Flowers For the Judge

by Margery Allingham

  Inside the court-room the sense of drama was growing. It had been by no means a tedious inquisition and now there was breathlessness in the air as the Coroner began to sum up. From beginning to end he was scrupulously fair. His deep matter-of-fact voice lent no hint of theatricality to his oration, but rather brought a salutary commonplaceness into the business, reminding his hearers that they were inquiring into the death of a man of no less or more importance than themselves.

  He dissected the evidence of the various witnesses, but was careful to make no comment.

  ‘Let me quote to you from a very old and respected book,’ he said at last, leaning across his desk and addressing the jury intimately. ‘I refer to Burke’s Justice. There these words are set down for our instruction. I will read them to you.

  ‘“It is peculiarly the province of the jury to investigate and determine the facts of the case. They are neither to expect nor should they be bound by any specific or direct opinion of the Coroner upon the whole of the case, except so far as regards the verdict, which in point of law they ought to find as dependent and contingent upon their conclusions in point of fact. The verdict should be compounded of the facts as detailed to the jury by the witnesses and of the law as stated to them by the court.”’

  He looked up from his book.

  ‘I have told you the law. You know what you must do and what questions you must answer. You may now consider your verdict.’

  The jury retired and were gone only fifteen minutes. When they returned the foreman was perspiring and the faces of the others were studiously blank. On ascertaining that they were agreed Mr Salley put the first question, his pen poised.

  ‘Who do you find the deceased was?’

  The foreman, his voice squeaky and breathless with discomfort, spoke hurriedly.

  ‘We find, sir, that he was Paul Redfern Brande, of Twenty-one, Horsecollar Yard, of this parish.’

  ‘How do you find that the deceased met his death?’

  ‘Sir, we find that he met his death by poisoning from carbon monoxide gas.’

  ‘Where do you find that he died?’

  ‘In the strong-room in the basement at his place of business at Twenty-three, Horsecollar Yard, in this parish, on the twenty-eighth day of January in this year.’

  The Coroner wrote rapidly.

  ‘Do you find how he came by his death?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We find that he was murdered wilfully and with malice aforethought.’

  There was a long pause and the court was unnaturally silent. The reporters waited like greyhounds in the traps and Inspector Tanner sat up, his ears pricked.

  The quiet voice of the Coroner continued.

  ‘That is the first part of your verdict. We now come to the final question, about which you already know. You have declared that the deceased was murdered. If you know who is guilty of this terrible offence it is your duty to say his name. From the evidence which you have heard, do you find anyone so guilty? Remember, you must speak from the certainty in your hearts and not from any suspicion, but if you have that certainty it is your bounden duty to speak. Do you find anyone guilty of the murder of Paul Redfern Brande?’

  ‘Yes, sir, we do.’ The foreman’s voice squeaked ridiculously as his nervousness robbed him of his breath.

  ‘Then will you say his or her name?’

  The foreman gulped.

  ‘We find that Michael Wedgwood did wilfully murder his cousin Paul Redfern Brande.’

  Gina’s head fell forward and she sank against the woman at her side.

  John struggled to his feet, his dignity forgotten in his astounded horror.

  The Coroner went on evenly.

  ‘Do you find anyone guilty of being accessory before the act of murder?’

  ‘No, sir.’ The foreman mopped his dripping forehead. ‘We find no one guilty of being accessory before or after the fact.’

  CHAPTER VIII

  Presumed Innocent

  SINCE THE ARREST which he had just made was not technically legal until the Coroner had finished with the jury’s formalities and had signed the warrant, Inspector Tanner was content to wait patiently in a corner of the ante-room while John and Mr Scruby monopolized his prisoner.

  Mike stood looking at the two elderly men with unseeing eyes. He was pale and the lines on his face had deepened, leaving the skin taut and his skull oddly apparent, but his body had not lost its ease or his manner its natural lazy calm.

  The sudden catastrophe seemed to have burnt up over him like the flare of a new gas-mantle, leaving him visibly the same but stricken with a new vulnerability.

