“How would you yourself describe it, then?”
“An unprovoked—well, an unnecessary assault—without preliminary warning, I suggest—by Holley on Gorinsky.”
“You began by saying ‘unprovoked.’ Why have you amended it to ‘unnecessary’?”
“Well, it was this way. The boy for some days had been mighty sore at Gorinsky on account Gorinsky kept him hard at work over his training and refused him liquor.”
“Liquor? Do you mean spirits?”
“Oh, gosh, no! Beer, sir, which, together with the roast beef of Old England, has made you bulldog Britishers what you are, the finest breed of men in the world, sir—always excepting the fine boys back home in the little old United States of America, of course . . .”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Smith. We are appreciative of your compliments and are admirers of your great country, but could we please keep to the point?”
“Surely, surely.”
“You say that, before the fatal incident into which we are enquiring, there was already ill-feeling between Holley and Mr. Gorinsky?”
“Now there, sir, you are under a misapprehension. There was no ill-feeling between them. I mean there was none whatsoever on Gorinsky’s side. He treated that boy, sir, as his own son.”
“Very well. Will you tell the court exactly what happened on the morning in question?”
“I will do just that one little thing. I cannot speak to anything which took place before eleven o’clock that day, but I assoom . . .”
“I’m afraid you mustn’t do that, Mr. Smith. The court, no doubt, will hear all about it from witnesses who were on the spot at the time. Just confine yourself to those points which came within your own knowledge and observation.”
“Pardon me, sir.” He bowed to the solicitor and then to the so-far impassive figures on the Bench. “Do I continue?”
“If you please, Mr. Smith. At eleven o’clock what were you doing?”
“I was entering the premises of Mr. Smetton, landlord (as I believe you call him) of the Swan Revived hostelry on the Morchester road just outside the world-renowned village of Heathcote Fitzprior, where the great Virginian poet William Heathcote took his rest when his soul was transported to glory.”
The chairman of the Bench gave an exasperated little cough. The solicitor threw him an apologetic glance and continued, somewhat sternly,
“Mr. Smith, I really must ask you to confine yourself solely to the matter in hand. You entered the inn for the purpose of purchasing refreshment, no doubt. Please go on from there.”
“With pleasure and deep respect, sir. I had me a highball, as was my custom, and carried it up the stairs to the gymnasium. There I saw assembled and met together, also as usual, Mr. Gorinsky, the lad Holley, the trainer Scouse, and the sparring-partner Biddle. I watched the sparring-practice as I downed or swallowed my highball, and then my friend and partner, Mr. Maverick, joined us. He had been putting his car away, the car about which . . .”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Smith. We shall hear all about the car later on. Please continue your eye-witness account,” put in the solicitor.
“Surely. Well, the sparring-practice ended about then, and a guy’s name was mentioned by Holley to which Gorinsky applied an epithet of an indelicate nature, and . . .”
“And that began the argument which led to all the trouble?”
“Well, that’s where it seemed to me Gorinsky had stepped a mite out of line. There is no doubt that the epithet hurt the young guy’s feelings more than a little.”
“I see why you changed your mind about the word ‘unprovoked’,” said the chairman of the Bench. He glanced at the solicitor for the defence, but the dark young man made no sign. “You mean that the attack on Gorinsky was provoked, don’t you?—and very definitely provoked, at that.”
“Well, now, Your Honour . . .”
“Your Worship!” hissed the solicitor.
“I beg pardon, Your Worship. I should wish to say I would not go so far as to call it real provocation, but Mr. Gorinsky used words to describe this buddy of Holley’s in a way which was not intentionally offensive, I feel sure, but which I opine the young fellow misunderstood. It is not, as generally used in your great country, an opprobrious epithet, according to my belief, but . . .”
“What were the words?” asked the magistrate.
“I am a little choice in what I pass between my lips, Mr. Magistrate, sir,” said Gracechurchstreet puritanically. “Might I be allowed to write the words down?” He did this, and the slip of paper was passed to the Bench. The chairman read it, passed it to his fellow magistrate, and pursed his lips.
“It seems to be an expression in common use in certain somewhat unrefined circles,” he commented. “I should not have thought it would rouse anybody to insensate fury in this decade. Have you any idea why the accused should have taken so much exception to it, Mr. Mapp?”
