by Clara Benson
As the crowd filed in, Freddy and Kathie took their usual seats on the press bench.
‘Now, this is Percy’s opportunity to shine,’ said Freddy. ‘I’ve seen him in action before. He’s not much to look at, and he’s certainly not as showy as old Ben, but once he gets going he’s rather impressive. I should like to see what he makes of the case.’
‘Do you really think he can do anything?’ said Kathie. ‘The prosecution’s argument seemed so conclusive.’
‘I can’t deny he did a good job,’ admitted Freddy. ‘That touch with the mother-in-law was particularly effective. There was no need at all to bring her over here, since there’s plenty of physical evidence against Angela and motive proves nothing, but I suppose he wanted to end with a flourish of trumpets and dancing-girls. It was pure showing off, if you ask me.’
‘Poor Angela,’ said Kathie. ‘And poor Barbara. I hope they’ve managed to keep the news from her. Do you know what Mr. Travers is planning to say?’
‘Some of it,’ said Freddy. ‘We’ve found one or two witnesses who don’t sound like much, but their evidence is suggestive, to say the least, and with a following wind he might be able to eke them out a bit. Remember, he doesn’t have to prove her innocent. All he has to do is to plant enough doubt in the minds of the jury to make them uncertain whether she’s guilty or not.’
‘But surely the best way to do that would be to find out who really killed him?’
‘Naturally,’ said Freddy. ‘But so far no-one has conveniently stepped forward and confessed to it, and I don’t suppose they ever will.’
He was cross with himself, for he had been sure he would be able to find more witnesses, but even his search for the taxi driver had come up with nothing, and he had had no luck at all in tracing the foreign-looking man who had been seen arguing with Davie Marchmont on the steps of Burkett’s. Now they must rely on very little, when what they really needed was some strong evidence to refute the prosecution’s case and shake the conviction of the jury.
‘It’s such a pity the police fastened upon Angela so quickly as the only suspect,’ said Kathie. ‘I’m sure Inspector Scott is a very good detective, but he can’t possibly have investigated the thing thoroughly enough. I only wish Alec could have taken the case, but we were away at the time. I wanted to go to Scotland, you see, because I’d never been. Perhaps we ought to have waited until the spring, and then this might never have happened.’
For a moment she looked stricken with guilt.
‘Don’t worry, old girl,’ said Freddy. ‘Nothing you could have done would have changed all this. Jameson wouldn’t have been allowed to investigate it anyway, don’t you see?’
‘I suppose not,’ said Kathie. ‘Still, he might have given Inspector Scott a hint or two.’
Freddy opened his mouth to reply but was given no opportunity for just then there was a sudden bustle, and a voice instructed everyone to rise, and proceedings began for the day.
The first witness was Marthe Guillot, maid to the prisoner, who confirmed that she had left her keys with Madame on the day she left for France. No, she had not seen them since, and did not know what had become of them. They were certainly nowhere in the flat. Her evidence was brief and to the point, and she was allowed to step down, which she did after darting a glance at Angela.
The next person to take the stand was one Josiah McLeod, unemployed and of no fixed abode. Mr. Travers and Freddy had done their best with him; he had been cleaned up, given a shave and a new suit of clothes, and drilled in the art of speaking in public without mumbling, spitting or invoking the Deity. He had also been kept away from all sources of alcohol the day before he was due to testify, but by Friday morning his hands were trembling and his eyes watering, and so in the end it was judged better to give him a nip or two of whisky to steady him, with the promise of more after he had finished. The drink took immediate effect, and by the time he was nudged into the witness-box, he was tolerably firm on his feet.
Mr. Travers drew Jos out gently, and the spectators listened in fascination at the story he had to tell, which was simple enough. When he repeated what the second man had said to Davie Marchmont about shooting him as he would a dog, there was a collective sigh of satisfaction from the public gallery, for if anything had been wanting in the case up to now, it was a rival suspect. A man such as Davie Marchmont must have had enemies, for it was surely not possible that, with such a character, his wife was the only person he had ever offended. Now it looked as though here were another possible murderer—one, moreover, who had actually been overheard threatening to shoot the dead man. Of course, one did not like to take the word of a tramp, but this one was speaking soberly enough, and there was no reason to suppose he was lying.
‘Might the threat to shoot Mr. Marchmont have been a joke?’ inquired Mr. Travers.
‘I don’t reckon so,’ said Jos. ‘It sounded deadly serious to me. I shouldn’t have liked to be in this dead chap’s shoes meself and have had to hear it.’
‘And what did Mr. Marchmont say to the threat?’
‘He never said anything. The other feller walked away before he had the chance.’
‘What did Mr. Marchmont do then?’
‘Stood for a minute, a bit surprised, like. Then he picked something up off the ground and put it in his pocket and went off.’
‘He picked something up? What was it?’
‘Looked like a glove to me. Can’t be sure, but it might’ve been, anyhow.’
‘Was it his own glove?’
‘I don’t know. He already had gloves on, but he might have had a spare pair with him. Who knows how many pairs of fancy gloves these rich gents own?’
