An expert witness who had been waiting two days to give evidence and saw his chance of finishing to-day getting more and more remote, slipped out of court and rang up his wife and told her to send him a telegram. At the end of Melissa’s protracted appearance in the box, therefore, Counsel for the Crown stood up and said that, m’lord, Dr. Brightly had received an urgent call, and if it was convenient to opposing counsel, he, for his part, would be willing to hear Dr. Brightly’s evidence now and let him get away, unless his lordship had any objection; his lordship stifled the reflection that, at the rate things were going, they might as well all get into the box together and chant their evidence in unison, and replied graciously that if it suited Counsel …? Mr. Dragon raised his seat from his seat for a moment and said, perfectly, perfectly, m’lord, and sat down again. Dr. Brightly therefore droned his way into the box and Charlesworth wagged his head at Inspector Cockrill and met him outside the court and produced a cigarette. ‘If I don’t have a fag, I shall go off my ruddy rocker. Look here, what did you mean by saying not to worry, you’d fix it?’
‘Well, I meant, don’t worry, I’ll fix it,’ said Cockie.
‘Do you mean you know?’
‘No, I don’t know,’ said Cockie. ‘I only guess.’
‘Oh, well,’ said Charlesworth, disappointed. A fine time to be playing guessing games! The truth was, the old boy was past his prime.
Cockie looked up from under his eyebrows with a gleam of mischievous bright brown eyes. It wouldn’t be the first time he had ‘fixed it’ for Mr. Charlesworth, but these young sparks would never learn. ‘You don’t think I can do it?’
‘How can you, if you don’t even know the person who murdered the man?’
‘I propose that the person who murdered the man shall stand up in court and tell us so himself.’
Thomas, Tedward, Damien Jones; Matilda, Melissa, old Mrs. Evans. ‘That’s so likely, isn’t it?’
‘Properly handled, I think it is.’
‘Thomas Evans has been discharged from the case, Dr. Edwards is about to be found Not Guilty; Melissa and the Jones boy cancel each other out, the old lady could not possibly have hit the man on the head and that’s flat. And Matilda Evans …’ He paused. He said, slowly: ‘I suppose there wasn’t anything in that girl’s revelations?’
Cockie shrugged and smiled. ‘My dear friend Matilda is in a considerable flap about the revelations; in fact she doth protest too much, I think. But of course the more truth there was in the revelations, the less likely that she was the murderer.’
Mr. Charlesworth did not see that at all. ‘If the affaire was such,’ said Cockie, ‘that she was capable of murdering him through jealousy, do you for a moment suppose that he would have confessed to her that he’d been having fun with Rosie? He was a foreigner, he was far away, he need never see her again: why should he tell her? What a fool the man would be!’
‘Well, but Rosie might tell her.’
‘She hadn’t, had she?’ said Cockie. ‘She’d told her the father of the child was someone else—someone, incidentally, whom Tilda could not possibly have mistaken for Raoul. And Rosie herself laughed like a drain at the bare idea that that scruffy old Raoul Vernet might have been her lover. And even if she had told Matilda—Raoul Vernet could have simply denied the whole thing. Rosie had had lovers enough in Geneva; he could have denied the whole thing and that’s what he would have done—and what’s more, he’d have denied it from afar.’
‘You don’t seem to think very highly of the gentleman’s sense of honour,’ said Charlesworth.
‘I think very highly indeed of his sense of preservation: and therefore I say that the truer it was that he was Matilda Evans’ lover, the less likely that he would have come over here and invited her to murder him.’
‘Of course she could have done it.’
‘It’s all a question of coulds and woulds,’ said Cockie. ‘Matilda could have, but she wouldn’t have. Ted Edwards would have, but he couldn’t have; because he quite positively did not come in ahead of Rosie, and for the rest of the time he was with her at his house, or driving the car; the old lady wouldn’t have and she couldn’t have, because, first of all Rosie had described a totally different seducer to her, and secondly she literally would not be able to lift her arms to deal such a blow; Melissa Weeks could have, but she wouldn’t have, because contrary to Master Jones’s beliefs, she had not been seduced and betrayed by Raoul Vernet; and Damien Jones could have but he wouldn’t have because why should he? He thought it was Melissa who had been seduced, not Rosie, and he didn’t know Melissa nearly well enough to run round slaying her seducers.’