“No, sir, I have not,” replied the solicitor.
“Well, perhaps he will tell us himself, when it becomes his turn to speak. Pray go on, Mr. Mapp.”
“Thank you, Your Worship. Now, Mr. Smith, exactly what effect did the use of this expression have on the accused?”
“He knocked Gorinsky flat on his back and rendered him equally unconscious as a dead duck. Then he kicked in the back of his head. Three times he kicked him before we could get him pinioned. He was out of his mind, clean out of his mind. I have never seen anything like it, and should not choose to witness it again.”
“And then?”
“Then Scouse and Biddle hauled the lad away and locked him in his room, while my friend Maverick and I attended to poor Gorinsky.”
“And then?”
“We left Biddle outside the young guy’s bedroom door in case he broke it down, and we did what we could for Gorinsky. He recovered consciousness after a while, and we were anxious to send for a doctor, and would have done so earlier except that the landlord was on the telephone at the time.”
“I should have thought that, in a case which appeared urgent, you could have commandeered the telephone,” said the dark young defending lawyer mildly. “It would seem that you were not unduly worried about the extent of Gorinsky’s injuries.”
“We were anxious not to make trouble for the boy, Your Hon . . . . Your Worship,” said Gracechurchstreet, appealing to the Bench. “Well, Gorinsky wouldn’t hear of having us call a doctor. He was doo in London that afternoon and insisted on keeping his appointment. Of course, he never did keep it. He must have got as far as the stone quarries and vaycated the car so he could vomit, I opine, and contracted a sudden vertigo and tumbled in. Well, that’s how I figure it, and I should wish to enter a special pleading on behalf of the young guy Holley, because . . .”
“That will be all, Mr. Smith,” said Mapp, hastily. “If you do not wish to cross-examine—” the defending lawyer shook his head—“I call Ignatius Clancy.” The inspector handed Maverick the testament. “Your name is Ignatius Clancy?”
“Indeed it is that, sir, although, for business purposes, I am known as John O’Mara Maverick. But a Clancy I was born, and to the name of Clancy will I answer, and God be with old Ireland and the blessed saints defend her.”
“You are not in Ireland now, Mr. Clancy,” said the Bench, “so please confine yourself to giving your evidence.”
“And so I will, sir. This young lawyer fellow—and a fine, upstanding, God-fearing young man I am sure he is—he’ll have all the truth that is in me.”
Laura found herself wondering what amount of truth this would be, and to what extent the defence would challenge it.
“Very well, Mr. Clancy,” said Mapp. “I have only one question to ask you. How many times did you see Holley kick Gorinsky after he had knocked him down?”
“How many times?”
“How many times.”
“Sure now, it’s putting words into me mouth you are. Who said I saw him kick poor Reuben at all, at all?”
“Do you mean you did not see a kick or
kicks delivered?”
“Well, now, how could I be seeing anything, and me jumping down the stairs seven and maybe eight at a time, to fetch the poor stricken man a glass of brandy?”
“You mean you did not see Holley kick Gorinsky? You are on oath, remember!”
“Ah, well, now, what’s a kick or two between friends? Wasn’t it Tim Reilly was belting me a kick on Patrick’s Day in Skaw-been, and me so strapped up about me ribs by them surgeon fellers I thought I was a cask with the iron bands round me? Sure, now . . .”
“Can’t you control your witness, Mr. Mapp?”
“I beg Your Worship’s pardon. All right, Mr. Clancy. You may stand down, unless Mr. Lestrange wishes to cross-examine.”
Laura scribbled a note to Dame Beatrice. It read:
“What do you think the game is? Are these fellows trying to get Dave off? Much more of this, and the beaks will dismiss the charge. Is that what young Sebastian Lestrange is relying on?”
Dame Beatrice wrote back:
“I don’t know. I fear that the kindlier these witnesses appear, the more the magistrates will suspect that evidence against the boy is being deliberately withheld.”
“Clever, dirty work, you mean?” wrote Laura. Dame Beatrice gave her an alligator’s grin and the next witness was called. As was to be expected, he turned out to be Christopher Scouse. His identity established and his mentality summed up by the prosecuting solicitor, he was invited to give an account in his own words, of what he had seen in the gymnasium on the morning of the twenty-seventh of February.
