Off the Record

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Jack was silent for a moment. Like most people, he cheerfully bandied the word genius around as a shorthand term for very clever. With sudden insight he realized it meant much more than that. Professor Carrington had been at the top of his profession. Without any conceit he would know he had equals but no superior. There was no one to knock the edges off, no one to keep him humble. Jack shuddered. Alan Carrington would always be alone.

  ‘D’you know, I think I’ve just understood something,’ Jack said slowly. ‘It’s the meaning of the word. Genius can mean supernatural power. We talk about a good or evil genius inhabiting a place or a person, setting them apart. I’ve never really seen why before, but I think I do now.’

  ‘You do understand,’ said Carrington softly. He buried his face in his hands. ‘D’you know, that’s such a relief ?’ His voice wavered. ‘Mrs Lewis understood as well. That’s why . . .’ He broke off abruptly, then took off his glasses and polished them on his handkerchief. ‘She understood,’ he said, more to himself than to Jack. His hand slowed as he continued to polish his glasses.

  Jack looked at him sharply. Carrington’s face was shielded by his hand. He was sure the man had turned away to hide his emotions. He had a good idea that with a little careful probing he could draw those emotions out into the open. It would be as easy, pointless and cruel as pinning a struggling butterfly to a card. Poor devil.

  Carrington put his glasses back on and, sitting upright, straightened his pullover, and drew a deep breath. ‘Anyway, perhaps you can see why my father was such easy game for a shark like Dunbar.’

  ‘Was he really such a shark?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Absolutely he was. My father thought he was wonderful. He wasn’t remotely practical himself and always had an exaggerated respect for practical men. He had as much worldly knowledge as a babe in arms and was about as helpless. He ran across Dunbar at a meeting of a learned society. I’ll say this for Dunbar, he really knew his stuff.’

  ‘This society – it wouldn’t be the Otorhinolaryngological Society, would it?’ asked Jack with a grin. ‘I have to gear up before I say that.’

  ‘That’s the one,’ said Carrington in surprise. ‘It’s a dickens of a title, isn’t it? Dunbar was a member, which must have taken the guv’nor off guard. He’d expect any fellow-member to be a scientist, with a purely theoretical interest in the subject. Dunbar suggested that my father should put some of the ideas they’d discussed into concrete form by making a working electronic machine. The guv’nor was delighted. He saw it as a purely academic exercise. It never occurred to him – and I could never get him to realize – that once it was developed it would be a very valuable commercial property. Dunbar realized it,’ he added wryly. ‘Dunbar was out for every penny he could get.’

  ‘Is it really so valuable?’

  ‘I’d say so.’ His eyes brightened. ‘The system my father came up with has the potential to make acoustical recording obsolete. I’m not exaggerating. He transformed both the quality of the sound and the length of the recording. You can see what a giant step forward that is. The absolute limit of a disk played at seventy-eight revolutions a minute is four and a half minutes. Three is much more common. Theoretically, the guv’nor’s system can record and play for hours at a time.’

  ‘Hours?’ asked Jack, sceptically. ‘That seems a pretty big claim. Besides that, who would want hours of recorded sound?’

  ‘Have you ever seen a film, Major Haldean?’

  ‘Well, yes . . .’ Jack’s eyes widened. ‘I see what you’re getting at.’

  Carrington craned forward excitedly. ‘Can you imagine it? Instead of having to read what the actors said, you could actually hear them say it. It’s not just speech, either. Any sound at all can be recorded and played. Just think what that would do to a film of a battle, say, or even something as ordinary as a street scene. It would make the whole thing come alive in a way that just isn’t possible at the moment.’

  ‘It would be like being there,’ said Jack slowly. ‘I’m beginning to understand why this is so valuable.’

  ‘I’ve replicated my father’s experiments,’ said Carrington, his eyes alight. ‘His system needs work, of course, but he’d done it.’ He took off his glasses and polished them absently once more. ‘He experimented, as others before him, with recording on wire but he believed a much better sound could be obtained by using a metal ribbon. The sound he was able to reproduce was truly extraordinary and Dunbar realized that. The way things were shaping up, Dunbar was going to have a genuinely revolutionary system and my father would be left with nothing. I was delighted when Dunbar approached Otterbourne’s. Mr Otterbourne had a reputation as an ethical man and I hoped there would be fair play.’ He slumped back in his chair. ‘Well, you know what happened next.’

  Jack swallowed. The coroner had said Professor Carrington was innocent; he had a sudden, vivid impression of a brilliant, vulnerable man caught like a fly in a spider’s web, threshing helplessly as his struggles brought the waiting horror ever closer. ‘What did you think of the coroner’s findings? Were you satisfied?’

