Tragedy at Law

by Cyril Hare

  “Prosecute me?” Beamish went on, undeterred. “You daren’t! Just you try it, that’s all. There’s a lot I could say about the goings on on this Circuit if you did, about you and that fine lady of yours who put you up to this. And you won’t be a judge by the time my trial comes on, don’t you forget it. I’m not the only one that knows things, I can tell you. I——”

  “Leave the room at once!”

  “All right, my old cock, I’m going. But just don’t you forget this. You’ve had plenty of warnings, and here’s the last of them. You’ve got something coming to you!”

  And the door banged behind him.

  *

  It was a subdued party that returned to London next day. It would be hard to say in which part of the train the atmosphere was more oppressive—in the third class carriage where Savage, Greene and Mrs. Square discussed the downfall of their colleague in shocked whispers, or in the first class one where Derek, Hilda and Barber sat in embittered silence. The tension was aggravated by a number of minor mishaps which marred the normally smooth transit of the King’s representative from one place to another. Such mundane matters as the taking of tickets, the provision of porters, the proper bestowal of luggage, which had been managed with such slick efficiency, by Beamish that they had appeared to be performed of themselves, now obtruded themselves with disagreeable insistence. Savage, when appealed to, protested with humility but firmness that it was not his place to do a clerk’s work, and Derek in the end had to attend to most of these affairs himself. He made a number of minor blunders, which the Judge, wrapped in a gloom alleviated only by slabs of milk chocolate, did not seem to notice and which Hilda bore with martyred resignation.

  The journey was over at last. Derek had seen the pair into a taxi and watched them drive away—a worried elderly gentleman and his young and handsome wife. The Commission was over and His Majesty’s alter-ego was no more, until the next Circuit—if there was to be another Circuit.

  His train home was from the same station, and he had an hour or so to wait. He told his porter to put his luggage in the cloakroom and was just moving in that direction when a quiet voice spoke at his elbow:

  “I wonder whether you can spare me a moment or two, sir?”

  Derek turned round in surprise. A moment before he had been looking in that direction and he could have sworn that nobody was there. Moreover, in the bare expanse of the station, there was no cover to hide anyone, let alone the huge man who now strolled beside him. He seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. It was a disconcerting habit of Inspector Mallett, and one of which he alone knew the secret.

  Derek explained that he had some time to kill.

  “I thought you would be catching the 12.45 if you were going straight home,” observed the inspector. “That will just give us time for a quiet chat, if you’ve no objection.”

  Mallett’s tone was so casual that it did not strike Derek at the time as at all remarkable that his probable movements should be known to Scotland Yard. When, later on, he realized it, he was conscious of an uncomfortably cold feeling down his spine. But by then it was far too late to do anything about it.

  He walked with the inspector to the cloakroom in silence. He wondered where in the echoing din of the terminus it was proposed that they should have a quiet chat. But Mallett had thought of this also.

  “The stationmaster has been kind enough to lend us his room,” he said, and led the way into a quiet little office.

  “I saw your little party got back all right,” he went on, as he sat down and began to fill his pipe. “All except the Judge’s clerk, I noticed. What’s happened to him?”

  “He isn’t the Judge’s clerk any more. He was dismissed last night. For embezzlement.”

  Mallett’s face, so far as it could be seen through a thickening cloud of tobacco smoke, showed no surprise.

  “That would explain it,” was his only comment.

  He smoked in silence for a moment or two. Then he said, “Well, Mr. Marshall, the last time we met we were discussing unpleasantness on the Circuit of a rather different kind. Lady Barber was decidedly anxious about it then. I haven’t heard anything further about it since from her. But it did occur to me to wonder whether anything had happened at all abnormal during the rest of the Circuit, and I thought perhaps you could help me.”

  “I’m not sure that I know what you mean by abnormal,” said Derek, “You see, I’ve never been on a Circuit before, so I hardly know what to expect.”

  Mallett took the evasion in good part.