“Just in your own words, Mr. Scouse,” said Mapp encouragingly. The ape rested two enormous hairy paws on the front edge of the witness box and delivered his testimony.
“I was pickin’ me teef arter breakfuss, ’avin’ ’oilers in ’em, when the boss, ’e comes up and says like vis. ’E says, ‘Wot’s come over vat brasted kid?’ ’e says. ‘Don’t seem up to ’is work no more,’ ’e says. ‘Is ’e staled orf or wot? Or is ’e jest plain sulky?’ ”
“ ‘I dunno,’ I says, ‘but I don’t fink, in my opinion, as ’ow vat young chap over the station is doin’ ’im no sorter good,’ I says. ‘And now you gorn and put the kybosh on vem trainin’ spins,’ I says, ‘I reckon as ’ow vey’ve gorn chewin’ the fat togevver,’ I says, ‘and the Rocket’s got it up the nose,’ I says, ‘and maybe needs the facks of life put before ’im,’ I says, ‘wiv maybe the toe of your boot to ’elp ’im to unnerstand ’em,’ I says. ‘Good grief,’ ’e says, ‘the little barsterd ’ud murder me if I touched ’im. But we’ll ’ave to do summat,’ ’e says. ‘Nobody ain’t a-goin’ to pay good money to watch ’im fight like wot ’e do at present,’ ’e says. ‘I can’t fink wot’s come over ’im,’ ’e says, ‘but if it is vat young bugger over the way,’ ’e says . . .”
“This is all very interesting, no doubt, Mr. Mapp,” said the magistrate, “but I think the time of the court is being wasted. None of this seems to be helpful. Could you try to persuade your witness to get along a little quicker.”
“With great respect, Your Worship, he was asked to tell his story in his own words.”
“He seems to suffer from a surfeit of words. Couldn’t you ask him the necessary pertinent questions? He can still use his own words in his answers, you know.”
“I am obliged to Your Worship. Now, Mr. Scouse, you saw the attack on Mr. Gorinsky. Will you describe it for us as accurately and as shortly as you can?”
“Ah. Well, look, it was vis way, see. The Rocket takes offence when the boss calls Mr. Sparowe a …” he glanced up at the public gallery . . . “ladies present.”
“Your consideration for their delicate ears does you credit, Mr. Scouse,” said Mapp. “Perhaps, Your Worship, we should . . .”
“Well, we have the relevant expression from Mr. Smith,” said the magistrate. “I have it written down here. However, as a check, since the words used constitute some sort of defence against the charge, I think, Mr. Scouse, you had better come up here and murmur these distasteful nothings in my ear. I think, to assess this case fairly, I had better be sure of the terms which were actually employed, so that I can better estimate the amount of provocation which the defendant suffered … Hm, yes, I see,” he went on, when he had heard a hoarse mumbling. “Yes, that agrees with Mr. Smith’s version, and would come under the heading of provocation, undoubtedly, had it been used to describe the defendant himself.” He paused impressively. “On the other hand, it was not so used, but was with reference to another person who, I take it, was not even present at the time. However, go on, Mr. Mapp, go on.”
“If Your Worship pleases. Now, Mr. Scouse, you heard the deceased—er, you heard Mr. Gorinsky (for, of course, he wasn’t the deceased at the time, no!) you heard this opprobrious expression used. Tell the court what happened after that.”
“Why, the Rocket up and ’it ’im, and where ’e picked up such a punch as vat one I can’t, and I never shan’t, be able to make aht. Must of sucked it in wiv ’is muvver’s milk and forgot all abaht it till ven, I reckon. It never travelled no more nor six inches, if vat much. First ’e feints wiv ’is left to Gorinsky’s stomick, and ven, as Gorinsky draws back ’is stomick, and ’is ’ead come forward, the Rocket steps wiv the punch and brings in ’is right like—well, gents, I never seed nuffink so beauriful, not in all me born days I never. Dahn goes Gorinsky like ’e’d been ’it be a funderbolt, and as ’e lays there, lookin’ vat peaceful I fought as ’ow ’eaven was ’is ’ome, the Rocket ’oofs ’im in the slats, and ven ’e puts the boot in again afore we ’as time to drag ’im ’orf, and ven we runs ’im up vem stairs and locks ’im in, wiv ’im shahtin’ blue murder all the time.”
