Carruthers glanced down at the wizened face staring up at him so earnestly. He smiled faintly. “Beginning to think that possibly Sir Percival can pull it off, eh?”
“Oh, he can twist a jury in a courtroom around his little finger, I don’t deny that,” Briggs admitted grudgingly, “but he isn’t in a courtroom here. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he’ll pull any rabbits out of his hat as far as the Captain of this tub is concerned. Let’s just say that while I don’t necessarily have a lot of faith, I still have a bit of hope.”
“A touch of charity wouldn’t be amiss, either,” Carruthers commented dryly, and continued his march up the stairs.
“ ’Ere now!” said James V. King, sternly. He raised his arms, simulating possession of a weapon. “That’ll be enough o’ that chatter, see? Yer prisoners, and don’t yer forget it!”
The library steward, faced with the problem at short notice of converting the Main Salon into a courtroom scene suitable for a Coroner’s Inquest, didn’t boggle for a moment. Fifteen years of arranging for masquerade parties in which the Salon took on the appearance of everything from the Casbah, to Carnival in Rio, to Waikiki, to the poop deck of a Spanish galleon, had given him much valuable practice. And as an avid cinema fan in his rare free time, he had witnessed many a vis-à-vis between prosecuting counsel and defense advocate before a gavel-pounding bewigged judge, so the scene was clearly fixed in his mind. His only problem was that he couldn’t rightly recall whether a Coroner’s Inquest took place in a court of law or a morgue. Fortunately he opted for the courtroom, and he had done himself proud.
The relatively low ceiling of the Main Salon, unfortunately, was not constructed to accommodate the multiplicity of levels favored by English justice since the days of King John and Magna Carta. Still, the steward had not done badly. The bandstand would serve excellently for the Captain acting the part of the chief officer of the inquest, and it was still large enough to accommodate a small table for Miss Grumkin, an added attraction from any point of view. The prisoners, while unable to be placed exactly midway in height between the bench and the gallery, were still able to be differentiated in elevation by having their chairs put atop one of the enormous coffee tables that dotted the area. A third level might have been developed from the counter top of the main bar, but Sir Percival had ruled this out himself. He didn’t mind spectators leaving the proceedings to locate alcoholic sustenance elsewhere, but he wanted his witnesses and potential suspects within sight. The main bar, therefore, remained open and—incidentally—did a land-office business in the next few hours.
Captain Charles Everton Manley-Norville, resplendent in the white uniform he had intended for the evening in any event, and with his chest draped with the plethora of medals he had accumulated honorably during the war, surveyed the crowd from his vantage point. He had to admit that Percy Pugh had a good point in putting on an inquest for entertainment rather than the usual Captain’s Party, and for a moment he wondered if it might not be a good idea to incorporate it in the ship’s general program for passenger divertissement. It would mean, of course, that the band would be idle—and therefore paid for not working—and the Captain dropped the thought at once. It struck him the band did little enough as it was, especially since not a one of them was familiar with anything more recent than the schottische. He put the idea behind him and resumed studying the passengers crowding into the room.
The witnesses requested by Sir Percival had been advised of their special status and were seated in a row along the edge of the dance floor, which was now the main arena for the pyrotechnics planned by the famous advocate for the evening. All of the witnesses appeared guilty of something or other, if only for their selection. The balance of the seats in the huge room were rapidly filling up, and waiters were quietly moving from spot to spot filling the orders of the thirsty. Miss Grumkin, well supplied with notebooks and sharpened pencils, was busily practicing pothooks and hoping none of the witnesses were tongue-tied, or spoke American, or anything like that.
Captain Manley-Norville consulted his wristwatch and leaned over, tapping Sir Percival Pugh on the shoulder.
“I say, Percy,” he said in a low voice, “how do you start one of these things going?”
