Beyond this place

by Cronin, A. J. (Archibald Joseph), 1896-1981

  "In what manner disguised?"

  "By the simple and extremely common expedient of taking the pen in the left hand."

  "Ah! So the note of assignation was written left-handed?"

  "Indubitably. And by the prisoner, Mathry."

  "And by Mathry." Grahame smiled agreeably. "Such conviction is very reassuring. I am ill-qualified, Professor, to plumb the mysteries of your art. Nevertheless, it would appear, from the highest authorities upon the subject, that evidence of this kind,

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  based on opinion and theory, cannot always be implicitly relied upon. You have heard, perhaps, of the case of Adolf Beck?"

  The Professor did not answer, but his air became loftier.

  "In that case, Professor, a handwriting expert of acknowledged reputation swore upon oath that certain letters had been written by a man named Adolf Beck who, on the strength of this evidence, was sentenced to five-years penal servitude. At the end of which time, after this long sentence had been fully served, it was proved beyond all shadow of doubt that he had not written the letters, that he was completely innocent, and that the handwriting expert had made a ghastly, unspeakable blunder which condemned a blameless fellow creature to five years of ruinous misery."

  Valentine threw back his hair with an outraged air.

  "I had nothing to do with the Beck case."

  "Of course not, Professor. Your case was the Mathry case and that is what immediately concerns us. Now, in your opinion there were three distinct points. First, that the writing was left-handed, secondly, that it was disguised, thirdly, that it was by Mathry. Would you tell us which of these findings you base upon fact and which upon personal deduction?"

  The Professor now looked thoroughly put out, and he answered somewhat heatedly.

  "The merest novice, sir, could tell from the slope and configuration of the letters that the note in question was written disguised and left-handed. The third point, however, involves skilled technical knowledge of a high order . . . one might even use the word intuition ... a sort of sixth sense which enables the expert to recognise a specific calligraphy amongst a host of others."

  "Thank you, Professor," Grahame said quietly. "That is precisely what I wished to know. In point of fact, with all your senses you affirm that the note was written disguised and left-handed. With your sixth sense, your intuition, you opine that it was written by Mathry. That is all."

  The Professor, more ruffled than ever, opened his mouth as though about to speak. But he seemed to judge it wiser to say nothing. As he stepped down, Mr. Grahame turned to the bench.

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  "My lords, with your permission I will call Police-Surgeon Dobson."

  Again, the Attorney-General, despite his bulk, was swiftly on his feet.

  "My lords, I must strenuously object. You have agreed that we are not here to re-try the case. The police-surgeon was heard in full at the original trial. Further evidence from him is not admissible."

  "Unless," Grahame interposed calmly, "as you yourself have stated, it arises out of fresh facts."

  A moment of tension followed, a silent conflict of wills, broken by the voice of the Lord Chief Justice.

  "You wish to call the surgeon upon these grounds?"

  "If it please your lordships."

  A motion of assent was made following which a spry dark-haired man, dressed in a navy-blue suit, with an athletic figure and an agreeable, virile face bustled across the court and, with the composure of one who has often occupied that position, took up his place in the box.

  "Dr. Dobson," Grahame began, in his most winning manner, "vou have heard the theories of Dr. Tuke relating to the murdered woman's injuries, given to the court concisely and most lucidly by his widow. What do you think of them?"

  "Rubbish."

  The word, not uttered contemptuously, but with a disarming smile, sent a murmur of amusement through the gallery. Although it was at once suppressed, Mathry ground his teeth and glared at the offenders.

  "Rubbish, Doctor? A strong term, is it not?"

  "You asked for my opinion. I have given it."

  Paul caught his breath sharply. He doubted the wisdom of calling the police-surgeon and feared that Grahame would fare badly against this confident, determined witness. But unruffled and undeterred, the young barrister went on.

  "Perhaps in general you are opposed to theories."

  "When I find a woman with her throat cut and her head virtually severed from her body I find little need for theoretical speculation."

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  "I see. You conclude immediately that the lethal weapon was the obvious one — a razor."

  "I did not once mention the word razor."

  "But the prosecution in its most damning indictment produced a razor as the actual fatal instrument."

  "That is not my department."

  "Then let us return, if we may, to your department. Theorizing apart, what was your conclusion, if any, in respect to the weapon?"

  "That the injuries were occasioned by an extremely sharp instrument."

  The surgeon, justifiably but mistakenly, was growing angry. Grahame smiled at him gently.

  "So, as Dr. Tuke contended, the murderer could have used a thin, sharp blade, such as a scalpel."

  Annoyance and honesty contended openly in the surgeon's face.

  "Yes," he declared at length, "I suppose he could. Provided he had some knowledge of anatomy."

  "Some knowledge of anatomy." Grahame, despite his quiet tone, gave the phrase a thrilling significance. "Thank you, Doctor . . . thank you, very much. And now, you performed an autopsy upon the murdered woman."

  "Naturally."

  "You found that she was pregnant."

  "I stated the fact in my report."

  "Did you state the term of pregnancy?"

