The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  “Yes,” said Andrew. “It will be very disagreeable for her to appear as a witness. Would it simplify matters if I were to admit that the case is the property of Andrew Barton? Would that render it unnecessary for her to be called?”

  “It might,” the superintendent replied, “but I can give no promise or make any kind of conditions. Do I understand that you admit that the case that was found in your lodgings at Hampstead was the property of the late Andrew Barton?”

  Again Andrew reflected, with a new mental alertness. He could not accept the superintendent’s wording but yet he did not wish to alter it conspicuously until he had considered his course of action. Eventually he said: “I admit that the case which you found in my rooms at Hampstead is the case which Andrew Barton was carrying when he left home on the morning of the 28th of August. Will you write that down?”

  The superintendent, with a look of obvious surprise, wrote the statement down in his notebook and then asked: “Do you wish to state how the case came into your possession?”

  “No,” Andrew replied, “I do not wish to make any further statement.”

  “Very well,” said the superintendent, “then I will ask you to read the statement and, if you find it correct, to sign your name underneath.”

  He handed the book and his fountain pen to Andrew, who read the statement and, finding it faithfully set down in his own words, affixed his signature and returned the book to its owner, who, having added his own signature, as a witness, pocketed it. “I think that is all there is to say at present,” said the superintendent. “You will be given all necessary facilities for preparing your defence if you apply to the Governor of the prison, and you will be brought before the magistrate as soon as possible. You are sure you don’t want to make any further statement?”

  “Quite sure,” Andrew replied; whereupon the two officers retired, and Bolton, with a wistful look into the cell, slammed the door and left the prisoner to his own thoughts.

  The immediate effect of this bolt which had fallen, not, indeed, out of the blue, but out of an uncommonly stormy sky, was to bring Andrew abruptly to his senses. Curiously enough, he was not particularly alarmed by this new charge. He was still under the influence of Miss Booth’s accusation and was more afraid of being charged with the murder of Mr. Hudson than with that of Andrew Barton. Nevertheless, he realized that this was a charge of murder and that, if he made no effective answer to it, he stood to be hanged. And to being hanged he had as great an objection as ever. To a term of imprisonment he might have resigned himself if there had been no way of avoiding it. But to the rope he could not resign himself at all. Some effective defence he would have to set up, though at the moment he could think of none, seeing that the evidence that the superintendent had recited was all true in fact; but already he was beginning dimly to recognize that he was receiving yet another shove from circumstance; that Miss Booth’s accusation notwithstanding, he would be forced to make an effort to recover his own identity.

  Indeed, the more he reflected on the matter the more did the motor crime tend to recede into a second place. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. The murder of Andrew Barton was a criminal charge that was very much in the hand, whereas the Hudson murder was still in the bush, even though that bush was uncomfortably near. Moreover, as he compared the two cases, he began to see that the new charge was the more formidable of the two. For the first time, he realized that Miss Booth’s accusation was opposed to all reasonable probabilities and that he really had something weighty and material to offer in reply. In fact, with the clarity of vision that the new danger had produced, he began to suspect that he might have exaggerated the former danger.

  On the other hand, the more he considered the new charge, the more did its formidable character tend to make itself felt. For here all the probabilities were against him. The absurdity of the charge was beside the mark; indeed, it was an added element of danger when the incredible nature of his own story was taken into consideration. Now that it had been ascertained that he had been present at Hunstone Gap when the death occurred and that he had “sneaked away like Cain,” as Molly had expressed it, he could see that his subsequent conduct in keeping out of sight and offering no word of explanation was in the highest degree suspicious.