“You simply start them,” Sir Percival replied. His eyes passed the Captain to rest on the expanse of thigh uncovered by Miss Grumkin’s miniskirt; he cleared his throat and forcibly returned his eyes front and center. “Clap your hands, or stamp your foot or something. Haven’t you ever quelled a mutiny? And, by the way, you’d best call me Sir Percival when you address me in front of the audience, so to speak. If you don’t mind.”
“Right-O, Percy,” said the Captain agreeably. He straightened up, surveyed the mob a moment and then slammed his fist onto the leader’s music stand, hurting himself considerably. He promised to himself that the band leader would unlearn sixteen schottisches before the next trip and cleared his throat. “If I might have your attention,” he began, nursing his wounded hand in the clenched palm of his other. “If I might just have your attention, please. . . .”
There was the usual last-minute frantic shuffling in the room; those whose throats had been as balm in Gilead a moment before now found the sudden tickle imperative, and coughed. Captain Manley-Norville waited patiently until the normal unrest had quieted itself and then spoke again. This time his years of authority asserted themselves clearly. He made no move to rise from his chair; if anything he seemed to settle himself in it even more firmly.
“This is a Coroner’s Inquest,” he said in a quiet voice that nonetheless carried through the huge room. The last vestiges of the shuffling instantly ceased. His cold eye swept his charges. “It will be conducted in the main by Sir Percival Pugh, the well-known barrister, although I do not promise not to interrupt the proceedings as I see fit. Sir Percival is, by pure chance, a passenger on this ship, as are all the others involved in the tragedy we are here investigating.”
He reached out, sipped at a glass that appeared to contain water but did not, and returned to his theme. His audience had not moved an inch during the interlude.
“The purpose of this inquest is to determine, as best may be determined, the facts concerning the recent unfortunate demise of another passenger, Mrs. Mazie Carpenter, and the mysterious disappearance—in which, I might mention, foul play, with cause, is suspected—of her husband, Mr. Maxwell Carpenter. . . .” Even the waiters had frozen in their tracks The bartender, attempting to shake a cocktail silently, desisted. All eyes were on the white-uniformed figure speaking so dryly from the platform.
“I mean,” said Captain Manley-Norville, unapologetically, “foul play is suspected, with cause. Not quite the same thing.” His glance dared anyone to argue with his syntax; nobody did. Satisfied, he continued. “Certain facts are known; I shall mention only the most important and leave it to Sir Percival in his interrogation of the witnesses to bring the balance out for the record. The main fact under consideration is that two days ago Mrs. Carpenter was found in the bath of her stateroom murdered: stabbed to death. A Mr. Briggs is held for the murder and has been housed in the ship’s detention brig. Sir Percival, in addition to conducting this inquest, is also the advocate for Mr. Briggs as well as for Mr. Carruthers, whom the late Mrs. Carpenter accused of attempted assault upon her person, and who has also been under restraint. . . .”
Sir Percival could not but respect the language of the Captain. He suspected—quite correctly—that the chief officer of the S.S. Sunderland had spent the afternoon boning up on barratry and assorted crimes at sea. He rocked back on his heels and waited while the pontifical voice continued.
“These are the only facts I shall state, for they are not only provable but a matter of record. All other matters of record, from this point on, I shall leave to Sir Percival. May I mention but one thing more”—his cold eye swept the mob to silence, utter silence—“and that is this: it is not incumbent upon this court to arrive at any conclusion. We have no coroner’s jury, o
r jury of any sort; nor is any required in circumstances of this nature. We are at sea in international waters. Any pertinent information brought out in the course of this inquiry will be transmitted to the British authorities in Gibraltar tomorrow. Nonetheless”—his voice sharpened perceptibly as did the attention of his rapt audience—“it would be a vast mistake on the part of anyone called upon to give testimony before this inquest to assume that truthful statements are not essential, nor that this court carries no authority. This ship is British territory, and I am master of this ship. And as master of a ship in international waters, I am the supreme authority. Do not forget this fact. I can—and will—punish any false statement or evasion as I see fit.” His cold eye swept the crowd. “I wish that point to be eminently clear.”
