Flowers For the Judge (27 page)

Cousin Alexander, looking tremendously important and more handsome than any man over fifty has any right to be in his immaculate wig and bands, was rustling his papers, conferring with his juniors and polishing his glasses with a great flourish of the topmost handkerchief.

‘…
Let me take the next stage. Doctor Ferdie arrives. He agrees with Doctor Roe as to the cause of death and together these two men make a very careful autopsy
…’

The delightful voice played over the unpleasant words, giving them just sufficient emphasis. Miss Curley found herself listening with detached interest. At the inquest the central figure had been the dead man, but here Mike had taken his place and the story was told afresh from a new angle.

It occurred to Miss Curley, who had known Paul and had been amused by him, that he was easily the least important person in the whole story and that his personality alone did not emerge in the dreadful résumé of the manner of his dying. She could not see the public gallery and even if she
had
been able she would not have recognized Teddie Dell.

‘…
Inspector Tanner visited the strong-room where you have heard the body lay and, after making a careful survey of the room and its environs, discovered a most ingenious device, of which he will tell you
…’

Miss Curley, having located Doctors Ferdie and Roe in the benches behind the solicitors’ table, was looking about for Inspector Tanner in the seats behind her when a large elderly man at her side turned round and, seeing her placid friendly face, whispered huskily

‘Makes you think, don’t he? I remember him in a stuff gown.’

Miss Curley gave the remark the conventional smile it needed and wondered who he was. There were a great many people in the benches whom she had never seen before, and next time the stranger confided his admiration of Counsel to her with a muttered, ‘What a way with him!’ she ventured to whisper back.

‘Are you a witness?’

‘No. Come in to watch.’

He did not volunteer any information concerning the method by which he had obtained a seat and Miss Curley eyed his pleasant face, whose only striking feature was enormous eyebrows, covertly and reflected that it was difficult to generalize and that he was not at all the type she would have suspected of morbid curiosity.

Meanwhile Sir Montague had spoken for the best part of an hour and his gentle voice was apologizing to Judge and Jury.

‘…
I have little more to say now. You will hear in detail every part of the tragic and abominable story I have outlined to you. But there are a few points which I should like to put into your minds at this stage. It is usual to look for a motive in any crime and, although in this case you will not find a motive which you, or I, I hope, would think adequate, I think you will see that it is more than possible that the accused had a motive sufficient for him. I must admit to you that the Crown has no direct evidence of immoral relations between the murdered man’s wife and the accused. It may be that when you see Mrs Brande you will decide that she is not the
sort
of woman whose principles are those which would permit her to stoop to that sort of irregularity, but you will hear on her own submission that she was a neglected wife, and the accused has admitted in his statement, which I have read to you, that he was in the habit of spending much of his time with her and that in fact at the very moment when, as I shall prove to you, her husband was lying dead in a basement room in the house next door, he took her to a cinema, bringing her back afterwards to the flat which she shared with her husband and returning immediately, I have no doubt, to his own home in the same building
.

‘
You will also hear from Mrs Austin, the honest woman who attended to Mrs Brande’s household work, of the scene which she witnessed when the accused came to break the news of Paul Brande’s death to Mrs Brande
.

‘
Mrs Austin came into the room to find them on the hearthrug, “clinging together”, as she so graphically puts it. You may feel that this is not evidence of immoral relations and I would reiterate that the Crown does not allege immoral relations, but it does insist that there was deep friendship between the accused and Mrs Brande, dating over a period of some years and increasing in intensity as Mrs Brande’s husband increased in his neglect
.

‘
At what point, if any, a deep affection cherished by a young and virile man for a beautiful and virtuous woman some years his junior may grow into an overwhelming passion, in the grip of which his moral fibre is broken down utterly, it is for you to consider. The Crown is not dealing with conjecture. The Crown merely contends that a deep affection was entertained by the accused for Mrs Brande
.

