Flowers For the Judge

by Margery Allingham

  Mr Campion looked for the cupboard door and saw two, one beside the desk, the other behind it. They were both used as notice-boards, the wooden panelling being particularly suitable for the reception of drawing-pins. This miscellany hanging there told him little more than the date, several publication fixtures for books of which he had never heard, and the details of the train service to Chelmsford.

  He did not hurry. In the back of his mind something was warning him of impending danger. Looking about him, the instinct seemed ridiculous, and he remembered that he was tired and probably jumpy.

  He went over to the desk unwillingly and pulled open the first drawer on the left-hand side. It contained at first sight nothing more remarkable than a tin of biscuits and a pair of gloves, but after removing these cautiously he saw a key with a piece of string through the ring lying half under the paper with which the drawer was lined.

  He took it out and looked at it suspiciously, but it was quite ordinary and of no particular interest in itself.

  Feeling foolish but still puzzled, he carried it over to the door behind the desk.

  It fitted the lock, but he did not get the door open until he realized with a wave of self-dislike that it opened outwards and was not even locked. He thrust it open and stepped back, taking out his torch once more.

  The cupboard proved to be a cloak-room containing an incredibly dirty wash-basin and a row of clothes hooks, upon one of which a dilapidated umbrella hung dejectedly.

  He came out and went over to the other door. Once again as he fitted the key in the lock, the old sense of danger assailed him, and he swung round to face the landing, but all was silent and dirty and ordinary as before.

  Then, from far below, he heard a little angry sound, thin, high and furious. Mrs Jenkinson’s baby was protesting violently at some parental indignity. It was too much. Mr Campion cursed himself for his hysteria, his cowardice and his approaching age. He turned the bolt over and pulled the handle.

  The jamb did not move and he remembered it probably opened outwards. He tried it gently, but it was stuck and he drew himself back to throw his shoulder against it.

  That miraculous sense which is either second sight or the lightning calculation of the subconscious mind, which nothing escapes, arrested him, and, changing his mind on the instant, he pulled his gun and kicked the door open, police fashion.

  For a moment it still stuck and then shattered open sickeningly and he stood overbalancing, shuddering horror fighting with the realization of a certainty.

  There was nothing there at all; only the wide sky threadbare with stars and fringed with a million chimneypots, and far, far below him in the cool darkness, the jagged stone foundations of the house that had been next door.

  CHAPTER XIX

  Under the Sword

  MISS CURLEY CLEARED HER throat, pushed her hat a little further on to the back of her head, and wondered rather helplessly if the truth could be any more apparent after five days’ talk, when it seemed to be so hopelessly hidden after one and a half.

  At her side Gina sat immobile. All through the day she had preserved the same aloof expression. Her eyes were no longer dazed, but had assumed instead a settled coldness. Miss Curley was anxious about her.

  In the luncheon recess she had taken the girl to a city restaurant and had made her eat, but she had done so without interest and had not talked.

  Even John’s absence, the non-appearance of Ritchie, and the unaccountable desertion of Mr Campion had passed her by as unworthy of comment and only once, when Mike had been brought back into the dock, had she shown by a single quickening glance the least sign of interest in the proceedings.

  Miss Curley’s other neighbour, on the contrary, was evidently not only following, but enjoying the case. He had reappeared at the morning session as eager as a child at a play, and Miss Curley, a patient, tolerant woman, had gradually become used to his muttered commentary.

  The afternoon was very warm for the time of the year, and the sun shone on the dome, making the court comfortable and bright. Lord Lumley leant back in his high leather chair, his scarlet robe catching the sunlight and the colour flickering on the lenses of his eye-glasses. Before him the eternal bustle of the court continued.

  Cousin Alexander sat in his place, his silk gown shining and his eyes eloquent, ready at any moment to leap up and pounce upon a witness.