‘He says he thought it was Melissa. How do we know that’s true? It may all be a cover-up. He was in the house that morning, he could have fixed the telephone message and got the mastoid mallet and the gun.…’
‘And then waited for Melissa to ring him up and summon him round—finally getting in his bash with about half a minute to spare.’
‘But we’ve got nobody left,’ said Charlesworth.
‘Only Thomas Evans; and you’ve had him and let him go.’
‘There’s no evidence against him,’ said Charlesworth. ‘We couldn’t get him.’
‘You’ll find there’s no evidence against the murderer,’ said Cockie. ‘But you’ll get him!’
‘Him?’
‘Him or her; I don’t mean necessarily a male.’
‘But male or female—you know? At least you can guess?’
‘I can—work it out,’ said Cockie, slowly. ‘And so can you.’ He would have said more, but Dr. Brightly came hurrying out through the glass swing doors, and he caught Charlesworth by the arm instead. ‘We must get back into court.’
‘There’s no hurry,’ said Charlesworth, puffing at his cigarette.
‘On the contrary there’s a great hurry: all the hurry in the world.’
‘Yes, but tell me …’
‘I’ve told you,’ said Cockie, crossly: honestly, these young men!
‘You’ve told me? You haven’t said a word.’
‘I’ve told you that there’s a hurry; this case must be decided in the next half hour, or else … Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’ He added impatiently: ‘My dear fellow—can’t you see it? Rosie Evans told me on her deathbed that Ted Edwards could have killed Raoul Vernet.…’
‘But he couldn’t,’ said Charlesworth. ‘It’s been proved up to the hilt that of all people concerned with this case, the one person who could not possibly have killed the chap was Edwards.’
‘Well, damn it, that’s what I say,’ said Cockie. ‘Then why the hell should she have told me that he could?’ He shoved his companion towards the door, and at the same moment a voice murmured a name, a second voice took it up and cried it forth, a third voice echoed it louder still, voice taking up the syllables from voice like the baton in a relay race, Call Mrs. Evans, Call Mrs. Evans, CALL MRS. EVANS … Clad in her rusty black with her crumpled flat black hat set squarely on her head, and her old eyes bright with a desperate, and yet a sort of mischievous resolve, old Mrs. Evans trotted into court and along the narrow pathway between the benches and under the shadow of the high dock and up the steps and into the witness-box. She settled herself without haste, placing her handbag on the ledge beside her, rolling her gloves into a ball beside it, giving the neat result an approving pat; and lifted her head and flashed across at the prisoner in the dock a smile whose brilliance and tenderness lit for a moment with a special radiance, the already bright-lit court. The little chippy diamonds and sapphires sparkled on the thin old hands clasped, trembling, on the ledge of the box. Greater love hath no man, thought Mrs. Evans to herself, withdrawing the smile and turning to face the onslaught from the benches opposite, than that he lay down his life for his friend; and so stood there, waiting—the only person in the entire court who did not know that her friend was in no need of her sacrifice, that the suspect was no longer suspected, the accused no longer accused, the prisoner, in all
but the formal verdict, free.
‘Raise the book in your right hand. “I swear by Almighty God …”’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
UP in the crowded gallery they made way for the young man who had made such a sensation by calling out that the evidence of the curly-haired young lady had been all lies; in the benches to the left of the dock, Matilda sat with Thomas two or three places away from Melissa and exchanged with her no smallest glance of recognition; on the narrow seat beneath the jury box, Inspector Cockrill lounged with his shoulders up to his ears and his chin on his chest, in an agony of alternating hope and doubt. The usher stood patiently waiting, with one hand on the ledge of the witness-box. Mrs. Evans said regretfully that she was so sorry, she did hope it wouldn’t muddle things up for them, but she was afraid she couldn’t. Mr. Justice Rivett relieved his feelings with a somewhat over-dramatic sigh, hooked himself over the right arm of the great chair and said, ‘Can’t what?’
