The Coroner: ‘Did you hear the shot?’
Mrs Thompson: ‘No, sir—I’m very deaf, sir.’
The Coroner: ‘Did you hear Mrs Mercer scream?’
Mrs Thompson: ‘No, sir, I wouldn’t hear anything like that, not with two doors shut between.’
The Coroner: ‘There were two doors between the kitchen and the hall?’
Mrs Thompson: ‘Yes, sir—the kitchen door and the baize door.’
The Coroner: ‘Mrs Mercer had been with you in the kitchen?’
Mrs Thompson: ‘Yes, sir.’
The Coroner: ‘She says she went upstairs to turn down Mr Everton’s bed. How long had she been gone when the alarm was given?’
Mrs Thompson: ‘I should say it was the best part of five minutes, sir—notany longer.’
The Coroner: ‘There is a point which I would like to have cleared up. Is Alfred Mercer in the court? I would like to recall him for a moment.’
Alfred Mercer recalled.
The Coroner: ‘In all this evidence there has been no mention of Mr Everton’s dinner hour. What was his dinner hour?’
Mercer: ‘Eight to half-past, sir.’
The Coroner: ‘You mean that the hour varied from day to day?’
Mercer: ‘Yes, sir. If it was a fine evening he didn’t like to come in from the garden.’
The Coroner: ‘On this particular evening had he dined?’
Mercer: ‘No, sir. It was ordered for half-past eight.’
The Coroner: ‘I would like to recall Mrs Mercer.’
Mrs Mercer recalled.
The Coroner: ‘On July 16th Mr Everton had ordered his dinner for half-past eight?’
Mrs Mercer: ‘Yes, sir.’
The Coroner: ‘You are the cook?’
Mrs Mercer: ‘Yes, sir.’
The Coroner: ‘Dinner was ordered for half-past eight, yet at a quarter-past eight you went upstairs to turn down his bed. Isn’t that a little unusual?’
Mrs Mercer: ‘Yes, sir. Everything was cold, sir.’
The Coroner: ‘You mean you had no cooking to do?’
Mrs Mercer: ‘No, sir. Everything was ready in the dining-room except for my pudding, which I was keeping on the ice.’
The Coroner: ‘I see. Thank you, Mrs Mercer, that will do. Now, Mrs Thompson, let us get this quite clear. You have sworn that Alfred Mercer was in the kitchen or in the pantry between half-past seven and twenty minutes past eight, which was the time that the alarm was given as near as we can fix it?’
Mrs Thompson: ‘Yes, sir.’
The Coroner: ‘I have here a plan of the house. It bears out your statement that there is no way out of the pantry except through the kitchen. The pantry window, I am told, is barred, so that there would be no egress that way. You swear that you did not leave the kitchen yourself between seven-thirty and eight-twenty?’
Mrs Thompson: ‘Yes, sir.’
The Coroner: ‘You swear that Alfred Mercer did not pass through the kitchen during that time?’
Mrs Thompson: ‘He come into the kitchen, sir. Me being so deaf, he had to come right up to me before I could hear what he said, but he never went through anywhere except back to his pantry.’
The Coroner: ‘I see—you were talking?’
Mrs Thompson: ‘Yes, sir.’
The Coroner: ‘And Mrs Mercer was there all the time until she went to turn down the bed?’
Mrs Thompson: ‘I think she went through to the dining-room once, sir.’
The Coroner: ‘What time was that?’
Mrs Thompson: ‘Somewhere about eight o’clock, sir.’
The Coroner: ‘How long was she away?’
Mrs Thompson: ‘Not above a few minutes, sir.’
The Coroner: ‘Did she seem as usual?’
Mrs Thompson: ‘Well, no, sir, I can’t say she did. Shocking as she was with toothache, poor thing. That’s what Mercer came in to talk to me about said he couldn’t get her to go to the dentist. “And what’s the sense,” he said, “crying your eyes out with pain instead of going and having it out?”’
The Coroner: ‘I see. And Mrs Mercer was crying with her toothache?’
Mrs Thompson: ‘All the time, poor thing.’
That finished with Mrs Thompson.