  The first three sessions of the inquiry had established much of the Crown case and the Attorney-General had reason to be pleased with the way events were shaping. The jury now fully understood the mechanics of the crime. They had examined the hose-pipe, seen the photographs of strong-room and garage, and had heard the medical evidence.

  They had also heard Mrs Austin do her well-meaning damnedest, and Mrs Tripper had repeated her story of the running car engine.

  At the moment the red-headed and vivacious Roberta Jeeves, author of Died on a Saturday, was giving her evidence, struggling between the desire to escape all responsibility and a certain shy pride in having invented a murder which would work.

  She had, she said, no idea whether Mr Michael Wedgwood had read her book or not. It did happen sometimes that a publisher did not read every book he sponsored.

  Was that not usually only in the case of well-established authors? Fyshe put the question innocently.

  Miss Jeeves reluctantly supposed it would be, and Counsel begged leave to inquire if Miss Jeeves considered that she had been a well-established author at the time of the publication of Died on a Saturday.

  Miss Jeeves confessed with not unnatural irritation that she had no idea.

  Fyshe asked humbly if it were true that in view of the complicated mechanics of the device described and the faithfulness with which they had been executed in real life Miss Jeeves had felt it her duty to call the attention of the police to her book.

  Miss Jeeves, holding strong views on the subject of coincidence, was fairly embarked upon a dissertation upon them when she was gently and courteously stopped by the Judge.

  Cousin Alexander did not cross-examine.

  Miss Curley stirred and smiled nervously in reply to her unknown neighbour’s wink and nod of appreciation. She looked round the court again. Until now she had believed that court proceedings were tedious beyond all bearing and that the greatest ordeal participators had to face was one by ennui, but so far the effect of cumulative drama had never faltered and always just in front of her there had been that strong wide back of the young man she knew, who might be going to die.

  Others might find the technicalities of doctors and central heating experts dull, but to Miss Curley every word was of vital importance, every point reached her, and every time the jury whispered together her heart contracted painfully.

  Miss Jeeves having returned to her seat, there was a rustle at Counsel’s table. Fyshe sat down and the Attorney-General rose to examine as Peter Rigget stepped into the box.

  His slightly dilapidated appearance was not enhanced by the green reading light which, shining down upon his papers, was reflected up into his face. He looked puffy because of Mr Campion, unhealthy because of the light, and thoroughly vindictive, which was his own affair.

  Miss Curley, who knew nothing about his secret self-deploration, had no sympathy for him at all.

  ‘Strong case,’ whispered the man at her side. ‘Now they’re coming to it …’

  Miss Curley wondered if it was her imagination or that a new excitement was, in fact, growing in the big bright room. The Lord Chief Justice looked as placid as before, but there was certainly a rustle among the clerks and the jury leant forward to see the witness better.

  It was evident at once that Mr Rigget was aware of his importance. He even permitted himself a sickly nervous smile which was rendered frankly horrific by the green light reflected in his glasses.

  Cousin Alexander noticed the little man’s self-satisfaction with grim approval.

  Miss Curley glanced at Gina. The girl was very still, her eyes fixed upon the silent fi
gure in the dock. It occurred to the older woman that she was praying.

  The Attorney-General began gently in his softest, most ingratiating tone, and Mr Rigget made his opening statement happily.

  ‘I am an accountant employed by Messrs Barnabas. I have known the accused and the deceased for about two years, ever since I came to work in the office. On January the twenty-seventh I went into the deceased’s rooms at the office and on into the book-file room, which leads off it. When I entered the room the two men were talking. They ceased when they saw me, but when I went into the little office they continued their conversation.’

  ‘Was the door open or shut?’

  ‘Open.’

  ‘Could you hear what was said?’

  ‘Clearly.’

  ‘Can you repeat what you overheard, word for word?’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘Is it not extraordinary that you should remember a chance conversation so clearly?’

  ‘No, because it was an extraordinary conversation.’

  ‘Will you repeat it?’

  Mr Rigget considered and began in a slightly affected voice.