  As though conscious of this he held himself mentally apart from the others, whose thoughts and words were still protected.

  John was frankly hysterical. Little pinkish pouches had appeared in the loose flesh beneath his jaw and his eyes were flickering.

  ‘We must keep our heads,’ he was saying, his long bony fingers gripping Mr Scruby’s arm with painful pressure. ‘We must keep our heads. It’s a monstrous mistake – we know that. The Coroner has exceeded his powers and in due course he will be reprimanded and removed, but meanwhile the publicity involved is terrible. No compensation can make up for it.’

  ‘Mr Widdowson, Mr Widdowson.’ Mr Scruby’s timid voice was imploring. ‘This is not the time. We must talk later when we can see what is best to be done. Now we have only a few moments and I want to assure Mr Wedgwood that we shall leave no stone unturned to defend him at his trial. You will receive a visit from someone at my office to discuss the defence,’ he hurried on, speaking directly to Mike. ‘Rest assured that we shall do everything in our power.’

  Mike was vaguely aware of an anxious sympathetic face raised to his and he nodded to it gratefully.

  John gaped at them both. The pouches in his neck quivered and his lips moved helplessly.

  ‘But it was an accident. Obviously an accident. I know it was an accident.’

  ‘Doubtless,’ said Mr Scruby dryly, and added with unexpected briskness: ‘It now remains for us to prove it. I do not know at this juncture, of course, what line the defence will take. That is for Counsel to decide.’

  John sat down suddenly on the bench which ran round the dirty pale green walls. He looked very old.

  Mr Scruby eyed him thoughtfully for a moment and returned to Mike.

  ‘I need hardly advise you not to discuss your – ah – your situation with anyone at all until I or someone from my office can see you,’ he murmured. ‘Keep as cheerful as you can and –’

  He broke off abruptly and swung round. The Inspector was interviewing someone at the door. After a considerable amount of whispering he stepped back to admit Mr Campion, and behind him Gina and Miss Curley.

  The Inspector was sympathetic.

  ‘They’ll clear off in a little while,’ he said confidentially to Campion. ‘You told your man to take the car round to the back of Chequers Street, did you? You’ll be able to get the ladies away quite comfortably in a minute or two. It’s these newspaper photographers, not the crowd, to-day. The crowd won’t come until the trial.’

  His voice flattened and died as he became aware that they were all listening to him. He returned to his corner and presently, as Sergeant Pillow came to relieve him, went down to the court-room for the warrant.

  Mr Scruby had stepped aside as the newcomers entered, and now, his mild eyes unexpectedly shrewd, he watched the meeting between Gina and Mike. No woman, however lovely, is really improved in appearance by any of the tragic emotions, but to some a certain interestingness is lent by crisis. Now that the worst had come Gina had achieved a cold poise and an almost porcelain hardness in her face which gave her features a new decision. She looked at Mike and their eyes met steadily.

  Mr Campion and Miss Curley were firing remarks at John, practically speaking, at random, and Mr Scruby was the only frank observer of the meeting.

  For a moment Gina’s lips moved, hovered over words, rejecting them unspoken. Finally she said the one
thing which her brain had refused to consider ever since the discovery of the body. The words were jerked out of her, her voice unnatural.

  ‘It’s happened then,’ she said.

  For an instant John’s self-possession wavered and the nakedness of his heart was exposed. The expression rushed back into his eyes and incredulity mingled with the other emotion there. He recovered immediately, however, and for the first time since the verdict a smile appeared upon his wide mouth.

  ‘The vanity of the woman!’ he said, and turned away.

  The damage was done. The colour poured into the girl’s face, her poise was destroyed and she stood awkwardly, suddenly looking very young and gawky.

  There was a moment of acute discomfort and then the door opened once more, and Sergeant Pillow rose to admit a telegraph-boy, with an envelope for John.

  The old man tore it open with hands that trembled uncontrollably and, because it was his habit to do so at the office, read the message aloud.

  ‘Astounded have not been informed. Incalculable harm may result incomprehensible neglect. Do nothing till arrive. Barnabas.’

