated incident or not, I shall not seek to determine. The blow that it has been to me to find faithlessness where I had expected faith is not to be measured by the amounts or the numbers of your defalcations. Neither shall I inquire into the reasons which led one in your position to jeopardize everything a man should hold dear for the sake of——”
“That’s enough!” Beamish shouted suddenly.
There was a horrified silence.
“You’re not going to treat me to one of your blasted sermons,” he went on truculently. “I’m not in the dock now, and if I ever get there, it won’t be you that tries me, that’s certain, thank God! I’m sacked, I know that. Well, what of it? I’m not the only one that’s due for the sack, that’s all. I shouldn’t have kept this lousy job for another six months anyway, and you know it! You’re a fine one to talk about not prosecuting as if it was a favour. You ought to be in the dock yourself, and if there wasn’t one law for the rich and one for the poor, that’s where you would have been.”
“Be silent!” roared the Judge.