‘Can’t raise the book in my right hand, my lord,’ said Gran, flashing the smile again. ‘I am so sorry, but you see I have this idiotic arthritis in my shoulder and I can’t raise my arm at all.’ She demonstrated the restricted movement of her arm. She was so sorry to be a nuisance.
‘If you just hold the book so that it can be seen that you are holding it, that is all that is required,’ said the judge, patiently. He settled back into the chair and folded his hands across the black sash that held the untidy scarlet robe in place, and exchanged with counsel in their benches a tiny glance, half amused, half desperate; what on earth is this one going to get up to, said the glance.
Sir William rose to his feet, tucked up a heel against the bench behind him, gripped the edges of his black gown, one in each hand, dragging it down heavily from the shoulders, and launched upon the regulation questions that must be briefly put and, pray God, as briefly answered before they could decently wind up the case and all go home. His mind toyed pleasantly with the prospect of a free afternoon to-morrow; with the collapse of the case against the accused (no possible shadow of blame attaching to its conduct by the Attorney-General), it could not possibly linger on after midday to-morrow. Your name is Louisa Jane Evans …? (One might go out to the R.A.C. and get a game of golf…) You are the grandmother of the previous witness, Thomas Evans? (Or run down and see the children at school.…) And you live with him at his home? You remember the evening of November 23rd? Perhaps you would tell us briefly in your own words.…?
Mrs. Evans obliged with a spirited account of her recollections of the evening in question, beginning with the arrival of her supper tray. ‘Matilda, that’s my grand-daughter-in-law, had a guest, this Frenchman. So I just sat quietly by my fire, reading.’ A book by Robert Hichens, it had been.…
‘Just stick to the relevant facts, Mrs. Evans, please.’
Mrs. Evans indulged in a small, rather pitying shrug; let Counsel remember when the time came that it was he, not she, who had dismissed Robert Hichens as irrelevant. Very well, then, at a quarter past nine, Matilda had come to help her take off her dress and her hair.…
‘I beg your pardon, Mrs. Evans, I don’t think we heard that quite correctly.’
‘To help me take off my hair,’ said Gran. She elaborated gaily: ‘A sort of little pancake of hair on top of my own hair, or rather on top of my absence of own hair, if you see what I mean.’ She laid her left hand on top of the flat, black hat, ignoring all interruptions, swivelling round to demonstrate to the jury. ‘You can’t see it now because of my hat, but if you count the hat as one pancake, then there’s another pancake of a bit of white lace, and then under that there’s the pancake of hair: quite a little heap of pancakes, really, Crèpes Something the French would call it, only of course they’d smother it with melted butter and liqueurs and things, which would be delicious, no doubt, but would make me look most strange, wouldn’t it?’ A shadow passed over the eager, gay old face. ‘I’m so sorry; have I been talking nonsense? I’m getting muddled up.’
‘Let us just stick to events, Mrs. Evans; we want you to tell us quite shortly, quite shortly, what you saw and heard that evening.’
‘Rather like a pancake itself when you come to think of it,’ said Mrs. Evans, thoughtfully. She nodded to herself, inwardly communing. ‘A little round white pancake, floating, floating, floating about in the gloom.’
Judge and Counsel exchanged glances of mounting despair. ‘Mrs. Evans, please: I asked you to tell me what you saw that night.’
‘But I am telling you,’ said Mrs. Evans, pained. ‘A small, round white pancake, floating about down there in the gloom, floating about in the dimness of the hall.’ She added inconsequently that night came swiftly in the desert; if they’d paid more attention to Robert Hichens, they would know that.
Sir William shrugged hopelessly. ‘I think, perhaps, m’lord …?’
The judge had one more try. ‘Let us keep calm, Mrs. Evans, try not to get muddled. You are telling us that you looked down into the hall that night, which we have heard was not very brightly lit; and saw____?’
‘A little white pancake floating about down there,’ said Mrs. Evans. She smiled up at him confidingly. ‘Only of course it wasn’t a pancake really,’ she said.
You could see that Mr. Justice Rivett was glad of that. ‘It wasn’t a pancake? Then what was it you saw?’
‘The bald top of that Frenchman’s head, of course,’ said old Mrs. Evans, all smiles.
Inspector Charlesworth tilted his chair back on its hind legs and, leaning perilously backwards, said over his shoulder to Inspector Cockrill: ‘So this is it?’