‘
Mrs Brande will tell you that she had visited a solicitor some days before her husband’s death and had learned from him that there was no way open to her to obtain a divorce save through her husband’s cruelty or through his co-operation. She will also tell you that the accused knew nothing of this, and indeed that he had no idea that any such project had entered her head. You must believe what you see to be the truth. If you believe that a deep friendship existed between these two you may think that it is improbable, even impossible, that any woman should keep such an important matter from such an intimate friend who saw her every day. If there was nothing but friendship between them, why should she hide it? If
there
was more, might it not have been even at the accused’s suggestion that she approached the solicitor?

‘
However, you will hear that Mr Brande would not consider a divorce and that it was to discuss this very matter, and to make his strong views known to his wife, that he had arranged to meet her on the very evening that he met his death, an appointment which he never kept
…’

Miss Curley stirred in her seat. Gina was rigid, her cheeks pallid and her lips compressed. A woman in the gallery craned her neck to catch a glimpse of her.

Gradually the speech came to an end. The Attorney-General’s voice had never lost its gentle and impartial reasonableness and now it became even more soothing, even more deferential than before.

‘
It has been necessary to address you at this length because you must know exactly what the facts are in this story, the burden of which the Crown will attempt to prove. If you feel, as I feel you must, that the evidence leads you to the conclusion beyond all reasonable doubt that this man, in order to marry his cousin’s wife, did kill his cousin on the night of January the twenty-eighth in this year, you will have no hesitation in doing your duty
.

‘
If, however, you find there is insufficient direct evidence to make you so sure, and that you have a reasonable doubt, then again you will have no hesitation in doing y our duty
.

‘
The case is a difficult one. All the Crown will do is to set out the facts on which you must rely. This is not a case in which you will be concerned with any possible verdicts such as manslaughter. A murder has been done and it is for you to decide if it was committed by the accused. If it was, if the Crown proves to you, as I believe it will, that this man did what he is charged with doing, then it is a crime utterly foul and unpardonable. His cousin had done him no wrong. At worst he had neglected his own wife. And yet, if you so find it, he sent him slowly and insidiously to his death with a callousness which no rigour of the law can equal
.

‘
If you think it is fairly proved against this man that he so murdered his cousin, then it will be your duty to send him to his account
.’

He paused, bowed to the Judge, and sat down.

And then, while the court was still tingling, a police
photographer
bobbed up in the Punch and Judy witness box, and began to testify as to photographs taken in connection with the crime.

A surveyor had taken his place and was painfully describing the survey of the ground floors and garden of Twenty-three and Twenty-one which he had made, and had produced plans and had sworn to them, when Miss Gurley’s neighbour turned to her.

‘Shan’t come back. Nothing more of interest to-day. Fireworks to-morrow,’ he confided in a warm whisper. ‘They’ll adjourn in a minute.’

‘Adjourn?’ murmured Miss Gurley, who already saw Mike on the scaffold. ‘What for?’

Her neighbour gaped at her as at a lunatic.

‘Lunch, of course,’ he said.

RITCHIE WAS STANDING
in the huge multi-coloured marble hall at the Old Bailey, which had the smell of a public library and was full of people who talked together with that peculiar excited anxiety almost always reserved for other people’s troubles, when Mr Campion found him and led him on one side.

He was obviously shaken by the experience of the morning and it was some time before Campion, who was tired, could be sure that he was getting his full attention.

‘There won’t be anything more of interest to-day,’ Campion repeated slowly and with emphasis. ‘I want you to come away with me now and give me a hand. It’s important.’

‘Leave the court?’ said Ritchie, his gentle eyes blinking at his friend.

‘Yes, if you would.’ Mr Campion was very patient.
‘I’ve
seen Sir Alexander and Miss Curley will look after Gina. Are you coming?’

The sweet air, or it may have been the sweet freedom of Newgate Street, revived Ritchie’s powers of speech. He strode along to the car park talking with what was for him lucidity and volubility.