  "Of course," the police-surgeon answered warmly. "Are you suggesting that I was remiss in my duty?"

  "Far from it, Doctor. However much we may differ on the question of metaphysics I am convinced of your absolute integrity. How long had the murdered woman been pregnant?"

  "Three months."

  "You are sure?"

  "As sure as I'm standing in this box I reported that she was three months gone . . . perhaps a day or two over."

  "And your report was sent to the prosecuting counsel?"

  "Of course."

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  "Thank you, Doctor. That will be all." Grahame, with a pleasant smile, dismissed Dobson then turned to the bench.

  "My lords, with your consent I will call my fourth witness."

  A weedy little man came forward, thin-faced, bald, prematurely aged, dressed in a check suit too large for his wizened frame.

  "What is your name?"

  "Harry Rocca."

  "Your present occupation?"

  "Stableman ... at the Nottingham Race Course."

  "It was you who, fifteen years ago, disclosed to the police the false alibi which Mathry attempted to arrange."

  "Yes."

  "You knew Mathry well?"

  "We knocked around together."

  "Where did you meet him?"

  "In the Sherwood Pool Rooms . . . around January 1921."

  "And later on you introduced him to the Spurling woman?"

  "That's right, sir."

  "Can you recollect precisely when this introduction took place?"

  "Very well. It was the day of the big July Handicap at Cat-terick. I recall it quite clear because I had five quid on the winner . . . Warminster."

  "You say the July Handicap?"

  "Yes, sir. Run the fourteenth of July."

  "Did you mention the exact day to the authorities?"

  There was a pause. Rocca lowered his head.

  "I don't remember. . . ."

  "In the light of the medical evidence, this date, which showed that Mathry had known Spurling for only seven weeks, was of the utmost significance. Were you not questioned about it at
headquarters?"

  "I don't remember."

  "Try to refresh your memory."

  "No." Rocca shook his head persistently. "I don't remember. They wasn't much interested . . . didn't seem to think it was important."

  "I see. It was not important to prove that the most odious slur,

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  the most damning link in all the evidence against Mathry was, in point of time, an absolute impossibility. That will do, thank you."

  As Rocca left the box, Grahame gazed mildly toward the bench.

  "My lords, my next witness is Louisa Burt."

  Permission being granted, one of the court attendants went into an adjoining anteroom and, a moment later, returned with Burt.

  She came in jauntily enough, with only a glint of uneasiness in the corner of her eye, and having taken her place on the stand, she preened herself, then gazed round the court with that affected air which Paul knew so well. She had not seen him, nor did she once glance in the direction of Mathry who, from the instant she entered, glared at her with blazing hatred.

  "You are Louisa Burt?" When she had taken the oath Grahame addressed her in his most courteous manner.

  "Yes, sir. At least I was." She bridled consciously. "As you probly know, I just recently got married."

  "May we congratulate you. We are indebted to you for your appearance here, especially at such a time."

  "I must say it was a supprise when we was detained at the boat. But I'm only too willing to oblige, sir."

  "Thank you. I can assure you that vou have not been summoned without due cause. You realise, I am sure, that the evidence which you gave at the trial fifteen years ago was of vital importance and was, indeed, probably instrumental in securing the conviction of the prisoner."

  "I done my best, sir," Burt answered modestly. "More nor that I cannot say."

  "Now, the night of the murder was, I believe, dark and rainy."

  'Tes, sir. I remember it like it was yesterday."

  "And the fugitive who came from 52 Ushaw Terrace was running very fast."

  "He was indeed, sir."

  "So fast, indeed, that he flashed past you in a second."

  "I suppose he did, sir." Burt spoke thoughtfully.

  "Yet you obtained a very clear and complete picture of this man. He wore, you said, a fawn waterproof, a check cap, and

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  brown boots. Tell us now, how, in an instant, and in the darkness, did you secure so comprehensive a description?"

  "Well, you see, sir," Burt answered with confidence, "he run under the street lamp. And the light shone full on him."

  "The time being twenty minutes to eight."

  "Exactly, sir. I left the laundry with my frient at half-past seven, and it's less than a ten-minute walk to number 52."

  "So you are absolutely certain of the time?"

  "I'll take my oath, sir. In fact I've already took it."

  "In that case, how could you have observed the fugitive by lamp light? In the district of Eldon, under a municipal ordinance in force in 1921 the street lighting was not turned on until eight p.m."

  For the first time Burt appeared taken aback and, in a furtive fashion, her eyes sought out Dale, who sat in the well of the court deliberately averting his gaze from the witness box.

  "It seemed like the lamp was on, sir," Burt asserted, at last. "I took it all in very quick, it just burned itself into my brain."

  "Then why does this burned-in description differ materially from the final deposition which you signed after repeated questionings at the police station?"

  Burt hung her head sulkily, and was completely silent.

  "Could it be that you received certain promptings from the voice of authority?"

  "I object, my lords," the Attorney-General started up violently, "to that unwarranted and unpardonable imputation."

  "Let us leave it, then," Grahame agreed, reasonably. "If I am right, you said the running man was clean-shaven."

