Trial and Error (27 page)

“Why did he wish to do this? Was it to throw it into the river as he had thrown the bullet? I think not. The revolver, which he still believed to be Palmer's, was left behind in a drawer when he went on his cruise abroad. It could be produced if and when it was needed. What was the object of this manoeuvering? The accused has told us that he knew nothing about firearms. Is it not then probable that he knew nothing of the numbering of firearms? That he was totally ignorant that every rifle, every revolver carries its own distinctive number, by which it can always be identified without possibility of error or disguise?

“I suggest that the idea in his mind, when he thought he was making the exchange of revolvers, was that Palmer's revolver should be mistaken afterwards for his, and his for Palmer's. Neither you nor I would be likely to make such an error; but I submit that it is exactly the kind of blunder which a recluse, a man of letters, a man totally ignorant of everything that concerns firearms would make.

“What then might have been the reason for this exchange of revolvers that the accused tried to make? If my explanation is right, it would be that there was something incriminating about Palmer's revolver, and equally, something innocent about his own. What could that have been? It could not be anything to do with the markings on the bullet, for that had been disposed of. I suggest it was the damning fact that Palmer's revolver had been recently fired and the accused's had not. That, and that alone, in my submission is the only possible explanation of this mysterious attempt at exchanging revolvers. To suggest, as the accused does, that the object was to plant incriminating evidence upon the very family with whom he was so friendly and whom he wished so much to protect, is simply to strike the word ‘psychology' out of the dictionary—it would mean nothing.”

Mr Todhunter stifled a groan. This was terrible, terrible. It had been a mistake to let the man come here; a mistake that might well prove fatal. Who could help being convinced by such diabolical ingenuity?

But there was even worse to come.

Mr Bairns was now addressing the judge.

“My lord, as I have explained, I have no standing in this case at all. I am here only by the indulgence of the other parties. In consequence I have not asked for the extended privilege either of cross-examining witnesses other than the accused or of calling any evidence of a rebutting nature. But I think that the object in the mind of every person now in this court—with, I am compelled to add, possibly one exception—is to get at the truth and that only.

“I wish therefore to make a request which your lordship will realise is highly irregular at this stage. I would ask first your lordship's indulgence and after that the permission of my learned friends on both sides to recall one witness who has already appeared, Detective Sergeant Mathers, and then to call two witnesses of my own. I would not make such a request did I not feel that the one or two questions I wish to put to these witnesses would not establish a fact, not yet before the Court, of such significance that it may well solve this baffling riddle by itself.”

The judge stroked his lean old cheek. “You assure me that this evidence is as important as that?”

“I do, my lord.”

“Very well. What does Sir Ernest Prettiboy say?”

Sir Ernest Prettiboy was in a dilemma, but he could hardly proclaim himself as one not anxious to get at the truth.

“I have no objection at all, my lord.”

“And you, Mr Jamieson?”

Mr Jamieson was whispering to his client over the dock rail. He turned back to the judge.

“My client welcomes any evidence that my learned friend would care to bring. Like the rest of us, he is anxious to serve the ends of justice only.”

This was not strictly true, for in reply to Mr Jamieson's whispered question, Mr Todhunter had replied with a ghastly grin that he had not the faintest idea what could be in Mr Bairns's mind but would not put it past him to fake a bit of evidence if it suited his book; a suggestion at which Mr Jamison had looked properly shocked.

Amid an expectant hush Sergeant Mathers was recalled to the box.

“When you accompanied the accused back to his house after his visit to Scotland Yard last November, did he show you a revolver?”

“He did.”

“Did you examine it?”

“I did.”

“What did you find?”

“That it was a brand-new one.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“It had never been fired.”

“You are sure of that?”

“Quite sure.”

“How could you tell it had never been fired?”

“I examined the inside of the barrel. It was coated with oldish, dried oil. Where there was no oil the barrel showed quite smooth.”

“How long would you estimate that the oil had been there?”

“It had been there some months, by the look of it.”

“What would you have expected to find if the gun had been fired recently? Say within the last few weeks?”

“Oil not so old as that and I should have expected to see signs of striation on the exposed portions of the barrel and possibly lead fouling.” This was damning evidence, and Sir Ernest, when he rose to cross-examine, might well have wished that he was in the United States, where a recess of an hour or two would have been granted as a matter of course to enable counsel to consider how to tackle the witness. As it was, Sir Ernest had to rely on a hazy knowledge of firearms left over from the last war and his native wit.

“You are the Scotland Yard expert on firearms, Sergeant Mathers?” he began with a kindly smile.

“No Sir”

“You are not?” Sir Ernest appeared surprised. “But you are an expert?”

“Not an expert. I have a working knowledge of firearms.”

“Well, most of us have that. In what way does your knowledge exceed that of the ordinary person?”

“I've been through a course on the subject, as part of my training.”

“And that course, though it did not make you an expert, enabled you to pronounce, after a casual examination, just how long ago a gun was fired or not?”

“It enabled me to tell when a gun had not been fired.”

“Did you take this revolver to pieces to examine it?”

“No.”

“Did you examine it with a lens?”

“No.”

“Did you examine it at all, or did you merely glance at it?”

“I examined it as much as I thought necessary.”

“In other words, you just glanced down the barrel?”

“No.”

“You didn't even glance down the barrel?”

“I looked very carefully down the barrel.”

“Oh, I see. So carefully and with such good eye sight that you were able to detect the absence of lead fouling and striatums on the barrel, which a lens is usually required to detect?”

“I was satisfied with my examination.”