  These cogitations led him to the inevitable conclusion. He would have to proclaim his real identity and he would have to tell the whole of his preposterous story. He would tell it to a lawyer and trust to his capacity to present it to the court in as plausible and credible a form as was possible. But the difficulty was that the lawyer would, at least in his own mind, reject it as a mere silly fable. It was even possible that a reputable lawyer might refuse to undertake a defence which was based on such a mass of absurdities, while the type of lawyer who would be ready to undertake any kind of case, good or bad, would probably have neither the skill nor the personal credit which would be necessary to give so unconvincing a case a fair chance. And there was the further difficulty that he knew no lawyers excepting his family solicitor, Mr. Wakefield; a respectable provincial practitioner who had no experience of criminal practice and who would pretty certainly flatly refuse to have anything to do with a man whom he would regard as his late client’s murderer.

  Eventually, he decided, as a preliminary measure, to discuss the position with Bolton. But it presently appeared that that kindly and conscientious officer, in his anxieties at the new position, had made representations in higher quarters. The fact transpired when the Medical Officer made one of his periodical visits to inspect his charge and inquire if there were “any complaints.” When he had finished his professional business, instead of bustling away in his usual fashion, he lingered with a somewhat hesitating air and a thoughtful eye on his patient, and at length opened the subject that was in his mind. “I don’t want to meddle in your affairs, Barton—your name is Barton, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Andrew replied, “my name is Barton.”

  “Well,” said the doctor, “as I said, I don’t want to meddle, but your day officer, Bolton, is rather concerned about you, and he has spoken to me, suggesting that I might have a few words with you. He thinks that you have not given yourself a chance, so far; that you have had no legal assistance and taken no measures for your defence. Now, if that is so, it is a serious matter. Judges and magistrates will do all they can to see that you get fair play, but they can’t conduct your defence. You have got to help them by giving them the facts on your side; facts which are known only to you. But perhaps you would rather that I did not interfere.”

  “On the contrary,” Andrew replied, earnestly, “I am most grateful to you, and would thankfully accept your advice if you are not compromising yourself officially by giving it.”

  “Good Lord!” exclaimed the doctor, “of course I am not. Everyone wants you to have a fair trial. Even the police don’t want a conviction against an innocent man; and as to me, it is perfectly correct for me, or any other prison official, to advise a prisoner if he wants advice.”

  “I am glad of that,” said Andrew, “because I want advice very badly. I realize that I ought to have legal assistance, but appearances are so hopelessly against me that I doubt if a lawyer could help me.”

  “But,” the doctor protested, “the more appearances are against you, the more do you need the help of a lawyer. I take it that you are not going to plead guilty?”

  “Certainly not. I am absolutely innocent of both of the charges against me.”

  “Then,” said the doctor, “if you are innocent, there must be facts producible which would form an answer to the charges.”

  “There are,” said Andrew, “but they are known only to me; and they are so extraordinary and incredible that no one would believe them. That is my difficulty. I have a perfectly complete and consistent story; but if I should tell that story to a lawyer, he would think I was merely romancing.”

  “Your lawyer isn’t going to try you,” the doctor remarked, adding with a queer, one-sided smile, �
��and you mustn’t misunderstand his position. The function of an advocate is not to experience belief in his own person but to be the occasion of belief in others.”

  “Still,” Andrew persisted, “it is rather hopeless to be defended by a lawyer who believes one to be guilty. I should have liked to convince him that, at least, I might possibly be innocent.”

  “Naturally, and very properly. But why not? The truth of those facts which are known to you must be susceptible of proof or disproof. If they are true, it is for your lawyer to ascertain and demonstrate their truth.” He paused for a moment and then, speaking with marked emphasis, said: “Now tell me, Barton, supposing a competent lawyer should undertake your defence, would you be prepared to give him all the facts in your possession—to tell him everything that you know, truthfully and without any reservation whatever?”

  “Certainly,” Andrew replied. “I would promise to hide nothing from him.”

  The doctor reflected for a few moments. Then he asked: “Have you any lawyer in your mind whom you would like to consult?”

  “No,” Andrew answered. “I know of no lawyer. That is a point on which I was going to ask for your advice. Is there anyone whom you can recommend me to apply to?”

