“And could you?” asked Sir Oliver, making the best of the slight anti-climax.
“Easily,” replied Sharpin. “He was the only decent-looking man there.”
“And where and when had you seen him before that?”
“I see him the night we brought the dead man in from Hunstone Gap. He was a-standing on the pavement outside the police station, a-watching of us as we unloaded the dead man out of the cart and set him on the stretcher.”
“Are you certain that the prisoner is the man you saw watching you as you took the body out of the cart?”
“Yes,” Sharpin replied doggedly. “He’s the man.”
“Do you swear that he is the man whom you saw there on that night?”
“I ain’t much given to swearing,” said Sharpin. “Don’t hold with it. I’ve said he is the man, and he is the man.”
“Did that man speak to anybody when you were moving the body?”
“Never spoke a word to nobody,” was the slightly ambiguous reply.
“Did he seem agitated or upset in any way?”
“He didn’t seem to be, but I didn’t notice him very much. I was attending to what I was doing.”
Having noted this reply. Sir Oliver relinquished his prey and Thorndyke rose. “When you came ashore and saw the block of chalk resting on the dead man’s head, did you look up to see where the block had come from?”
“Yes, I did, in case there might be some more coming down. You could see where the block had broken out. Left a sort of square hole.”
“And did you notice whether that hole was straight over the body, or whether it was to one or other side?”
“It was straight overhead; and I kept an eye on the place while we was a-moving of the body.”
“You said that your mate, William Cox, lifted the rock off the dead man’s head. Should you describe Cox as a strong man?”
“Ay. Will Cox is an uncommon beefy lad.”
“Should you say that he is an unusually strong man?”
“Yes, strong as a young elephant he is. I gives him all the heavy jobs to do, and he don’t never turn a hair and he don’t never grumble.”
“You seem to be fortunate in your mate,” Thorndyke remarked with a smile.
“I am that,” agreed Sharpin. “Worth his weight in gold is Will Cox; and he turns the scale at fourteen stun.”
This completed Samuel Sharpin’s evidence and on his retirement he was succeeded by his much-appreciated mate; a good-looking young giant with a mahogany complexion, bright blue eyes and a mop of curly hair. His skipper’s commendations, which he had necessarily overheard, seemed to have covered him with confusion, for he swung shyly into the witness-box and, having taken up a negligent pose, greeted the judge with an embarrassed grin and then fixed an expectant eye on Sir Oliver; being, apparently, like his skipper, fascinated by the learned counsel’s “dead-light.”
But whatever might have been his worth to his commander, he was of little to the prosecution; and when they observed the way in which Thorndyke pounced on him, they may have regretted the necessity for calling him. His evidence merely confirmed and amplified that of the previous witness; and after a brief and matter-of-fact examination, Sir Oliver resigned him to the defence. “You have said,” Thorndyke began, “that you lifted the block of chalk off the dead man’s head. Did you find it easy to lift?”
“No, I did not,” replied Cox, with a shake of his curly head. “’Twas most uncommon awkward to lift. Heavy, too, it was.”
“You are accustomed, I suppose, to lifting heavy weights? Fish-trunks, for instance?”
“Ay, but, d’ye see, fish-trunks is fitted with rope beckets for to catch hold of. They are easy enough for to hoist. ’Tis only a matter of weight. But this here block of chalk wasn’t no sort of shape. There wasn’t nothing for to lay hold of or to hook your fingers under.”
“What are the usual weights of fish-trunks?”
“They runs five, seven, eight or ten stone.”
“And a stone, in your trade, is how many pounds?”
“Fourteen pounds goes to a stone of fish.”
“What should you say was the weight of that block of chalk?”
“Somewhere between eight and nine stone, as near as I can judge.”
“And how near can you judge a weight of this kind; say a fish-trunk?”
“I can judge the weight of a trunk of fish within two or three pounds.”
“You say that you found that block difficult to lift. How high did you lift it from the ground?”
“Only an inch or two. I just hoisted it clear and dropped it alongside.”
“Could you have lifted it higher, so far as you could judge? Say two or three feet above the ground?”
“I might have been able to, but I shouldn’t have liked to try. Not more than a foot, anyway. He was mighty slippery and difficult to hold, and you don’t want eight or nine stone of chalk on your toe.”
“Do you find any difficulty in lifting a ten stone trunk?”
“Lord, no sir! Wouldn’t be much good in our trade if I did. But, as I was telling you, a trunk has got beckets—rope handles, you know—and if you’ve got hold of them, the trunk can’t slip.”
“So you can lift ten stone—a hundred and forty pounds—without difficulty?”
“Yes, and a tidy bit more if need be and if I’d got a proper hand-grip.”
Having received and noted this answer, Thorndyke sat down and Sir Oliver rose to re-examine. “Does it require a specially strong man to lift an ordinary fish-trunk?”
“Not if he’s used to it. Them as ain’t don’t make much of it.”
“Take the case of an eight stone trunk. Do you say that a young man of the prisoner’s height and build would have any difficulty in lifting it?”
“No, I suppose he could lift it if he put his back into it. But he’d find it a tidy weight if he wasn’t used to hoisting.”