‘Quite,’ said Mr. Travers.
Sir Benjamin stepped up to cross-examine.
‘Pardon me, Mr. McLeod, but am I right in supposing that you had been drinking on the day in question?’
Jos shuffled uncomfortably and admitted that that was the case.
‘Then might you have been mistaken in what you saw?’
Jos, in some confusion, launched into a ramble in which he denied that he drank to excess, and claimed that in any case he was perfectly able to hold his drink and that his eyesight and memory had been unaffected by what he had taken that day. Sir Benjamin did not press the point, for there was no need to, and Jos was allowed to step down, which he did thankfully.
By way of demonstrating the reliability of Jos’s memory (for there was no other reason to debate the matter in such detail given that the man who had threatened Davie could, unfortunately, not be produced), the defence then recalled Inspector Scott, who confirmed that three gloves had been found in the dead man’s pockets: one pair in tan suède, with the name of a popular American glove-maker on the label, and one single glove in dark-grey kidskin of a slightly smaller size, which had no label at all. On further questioning, Inspector Scott agreed that it looked rather as though the odd glove did not belong to David Marchmont, but said that they had not attempted to trace its owner for it had not been thought necessary. Anyone might accidentally pick up an odd glove, he said, and the police had had no reason to consider it suspicious so had given it no further thought.
As Scott gave his evidence, something stirred in Freddy’s mind and he frowned. What was it that had occurred to him just then? Someone had been talking to him about gloves recently, he was sure of it. He racked his brain for a few seconds but nothing came to him. It was a pity, for he had the oddest feeling that it might be important, but there was no use in chasing a fleeting thought, and so he shrugged and abandoned the effort. Perhaps it would come to him later.
The next witnesses were Samuel and Ernest Hepworth, two lively-looking lads of fourteen and thirteen, who were something of a triumph of Freddy’s, for he had had great difficulty in finding them and persuading them to speak.
They were brothers who lived in Chalfont St. Giles, they said, and had been staying with an elderly aunt in South Audley Street for a few days at the time of the murder,
for there was a nasty outbreak of whooping cough at school and the healthy ones had all been sent away until it passed. It was evident that this aunt of theirs had no idea how to manage them and even less idea of what they had been getting up to while they were guests under her roof, for as Mr. Travers questioned them gently it became clear that they had pretty much run wild from the day of their arrival until the day they had returned to school.
It was, of course, the week of the fifth of November, and the brothers had built up quite a collection of fireworks, which they took particular glee in setting off at every opportunity, much to the annoyance of the neighbours. On the Sunday they were due to return to school, and so on the Saturday they slipped out of the house late at night with the intention of holding a firework display in the street for their own private enjoyment, using what remained of their collection. In order to avoid having to suffer inconvenient and tiresome remonstrance from their aunt if she discovered them, they went around the corner to Mount Street to do it. To their disappointment, it turned out that most of the fireworks had somehow got damp, but they did manage to cause enough disturbance to give them satisfaction and to make them agree that it had certainly been worth while. They then crept back into the house and returned to school the next day, with nobody being any the wiser.
It was evident as they stood in the witness-box that they were worried they would get into trouble, but Mr. Travers did his best to reassure them that the case was quite the opposite, and that they were doing the right thing by appearing today, for their evidence might well save a woman’s life. At this they looked suitably impressed and straightened up, waiting for the questions to begin.
‘Now, Sam,’ said Mr. Travers to the eldest boy. ‘Do you remember exactly at what time you began letting off the fireworks?’
‘Not exactly, sir, no,’ said Sam. ‘It was late.’
‘Well, then, do you remember whether it was before or after midnight?’
Sam looked at his brother and they both said together, ‘After midnight.’
‘You are sure of that?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Sam. ‘We set an alarm clock to go off at twelve o’clock. Aunt goes to bed at half past eleven, and we thought that would give her enough time to fall asleep.’
‘Very good,’ said Mr. Travers. ‘Now, you say that when you arrived in Mount Street you swiftly discovered that most of your fireworks had got damp—not surprising, of course, for it had been raining heavily that week. Can you tell us how many dry ones were left?’
Sam screwed up his face to think but Ernest spoke up immediately.
‘Nine or ten,’ he said. ‘There was a rocket and three penny Roman candles, and a few whizz-bangs.’
‘Whizz-bangs?’ said Mr. Travers.
‘Yes. They go “whizz-bang,”’ said Ernest, as though it were obvious.
Here there was an appreciative chuckle from the court, and Mr. Travers said, ‘Ah, yes, of course. Now, I don’t suppose you remember which one you let off first?’
‘The rocket,’ said Sam promptly.
‘The rocket,’ repeated Mr. Travers. ‘And did it make a loud bang?’
‘I’ll say,’ said Ernest, and they both giggled.
‘And what came after that?’
‘The Roman candles,’ said Sam.
‘Did they make a noise?’
‘Not to speak of,’ said Sam. ‘They fizzed a bit, but not very loudly.’