SIX
THERE WAS MEDICAL evidence, there was police evidence, there was evidence about the will. The medical evidence said that James Everton had died at once. He had been shot through the left temple. The police surgeon had arrived at a quarter to nine. He said that in his opinion Mr Everton could not have moved after he was shot. He certainly could not have dropped the pistol where Mr Grey said he had found it, neither could he have thrown it there. He must have fallen forward and died at once. The shot had been fired from a distance of at least a yard, probably more. This, together with the absence of his finger-marks on the pistol, made suicide out of the question. The exact time of death was always difficult to determine, but there was nothing to contradict the evidence of his having been alive at eight o’clock.
The Coroner: ‘He might have been dead as long as three-quarters of an hour when you first saw him?’
‘It is possible.’
The Coroner: ‘Not longer?’
‘I should say not longer, but it is difficult to place these things exactly.’
The Coroner: ‘He might have been alive as late as twenty past eight?’
‘Oh, yes.’
There was more of this sort of thing. In the upshot it seemed to Hilary that the medical evidence left them just where they were as far as the time question went. Medically speaking, James Everton might have been shot at twenty past eight, when the Mercers said they heard the shot, or at any time between then and eight o’clock when he had talked to Geoffrey on the telephone. The police said the front door was locked and bolted when they arrived, and that all the windows on the ground floor were fastened with the exception of the dining-room windows, which were open at the top. They were very heavy sash windows and not at all easy to move.
Mrs Thompson, recalled, said that neither Mercer nor Mrs Mercer went near any of the doors or windows after the alarm was given. Mercer went into the study, and when he had made sure that Mr Everton was dead he went to the telephone, but Mr Grey took the receiver from him and called up the police himself. Mrs Mercer sat down on the bottom step of the stairs and cried ‘something dreadful’. She was quite sure that nobody interfered with any doors or windows.
The Coroner addressed the jury, and from beginning to end it was perfectly clear that he believed that Geoffrey had shot his uncle.
‘We have here a household like hundreds of other well-to-do households. Mr James Everton was a chartered accountant, the sole partner in an old-established firm. His nephew, Mr Geoffrey Grey, was associated with the business, and he has told us that he expected to be made a partner. Until his marriage a year ago he lived with his uncle at Solway Lodge, Putney. The domestic staff consisted of Alfred Mercer, and his wife and a daily help of the name of Ashley, who has not been called as it was her habit to leave at six o’clock. The Mercers agree that she left at this hour on the day in question. Mrs Thompson, however, was in the house, having been invited to supper by the Mercers. Mrs Thompson is Sir John Blakeney’s housekeeper and lives at Sudbury House, which is the next house to Solway Lodge. She has lived there for twenty-five years. You have heard her evidence. I need not labour its importance. If you believe Mrs Thompson—and there is no reason to disbelieve her—it is quite impossible for Alfred Mercer to have left the kitchen during the time under review. She says he came and went between the kitchen and the pantry, where he was cleaning silver, but that he never at any time left the kitchen premises. It is quite impossible that he should have done so without her seeing him. If, therefore, you believe Mrs Thompson’s evidence, no suspicion rests on Alfred Mercer. At twenty past eight, as he has told you, he heard the sound of a shot and his wife’s scream. He then ran out into the hall, where he found Mrs Mercer in a terrible state. He tried the st
udy door and found it locked. Mr Grey then opened it from the inside. He had a pistol in his hand, and Mr Everton was lying dead across his desk. Mrs Thompson, who followed Alfred Mercer, corroborates this, but as she is very deaf she did not hear either the shot or the scream. I think you may take it that no suspicion rests upon Alfred Mercer.
‘We will now take Mrs Thompson’s evidence with regard to his wife. Mrs Mercer did leave the kitchen twice, once “round about eight o’clock”. Mrs Thompson cannot put it nearer than that, and she says that the absence was not “above two or three minutes”. Mr and Mrs Grey have both sworn to hearing Mr Everton’s voice on the telephone at eight o’clock. In this respect you can, I think, receive their evidence. I see no reason to doubt that Mr Grey came to Solway Lodge that evening in response to a telephone call from his uncle, or that that call was put through, as he states, at eight o’clock. I think you may, therefore, dismiss this absence of Mrs Mercer’s as immaterial. She says she went through the dining-room with some plates, and there is no reason to doubt what she says.
