Flowers For the Judge (32 page)

‘My Lord’ – the beautiful voice was a little thin – ‘in view of certain circumstances which have arisen, and of which I understand Your Lordship is already aware, it is the intention of the prosecution to call no further evidence.’

Before the words were finally out of his mouth, Cousin Alexander was on his feet beside him. Even in that moment of bewilderment it flashed through Miss Gurley’s mind that his agility was extraordinary for his age and weight. An usher signalled Mr Rigget out of the box, and was too startled to notice whether he obeyed.

‘My Lord,’ said Cousin Alexander, ‘in view of my learned friend’s decision, it is my duty to demand a verdict from the jury.’

Mr Rigget was still in the box, forgotten and too terrified to move.

The Lord Chief Justice cleared his throat and tapped gently with his eye-glasses upon the vivid sleeve of his robe.

‘Yes, Sir Alexander,’ he said in a quiet unemotional voice which temporarily robbed, for Miss Curley at least,
his
words of their momentous meaning. ‘I think that is a very proper request.’

He turned to the jury, where they sat gaping at him like a double row of somebody’s stupid relations and addressed them simply.

‘Members of the jury, as you have just heard, certain circumstances have arisen which have caused the prosecution to decide to call no further evidence in this case. That means the Crown does not press the charge against the accused. Therefore it is my duty to direct you to find the prisoner not guilty and to acquit him of the charges which have been brought against him. Do you understand?’

There was a mutter in the jury box, too confused and hasty to be dignified by the word ‘consultation’, and the foreman stumbled to his feet with a nervous nod.

‘We have – I mean we do, my Lord. Not guilty, my Lord.’

As the jury writhed and murmured, overcome with delight and relief, the Judge addressed the prisoner. Mike rose stiffly to his feet. He looked young, broken, and inexpressibly alone in the great bare dock. The Judge’s voice was very kind.

‘Michael Wedgwood, you have been found not guilty of the charges brought against you. You may go.’

The young man stood quite still. The whispering around him turned into a roar, and Cousin Alexander hurried over to him.

‘’Struth,’ said the man next to Miss Curley, as they rose while the Judge made his stately exit, his flowers in his hand, ‘what’s happened now?’

Gina clutched Curley’s arm.

‘I want to get out!’ she said wildly. ‘I want to get out!’

Miss Curley put her arm round Gina’s shoulders and they were swept by an excited throng to the doorway. Mike was surrounded, she saw, and it occurred to her that it would be better if the two young people did not leave the court together.

What’s happened? Why? What’s happened? The question overtopped all the other crowding thoughts racing
through
her bewildered mind. Mike free – no need for Gina to give evidence – what’s happened? – where are they all? – what’s happened?

Over her shoulder she had her last glimpse of the court, the empty bench, the sword, the coats-of-arms, the excited throng, wigs, bands and silk gowns shining in the sunlight under the dome, and the witness box with Mr Rigget still inside it, peeping out like a bewildered green parrot in a cage.

What’s happened?

They came out into Newgate Street, running almost, with the weight of the crowd behind them. The sun shone in their eyes and the hubbub of the traffic surged about them.

What’s happened? With the return from the slightly Alice in Wonderland atmosphere of the court to the sturdy matter-of-factness of a London afternoon the question became urgent.

‘What’s happened?’ The words themselves were on her lips when Gina stopped abruptly on the pavement. ‘Look!’ she said huskily.

An old man in a ragged raincoat, who wore three out-of-date hospital flags in his cap, was leaning against a brilliant pillar-box, an apron of newspaper bills slung round his waist.

Miss Gurley’S Eyes let her down. She took the paper the old man proffered her and fumbled with it blindly.

‘What’s happened?’

Gina’s voice sounded very harsh and far away.

Miss Gurley was aware of a red, unshaven Cockney face and two very bright sparrow eyes looking at her with kindly curiosity.

‘There it is, lady, right on the first page. It happened this morning, but trust the perlice to keep it dark until they
knoo
what was what. “John Widdowson, cousin of the man on trial, found dead.” Look, Ma,
there
.’

Miss Curley did not speak. She was staring through the paper and her shoulders shook a little.

‘Found dead in ’is bath, killed the same way as the other bloke was with carbin monoxide gas. ’Ousekeeper found ’im.’