  ‘Satisfied?’ Gerard Carrington looked blank.

  ‘Do you think,’ said Jack, choosing his words carefully, ‘they arrived at the correct verdict?’

  Carrington paled. ‘You know what happened to my father. He was unjustly accused, Major Haldean. I know that now, but, at the time, even I wondered if his temper had got the better of him.’ The muscles in his throat contracted. ‘I’ve blamed myself for that, but it was only later the truth about the pensions and so on came out. That explained why Mr Otterbourne took his own life. It made sense afterwards but at the time I was bewildered. The guv’nor didn’t help. He tried to deal with it as he dealt with any situation he couldn’t cope with. He ignored it. I shouldn’t have left him.’ He put a hand to his mouth. ‘I told him I’d be back and when I did return, it was all over.’

  ‘It must have been difficult,’ said Jack awkwardly.

  ‘Of course it was difficult! What the devil does that matter? He needed me. He always did. You were in the war, weren’t you? I wish I’d been able to fight. Because of my father, my mother begged me not to go. My cousin, Steve – my God, how I envied him! He got the D.S.O. No one’s ever questioned his courage or his patriotism. My grandfather was a foreigner and, even now, even someone like Mrs Lewis thinks I’m not quite English. It matters, you know?’ His mouth trembled. ‘I wanted to prove I could do it. I was desperate to join up.’ He touched his glasses. ‘My eyesight was a problem, but I could have rigged the test.’

  ‘It’s as well you didn’t,’ said Jack sharply. ‘I mean it. One knock, one nudge, your spectacles have gone and, without good eyesight, you’re a danger to yourself and to your men.’

  ‘So I was told,’ said Carrington miserably. ‘I allowed myself to be persuaded. I knew how much Dad needed me, so I let myself be classified as unfit for service. I finished my degree and knuckled down to academic work on soundwaves.’ His face twisted. ‘It’s not very heroic, is it?’

  ‘You were probably a damn sight more use at home than in France. There’s more than one sort of heroism.’

  ‘It’s good of you to say that,’ said Carrington. He gave a long sigh. ‘In the end, what did it matter? He needed me and I wasn’t there.’

  Every instinct Jack possessed urged him to offer some comfort but he couldn’t think of any words that wouldn’t seem unbearably clumsy. He forced himself to ask the next question. It was cruel, he knew, but he had to see Carrington’s reaction. ‘You don’t have any doubts that Mr Otterbourne did shoot himself ?’

  Gerard Carrington rose from his chair, his eyes gleaming. The warder outside tapped on the window and he subsided, his body rigid. ‘Are you trying to say that my father did kill him?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Jack. ‘But there were other people in the house.’

  ‘But . . .’ Carrington broke off. ‘Someone else shot him, you mean?’ Jack could see the idea take hold, then Carrington shook
his head regretfully. ‘I can’t see it.’ He started to speak once more, then broke off.

  ‘What is it?’ prompted Jack. Carrington remained silent. ‘If you’ve got any doubts at all about the verdict on Mr Otterbourne, I’d be very obliged if you’d tell me.’

  ‘I didn’t have any doubts at the time,’ said Carrington slowly, ‘but since then, I’ve wondered.’ He ran a hand through his hair and took a deep breath. ‘I shouldn’t tell you this. It won’t make life any easier for me, I know, but I’ve wondered if Dunbar could have been responsible.’ He looked at Jack with narrowed eyes. ‘You don’t seem surprised. I thought you’d be astonished.’

  ‘It’s not the first time I’ve come across the notion.’

  Carrington leaned forward. ‘Isn’t it? On the face of it, it seems a ridiculous idea, but I kept coming back to it.’ He grinned cynically. ‘You can see why I didn’t want to say anything. I’m in quite enough trouble as it is without saying I thought Dunbar could have murdered Mr Otterbourne and shoved the blame off on to my father. That’s handing the police a motive on a plate. And –’ he shrugged ‘– it’s only an idea.’

  ‘Why did it even cross your mind?’ asked Jack. ‘You must have had a reason.’

  Carrington clicked his tongue. ‘I’ve asked myself the same question. At the time, he was horrified, or I thought he was, at any rate. I didn’t pay him much attention.’ He clasped his hands together so the knuckles showed white. ‘But since then, yes, I’ve wondered. The first time I saw him after my father died was at the inquest and, although he acted perfectly properly and said all the right things, I knew he didn’t really mean any of it. His attitude was all wrong.’