  “I think there is,” the doctor replied, “but I am not quite sure whether all the circumstances are suitable. When I was a student I had the good fortune to be the pupil of a very great man. His name is Dr. John Thorndyke—perhaps you may have heard of him.”

  “I seem to have heard the name,” said Andrew, “but I know nothing about him. I take it that he is a doctor, not a lawyer.”

  “He is both, and he was our lecturer on Medical Jurisprudence—that is the legal aspect of medicine or the medical aspect of law. He practices as a barrister but he is not an advocate in the sense in which I was speaking just now. His speciality is the examination and analysis of evidence, and it seems to me that your case might interest him. You see, Barton, that I am taking your statement at its face value; I am assuming that you are an innocent man who is the victim of misleading appearances.”

  “That,” said Andrew, “I swear most solemnly is the absolute truth.”

  “I hope it is, and I accept your statement. Now, would you like me to see Dr. Thorndyke and explain your position and find out whether he would be prepared to consider the question of his conducting your defence?”

  “I should be profoundly grateful if you would. But do you think he would believe my story?”

  The doctor smiled his queer, lop-sided smile. “I don’t think, Barton. I know. He wouldn’t. But neither would he disbelieve it. He would just treat it as material for investigation. He would pick out the alleged facts which were capable of being verified or disproved and he would proceed to verify or disprove them. If he found your statements to be true, he would go on with the case. If he found them untrue, he would decline the brief and pass you on to a counsel who would conduct the defence without prejudice as to his personal convictions.”

  “That seems to me a very reasonable and proper method,” said Andrew. “I ask for nothing more. But I don’t see how he is going to find out whether my story is true or false.”

  “You can leave that to him,” the doctor replied. “But,” he added, emphatically, “understand once and for all, Barton, I am assuming that your story, whatever it is, is a true story. If it isn’t, don’t send me on a fool’s errand. I assure you that it is impossible to bluff Thorndyke. If he starts on the case, he will have you turned inside out in a twinkling; and if you tell him anything that isn’t true, you’ll be bowled out first ball. Now, Barton, what do you say? Would you like me to put the case to him?”

  “If you would be so very kind,” replied Andrew. “It seems to me that Dr. Thorndyke is exactly the kind of lawyer that I want.”

  “I am glad to hear you say that,” the doctor rejoined, with obvious satisfaction. “Then I will call on him without delay and use what persuasion I can. But I shall want a written authority from you to offer him the brief. A leaf of my notebook will do to write it on. He won’t be unduly critical of the stationery in the special circumstances.”

  With this and a trace of his quaint smile, he produced his notebook and a fountain pen; and when Andrew had drawn up the stool to the little fixed table and seated himself, he dictated a brief authorization which Andrew wrote and signed “Ronald Barton,” enclosing the signature between quotation marks. Then he turned the book and pen to their owner who glanced through the few lines of writing and then looked up sharply. “Why have you put your signature between inverted commas?” he asked. “Because I am signing as a prisoner in my prison name, which is not my real name. I am not Ronald Barton.”

  “Oh, aren’t you?” said the doctor, in a tone of surprise and looking at Andrew a little dubiously. “I thought you said your name was Barton.”

  “So it is,” replied Andrew, “but not Ronald.”

  The doctor continued for some seconds to look at him with a puzzled and somewhat dissatisfied expression. At length he said, as he put away the notebook: “Well, the facts of the case are no concern of mine; but I hope you will be able to make them clear to Dr. Thorndyke, if he is willing to listen to them.”

  With this parting remark, of which the dry and even dubious tone was not lost on Andrew, the doctor pushed open the door, which had (necessarily since there was no inside keyhole) stood ajar during the interview, and, stepping out, closed it behind him.

  The clang of the closing door and the snap of the lock suddenly put Andrew back in his place, from which the brief spell of civilized conversation seemed for the time to have liberated him; even as the loop of key-chain that peeped below the hem of the doctor’s coat as he retired, served to remind him that this kindly gentleman was, after all, a prison officer, one of whose duties was to hold the captive in secure custody.