The paper-seller supplied the details out of pure kindness of heart.

‘Suicide,’ said Gina, and drew a long breath.

‘Very likely,’ agreed the old man, politely non-committal. ‘But it looks to me as if the perlice thought it was murder. What price the case for the prosecution now? Get you a taxi, lady?’

IT WAS NEARLY
dark in the hallway at Twenty-one when Mike came home. He was alone. Because of John’s death there was a man on the outside door and reporters, friends and sightseers were temporarily kept at bay.

He came slowly down the passage, feeling for his second key. His lean figure did not droop, but some of the dignity of his ordeal still clung to him, and he looked unapproachable, like a man in great grief.

As he paused to open the door a shadow detached itself from the darkness of the first half-landing and came slowly down to meet him. It was Gina.

She looked smaller and thinner than when he remembered her, and her old quiet self-assurance had gone, leaving her pretty and young but not a commanding personality.

‘Hallo, Mike,’ she said.

He paused and looked at her awkwardly, wishing she had not come.

‘Hallo, Gina.’

There was a painful silence, and she stood on the bottom step, hesitating.

‘I’m glad you’re free.’

‘Thank you.’

There was another gap, and he felt weary and very glad he could not see her face.

‘It’s terrible about John.’ Her voice had a quiver in it, and, because he could not bear any more emotion and because he felt sick and so flat that the Day of Judgment might have come and he been overlooked, he snubbed her.

‘Quite terrible,’ he said over his shoulder, and he bent to unlock the door.

He did not step inside instantly, but turned back apologetically. She was in the passage and the light from the door caught her face.

‘I’m tired, old girl,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Hopelessly tired.’ He went in and shut the door. The girl went quietly upstairs.

On the threshold of his sitting-room Mike stopped abruptly. Mr Campion was sitting there alone.

‘Have a drink?’ he suggested, raising a glass.

Without a word the newcomer helped himself from a decanter and siphon on the elbow-table and accepted a cigarette. He did not speak until he was seated and had half finished his glass. Then he looked at his friend, and a hint of the old lazy humour returned to his eyes.

‘What a mess,’ he said.

Mr Campion stretched himself.

‘The best possible thing in a way,’ he murmured deprecatingly. ‘We couldn’t have brought him to trial, poor chap, even if we’d felt like it.’

‘Alexander’s been telling me.’ Mike shook his grey-black head. ‘I was in a bedroom at his club, hiding from newspaper men, while he was talking to you. Poor old chap! He seems quite cut up. I think he’d been looking forward
to
his speech in my defence. I was sorry I missed you, but I’ve heard all about the
Gallivant
and the fire-escape and –’

‘– the ever-open door,’ murmured Mr Campion. ‘But I forgot, you don’t know about that. John was a difficult chap. This was the best way.’

‘It was suicide, wasn’t it?’ Mike put the question anxiously. ‘Cousin Alexander struck me as being a trifle reticent on that point. What happened exactly? How did he die?’

Mr Campion sipped his whisky.

‘At nine o’clock this morning,’ he said, ‘John turned on the bath in his flat, locking the door probably out of force of habit, although he was alone in the apartment. Mrs. Peel had been called out, so he had to light the geyser himself. The window wouldn’t open – stuck or something – and he was shut in with that awful old brass death-trap, one of the first geysers ever produced, I should think. Water takes off the stink of carbon monoxide, you know, and very little of the beastly stuff can do you in. Anyway, when Mrs Peel returned at about eleven o’clock she found the door still locked and, getting no reply to her knock, she got the janitor up and they forced the door open. John was in the bath, his head under water. He had passed out with the gas and slipped under. Actually he was drowned.’

Mike sat up and passed his hand wearily over his forehead.

‘It sounds like an accident to me,’ he said. ‘How did I – I mean, how did it affect me?’

Mr Campion blinked at him.

‘Mrs Peel had the presence of mind not to raise a general alarm. She phoned Tanner and he came hareing round to find that the vent-pipe on the geyser had been bunged up with a towel. You can reach it quite easily from the fire-escape. From one or two other things Tanner began to suspect he’d made a mistake. Very soon he was quite sure he had. I had a little yarn to tell him which had a bearing on the case, and finally he did the necessary. The police don’t want to convict the innocent, you know; that’s the one thing they say their prayers about.’

