The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  Some were mere pathetic expressions of self-pity, such as “Poor old Blower,” repeated more than a dozen times on different parts of the walls. Others gave bald particulars of their offences with rough estimates of their expectations. Thus, “Joe Viney from Wood Green expects a stretch for stabbing,” “Moley from Upper Rathbone Place, Oxford St. W. Committed for trial North London Sessions for a Byke,” “Nobble in for a bust,” “Jim Brads from Rathbone Place fullied for a bust,” “T. Savage from Chapel St expects 6 wks.,” “J. Williams expects 3 years,” and so on. Others made complaints or accusations; as “Charles Kemp was put away for deserting by Mr. Goldstein of Hackney road,” or “Jackson is the one. Hurry up and catch HIM. Jackson you have ruined me. Jackson will get 300 years,” while yet others merely recorded names, as “Mikey from the Boro.,” written in reverse in six places with several unfinished attempts, and “Hymey from Brick Lane and Ginger Jim.”

  Andrew studied these curious memorials gravely and with deep interest. They were certainly quaint, and to some they might have been amusing. But not to Andrew. To him their significance was too sinister. They labelled their writers the refuse, the “throw-outs,” of humanity. And what was he but one of them? He drew the stool up against the wall to provide a back, and, seating himself, fell into a train of vague reflection on the dismal prospects that were opening out before him. His feeling was one of utter helplessness. He was the victim of a whole complex of illusions, and he did not in the least see how those illusions could be dispelled. Perhaps some ideas might come to him later. There was plenty of time to think over matters—seven days before he had to make his next appearance before the magistrate. And so his mind rambled off to other subjects, to thoughts of Molly and especially to Mrs. Pendlewick.

  His reflections were interrupted by the arrival of his supper; a hunk of brown bread and a mug of cocoa, both excellent and very welcome. Refreshed by his meal, he took a little exercise pacing up and down his cell. Finally, having laid his mattress and made his bed, he took off his shoes and some of his clothes and laid himself down on his not very resilient couch.

  Naturally, in the early part of the night, he slept little if at all. The day’s excitements and the unusual surroundings tended to keep him awake, as did the lack of the customary darkness; for, when the daylight faded, the cell was lighted by a square of ground glass illuminated by a lamp outside the cell, which threw in its unwelcome rays throughout the night. And then there was the “Judas”—the little round spy-hole in the door. To Andrew that was the most disturbing influence of all. He found himself continually watching it with expectant nervousness and straining his ears to catch the footfalls of the warder on his rounds and to be ready to see it open. Later he learned that the night warders wear shoes with list soles, which explained why, on each occasion, the uncanny, secret “blink” of the Judas-like the opening and closing of a bird’s eye-startled him by occurring silently and without warning. And each time it left him more nervous and more profoundly humiliated.

  But even a prisoner’s night is not endless. He heard midnight strike on some clock in the world of freedom without, and then he knew no more until he was roused to clean up his cell and get ready for breakfast. And so began a day which was like all the succeeding days. He washed himself in the tin basin and even brushed his hair gingerly with the official brush. When he was summoned out for exercise, he tidied himself up as well as he could, and, having taken his number label, or badge, down from the hook on which it hung when he was “in residence,” he attached it to his coat in the prescribed manner and was ready to take his place in the ranks of the other occupants of the gallery and be marched off to the prison yard.

  The process of taking exercise was doubtless beneficial, but it was not exhilarating. The surroundings of the exercise ground of a local prison are hardly romantic. Still, to Andrew, on his first morning, the experience had the charm of novelty. He found himself embedded in a long and squalid procession trailing interminably at a quick, mechanical stride along narrow, sinuous paved paths just wide enough to accommodate the single file that moved along them; supervised by a number of warders, each of whom stood, statue-like, on a low stone pedestal, from which he could look over the heads of the exercisers. Nominally, the march was conducted in absolute silence. Actually, there was a more or less continuous hum of conversation of a very curious ventriloquial quality due to the fact that the “old hand” can talk without moving his face. From time to time a warder would call out sternly to the conversationalists to “stop that talking,” but still the mumble went on. Even the most experienced officer is baffled by a talker who stares straight before him and preserves a face of wood.

  The experiences of this first day included two that were not repeated. The first was connected with the prison photographer; who, having looked him over critically, proceeded to execute a couple of portraits of him, one full face and one in profile. The other brought him within the province of the officer who took the fingerprints of His Majesty’s guests and entered their descriptions and other “particulars” on the prescribed form for deposit at the Criminal Record Office; to all of which procedure Andrew submitted without demur, although, as an unconvicted, and therefore nominally innocent man, he was entitled to object. But he saw no reason for objecting; indeed, he was fast settling down into a state of dull fatalism, apprehensive of the future but hopeless of any means of controlling it.

  This fatalistic attitude was viewed with deep disapproval by the fatherly middle-aged officer who looked after him by day. Andrew, as we have said, was a naturally polite man, instinctively suave and courteous in manner, with the obvious appearance and habits of a gentleman, circumstances which commended him to Officer Bolton, who had been in the army and had something of the old soldier’s social exclusiveness. Moreover, Andrew gave no trouble. He obeyed the rules, accepted the discipline, made no complaints as to his food or otherwise, and was in ail respects a model prisoner, and, as such, was duly appreciated by the staff who had to deal with him.