‘Then after that came the—er—whizz-bangs, yes?’
They nodded.
‘And did they make the noise you expected?’
‘No,’ said Ernest in disgust. ‘They whizzed all right, but they hardly banged at all.’
‘They hardly banged at all? Are you quite certain of that?’ said Mr. Travers.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Sam, nodding. ‘They made a bit of noise, but it was more of a crackle than a bang.’
‘So, then,’ said Mr. Travers, who had maintained a straight face throughout. ‘Just to be sure I have got this correct, you set all the fireworks off after midnight, and only one of them made a loud bang. The others merely fizzed or crackled.’
‘That’s right, sir,’ said Sam.
‘Did you hear any other fireworks while you were in Mount Street? Or any other bangs?’
‘No, sir,’ they said.
Sir Benjamin had no questions and they were allowed to go, looking somewhat relieved that they were not to be locked up immediately. Mr. Travers hoped that he had planted a seed of doubt into the jury’s mind as to the time of the killing, for if the noises Mrs. Trumpington had heard after midnight were all fireworks, then the bang she had heard at just after ten o’clock must have been the sound of the gun going off, and for that time Angela Marchmont had an alibi.
The court then adjourned for lunch, and everybody filed out in pleasant anticipation of what was to come, for they knew that the defence case would continue that afternoon with the testimony of Angela Marchmont herself, and all were curious to hear what the prisoner would have to say.
Sure enough, when they returned, the clerk called for Mrs. Angela Marchmont to take the oath, which she duly did. Alas for the dedicated pursuit of justice, Mr. Travers got no further than asking her to confirm her name before a juror was assailed by a fit of such explosive sneezing that proceedings were halted for a minute to allow him to recover. The sneezing was, however, followed immediately by a copious and impressive nose-bleed—an affliction to which the man was particularly prone, he explained. Handkerchiefs were brought out and handed along, but by that time the unfortunate juror was a gory sight, and one of the female jury members had begun to feel faint at the sight of the blood and asked if she might go home. Seeing that things were getting out of hand, the judge suggested that they adjourn for the day and return refreshed on Monday, since the prisoner herself was about to give important evidence and it was vital that the jury be in a frame of mind to concentrate on what she said.
So the court was cleared and everybody went about their business. As for Angela, she returned to prison in the full expectation that next week she would be found guilty and sentenced to hang. It was not a pleasant prospect, but she had had many years’ practice in the matter of suppressing unpleasant thoughts, so she appeared as calm as ever, and to look at her no-one would have ever supposed that she had anything particularly inconvenient to look forward to.
NINETEEN
Just as Sam and Ernest were stepping into the witness-box to regale the court with their tales of mischief, anyone who happened to be observing the press bench at the time might have seen Freddy Pilkington-Soames glance around the court and suddenly fix his attention on something. He raised his eyebrows at whatever it was and seemed to indicate towards the door, then turned to whisper in Kathie’s ear. She nodded and looked round, and Freddy rose and crept out of the place as quietly as possible, leaving Kathie in the company of Harry, the old reporter with the collection of pencils, who had taken a liking to Mrs. Jameson over the past week—not least because she was married to a Scotland Yard inspector and might thus be a useful source of news.
Freddy emerged from the Old Bailey and looked about him. It was a frosty day and people hurried to and fro, huddled up inside their coat collars. To his right a young woman was walking briskly up the street. He followed her at a discreet distance as she crossed over Newgate Street and entered a church. Freddy waited a minute and then entered too. Marthe was sitting in a pew not far from the door, apparently engaged in quiet contemplation of the rather magnificent stained glass window above the altar. Freddy joined her and they sat in silence for some moments.
At last, without looking at him, she said, ‘Madame gave me notice this morning.’
‘Oh?’ said Freddy, surprised.
‘Yes. She said she knew my loyalty could not be doubted, but that she did not want me to disadvantage myself by waiting until the last minute to find a new situation, and so she has released me from her service with immediate effect. William she has also dismissed.’
Marthe bowed her head.
‘I fear that is so,’ she said. ‘And can you blame her? I have sat in the court every day and heard them shame and humiliate her. They make it sound as though she were wicked and sinful, when I know she is nothing of the sort. They taunt her for the mistakes she made in the past, and say she was so desperate to get rid of her husband that she killed him. But people kill out of love or hate. Madame neither loved him nor hated him. She cared nothing for him any more. Then why should she kill him? I will not believe it.’
‘I don’t believe it either,’ said Freddy. ‘But then who did do it?’
‘I do not know,’ said Marthe. ‘I was not there. Had I not gone to France then none of this would have happened.’
There was bitterness in her tone, and Freddy regarded her sympathetically. Then she turned to him, and her next words surprised him.
‘I can do nothing about the past, but perhaps I can help her now,’ she said. ‘She told me not to give her away and I swore I should never betray her trust, even if it meant I had to stand by and break my heart as she let herself go to the gallows. But now that she has released me from her service, I am free to do as I please and need no longer keep silent.’