‘I would like you now to pay particular attention to Mrs Mercer’s second absence. Shortly after a quarter past eight she again left the kitchen, with the avowed intention of arranging Mr Everton’s room for the night. This might at first sight appear a suspicious circumstance, since the cook is not usually free to attend to upstairs duties during the quarter of an hour immediately preceding what is the principal meal of the day for a business man. Her explanation that owing to the hot weather a cold supper had been ordered and was already set out in the dining-room is confirmed by the police. They also state that Mr Everton’s bed had in fact been turned down. Now I want you to notice the time element very carefully here. If you suspect Mrs Mercer, you must suppose that she went upstairs, performed her duties there, and came down again, bringing with her the pistol which Mr Grey swears he left behind when he moved from Solway Lodge a year ago, but of which she and her husband deny any knowledge. Well, you have to suppose that she had loaded that pistol and brought it downstairs, that she then entered the study and without further ado shot her employer. You have to imagine her locking the door, wiping her finger-prints off the handle—no prints were found upon it but those of Mr Grey—wiping her finger-prints off the pistol—only Mr Grey’s finger-prints were found there—and then making her escape by way of the glass door. To do all this she had under five minutes, and she had still to get back into the house. If you can believe that this nervous, hysterical woman could first plan and commit a cold-blooded murder, and then coolly remove all traces of her complicity, you are still faced with the problem of how she got back into the house. The front door was locked and bolted, and all the windows on the ground floor were fastened with the exception of the two in the dining-room, which were open at the top. The police report that it is impossible to raise the lower half of these windows from the outside. The back door was also locked. Mrs Thompson is positive that the key was turned after she was admitted. The police found it locked. I have gone into all this in detail because I wish to make it quite clear that Mrs Mercer is not under suspicion. In spite of her absence from the kitchen at the crucial time, it was, as I think I have shown you, a physical impossibility for her to have committed the crime and got back into the house. The study door remained locked until Mr Grey opened it from the inside. He has himself testified that the key was sticking in the lock. Mrs Mercer could not have come through that door and left it locked upon the inside.
‘We will now turn to the evidence of Mr Bertram Everton. I need not point out to you the importance of this evidence. Mr Bertram Everton has sworn that when he dined with his uncle on the evening of Monday, July 15th, Mr James Everton informed him that he was about to change his will. He conveyed this impression in terms which Mr Bertram Everton understood to mean that he himself was to be a beneficiary. I will read you a transcript from the shorthand notes of this part of the evidence.
‘ “Did he tell you he was making a will in your favour?”
‘ “Well, not exactly.”
‘ “What did he say?”
‘ “Well, if you really want to know, he said that if he’d got to choose between a smooth-tongued hypocrite and a damned tomfool, he’d choose the fool.”
‘ “And you took that reference to yourself?”
‘ “Well, it seemed to point that way.”
‘ “You took it to mean that he was about to execute a will in your favour?”
‘ “Well, I didn’t think he’d do it, don’t you know? I just thought he’d had a row with Geoffrey.”
‘ “Did he tell you so?”
‘ “No—I just got the impression.”
‘Now this evidence is borne out by the ascertained facts. It is a fact that on the morning of the sixteenth—that is, the morning after this conversation with Mr Bertram Everton—Mr James Everton sent for his solicitor and altered his will. You have had Mr Blackett’s evidence. He stated that he had received instructions on the telephone to bring Mr Everton’s will to Solway Lodge immediately. He found his client very far from well. In his view Mr Everton had received some severe shock. He has described him to you as neither excited nor angry, but pale, subdued, and highly nervous. His hand was shaking, and he did not appear to have slept. Without explanation he tore the old will across and burned it in the open grate. The principal legatee under this old will was Mr Geoffrey Grey. There were also legacies to Mrs Grey, to Mr Francis Everton, and to Mr and Mrs Mercer. Having burned the will, Mr Everton instructed Mr Blackett to draw up a new one. In this new will Mr Geoffrey Grey’s name does not appear. Neither Mrs Grey nor Mr Francis Everton receive any legacy. The bequests to the Mercers are unaltered, and the remainder of the property goes to Mr Bertram Everton. You will notice that this corresponds exactly with the impression conveyed to him by his uncle’s remarks of the evening before.