  ‘Mr Paul, the deceased, said: “You mind your own damned business, Mike. She’s mine. I’ll manage my own life in my own way.” And then after a pause he said: “Make love to her if you want to. God knows I’m not stopping you.”’

  ‘Did you hear any more?’

  ‘No. I came out then and they stopped talking.’

  ‘Did you see both men?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How close to them were you?’

  ‘I passed quite close to Mr – to the accused – within two feet.’

  ‘Did you notice anything about him?’

  ‘He was very white. His hands were clenched. He looked as if he could – he looked very angry.’

  ‘Had you ever seen him like that before?’

  ‘I had never seen him like that before.’

  Miss Curley’s neighbour nudged her.

  ‘They’ll get him,’ he whispered jubilantly, and then, as she turned to him, coughed apologetically into his handkerchief and reddened round the ears.

  Cousin Alexander rose majestically and scattered a sheaf of papers to the floor with the sleeve of his gown. While Mr Rigget’s attention was still distracted by the incident he put his first question.

  ‘Some time before you entered the employment of Messr. Barnabas, Limited, you were employed by Messrs Fitch and Sons, paper merchants, were you not?’

  Mr Rigget started violently.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is it true that after you left them you gave evidence for the prosecution in an action brought against that firm by the Inland Revenue department and were rewarded by that department for information received?’

  The Attorney-General sprang up and protested violently, and for the first time real heat was infused into the chill argument which had taken place between the two Counsel. Lord Lumley blinked at Cousin Alexander.

  ‘I confess I don’t see the purpose of such a question, Sir Alexander,’ he rumbled mildly.

  Cousin Alexander bowed.

  ‘I will not press it, My Lord,’ he said virtuously, and Mr Rigget was sufficiently ill-advised to smile.

  ‘Are you an accountant?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Have you very little to do with the book publishing side of Messrs Barnabas’ business?’

  ‘I suppose I have.’ Mr Rigget spoke grudgingly.

  ‘Is it true you do not know even the titles of all the books they publish?’

  ‘No, not all,’ said Mr Rigget nervously.

  ‘Is it true that you did not know, for instance, that in January Messrs Barnabas acquired the rights of an autobiography entitled My Own Life, by Lady Emily Trumpington?’

  ‘No – o.’

  ‘Did you or did you not?’

  Cousin Alexander’s chill eyes suddenly reminded Mr Rigget of the portrait in the waiting-room.

  ‘I may have heard of it.’

  ‘Did it occur to you then or does it occur to you now that what you really overheard the deceased say on the occasion when you were “overhearing” in the next office was “You mind your own damned business, Mike. She’s mine. I’ll manage My Own Life in my own way,” meaning, of course, the author, Lady Trumpington, is my client and I will manage her book – that is to say, I will publish her book – in my own way.’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Rigget, turning a dull brown in the green light. ‘No. I thought he was talking about his wife.’

  ‘You thought …!’ began Cousin Alexander, apparently temporarily overwhelmed by the iniquity of fools, but recovering himself with pretty dignity … ‘What made you think that he was talking about his wife?’

  ‘Well,’ said Mr Rigget uncomfortably, ‘there had been a bit of talk in the office about Mrs Brande and the accused carrying on, and I naturally thought –’

  His voice trailed away.

  ‘A bit of talk.’ Cousin Alexander’s tone rose melodiously. ‘A bit of talk in the office. Tittle-tattle among the employees. A’s wife has been seen with B, and so when A and B talk heatedly it must be about Mrs A. Is that how you reasoned, Mr Rigget?’

  ‘I – I may have done.’

  Lord Lumley leant forward.

  ‘When you heard the words “my own life”, did they sound like the title of a book? Were they said with equal emphasis on each word, or on one or two words only?’

  The quiet affable question brought the whole tricksy business back to earth again, out of the realms of cleverness into the quiet line of inquiry, the results of which should determine if Mike should hang by the neck until he was dead.