  But his passive attitude, apparently taking no measures for his defence, caused the good-natured warder great concern; and, in the course of his official visitations, he took the opportunity to offer advice and admonitions which became more urgent as the days passed. “Look here, Kempster,” he said, “you ought to have legal assistance. Get a decent solicitor, tell him all about it and let him make out the best case he can.”

  “I don’t see what he could do for me,” replied Andrew, “as I don’t choose to give my real name.”

  “I can understand that,” said Bolton (who, to Andrew’s astonishment, seemed quite prepared to entertain his innocence). “But it’s no use being thin-skinned. The name is bound to come out, sooner or later, if you get sent to prison. You know, you are not taking this affair seriously enough. You are charged with personation. Now, that’s a felony; and the magistrate can’t deal with it. He will commit you for trial at the Old Bailey if you can’t make a proper defence, and you may get a nasty sentence. Don’t wait for that. Get a solicitor and tell him the whole truth. Don’t you see, my lad, it’s no use your going into court and telling them that you didn’t commit the crime and they’ve arrested the wrong man. That’s what every accused man says, and nobody takes any notice. You’ve got to get someone who knows the ropes to manage your little business. And you’ve got to look sharp about it. Time’s running on. In three days more the remand expires, and then you’ll be up before the magistrate for the second hearing; and, if you haven’t got something definite to say, you’ll be fullied as the crooks call it—committed for trial. Now, you think over what I’ve said, and don’t take too long thinking over it.”

  Accordingly, Andrew did think over it; but his thinking brought him no more forward. Once more he considered the advisability of boldly proclaiming his real identity. But the plan did not commend itself for two reasons. First, it would be useless. No one would believe him. There was Elizabeth Kempster, ready to swear to him as her husband and probably th
ere would be other witnesses who would swear to his identity as Anthony Kempster. And what evidence could he produce in support of his statement that he was the late Andrew Barton? To call Molly would be obviously useless. Her manner towards him when he had visited her had shown evident mistrust. She would certainly scout his claim to be her dead husband as a transparent and impudent fraud. The only witness who would be of any use—Professor Booley—was on the high seas or in some inaccessible part of the United States.

  But even if he were able to prove his real identity; how would that help him? He would merely prove that instead of Anthony Kempster, charged with personation, he was Andrew Barton, charged with murder. It was the old dilemma; and, so far as he could see, there was no way out.

  So, once more, he was thrown back on his original position. Fate had him fast in its clutches. He had no choice but to accept whatever might befall. And in this frame of mind he waited in dull expectation for the second hearing; waited to see what Fate really had in store for him.

  The second hearing impressed him as something compounded of a nightmare and a chapter from The Arabian Nights. In spite of Bolton’s exhortations, he was unrepresented by a lawyer. As he did not mean to disclose his identity, he had nothing to tell the solicitor, and he could make his bald denial without legal aid.

  But it was a strange and bewildering experience. Standing in the dock, he listened to the evidence with a feeling of stupefaction. He heard a gentleman from the insurance office read out the proposal form for the insurance of Francis Redwood and give the particulars of the transaction, including the payment of £2,000. He heard the doctor from Dartford identify him as the man whom he had treated under the name of Francis Redwood, to whom he had given a proposal form made out in the same name; whom he had examined in connection with the said proposal form and whom he had, in the character of the proposer’s usual medical attendant, certified as a first class life, still under the name of Francis Redwood. He heard a person of the name of Baines, who appeared to be Redwood’s successor in the business, describe the late Francis Redwood, whom he had known long and intimately, as a feeble, sickly man, extremely unlike the accused, and further declare most positively that the accused was certainly not Francis Redwood but was one Anthony Kempster, well known to him as a man who had lodged in Redwood’s house.

  And so on. It was a most conclusive and convincing mass of evidence, and the mere fact that it was all totally untrue was known to Andrew alone, and could not be communicated by him to anyone else excepting in the unconvincing form of a comprehensive denial. But it was all rolled out with exhaustive and tedious thoroughness. Each deposition was taken down verbatim by the clerk, read over to the witness and signed by him as well as by the magistrate. And even that was not the end of it; for when the whole of the evidence had been given, the depositions of all the witnesses were solemnly read over again for Andrew’s special benefit. Then the magistrate addressed him in the usual formal terms. “Having heard the evidence, do you wish to say anything in answer to the charge? You are not obliged to say anything unless you desire to do so; but whatever you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence upon your trial. And you are also clearly to understand that you have nothing to hope from any promise of favour, and nothing to fear from any threat which may have been holden out to you to induce you to make any admission or confession of your guilt; but whatever you now say may be given in evidence against you upon your trial, notwithstanding such promise or threat.”

  “All I wish to say,” replied Andrew, with a perfect recognition of the fatuousness of his reply, “is that I am not Anthony Kempster, and that the evidence which has been given does not apply to me.”