‘In a murder case suspicion is apt to be attached to the person who benefits most largely by the death. In this case, however, no suspicion falls on Mr Bertram Everton, who, perhaps fortunately for himself, was in Edinburgh at the time of the murder, and was moreover without a motive, because even if he understood his uncle to have the intention of making a will in his favour, he could not in fact have known that such a will had actually been signed. Statements of employees of the Caledonian Hotel, Edinburgh, confirm his presence there at a late breakfast, at lunch, at round about three o’clock, at something after four, at eight-thirty p.m. on the 16th, and at nine a.m. on the 17th. It is therefore quite impossible to connect him with the crime.
‘We now come to Mr Geoffrey Grey’s evidence. He denies any quarrel with his uncle or any knowledge of any reason for the alteration of his uncle’s will. Yet Mr James Everton did alter his will. According to Mr Blackett’s evidence he altered it in deep distress of mind. When the new will had been drawn up he drove to his bank accompanied by Mr Blackett. He signed his new will in the manager’s room with the manager and one of the bank clerks as a witness. I invite your attention to this point because it makes it quite clear that Mr Everton was not under duress of any kind—he was acting of his own free will. He had cut one nephew out of his will, and had left all his property to another, yet the nephew who was cut out, Mr Geoffrey Grey, has sworn that he knew of no reason for this. He has sworn that there was no break in his cordial relations with his uncle.
‘Let us proceed with his evidence. He says his uncle rang him up on the evening of July 16th. Mrs Grey confirms this. There is no reason to disbelieve either of them at this point. The telephone bell rang, and Mr Grey was summoned to Solway Lodge. He says the terms of this summons were affectionate. Only a few hours had passed since Mr Everton had in great trouble of mind cut him out of his will, yet he swears that the summons was an affectionate and friendly one. He swears that when he arrived at Solway Lodge he found his uncle dead, and the pistol which killed him lying by the open glass door. He picked it up, heard Mrs Mercer scream, and going to the door, found it locked, with the key on the inside. He unloc
ked it, and saw the Mercers in the hall.’
Hilary stopped reading. Geoff—poor Geoff! It was so absolutely damning. What could you do with evidence like that? What could any jury do? They were only out of the room ten minutes, not for one moment of those ten minutes could anyone have doubted their verdict would be—wilful murder against Geoffrey Grey.
Hilary closed the file. She hadn’t the heart to read any more. The trial was only the same thing over again—the evidence more strictly controlled, but the same evidence; the speeches longer; the facts equally damning. She had read it all at the time. The jury had been out half an hour instead of ten minutes. They brought in the same verdict:
Wilful murder against Geoffrey Grey.
SEVEN
THE SITTING-ROOM clock struck three. Hilary was asleep, her head tilted against the back of the chair, the file still heavy across her knees. The light stared down at her and took all the colour out of her wet face. The birds and flowers of Marion’s chintz were bright, but Hilary was pale and very deeply asleep. The light shone on her closed eyelids without reaching her. One moment she was there, full of trouble for Geoffrey and for Marion, and then quite suddenly one of those doors in the long, smooth wall of her city of sleep had opened and let her through.
She came into a queer place. It was a very queer place indeed, a long dark passage running crooked all the way, and because she was in a dream the darkness did not prevent her from seeing the walls of the passage, and they were all made of black looking-glass. She could see herself reflected in them, and two Hilarys walking one on either side of her. In the dream that seemed quite natural and comforting, but when she had gone a little way the reflections began to change, not all at once, but slowly, slowly, slowly, until the two who walked with her were not Hilary, but two strangers. She could not see who they were, but she knew that they were strangers. If she could have turned her head she would have been able to see, but she couldn’t turn her head. A cold fear gripped the back of her neck and held it rigid. Something in her began to feel like a lost child and not wanting to dream this dream any more. Something in her melted, and wept, and cried for Henry, because in her dream she had forgotten about Henry’s Atrocious Behaviour and only remembered that he wouldn’t let anything hurt her.
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