  “Oh, well, you know the sort of thing I mean,” he said. “There was that anonymous letter at Rampleford, for instance——”

  “You know about that?”

  “Surely. In fact, I’ve got it about me somewhere, I think.” He pulled out a wallet bursting with papers from the inside pocket of his coat. “The Judge sent it back to the Rampleford Police as soon as he got to Whitsea and they sent it on to us.”

  “I didn’t know he’d done that,” said Derek.

  “Didn’t you? Well it’s only to be expected that he should. He’s been just a little nervous of anonymous letters ever since Markhampton, you see. But there’s no reason why he should mention it to you, after all. I dare say there was a good deal that went on which you wouldn’t know about.”

  “I should think I knew a good deal more than the Judge about what went on,” said Derek rashly.

  “Well, it’s very satisfactory to hear that,” said Mallett. “Because, after all, that’s just what I was after. What exactly did go on?” Then, seeing that Derek was still hesitating, he added, “I shall be having a talk with her ladyship shortly, of course. Only I thought it would be a good plan to get the point of view of an outsider, so to speak, and by catching you now I can get it while it’s still fresh in your mind.”

  Derek had had a vague idea that he should not, in Hilda’s absence, say anything to anybody about the misadventures of the latter part of the Circuit, but the inspector’s last words effectually loosened his tongue; and by the time that his train came in he had told him everything that he remembered. Indeed, as he settled back into the unaccustomed discomfort of his third-class carriage, he had leisure to reflect with surprise on how much he had remembered. Under the inspector’s tactful guidance he had found that all sorts of details had returned to his memory which left to himself he would never have thought of. Not that any words had been put into his mouth. On the contrary, nothing could have been less like a cross-examination than was the friendly interview just concluded. It was simply that by some kind of instinct Inspector Mallett seemed to know exactly what was missing from any description or account, for all the world as though he had been there himself, so that his questions always came pat to stimulate the sluggish memory. And the questions had been surprisingly few. For the most part he had been content to listen in silence. To Derek’s surprise, he had taken no notes. None the less, he was perfectly certain that nothing he had said would go unremarked. He had had the impression of feeding facts into a sort of machine, which would in due course produce—what sort of finished product, he wondered?

  *

  About the same time next day, Mallett was making his report to the Assistant Commissioner who ruled his department.

  “I saw Lady Barber this morning, sir,” he was saying. “Her story is very much the same as Mr. Marshall’s, with one or two variations.”

  “That’s to be expected,” said the Assistant Commissioner. “But were any of the variations at all important?”

  “Only one seemed to me significant. She made no mention at all of the dead mouse incident.”

  “Indeed? Did you ask her about it?”

  Mallett smiled.

  “No, sir. On the whole I thought it better not to.”

  “I suppose it did happen? Or do you think that boy could have invented it?”

  “No, I shouldn’t say he has a very inventive mind. I think it happened all right.”

  “Then why should she have suppr
essed it?”

  “I think, sir, mainly because it didn’t fit in with her theory about the rest of the affair.”

  “Well, that’s only human nature, I suppose. What is her theory, exactly?”

  “It isn’t one theory precisely,” Mallett explained. “There are several. Her favourite one is still that all these different incidents are the work of Heppenstall.”

  “Then you didn’t tell her——?”

  “No, sir. If you recollect, we agreed at the time that no mention should be made of Heppenstall’s arrest until after the Circuit was over. I ventured to extend the time a little so far as these two persons were concerned, because I thought it would only start putting ideas into their heads—and after all, it is facts we’re after just now, and not ideas, isn’t it, sir?”

  The Assistant Commissioner nodded. Then he said, with a sigh, “It’s an odd position altogether. You don’t think it advisable to try to get a statement from the Judge himself?”

  “In the circumstances, no, sir. There is only one other person I should like to talk to—for various reasons.”

  “You mean Beamish, I suppose?”

  “Exactly, sir. I dare say we shall be able to pick him up before long. He must be short of money.”