‘Yes,’ said Cockie. ‘This is it: at least it’s the beginning.’ And he added: ‘Thank God it’s come!’ but there was no triumph in his voice and no gladness. ‘You’ll be all right now; you’ve saved your bacon,’ he said.
But it was Inspector Cockrill who had saved Charles-worth’s bacon, and not for the first time. ‘You’re a marvel, Cockie, honestly you are. What did you say to her: to the old girl?’
‘Me? I didn’t say a word,’ said Cockie, surprised.
‘But at lunch?’
‘She had her lunch by herself; I got some sent in to her, here. I haven’t seen her, not to speak to, all day.’
The muttered discussion between Judge and Counsel and the gentleman from the Director of Public Prosecution’s office, having reached a conclusion and Sir William being again upon his foot, heel tucked up, fists closed on gown, an usher shushed urgently and Charlesworth, still unsatisfied, perforce righted his chair. The Judge, most unfairly, since he himself was seething with excitement and curiosity, said irritably that this was a very serious case and if there were any further outbreaks of chattering and whispering, he would clear the court of all who had no special business there, and yes, Sir William, please continue. Sir William put it to Mrs. Evans, very civilly that she was now departing somewhat from her evidence in another court? Mrs. Evans said blankly what other court was that?—she was afraid her memory was dreadfully cloudy these days. So sorry if she was being a nuisance, muddling things up.…
‘You haven’t told anyone before that you saw the deceased that night?’
‘Of course this would be before he became the deceased,’ said Mrs. Evans earnestly. ‘Because I did see him afterwards, everyone knows that, when I went down into the hall with the rest of them.’ His bald patch, however, had not been looking like a round, white pancake by that time, not a bit!
‘No, no,’ said Counsel, hurriedly. ‘But you are telling us now that you did see him earlier—before he died?’
‘Just the top of his head, you know, when I looked down into the hall.’
‘And that would be—at what time?’
As the church clock struck half-past nine, Matilda had gone off to pot the baby; it had been immediately after that.
Mr. Justice Rivett intervened. He said that it might be helpful to the jury to just recall that the time of the telephone call—the call purporting to come from Raoul Vernet, saying tha
t he had been attacked—had been, er, um, 9.18 p.m., yes, he had a note of it here, approximately 9.18. He sat up very straight with his finger still in the page, and looked alertly at old Mrs. Evans. Sir William looked desperately from his Lordship to defending counsel and back again to the witness. ‘Perhaps you had just better go on telling us in your own words, Mrs. Evans.… (Your Lordship will appreciate that I am completely in the dark.…?).’
The thin old voice tinkled out clearly through the hushed court. ‘From where I left off? It was about Matilda taking off my hair; and that’s what led us to the pancakes, wasn’t it?’ She might have been reciting Cinderella to a circle of children sitting round the nursery fire. ‘Well, now, that was at about a quarter past nine, just before that famous telephone call, you see. And then Tilda went off to her own room, and I think she tidied up her face a bit and so on, and after about five minutes she came back and I’d got into my nightgown by then, and she helped me into bed and gave me my Horlicks, and then she went off to do the baby. It was just half-past nine, because we heard the clock. So I sat there in bed, reading my Robert—my book,’ corrected Mrs. Evans, glancing with mock apology at Sir William, ‘and suddenly I heard a noise. It seemed to be coming from the hall. I listened for Matilda but I didn’t hear her come out of the nursery so I hopped out of bed myself, to have a look. But first I popped my hair on, of course, and my teeth in.’ She went off into a fit of little giggles and, recovering herself, explained that she had nearly said that she’d popped her hair in and her teeth on! ‘So silly!’ said Mrs. Evans, biting on a knuckle looking up naughtily into the disapproving face of the Attorney-General. She added: ‘Because what would I have looked like?’ and went off into giggles again. But her eyes were swimming with unshed tears of terror and loneliness: all by herself there in that little box under the pitiless glare of the bright, hard lights and the hundreds of bright, hard eyes, smilingly talking herself into a place of everlasting lights, of ever-watching eyes, where the windows would be too high to throw things out of and cheer life up.…
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