“Would it be correct to say that, in your opinion, the accused had gone berserk?”
“Crazy. Just crazy ’e were. Didn’t know wot ’e were a-doin’ of.”
“Well, now,” said the defending solicitor, “you say that the accused kicked Gorinsky in the ribs, and not on the head. Did you see Mr. Gorinsky after he had recovered?”
“Shaky on ’is pins, ’e was, very shaky, but we got ’im on ’is feet orl right afore Mr. Maverick give ’im the brandy.”
“Did you see him drive off from the inn?”
“Ah.”
“In what condition was he then?—at that time? I mean, did you think he was fit to drive?”
“You couldn’t argue wiv the boss.”
“But he wasn’t so ill that any of you attempted to dissuade him?”
“Eh?”
“Did you advise him not to go?”
“Weren’t my place. Besides, our money was all on the Rocket. Gorinsky ’ad to go and see ter fings the uvver end.”
“Did anyone advise him not to attempt to drive the car?”
“No, I don’t reckon none of us fought abaht it.”
“And were you surprised that you never saw him again?”
“Well, ’e croaked, dinne? ’E croaked in vat vere quarry, bein’ took bad arter bein’ kay-owed and booted.”
“Why did you all scatter when you read the news of his death?”
“We guessed the Rocket ’ad done for ’im, and we didn’t want to get the kid into no trouble, on account ’e never meant it, see?”
“Surely,” said the young lawyer, “it would have been wiser to have gone to the police and told them what you knew?”
“Dunno, sir. We done wot we done for the best, and I’m sorry if we give any trouble. We never meant nuffink by it, on’y to see the Rocket in the clear, our money bein’ on ’im, see?”
The next witness was Harry Biddle, but there was nothing he could add and nothing he could contradict, except that reluctantly he agreed that Dave had kicked Gorinsky on the head and not in the ribs. The only other difference between his evidence and that of Scouse was that he had been set to guard the boy’s bedroom door and had not seen Gorinsky assisted to his feet and given brandy, and he had neither seen nor heard him drive off in Maverick’s little car, and could not sp
eak to his condition at that time. The one item of information which might have helped Dave was not forthcoming, and poor, muddled, punch-drunk Harry was too bemused to think of introducing the subject. The defence, however, was more alert.
“By the way, Mr. Biddle,” young Lestrange said gently, “you agree that your sparring-practice with Holley was over when the incident occurred, and you agree that Holley kicked Gorinsky on the head or, possibly, in the ribs, or even both. Can you remember what Holley was wearing on his feet?”
“Yes, sir. Boxin’ boots, of course. It’s on’y natchral. ’E ’adn’t ’ad ’is showr nor yet ’e ’adn’t changed. Chris ’ad only just took out our gum shields and pulled orf our gloves when Mr. Gorinsky started all on about Mr. Sparowe, and young Dave starts clockin’ of ’im.”
“I believe boxing-boots are made of exceptionally soft and pliable material, are they not?”
“Vat’s right, sir. Dave would ’ave ’urted ’is toe morn ’e would Mr. Gorinsky, if you take my meanin’.”
“In that case,” said the magistrate, “unless you have any further questions to put to this witness, Mr. Lestrange, I think I should like to take the medical evidence next.” Harry, relieved at the prospect of retreat, stood down, and Doctor Francis Pillage was called.
CHAPTER NINE
Remanded In Custody
“ ‘They have something to conceal, sir.’
‘Well, I rather agree with you. But what are we going to do about it?’
His smile was a thing of infinite sweetness—Rose Maylie rather than Dora Copperfield. He said, with a finicking articulation:
‘Skin them alive, sir’,”
Charles Mitchell—Harp on the Willow
“On March the second this year you were called to examine the body of a man who has been identified as Reuben Gorinsky?” began Mapp, when Doctor Pillage had been sworn.
“That is so.”
“Did you form an opinion as to the cause of death?”
“The deceased had been struck on the back of the head with or by some comparatively heavy object and with some suggestion of force, with the result that . . .” He went into considerable medical detail to which everybody in court listened with attention and great respect, but without much comprehension.
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