  The Assistant Commissioner smiled and glanced at a file of papers in front of him.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ve just been going through the report on the affairs of Corky’s Night Club. The raid there must have hit him pretty hard.”

  “I fancy that was where all his savings, legal and otherwise, have been going for a long time,” said Mallett. “It’s a funny sort of sideline for a judge’s clerk, isn’t it? He certainly covered his tracks pretty well. Even the manager didn’t know who his principal was. I think that the closing of the club has left him badly in debt, and that would explain why he tried to help himself to a slice of the Judge’s money in the rather crude way he did.”

  “No doubt. Well, that’s a side issue, really. What I am mainly interested in is this series of attacks on the Judge. What is your theory about it?”

  The inspector was silent.

  “You have one, haven’t you?” said his superior reproachfully.

  “Well, yes, sir, I have,” Mallett said hesitantly. “Only I’m afraid you’ll think it rather ridiculous. I mean, I think I know what the facts are, but I can’t understand the reason for them. And without the reason, it just makes nonsense. Logically, it’s sound, but psychologically it’s all wrong. Unless, of course, we’re dealing here with one of these funny mental cases which——”

  “That’s enough!” said the Assistant Commissioner. “We’re policemen, not mental specialists. Cut the cackle, and tell me what your notion is.”

  Mallett did so.

  “Absurd!” was the comment.

  “Yes, sir,” said Mallett meekly.

  “Quite absurd!”

  “I agree, sir.”

  The two of them contemplated the absurdity together in silence for a full half minute.

  “And suppose you are right” said the Assistant Commissioner abruptly, “what is to be done?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing at all, sir. Logically, it seems to me to follow that all these threats, attacks and so forth which have recurred so regularly all through the Circuit will stop now that the Circuit is over, and the particular—er—predisposing cause is removed.”

  “I only hope you’re right. We can’t afford to take any risks where a man of this sort is concerned. You really think he is safe from now on?”

  “No, sir. I don’t go so far as that. I wouldn’t care to say that of any man, let alone Mr. Justice Barber. All I do say is that if any danger does threaten him it will be from a different quarter altogether. Unless, of course, there’s some element in the whole story which we don’t know about. But you are the best judge of that, sir. I’ve given you all the facts and I think they are complete.”

  “Thank you, Mallett. You have told me a most extraordinary story, and propounded a most ridiculous theory to account for it. I accept the story, of course, and I’m hanged if I can see any flaws in the theory. That being so, I can only hope that your prophecy is equally sound. What about Mr. Justice Barber’s next Circuit, by the way? Have you any prophecy about that?”

  “I understand that he is one of the judges to stay in town next term,” said the inspector. “And after that——”

  The two men looked at each other with pursed lips and understanding eyes. Both were well aware that Barber’s judicial career hung upon a thread.

  Chapter 20

  TOUCH AND GO

  About two months later, Derek Marshall was walking eastwards along the south side of the Strand. He was just opposite the Law Courts when he noticed Pettigrew crossing the road towards him, accompanied by his clerk. Pettigrew waved to him to stop and a moment later reached the pavement at his side.

  It was the first time that they had met since the end of the autumn circuit, and each looked at the other as though to see how he had fared in an interval that was nearly as long as their previous acquaintance had been. Pettigrew was pleased by what he saw. Derek looked older, more assured. There were unfamiliar lines about his face that seemed to tell of long hours of hard work, but at the same time he looked decidedly happier than he had been dancing attendance on the Shaver. Derek, on his side, noticed that Pettigrew was looking extremely pleased with himself. There was a jauntiness in his gait which was matched by the demeanour of his clerk, who was grinning broadly beneath the burden of a large bundle of papers and half a dozen calf-bound books.

  “Well,” he said after they had exchanged greetings, “and what are you up to now? To what fields have you carried your idealism?”

  “I’ve got a job,” said Derek proudly.

  “So much I gathered from your almost aggressive air of importance. What is it? Obviously you must be adorning some Ministry or other. I always knew that you were born to write ingenious little minutes on official files.”