“No doubt, but perhaps I am not. I want to get this quite clear. Did you really look for such things as striations and lead fouling at all, or did you just look down the barrel and think to yourself, there is dry oil here, so the gun can't have been fired?”

“It was clear to me that the gun had not been fired.”

“That is not an answer to my question, but never mind. We will pass that over. Now, I understand you to have said, Sergeant, not ‘This gun has not been fired recently,' but ‘This gun has never been fired.' The presence of dry oil would have nothing to do with the gun having been fired or not fired years ago. How do you account for that?”

“Enquiries I made showed me that the gun had never been fired.”

“Enquiries of whom?”

“Of the gunsmith who sold it.”

“These enquiries showed you that, when the gun passed into Mr Todhunter's possession, it was brand new?”

“Not exactly brand new.”

“But you told my learned friend that it was brand new.”

“I should like to qualify that. It was brand new insofar as it had never been fired,” replied the sergeant stolidly, “but it was an oldish gun.”

“An old, rusty gun is hardly a brand-new one.”

“It was not rusty.”

“Oh, it wasn't? We'll come back to that in a minute. It was an old war gun that never saw active service? Is that what you mean?”

‘That's what I mean.”

“That makes it twenty years old. Yet it was not rusty.”

“It had been carefully kept.”

“Will old, dry oil prevent rust?”

“I couldn't say.”

“But you're the expert?”

“Not on oils.”

“But isn't the care of firearms, which involves oils, an important part of the subject?”

“I have no specialised knowledge.”

“I should not have thought that specialised knowledge was required to show that old, useless oil will hardly prevent rust. Yet you say there was no rust in this revolver. The barrel, where it could be seen, was quite clean and shiny?”

“So far as I remember.”

“Do you agree that a recent firing of the weapon, which would have removed any rust, together with a thorough cleaning afterwards, is a more probable explanation of the absence of rust?”

“No.”

“Not so probable as that the old, dried oil had somehow acquired a magical quality and prevented rust even after its oleaginous properties had been dried out of it?”

“I cannot say that the old oil would not have prevented rust.”

“Do you agree that, if there is an explanation for the dried oil, there was nothing whatever to indicate that this weapon had not been recently fired?”

“I was satisfied that it had not been.”

“Oh yes, by your enquiries. When were these enquiries made?”

“During November last.”

“After or before you had seen the revolver—we won't say ‘examined' it?”

“After.”

“And they showed you that this weapon had never been fired?”

“That is so.”

“But did you not make the assertion, in the presence of the accused after your glance at the revolver, that it had never been fired?”

“I may have done so.”

“I put it to you that you did so?”

“It is possible.”

“That is, before you made the enquiries at all?”

“Yes.”

“But if it was the enquiries, and the enquiries only, that convinced you that the revolver had not been fired, how could you assert this as a fact before those enquiries had been made?”

“The presence of the dried oil and the absence of any signs of striation or lead fouling gave me the impression that the revolver had never been fired. The enquiries I made afterwards confirmed it.”

“Oh, so it is only an ‘impression' now?”

“I was satisfied,” repeated the sergeant with a maddening stolidity that made Mr Todhunter want to scream, “that the weapon had never been fired.”

“Now I understand that you had an opportunity of examining Mr Todhunter's house. What impression did you form of it?”

“It was quite a nice house.” In spite of his training the sergeant showed a trace of bewilderment.

“It struck you as the house of a man who liked to be comfortable?”

“I think I could say that.”

“There is no need to be so cautious. You could surely judge by the evidence. Was it for instance a clean house or a dirty house?”

“It struck me as quite clean.”

“Well, was it a warm house or a cold house?”

“It was quite warm.”

“Did you notice whether there were any signs of comfort—central heating, for instance?”

“I saw that central heating was installed.”

“And electric fires in the bedrooms?”

“I only entered the one bedroom.”

“Well, was there an electric fire there?

“Yes,” said the now unhappy sergeant, who saw the drift at last.

Sir Ernest threw off the mask.

“Exactly. You know the susceptibility of oil, particularly the fine oils used in the care of firearms, to heat?”

“I am not an expert in oils.”

“Is there any need to be an expert to know that oil dries rapidly in a warm atmosphere?”

“I couldn't say.”

“You tell us that it was not until November that you looked at this revolver. Miss Norwood, as we know, died in September. Are you prepared to assert on oath that the oil on a revolver would not have become dry if left without attention for over two whole months in an overheated room in a warm house?”

“I should not care to assert anything on oath concerning oils,” was the best that the sergeant could manage.

“Yet you were ready enough to assert it, apparently, when you were not on oath?”

“I pronounced an opinion.”

“Yes. And put it to you that, without the necessary experience or knowledge, you pronounced an opinion that you were not qualified to voice, that you repeated this to your superiors not as an opinion at all but as a fact, and that you now feel compelled to justify your dogmatic and groundless assertion?”

Sir Ernest had got under the sergeant's skin at last.

“That is not at all a fair way of putting it,” he said indignantly.

“It is the way I do put it,” retorted Sir Ernest and sat down, beaming.

Mr Bairns handled his now slightly flustered witness with care.

“Without going into highly technical and possibly unnecessary details, is it fair to say that your training, even though it may not have specialised in the more peculiar properties of oils, enabled you to recognise at once on examining the revolver that it had never been fired?”

“That is correct,” said the sergeant and was allowed to leave the box with a relief that was obvious.

In spite of the indignation with which he had listened to the sergeant's examination in chief (how could the man have had the face to assert as a fact what could have been nothing but the wildest guess?), Mr Todhunter could not help sympathising with him. His own relief was even greater. Sir Ernest had wriggled out of a nasty predicament with remarkable skill.