Apparently, Sir Oliver judged it wise to let well alone for, having got this qualified assent to his question, he sat down. Then William Cox descended from the witness-box and the name of Frederick Barnard was called.
Frederick Barnard, having been sworn, deposed that he was the senior waiter at Mason’s Restaurant, Crompton-on-Sea. He had identified the prisoner among a number of other men at the prison. He recognized him as a man who had come to the restaurant at about half-past eight in the evening of the 28th of August. He had noticed him particularly because he looked pale and ill and had a drawn expression as if he were in pain or in some serious trouble. He also looked very tired. Seemed “dead beat.” His manner was peculiar. He had a companion with him but hardly spoke a word to him. He improved very much when he had taken some food and wine, but he ate very slowly and carefully, as a man might who had a tender tooth, and he used his napkin as if he was afraid of hurting his mouth.
His companion was an American gentleman whom witness knew well by sight as he had frequently come lo the restaurant, sometimes alone and sometimes with a friend. Witness did not, at that time, know the American gentleman’s name, but he had since ascertained from the friend who used to come with him that he was a Professor Booley, who described himself as a beauty specialist.
“Do you know what Professor Booley did for a living?”
“I only know what his friend told me; that his work consisted principally in making up ladies’ faces; touching up their complexions and eyebrows and covering up any blemishes.”
“Did you notice anything peculiar in Booley’s behaviour?”
“Yes, his manner was very peculiar. He ate very little, but very fast, and he hardly talked at all. But he sat looking at the prisoner’s face as if he couldn’t take his eyes off it. It was most singular. Sometimes he would lean back or move his head sideways to get a different view; and sometimes he would look in the big mirror on the wall and then back at the prisoner’s face as if he was comparing the reflection in the glass with the original. And he seemed to be extraordinarily pleased with bot
h of them and quite excited about them.”
“And did the prisoner show any special interest in his face?”
“Yes. I saw him looking at himself in the glass from time to time and, after Mr. Booley had gone—which he did before the prisoner had finished his dinner—he got up from the table and walked up to the mirror and stood there looking at himself for quite a long time.”
“And what did he do after that?”
“He sat for close on half an hour over his coffee and a green Chartreuse. He looked quite natural by this time, but he seemed to have something on his mind; at least, he looked as if he was thinking very hard about something.”
“Did you see anything about the prisoner’s face that might have accounted for the interest that he and Professor Booley seemed to take in it?”
“I didn’t then. I just thought that he was a good-looking young man who was rather pleased with himself. I didn’t know who Professor Booley was, then. But since I’ve known what his trade was, I’ve been disposed to suspect that—”
“Ah!” Sir Oliver interrupted, “but you mustn’t tell us what you suspect, though I daresay you may be right. We are dealing with the facts that are known to you. We must not go beyond what you saw or heard.”
“Well,” said Barnard, slightly crestfallen and even huffy, “I’ve told you all I saw and heard. I can’t remember anything more.”
Thereupon Sir Oliver sat down and proceeded thoughtfully to polish his eyeglass. The judge cast an inquiring glance towards Thorndyke, but as the latter made no sign, the witness was released and the name of Thomas Steel was called.
The new witness was a sergeant in the Crompton police force and he gave his evidence with professional tidiness and precision. But it did not amount to very much. He had picked the prisoner out of a row of twenty men, and he identified him as the man who had stood outside the police station watching the removal of the body from the seaweed cart. That man had made no sign of recognizing the body and had not spoken to anyone. Did not appear in any way agitated or greatly concerned. Had seemed to be just an ordinary spectator. Witness was quite sure prisoner was the man. Was used to recognizing persons, and prisoner was a rather striking person who would be easy to remember and recognize.
From this incident Sir Oliver turned his attention to Professor Booley, referring to the evidence of Frederick Barnard. “Do you know anything about this man Booley?”
“I knew him by name and by sight,” the sergeant replied, “and I knew his premises in Barleymow Street. He described himself as a beauty specialist and he had a big card in his window setting forth what he could do. I took a photograph of it to keep in case any question of fraud or false pretences should be raised.”
“Have you got a copy of that photograph?”
“Yes. I have here an enlarged copy from the small negative.” He produced from an attache case a whole-plate photograph which was passed across to Sir Oliver, who took out his eyeglass to read it, and then, with an indulgent smile, returned it to the usher who passed it up to the judge. From his lordship it was conveyed to the jury, who studied it with broad and appreciative grins, and back to the Counsels’ bench, finding its way eventually to the Clerk’s table, where it remained. “Have you any knowledge,” Sir Oliver asked, “as to the success of the Professor’s methods? Have you, for instance, met anyone who had had a crooked nose straightened out by him?”
The sergeant admitted, amidst a murmur of merriment, that he had not. “But,” he added, “I know that he was very clever at painting out black eyes.”
“Did you ever see a specimen of his skill?”
“Yes. Our court missionary got a black eye when he was trying to separate two drunken sailors. It was such a bad one that he didn’t like to show his face out of doors. But one of our constables took him round to Booley’s to have it painted out with grease-paint, and when he came back you couldn’t see a trace of the discolouration. It looked perfectly natural.”