  CHAPTER XII

  Dr. Thorndyke

  The visible results of the doctor’s mission appeared early in the afternoon of the following day when the door of Andrew’s cell was thrown open and Bolton looked in on his charge. “Your lawyer is waiting down below,” said he. “Just tidy yourself up a bit and come along with me. And look sharp.”

  There was not much to be done, since razors were forbidden by the regulations. Andrew gave his hair a perfunctory brush, extended the operation to his coat and announced that he was ready. “You’ve forgotten your badge,” said the officer; and Andrew, with a grim smile, took it down from its hook and fastened it to his coat, remarking that “one might as well look the part.” Then they set forth on their journey by innumerable iron staircases and through a long succession of iron gates, each of which had to be unlocked to give them passage and locked again when they had passed. Eventually, they reached their destination, a smallish, very bare room with one door, of which the upper half consisted of a single panel of plate glass through which the warder, posted outside, could keep the prisoner under observation without intruding on the conference. Here, Bolton delivered his charge and shut him in.

  There were two persons in the room. One was the doctor and the other was a tall stranger, at whom Andrew looked with deep interest and a certain amount of awe. For this stranger was a very impressive person with a distinctly imposing presence, due not alone to the stature, the upright, dignified carriage and the suggestion of physical strength. In the handsome, intellectual face was a subtle quality that instantly conveyed the impression of power; an impression that was reinforced by a singularly quiet, contained, reposeful and unemotional bearing. His hair was tinged with grey, but the calm, unlined face was almost that of a young man. “Well, Barton,” the Medical Officer said as Andrew entered, “Dr. Thorndyke is willing to listen to your story, or as much of it as may be necessary to make clear the nature of the defence; and, as I have done my part by inducing him to come, I will take myself off and leave you to your consultation.”

  With this he took his departure, carefully shutting the door after him and pausing to say a few words to the wa
rder who was posted outside. Then Dr. Thorndyke drew one of the two chairs up to the table, and, indicating the other, said: “Pray be seated, Mr. Barton,” (Andrew noted the “Mr.” appreciatively), “and draw your chair close to the table so that we need not raise our voices.” He opened a case which looked like a small suitcase, and, taking out a block of ruled paper, placed it on the table before him and continued: “Dr. Blackford, your Medical Officer, has indicated to me in very general terms the nature of your difficulties, and I understand from him that you have a remarkable and rather incredible story to tell me. We must have that story in detail presently; but before we begin, there is one point which I should like to have cleared up. In this authorization which you gave Dr. Blackford,”—here he laid it on the table—“you have signed your name, Ronald Barton, between inverted commas; and the doctor quoted you as having explained this on the ground that Ronald Barton is not your name. Is that correct?”

  “Quite correct, sir. My name is not Ronald Barton.”

  “Then,” said Dr. Thorndyke, “let us start fair with the genuine name.”

  “My name,” replied Andrew, a little hesitatingly and in uncommon trepidation now that the climax was reached, abruptly and all unprepared, “my name is Andrew Barton.”

  Dr. Thorndyke looked slightly surprised. “Your name, then,” said he, “is the same as that of the man whom you are accused of having murdered.”

  “Not only the same name, sir,” said Andrew, with his heart in his mouth. “The same person. I am Andrew Barton. The man who was killed was Ronald Barton.”

  On receiving this statement. Dr. Thorndyke laid down his pen, leaned back in his chair and regarded Andrew with an expression that made his flesh creep. “I read the report of the inquest at Crompton,” he said, in quiet, level tones, “and I filed it. Last night, after seeing Dr. Blackford, I read it again with great care. I noted that Andrew Barton was described—by his wife—as a man whose nose had been injured by an accident, with the result that the bridge was broken and rendered completely fiat. I need not point out that that description does not apply to you.”