  'Tes," Burt replied after some delay.

  "You made that outright statement, it was published in the press and, unless you were to be completely discredited, it could not be retracted." Grahame paused. "Yet Mathry, the man whom you identified at Liverpool as being the fugitive, had a moustache which, in fact, he had worn for the previous six years."

  "I can't help that," Burt retorted sullenly. "On second thoughts it seemed like he had the moustache. I told you I done my best."

  "Of course," replied Grahame soothingly. "That is becoming increasingly evident. Well, we will leave those trifles of the unlit

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  lamp, the moustache, the altered description of the clothing, and pass to an even more singular matter."

  There was a strained silence. Burt's composure had gone. She kept searching for some encouragement from Sprott, then from the Chief Constable, and when both grimly refused to look at her, her gaze circled the court in desperation. Suddenly she saw Paul. She started. Her eyes widened and a livid colour spread over her pale, plump cheeks.

  "It is," Grahame continued, "the question of your association with Edward Collins. Were you very friendly with Edward?"

  Burt burst into tears. She clutched at the ledge of the box in front of her.

  "I feel bad," she whimpered. "I can't go on. I need to lie down. I'm just recently a bride."

  The Lord Chief Justice frowned, suppressing the faint titter which expressed the tension of the court.

  "Are you ill?" he queried.

  "Yes, sir, yes, your lordship, I must have a rest."

  "My lords," Grahame said reasonably, "with your permission, I am quite agreeable that the witness should be accorded some respite. But I must recall her thereafter, with reference to another matter of the utmost importance, upon which I wish to lead proof."

  After consultation, the judges consented. As Burt was assisted from the witness stand, the Lord Chief Justice viewed the courtroom clock which showed five minutes to four o'clock. Whereupon, in a curt voice, he adjourned the inquiry until the following morning.

  CHAPTER XVI

  IMMEDIATELY their lordships rose, Sprott, who had been on edge, awaiting the closure, made his way swiftly from the court, through his deserted robing room, and out by the private side entrance. He was determined not to be harried by reporters or

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  detained in idle conversation, and had ordered his car for four o'clock. It was there, and as he hurried across the pavement towards it the accumulated aggravation of his mood was lightened by a throb of pleasure, when he perceived that his wife was in the back seat. He flung himself into the shelter of the car, and having ordered Banks to drive home, he turned the handle which raised the glass partition, lay back on the soft grey upholstery, and took her hand.

  The day had been torture to his domineering spirit. Gra-hame's address, in particular, had put him on the rack. Moreover, his professional instinct warned him there was worse to come. He winced at the thought of Burt, and what Grahame might draw from her tomorrow. Closing his eyes, for a moment, he was content to rest in silence. Then he said:

  "It was like you to come, Catharine. I knew I could depend on you."

  She made no answer.

  Half raising his jaded lids, he noticed that she seemed unusually pale and that, instead of an afternoon silk frock, she wore a plain tweed coat with a soft felt hat pulled down over her eyes. Presently, she withdrew her hand.

  He sat up.

  "It went not badly, considering." He spoke to reassure himself, as well as her. "Of course, Grahame was sensational — as we expected. He dug into the muck and slung it at us all — the cheap hound."

  "Don't, Matt."

  He bent towards her in surprised inquiry.

  "What's the matter?"

  She averted her white face and, with her slender neck arched against the light, gazed through the wide window of the car. At last, she said:

  "I don't think Mr. Grahame is cheap."

/>   "What!"

  "I think he's honest and sincere."

  His florid face grew brick red.

  "You wouldn't say that if you had heard him today."

  "I did hear him." She turned from the window, supporting one

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  cheek with her long, delicate fingers and, for the first time, looked at him with her pained and shadowed eyes. "I was in the gallery, in the back seat. I had to go. I went to support you, to sustain you with my love, to hear you cleared of those vile insinuations. And instead . . ."

  Startled, he stared at her, while the blood left his face. That she should have been there, to hear everything — it was the last thing he had wanted.

  "You should have kept away." He spoke angrily. "I told you to. That court was no place for a woman. Didn't I explain it all beforehand. Every public official has to swallow a dose of bitter medicine once in a lifetime. But that's no reason why his wife should watch him take it."

  "I had to go," she repeated in a lifeless voice. "Something made me do so."

  There was a pause. He curbed his temper. He loved her.

  "Well, never mind." He attempted to regain possession of her hand. "It will soon be over. They'll throw some kind of sop to this Mathry creature. Then it will all be finished and forgotten."

  "Will it, Matt?" she answered, with that same strange apathy.

  Her manner, the tone of her voice, struck him like a blow. He could have cursed out loud, but at that moment they swung oft Park Quadrant into the driveway and drew up at the front portico of their home. Catharine immediately hurried into the house.

  "Shall you want the car again tonight, sir?" Banks asked him as he stepped out.

  "No, damn it," Sprott answered viciously.

  Was there a strange glint in the man's obsequious eye? The prosecutor could not tell. In any case, he did not care. He hurried in after his wife and caught up with her in the inner hall.