‘What an extraordinary way to commit suicide,’ said Mike. ‘I suppose John thought it was self-explanatory, since he left no note.’

Mr Campion nodded absently. There were one or two points which he had no intention of mentioning at the moment. One of them was that the bathroom window had been wedged from the outside and another that the telegram which had summoned Mrs Peel to her married daughter’s untelephonable house in East Putney had not been sent by the lady whose name appeared as its signature.

Mike leaned back and closed his eyes.

‘It’s true, Campion,’ he said. ‘The awful thing is that it’s not a nightmare. It’s happened.’

‘Let’s clear off,’ said Campion unexpectedly. ‘Let’s go abroad. Miss Curley is cut up now, but she’ll get over it and running the office will – er – take her mind off things. Besides, you’ve got some good men. A personal telephone call to each author will keep the business sweeter than anything; that’s one thing authors do understand, the desire for solitude.’

A flicker of interest appeared in Mike’s eyes.

‘It wouldn’t be bad.’

‘I’ll hold you to it,’ said Campion. ‘Going to stay here alone now?’

‘No. Jimmy Bengers was in court. He came up to me after the trial and suggested he should come round this evening. Know him?’

‘The golfer?’

‘That’s him. He’ll be here at any minute now. Good chap, Jimmy. Understands how to shut up. I’ve known him all my life. Ritchie will roll in too, I expect. I suppose someone’s told the poor old beggar about everything?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Mr Campion vaguely. ‘I say, I think I’ll go now. I’ve got one or two things to look into. I’ll phone you in the morning.’

He left Mike in the arm-chair and had the satisfaction of passing Mr James Bengers in the outside hall. That large young man had a straw-covered bottle in one hand a
hamper
in the other and a hastily caught up toothbrush peeping shyly from his breast pocket.

Mr Campion nodded to the man on duty and pushed his way through the crowd on the pavement. Afterwards he went down to Scotland Yard and stayed there for some time, talking to Superintendent Stanislaus Oates, an old friend who had much that was interesting to tell him.

It was just after ten when he returned at last to Bottle Street, and was met by Lugg in the hall of the flat. Lugg was wearing his collar, a certain portent of strange company, and Campion’s heart sank. Lugg was indignant.

‘Bloomin’ ex-rozzer,’ he murmured in an all too-audible undertone. ‘Old Beth’s bad enough for one week and all right in ’is way, but this chap’s never bin more than a
sergeant
. Can’t get rid of ’im. You ’ave a try.’

Had Miss Curley been with Mr Campion as he entered the sitting-room she would have recognized the visitor immediately. Mr Campion saw a large oldish ex-policeman with a round red face and very bushy eyebrows, who rose as he appeared and grinned at him in a fashion both shy and friendly.

‘Mr Campion, I presume?’ he said. ‘I’m Mr Livingstone, late of the Met-ro-politan Police. You’ll have to excuse me calling on you so late in the evening, but I’m off on the six-forty back to Norwich to-morrow.’

The mention of the Norfolk town brought a great light to Mr Campion, and to Lugg’s disgust he shook the newcomer’s hand warmly.

‘This is an Act of God,’ he said. ‘You’re the man I want to see. Higgleton sent you, I suppose?’

‘Yes.’ Mr Livingstone sat down again and accepted the drink Campion offered him. ‘Old Charlie Higgleton and me are what you’d call friends, although we don’t see much of each other now I’ve retired. On the quiet, I came up for the trial,’ he added confidentially. ‘I like to keep in touch with old times, as it were, and when I see a certain firm was implicated, in which I was interested because of a funny thing which happened in the past, I said to my wife, “I’ll have to go and see that.” And so I came.’

‘Did you get in?’

Mr Livingstone drooped a heavy eyelid.

‘There’s ways and means.’ he said darkly, ‘naming no names, of course. But we – er – we –’ he hesitated.

‘Old blues?’ suggested Mr Campion affably.

Mr Livingstone beamed.

‘Exactly. We police, we stick together and remember old pals. The end come as a real shock to me this afternoon. I thought the youngster was for it.’

He looked at Campion inquiringly, but his host did not rise to the implied question, and after a pause he continued.