  John looked up, genuine astonishment in his eyes.

  ‘God bless my soul! Cousin Alexander,’ he said. ‘I never thought – No, no answer, boy. Miss Curley, give him sixpence.’

  Mr Scruby came forward dubiously.

  ‘Alexander Barnabas, the Counsel?’ he inquired, and there was no telling whether there was reverence or sheer apprehension in his tone.

  John blinked at him. ‘Yes, my cousin. My uncle’s only son. Took silk a good few years ago now. Great man in criminal cases, I believe. Great reputation –’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Mr Scruby gently, ‘I know him,’ and there was a little silence.

  It was broken by the return of Inspector Tanner.

  ‘You can get the ladies away comfortably now, sir,’ he said meaningly, and Mr Campion, who saw that there was nothing to be gained by waiting, turned to Gina inquiringly.

  She went with him willingly, almost eagerly, and Miss Curley followed after leaving a whispered message with the Sergeant for John, who had begun to talk to Mr Scruby again, and a friendly hand-clasp with Mike.

  In the doorway Gina hesitated without looking back, and the man under arrest, glancing up, caught a last glimpse of her small black figure, her head bent and the soft arc of her chestnut hair showing under her black hat.

  At one of the back doors of the court Mr Lugg sat proud and disapproving in the shining glory which was Mr Campion’s new Lagonda. He sprang out with an agility astonishing in one of his bulk and bundled the two women somewhat unceremoniously into the back.

  ‘Now let’s sheer off before we’re seen,’ he said in a husky undertone to his employer.’

  Mr Campion, who had the same idea but for less selfish reasons, slid in behind the wheel and the great car moved away.

  When they were held up in a traffic jam in Holborn he glanced over his shoulder.

  ‘I’m going to take you back to my flat for half an hour or so, Gina, if you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘These Press photographers are tenacious beggars, and you don’t want to run into a battery of them waiting on your doorstep.’

  The girl did not answer, but Miss Curley’s voice, brisk and practical, came from the darkness of the hood.

  ‘I’m so glad you thought of it, Mr Campion,’ she said. ‘It had been on my mind. Of course, I hadn’t liked to suggest it.’ And in a lower voice they heard her add: ‘Keep your head well down, my dear. You’ll feel better.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ said Gina, and her voice sounded unutterably weary.

  The person who did not approve of the suggestion was Mr Lugg. Mr Campion caught a glimpse of his face reflected in the windscreen and smiled in spite of himself.

  It was a dark, wet night and they were caught in the home-going rush, so that it took them some considerable time to reach Bottle Street.

  There the lights were subdued and shed little puddles of radiance on the streaming pavements. Campion took Gina’s arm and steered her towards the brightly lit entrance beside the police station. Miss Curley followed him and Lugg put the car away.

  As Campion and the two women came up the staircase to the small hall on the second landing, which contained Campion’s front door, a woman rose from the chair which was the only furniture in the minute passageway and stepped forward.

  Her appearance was vaguely familiar to Campion, and he had the impression that he had seen her somewhere recently. She was not a usual type and he was struck by something indefinable about her which he could only describe to himself as passive rather than active grief. She was middle-aged and, although smartly dressed, had none of Gina’s essential style. It occurred to him that she belonged to the category known to his father’s generation as ‘ handsome woman.’ She came forward timidly.

  ‘I don’t know if you’re Mr Campion,’ she said, ‘but if you are, could I speak to you for a minute?’

  Her voice came as a surprise. Without being actually vulgar or uneducated, its refinement was not quite genuine.

  Mr Campion took out his key.

  ‘Why, yes, of course. In just one moment,’ he said, and unlocked the door.

  Miss Curley took Gina inside and as the light from the inner hall fell upon the girl’s face Campion heard a smothered exclamation from his unknown visitor. He turned round to find her looking after Gina, an embarrassed and defeated expression in her eyes.

  ‘That’s Mrs Brande, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘I didn’t recognize her at first, in this light. I’m sorry I bothered you, Mr Campion. Good evening.’