There was dead silence for several seconds, and then those who had been holding back allowed their coughs and sneezes temporary freedom. Captain Manley-Norville took advantage of the lull to swing about in his chair, speaking to the wide-eyed girl behind him.
“Miss Grumkin—did you get all that?”
“All what? Oh!” She stared at him in alarm. “Was that all part of it? Was I supposed to be taking all that down? I’m sorry. I didn’t know. You didn’t say anything about when to start. . . .”
Witness Arthur Tompkins, third from the left in the witness row, looked at the ceiling for comfort and then brought his eyes down and covered them with his hand. He wondered, not for the first time, if possibly Mrs. Tompkins might not have been a better companion for this particular trip, and—also not for the first time—rejected the thought as being patently ridiculous.
“Well,” said the Captain in a vain attempt to sound understanding, “I’d suggest we try and pick it up from here on out, eh?”
He tried desperately to smile and turned back to the audience, wiping away the grimace instantly. Behind him a pencil scratched with tortoise speed across a notebook page; the corner of a pink tongue protruded from richly painted lips and was clamped upon by pearly teeth in a spasm of concentration. Captain Manley-Norville leaned back in his chair and spoke in a heavy voice, announcing the start of proceedings.
“Sir Percival Pugh!”
Sir Percival rose from the chair he had taken and placed beneath the bandstand, moving forward a step, studying the audience, bringing them under his magnetic charm. In matters of this nature, he was in his element, a master of handling the emotions and thoughts of those who fell under the spell of his rich voice.
“Ladies and gentlemen, fellow passengers. Murder has been committed, murder most foul, murder crying for justice, for revenge. And a man is in custody for that murder, a murder he did not commit. And another man is in custody charged with an assault he did not commit. These are simple facts to prove and I shall do so in a few moments. I—”
There seemed to be a minor sensation in the back of the room, and for a moment Sir Percival wondered what he had said to cause it, but it turned out that someone had merely popped a contact lens, and the matter was quickly resolved when someone else stepped on it with a crunch. Order was restored in seconds, and the eminent barrister resumed his statement.
“As I was saying, I shall, in a very few moments, prove the innocence of my clients. But more important than freeing these men—which is a minor task—is to use this inquest if possible to uncover the true villain, the person who did commit this murder. That is the true purpose of an inquiry of this nature, and to this end—”
He paused at the slight tap on his shoulder and turned politely. Captain Manley-Norville was bending as low as he could in his chair, assuming a position indicating clearly he wished privacy for his words. Sir Percival moved his ear until it was practically touching the other’s lips. His own barely moved.
“Yes?”
“I say, Percy,” the Captain whispered, “let’s keep it all within reason, shall we? I mean, after all! Saying you can prove this Briggs chap innocent in a matter of minutes! Really!”
“But, my dear Charles, I can. I could have anytime since you put him into that cell.”
“Then why the devil didn’t you do so?”
Sir Percival swung about and stared at his old friend in surprise. “And have him loosed upon this ship any sooner than absolutely necessary? Is that what you really would have preferred?”
“Oh, ah!” the Captain whispered in understanding.
“But with Gibraltar coming up tomorrow, I had no choice. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll get on with it.”
“Of course,” said the Captain apologetically and sank back into his chair again.
To the audience it appeared as if the two had been discussing a technical matter; Miss Grumkin may also have thought so, but she did not raise the question as to whether the whispered conversation should be included in the record, mainly because she had just finished putting down the symbols for “Ladies and Gentlemen” and was trying desperately to remember what had followed. Oh, well, she thought philosophically, Smarty-Arty has a fabulous memory—he’ll tell me later what everyone said. He’d better!
Sir Percival returned to his task, pausing only long enough to sip at a glass that appeared to contain water—and actually did. He patted his lips and turned to his audience once again. Dead silence fell as soon as he began to speak.