“So far as you know, did Booley get much work of this kind?”
“I have no personal knowledge beyond this one case. The constable told me that Booley did an extensive trade in painting out black eyes and bruises and pimples and blotches, but I can’t verify his statement from my own knowledge.”
This concluded the examination in chief. When Sir Oliver sat down, Thorndyke rose to cross-examine. “You have said that when you came out of the police station with the stretcher, you found the prisoner waiting there and making a show of reading a bill that was affixed to the notice board. Do you recall anything remarkable about that bill?”
“Yes. By a most extraordinary coincidence, that bill contained a description of the man whose body was in the seaweed cart.”
“What was the heading of that bill?”
“It was headed, ‘Wanted for Murder.’”
“And who was it that was wanted for murder?”
“The dead man; Andrew Barton.”
“For the murder of whom was he wanted?”
“For the murder of Mr. Hudson at Kibble’s Cross.”
“Can you remember the exact terms of the description?”
“I cannot remember the exact wording, but I could give you the substance of it.”
“I will read you a portion of the bill and you shall tell me whether what I have read is correct. This is the passage:
“It is believed that more than one man was concerned in the crime, but the only one who was seen was the man who actually fired the shot. He is described as somewhat fair man with grey eyes, about thirty years of age and easily recognizable by reason of a remarkably deformed nose, which appears to have been broken and is completely flat excepting at the tip, which is rather prominent.
“Is that a correct quotation from the bill?”
“To the best of my recollection and belief it is quite correct.”
“You say that the description in the bill was that of the dead man, Andrew Barton. When did you first learn that the man described in the bill was Andrew Barton?”
“On the following morning, the 28th. A telephone message came through from Bunsford directing us to take down the bill and call in any copies that we had circulated. I took the telephone call.”
“Was any reason given for the withdrawal of the bill?”
“Not officially. But I had a few words with the officer at the other end and was informed by him that inquiries had been made and that it appeared that there had been some mistake. It turned out that the man described in the bill was not concerned in the murder at all. I then reported the finding of the body of Andrew Barton of Fairfield, and the officer at Bunsford then informed me that Andrew Barton of Fairfield was the man described in the bill.”
“So far as you know, was any public announcement made by the police that the accusation of Andrew Barton was a mistake due to an error in identification?”
“No such announcement ever came to my knowledge; and, as no name had been mentioned, and the man was dead, it would seem to have been unnecessary.”
“That,” remarked the judge, “seems to be a rather easy-going view to take. There had been a public accusation of a particular person and there ought to have been a public withdrawal of it.”
The sergeant agreed that some such announcement ought to have been made, but pointed out that he had merely said that he was not aware of its having been made. It was possible that there had been a public withdrawal which had escaped his notice; and this observation brought his evidence to an end.
The next witness was Mrs. Susan Baxter of 16, Barleymow Street, Crompton, who identified the prisoner as her late lodger, Mr. Walter Green. She deposed that, on the night of the 28th of August, Mr. Green who had previously been quite impecunious and unable to pay his rent, seemed suddenly to have become flush of money and anxious to discharge his debt. He paid her with four pound notes which were quite clean and new but she had not noticed their numbers and could not identify them. On that occasion she had seen an attache case on the table in prisoner’s
room. She had never seen it before and was certain that it had not been in the room until that night. Had asked prisoner if it was his but he had not answered. The case produced and handed to her was like the one she had seen, but she would not swear that it was the same one. Prisoner announced that night that he was going to London the next day and he seemed very anxious to catch an early train. He went away next morning at a little past eight o’clock and she had not seen him since until she picked him out of a row of men at the prison.
When the examination in chief was finished. Thorndyke rose. But he raised only a single point. “When you were talking to the prisoner on that last night, did you notice anything in his manner that was unusual or different from what you had been accustomed to?”
“Well, yes, I did,” Mrs. Baxter replied. “He was quieter in his way of speaking, and much more polite and considerate. I noticed it particularly, because he had usually been rather loud-spoken and gave his orders like a lord. And he was a decidedly selfish and inconsiderate lodger.”
“Did you notice a great difference in his manner on this occasion?”
“I did. He spoke like a perfect gentleman; most respectful and polite. And he was quite anxious not to put me out by going away so early. I was quite took aback. He seemed like a different gentleman.”
Having elicited this answer, Thorndyke sat down; and once more the judge cast a speculative and rather puzzled glance in his direction. Evidently his Lordship was endeavouring to trace through these seeming irrelevancies some intelligible line of defence. To him, as to the prosecuting counsel, these questions of Thorndyke’s must have seemed to have no bearing whatever on the issue which was being tried. But experience would have told him that Dr. John Thorndyke was not a gentleman who asked irrelevant questions; and a suspicion may have begun to filter into his judicial mind that the defence was going to take the form of a counter-attack—and a flank attack at that. Andrew alone, listening with growing interest and a queer sense of detachment, could recognize the logical structure which his champion was building up, brick by brick.
The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack Page 184