  The magistrate wrote this down and then asked: “Do you wish to say who you are?”

  “Not on this occasion,” Andrew answered.

  “Nor to give any account of yourself?”

  “No,” was the hopeless reply; on which the magistrate, having written down the answers and signed them, informed the accused that he stood committed for trial at the Central Criminal Court, and he was forthwith removed from the dock and taken back “to the place from whence he had come.”

  CHAPTER XI

  The Last Straw

  As Andrew sat in his cell, recalling again and again the incredible proceedings of the police court, he was conscious of the first stirrings of revolt against the malignity of Fate. The wild absurdity of the whole affair tended to dispel his apathy and rouse a spirit of resistance.

  After all, the final blow had not fallen. He was not condemned; he was only committed for trial. There was still time for him to set up a defence; and Bolton’s indelicately broad hints as to what he might expect from the judge if he made no reasonable defence spurred him on to reconsider his tactics. It was no question, the worthy officer pointed out, of a few months in prison. The crime of false personation is a felony and may carry a substantial term of penal servitude. That was an appalling prospect. It meant several years cut out of the best part of his life, to say nothing of the misery of those years; and at the end of it he would be no better off. For he would come out of prison with the label of Anthony Kempster affixed to him immovably and for ever.

  Something would have to be done. But the question was, what? Perhaps there was something in Bolton’s idea after all. To a reputable solicitor he could safely tell his story, for a lawyer is entitled to hold sacred the secrets of his client. But when he had told his story, what then? His lawyer would be involved in the old dilemma. His client was either Anthony Kempster or Andrew Barton. If he was Kempster, he was guilty of personation; if he was Barton, he was guilty of the murder of Oliver Hudson. It was a hopeless position, and he did not see how any amount of legal acumen could steer a course between the two impossible alternatives.

  So, ineffectively, he struggled to find a way out of the labyrinth of perplexities in which he had become involved. How long he would have continued to struggle and what he would eventually have done, it is impossible to say. For the problem of Anthony Kempster suddenly receded into the background. Fate had another little selection from its repertoire to offer for his consideration and a new problem to submit for solution.

  It was the second day after the police court hearing, early in the afternoon, when the door of his cell was thrown open, disclosing his usual custodian and a couple of gentlemen standing in the gallery outside, one of whom he recognized as Inspector Butt and the other as Superintendent Barnes, the officer who had opened the case against him at the first hearing. The two men entered the cell and the warder retired into the gallery, leaving the door ajar. It was the superintendent who addressed him. “We have come here,” said he, “to discharge a disagreeable duty; to convey to you the information that you are charged with murder.”

  “With murder!” Andrew exclaimed, gazing at the officer in amazement. He could hardly believe his ears.

  It seemed incredible that even the police should have penetrated his disguise. This was the very last thing that he had expected or been prepared for. “The charge is,” the officer continued, “that on the 28th of August, 1928, at a place called Hunstone Gap, you, Ronald Barton, alias Anthony Kempster, alias Walter Green, feloniously did kill and murder one Andrew Barton. That is the charge. I don’t know whether you wish to say anything, but it is my duty to caution you that anything you may say will be taken down in writing and used in evidence at your trial.”

  As the superintendent read out the charge, Andrew’s feelings underwent a curious revulsion. Somehow, he experienced a sense of relief, almost of amusement. For the thing was so utterly preposterous. He was actually accused of having murdered himself! “May I ask,” he said, “what reasons there are for supposing that I murdered Andrew Barton?”

  “A summary of the evidence against you,” the superintendent replied, “will be supplied for your use or that of your lawyers, if you obtain legal assistance, as I suppose you will, and as you certainly ought to; but I will give you the main facts that ar
e in the possession of the police.

  “First, on the day of Andrew Barton’s death, you were seen in his company, and you appear to have been the last person who saw him alive, as you were seen walking with him in the direction of Hunstone Gap.

  “Second, there was found in your possession, in your lodgings at Hampstead, an attache case containing ninety pounds in money and certain valuable property. This case, and the property in it, has been identified as the property of the deceased Andrew Barton, which he had with him on the day of his death. It has also been ascertained that this case was seen in your possession, in your lodgings at Crompton on the evening of that same day.

  “Third, it is known that, on the day following the death of deceased, you cashed a cheque at deceased’s London bank, which cheque was either in the case or on the person of deceased when he left home. Those are the principal points in the evidence at present available; and I now ask you if you wish to make any statement, bearing in mind the caution that I have just given you.”

  Andrew reflected rapidly. He was not disposed to make any statement until he had given some thought to the new developments. But there was one thing which instantly struck him. The case must have been identified by Molly; and, if that were so, she would be called to give evidence as to its identity at his trial. But the idea was so repugnant to him that he was prepared to compromise himself to some extent if by so doing he could prevent her from being called. “May I ask who identified the case?” he inquired.

  “Mrs. Barton, the wife of the deceased,” was the reply; “and she is prepared to swear that the case was in deceased’s possession when he left home on the morning of his death.”