  Mr Rigget dithered while the court held its breath.

  ‘I can’t remember,’ he said at last, and the ready tears which were such a constant source of embarrassment to him crept into his eyes.

  Cousin Alexander let the admission sink in before he tackled the next stage of his inquiry.

  ‘You have told us that you cannot remember the inflection on the words “my own life”,’ he said quietly. ‘Are you sure that you remember the words “make love to her if you want to. God knows I’m not stopping you”? You are sure you heard them?’

  ‘I am sure.’

  ‘Did the accused say anything at all while you were in the inner office?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Are you saying that you heard him say nothing?’

  ‘I heard nothing.’

  ‘Might he have whispered?’

  ‘No. I should have heard him if he had.’

  ‘Were you listening carefully?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Were you remembering everything you heard?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘And yet you are not sure if the deceased was talking about his own life or the title of a book.’

  ‘That’s your suggestion,’ sneered Mr Rigget.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said Cousin Alexander, with lightning heat. ‘And it is also my suggestion that in order to convince yourself that you had heard Mr Brande talking about his wife, you imagined the second part of the statement.’

  ‘No.’

  Cousin Alexander took a deep breath.

  ‘Consider those two remarks, first side by side and then concurrently. Do you think they could have been made by the same man, the same man in the same mood and on the same point? Are they not directly contradictory? “I’ll manage my own married life in my own way: make love to my wife if you want to.” Taken together, do not they sound absurd?’

  ‘I heard it,’ said Mr Rigget obstinately.

  ‘I suggest,’ said Cousin Alexander, ‘that you thought you heard it.’

  ‘No, I heard it.’

  ‘Is it possible, Mr Rigget, that you may have been mistaken in what you heard?’

  There is a blessed quality of moral absolution in the word ‘mistaken’, and Mr Rigget fell for it.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said, and Cousin Alexander sighed.


  ‘Do you like the accused? – or rather, is it true that you bear no grudge against him?’

  ‘I hardly know him.’

  ‘Yet you knew the intimate affairs of his life. You knew he had been “carrying on” with Mrs Brande?’

  ‘I had heard it.’

  ‘Do you think now that you may have been mistaken?’

  ‘I had heard it.’

  ‘May it have been untrue?’

  ‘It may.’

  Cousin Alexander began to enjoy himself. His elation, which had been slowly growing ever since Mr Rigget had entered the box, was shared by all those whose personal feelings were not harrowed by the case. Throughout the last part of the cross-examination people had been coming into the room. Barristers from other courts slipped in unobtrusively and the undercurrent of whispers which broke out in every pause became a natural part of the proceedings.

  Miss Curley was stirred by the excitement of it all, in spite of herself. She could not help reacting to the general animation which had arisen so suddenly. It frightened her. She felt that it was at moments like these when mistakes were made, but she could feel the exhilaration and her neighbour was quite frankly beside himself with delight.

  There was so much movement going on all round the room that she did not notice that the Attorney-General had left the court. It was Gina who called her attention to the fact.

  ‘Where’s Sir Montague Brooch gone?’ she whispered. ‘A note was brought in to him and he hurried out. Did you see? Where’s Albert Campion? They’ll need him, won’t they? Something’s happening.’

  Miss Curley realized with a shock of self-reproach that the different atmosphere in the court had not registered upon the girl. Gina was concerned only with the truth and the man in the dock. Cousin Alexander’s dexterities had passed her by.

  ‘I don’t notice anything,’ she whispered back, and before she had time to consider the suggestion Cousin Alexander began again.

  ‘We will leave for a moment the question of what you do and do not remember, Mr Rigget,’ he said graciously, ‘what you are sure you heard and what you cannot remember if you heard, and go on to something which happened so short a while ago that I am sure you will have no difficulty in calling it to mind. I put it to you that you visited the strong-room where the deceased was found after office hours on the ninth of this month on the eve of this trial. Did you or did you not?’