“We return once again, ladies and gentlemen, to our central theme: the purpose of an inquest is to arrive at the truth, or as much of the truth as can be arrived at, regarding the death of the victim, in this case, Mrs. Mazie Carpenter. To this end I shall interrogate witnesses and see what can be learned. But before we can get down to that, let us handle this matter of my clients and clear the board—or, more appropriately in the circumstances, the decks—for the more important phases of this investigation.
“First, then, let us take up the matter of Mr. Carruthers and his so-called sexual-assault attempt against the person of Mrs. Carpenter.”
He turned to face the accused seated on top of the coffee table. His audience followed his gaze as if hypnotized and then returned their eyes to his face as he took up where he had left off.
“To begin with, ladies and gentlemen, let me say that there is no legal basis for holding my client. Mrs. Carpenter is no longer with us to press charges if she wished to, and she passed on before she made any written, formal charge against my client; again, even if she had wished to. . . .”
He paused as a buzz swept the room. Briggs leaned over, whispering to Carruthers.
“That twister! If that’s true, why didn’t he say so days ago? And gotten you free?”
“To keep me out of trouble, I suspect,” Carruthers said with narrowed eyes, and returned his attention to his defense.
“I might also mention,” Sir Percival continued evenly, “that it also would have been the easiest thing in the world for my client to have claimed that his age—for he is no longer in the flush of youth—made it impossible for him to have attempted such an attack, or at least to have attempted it with any reasonable hope of assured success. But again, you will note we do not choose to use this defense, either. . . .”
From the corner of his eye he saw the look of wonder combined with relief that covered Billy-boy Carruthers’ rubicund face. Sir Percival grinned inwardly and continued, his face outwardly revealing nothing but his sincere desire to seek out and expose the truth.
“The fact is that Mrs. Carpenter was sexually attractive, and Mr. Carruthers, male to the core, was well aware of it. To Mr. Carruthers, all women are attractive. The truth is that Mr. Carruthers is possibly more to be pitied than censured, being, if anything, oversexed. He finds women attractive and—although some men might find this hard to credit—most beautiful women find Mr. Carruthers equally attractive. And this has nothing to do with the fact that, as one of the co-winners of the Jarvis award this year, he came into a veritable fortune. No, it is that inner chemical so hard to explain. . . .”
He paused while the buzz returned, louder this time. He noted all eyes turned momentarily to study Carruther
s, and he was far from surprised to note that the women in the room were looking at the rotund man speculatively, and a few of them were even unconsciously beginning to nod their heads. Psychology, it’s wonderful, Pugh thought, containing the twinkle in his eye, and waited patiently. Carruthers was now looking at him with a frown of speculation; Briggs with even more than his usual suspicion. Simpson, in the front row of spectators, was wondering how—during all these years—he had failed to note the mutual attraction between Billy-boy and members of the opposite sex.
Sir Percival’s face remained calm, almost majestic, but his inward chortling increased as he pictured Billy-boy Carruthers faced with a mob of adoring women. And if that doesn’t get those three to leave the boat tomorrow and catch a plane home, he thought to himself gleefully, then nothing will! Which should give me a bit of peace and quiet for the rest of the trip and should also be worth all the free champagne from Charles that I can drink until 1 get home!
The chatter in the room began to subside. Sir Percival allowed it to die a natural death before he took command again.
“But, then—one might say—if women find Mr. Carruthers so irresistible, apparently Mrs. Mazie Carpenter was not one of them, or else why would she have shrieked for help? Well, as any doctor can tell you, there are women like that—women who enjoy being pursued—and apparently Mrs. Carpenter was one of them. It is all too obvious, as one studies the psychology and the facts, that Mrs. Carpenter’s screams were merely a further means on her part of indicating how much Mr. Carruthers’ attentions really meant to her.”
He turned a harsh look upon James V. King, sitting among the witnesses.
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