  She was half-way across the passage to the stairs before she had finished speaking, and Mr Campion was puzzled.

  ‘Won’t you leave your name?’ he said rather idiotically.

  ‘No, no, it doesn’t matter. I made a mistake. It doesn’t matter in the least.’

  Her voice came back to him as she clattered down the staircase in her high-heeled black patent shoes. Looking over the banisters he saw her fox fur flopping up and down on her plumpish shoulders as she hurried.

  Slightly bewildered, he went into the flat and put a question.

  Gina looked up from the depths of his big arm-chair.

  ‘Yes, I saw her,’ she said wearily, ‘but I didn’t know her. I’ve never seen her before in my life. What did she want?’

  ‘Goodness knows,’ said Mr Campion.

  CHAPTER IX

  The Daring Young Man

  ON ANY OTHER occasion and in any other circumstances the spectacle of Mr Lugg in his latest rôle, serving afternoon tea to one of the principals in a cause célèbre, might easily have delighted Mr Campion; but as it happened, such is the perversity of fortune, he found it irritating.

  The change which had occurred to Gina in the ante-room of the court still persisted. The agitation and ill-suppressed terror of the last few days had now given place to a weary, broken weakness a thousand times more pathetic.

  Miss Curley, on the other hand, had reacted by becoming an intensified edition of her normal self. Campion suspected her of being extra busy and efficient so that she might not have time to think. All the same, it was a difficult gathering and John’s arrival was a relief.

  He came in, scowled at Lugg, sat down in the chair which Campion had vacated on rising to welcome him, and announced querulously that he would like a cup of tea.

  Lugg served him ungraciously, the expression in his little black eyes intimating clearly that he did not like his manners and was quite prepared to subject him to a course of instruction if the opportunity arose.

  Having averted this danger by banishing Lugg, Campion glanced inquiringly at his new visitor.

  Mr Widdowson was fast recovering from his hysteria of earlier in the afternoon. The pink pouches had disappeared from his gills and his eyes were cold and steady.

  ‘I’ve been talking to Scruby,’ he began peremptorily, his thin, academic voice raised a little above its normal tone, ‘and he agrees
with me, of course, that the police are making a fantastic mistake. Apparently the Coroner is strictly within his rights, although Scruby feels he may come in for considerable censure. However, that’s not the point. What we have to think about now is the best way of clearing up the ghastly business satisfactorily.’

  Mr Campion eyed the man and wondered if it could be possible that even now he had not realized the full gravity of the position.

  John leant back in his chair.

  ‘I think Scruby feels that the police used the inquest to avoid shouldering full responsibility for the arrest,’ he announced. ‘He didn’t say so in as many words, of course, but that’s what I understood.’

  Gina had shrunk back into her chair and he appeared to notice her for the first time.

  ‘We shall need you, Gina,’ he observed, pointing a long bony finger at her. ‘Scruby wanted me to impress it upon you that you’re likely to be a very important witness.’

  She did not speak, and he evidently did not expect her to, for he returned to Campion.

  ‘Scruby feels with me that an independent investigation on behalf of the family is absolutely necessary,’ he said slowly. ‘Time, you see, is going to be short.’

  Mr Campion, who had drawn up a small, hard chair, now sat upon it and blinked at his client, his pale eyes vague behind his horn-rimmed spectacles.

  ‘I’m sure Mr Campion will do all he can to help Mike,’ put in Miss Curley so hastily that he smiled at her.

  ‘Of course he will. Of course,’ John brushed aside the interruption irritably. ‘Now, Campion, we all know Paul’s death was an accident. What I ask you to do is to prove it to the satisfaction of the most unintelligent member of the police and Press.’

  Mr Campion rose. Wandering across the room, he took up a position of vantage, his hands in his pockets and his body supported by the edge of the desk.

  ‘I say, I do hope you won’t mind my saying it,’ he began gently, ‘but you’re making a most unfortunate mistake, you know.’

  John stared at him. The quiet authority in the casual voice was unexpected.