  “I’m in the Ministry of Contracts,” Derek explained.

  “I breathe again. For a moment, I was afraid you were going to say the Ministry of Information. And what are you doing just at this moment?”

  Derek explained that he had come out for lunch.

  “The office is just round the corner,” he said. “And as I don’t know this part very well, I thought I would go and try the——”

  He named an establishment which journalists are fond of referring to in print as “a celebrated hostelry” but which in practice they are careful to avoid.

  “That place!” said Pettigrew in horror. “My dear fellow, it is obvious that you don’t know this part of London. It’s bogus, completely bogus! Even the Americans had begun to tumble to it before the war. No, I can’t allow that. You must celebrate the new job by lunching with me.”

  “It’s very kind of you,” Derek began, “but——”

  “I won’t listen to any objections. Do you always have to have hospitality forced on you in this way? Besides, this will be a double celebration. I too have my little triumphs, ephemeral though they be. This morning”, he said proudly, as he led the way beneath an ancient brick archway, “I’ve been upsetting Hilda.”

  “Upsetting Hilda?”

  “Precisely. In the Court of Appeal. Don’t tell me you have forgotten the great cause at Southington Assizes? Between you and me and this gatepost—which, by the way, is not Christopher Wren’s, as the guide-books will tell you, but James Gibb’s—Hilda’s judgment, as rendered by Father William, was perfectly sound, but I contrived to persuade their lordships otherwise. Here we are.”

  Derek had never been in the Temple before. He gaped like any tourist at the mellow, placid Courts, ghost-haunted by the illustrious dead, which next year were to vanish into ugly heaps of charred timber and brickdust. After a lunch eaten beneath the famous carved rafters of Outer Temple Hall, he fell in with Pettigrew’s suggestion of a digestive s
troll twice round the as yet inviolate garden, which sloped down towards the river. The charm of his surroundings, his congenial company and the excellent meal combined to loosen his tongue, and before they had completed their first circuit he had confided to Pettigrew the reason why, apart from his new-found employment, he found life particularly good at the moment.

  Pettigrew was ideally sympathetic.

  “Engaged!” he exclaimed. “Engaged, as well as employed! You certainly don’t do things by halves. My congratulations! You must tell me all about her.”

  This Derek, in halting tones but with suitable enthusiasm, proceeded to do.

  “Splendid, splendid!” Pettigrew ejaculated at intervals as the portrait, admittedly imperfect, of a she-seraph gradually unfolded itself. “Splendid! All the same——” he stopped abruptly and looked narrowly at his companion. “I may be wrong, but you don’t look to me quite as cock-a-hoop as in the circumstances you should. Care sits upon that brow. Are the minutes at the Ministry really as troublesome as all that? Or can it be that there is a snag somewhere?”

  Derek, at once annoyed at having given himself away and relieved at being able to share his anxieties, admitted that in truth a snag existed.

  “It’s nothing to do with Sheila, really,” he hastened to explain. “It’s her father. You see, he’s in rather bad trouble. With the police.”

  Pettigrew clicked his tongue sympathetically.

  “That sort of thing doesn’t make matters easier with one’s own family,” he observed.

  “No, of course not. Though Mother’s been awfully good about it. Anyhow, it’s not anything dishonest, or really bad like that. But he knocked a man down with his car——”

  “Well, well! Even judges have been known to do that, as we know.”

  “Yes. But this is worse in a way, because now the wretched man has died, and they are going to prosecute him for manslaughter.”

  “Bad luck—very bad luck. But I shouldn’t let it worry you too much. There’s many a slip, you know. Any lawyer will tell you that the percentage of convictions for motor manslaughter is lower than for any other offence. Besides, juries in wartime don’t consider human life quite so important as in times of peace. And who shall blame them? Still, it’s an unfortunate business, and you have my sympathy. Which reminds me,” he went on, as though anxious to change the subject, “have you been approached to give evidence in the Markhampton affair?”