‘Awful, Campion!’ he shouted. ‘Ghastly! Jolly things like fancy dress, boxes for seats, coloured robes and policemen all made horrible and frightening. Like a serious harlequinade. Mike’s grey. Hair’s grey. Two men in delightful clothes arguing for his life. Like a game … rules … places to stand. Felt ill. Sick. Wanted to spew. Frightened, Campion.’

The young man in the horn-rimmed spectacles was silent. The project he had in hand was a delicate one and he required co-operation. It seemed to him best in the circumstances to allow Ritchie’s startled wits to reassort themselves without assistance.

As they climbed into the car and waited to slip out into the slothful stream of traffic Ritchie sighed and shook himself.

‘Like a dream,’ he said. ‘Absurd, like a dream. They’ll hang him, Campion. That fellow with the voice is cleverer than Cousin Alexander. That’s what counts.’

By the time they reached Ludgate Hill he was better and his companion, recognizing in him a worried edition of his normal self, thought it safe to broach the subject in hand.

‘You get on very well with Mrs Peel, don’t you?’ he inquired.

‘John’s housekeeper? Known her for years. Nice old body. Why?’

‘She doesn’t like me,’ explained Campion regretfully. ‘She didn’t like to trust me in the flat. Afraid I was going to pinch the ormolu clock with the china figures. That’s why I had to come and get hold of you.’

He paused and concentrated on his driving, wondering how far Ritchie’s perception would lead him and with what results.

The elder man did not seem to perceive at all. He
acquiesced
quietly and they drove on in silence. It was warm and sunny when they arrived at the cul-de-sac and Twenty-one seemed to be deserted. Twenty-three was not closed but there was little sign of activity and the Morris sign of the Golden Quiver swung disconsolately in the light breeze.

‘Mrs Peel,’ remarked Mr Campion as he sprang out of the car and came round to help Ritchie with the door, whose simple mechanism had defeated him, ‘thinks I am (
a
) a thief and (
b
) the police. You are coming with me to dispel both these delusions. Do you think you can do it?’

‘Dear good intelligent woman,’ Ritchie observed, apparently in answer to the question. ‘Kind. Always liked her.’

She stood in the dark entrance hall of John’s flat when they presented themselves at the door a few minutes later and surveyed them with belligerent beady eyes, like some large elderly beetle surprised in its tree-trunk home.

She had a harsh unpleasing voice and when she said, ‘Back again?’ Mr Campion could not help feeling some of the shame which she intended to stir in him.

Ritchie stood looking at her helplessly for a moment and then, either by accident or design, achieved a masterstroke.

‘No lunch, Peely … cocoa … bread and butter … anything,’ he murmured. ‘Campion and me, tired, hungry, want to sit down.’

Mrs Peel led the way into the dining-room, grumbling as she went. Her brown serge dress hitched at the back, revealing untidy ankles, but her sparse hair was groomed and dressed to a neatness which suggested that each separate strand knew its duty in emergency and was determined to make up for its scarcity of companions.

As they sat waiting for food at the heavy mahogany table in the dark book-lined room with the thick curtains and half-drawn venetian blinds, Mr Barnabas made a very curious remark.

‘Pity about the food, Campion. Know how you feel. Old shibboleth, though. Couldn’t be helped.’

Mr Campion’s eyebrows rose and he shot his friend a
single
penetrating glance which completely destroyed for an instant the habitual vacuity of his expression, but Ritchie said no more and presently rose from his chair and opened a window, which Mrs Peel promptly closed as soon as she returned with bread, butter, gorgonzola and two cups of weak unpalatable cocoa.

‘That two grown men with money in their pockets can’t look after their creature comforts in a town of this size is extraordinary,’ she remarked angrily, but as she looked only at Ritchie as she spoke, Mr Campion realized with relief that he was accepted, if ignored.

He even ate the horrible meal, Mrs Peel waiting upon him as if he had been a six-year-old, buttering his bread and cutting him small chunks of odoriferous cheese.

‘Been to the trial,’ Ritchie mumbled into his cocoa cup.

Mrs Peel made an indignant sound like a French railway engine.