  Jack felt a prickle of excitement. ‘His attitude?’

  ‘He was pleased,’ broke out Carrington. ‘At first I thought I must be wrong. I argued the toss with myself dozens of times but I couldn’t get rid of my impression. For some reason, Dunbar was pleased that Mr Otterbourne had died.’ He glanced up. ‘I don’t know about my father. Perhaps that was too painful for me even to contemplate, but I’m sure about his reaction to Mr Otterbourne’s death. As time went on I became more and more uneasy about working with him.’

  ‘You did work with him though.’

  ‘What choice did I have?’ asked Carrington with a shrug. ‘I didn’t make a meal of how I felt but I didn’t try and conceal the fact I had reservations about him either. Quite apart from what might be nothing but fancy, I had legitimate grounds to feel pretty iffy about him. Dunbar knew that, but he had no choice but to turn to me. I must be about the only person in the world who had a sporting chance of understanding my father’s notes.’

  He polished his glasses once more. ‘Dunbar had taken possession of Dad’s machine. That was perfectly legal and I had no grounds for complaint. However, he needed me to make it work. I’ve got some ideas of my own, too. The machine is essentially the guv’nor’s, but my version will be a great deal easier to operate. I’ve started work on the new machine. I’m not there yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Now, I’m not my father. Dunbar might have exploited him, but I was damned if he was exploiting me. There are parts of the new machine which are mine. I want to be able to use the process in other machines and, furthermore, I wanted a licensing agreement so I would get a payment for every model sold. That was what the argument was about.’

  ‘Did you come to an agreement?’

  Carrington shook his head. ‘No. I don’t know if we ever would have done. I’ll be honest, it’s easier now he’s dead. All I want to do is develop that machine, not argue endlessly about who owns what.’

  He broke off suddenly and looked round the bare room. He swallowed convulsively and put a hand to his mouth. ‘Just for a moment I’d forgotten where I was. I can’t believe this has happened,’ he said passionately. ‘I was thunderstruck when the Inspector told me Dunbar was dead. I assumed he’d had a heart attack or something. I couldn’t see the point of his questions. When I was arrested I couldn’t credit it was a serious accusation. Then, when I realized they were serious, I asked them to produce proofs. I still haven’t been shown anything that I would consider as a proof and they won’t admit they’re wrong. They are wrong, though. After all, if a man comes to an erroneous conclusion, then either his chain of reasoning must be false or his premises can be contradicted. It’s a matter of logic or a matter of fact. But they won’t give me their premises and when I say their chain of reasoning is at fault I can see they either don’t understand – although God knows what’s so hard to grasp – or simply think I’m lying.’ He swallowed. ‘All the ways I’ve ever used to present an argument seem to be redundant.’ His voice trailed off. ‘I don’t know what to do.’ He suddenly looked very frightened and oddly, vulnerably, young.

  Jack leaned forward, willing confidence into the man. ‘Look, Mr Carrington, you’re in a rotten position. Tell me, do you have any friends?’

  The fear faded from Carrington’s face. His forehead creased in a frown. ‘Of course I do. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Say one of your friends makes a statement that you can’t objectively prove or disprove – that they had measles as a child, for instance, or that they had a chop for dinner – do you believe or disbelieve them?’

  ‘I believe them. Why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘And if one of those same friends said they’d seen a ghost, what would you think then?’

  ‘A ghost?’ Carrington repeated, puzzled. ‘I’d probably think they were joking.’ A smile twitched the corner of his mouth. ‘Either that, or they’d been making a night of it.’

  Jack smiled too, but he wanted an answer. ‘And if they were serious? And sober?’

  ‘Utterly serious? I can’t say I believe in ghosts but I’d think they’d probably seen something. What it was is another matter.’

  ‘So your belief or disbelief hinges not so much on what you’re being told, but on who says it?’

  ‘I suppose so. Yes, of course it does. There are some people I’d trust to tell me the truth, even though it may sound peculiar.’ He hesitated. ‘That’s only common sense, isn’t it? To trust the people you know are trustworthy. You might not always be right, of course.’

  Jack breathed a sigh of satisfaction. Common sense; indefinable but unmistakable. He nodded in agreement. ‘That’s ordinary life, isn’t it? We can’t possibly check the truth of what everyone says. We wouldn’t have time, for one thing and, for another, we wouldn’t have many friends left by the time we’d finished. Now the police don’t know you, Mr Carrington. Your account of what you did sounds odd to them and not only haven’t they got enough information about you to take your statement on trust, they wouldn’t be allowed to let such personal considerations enter into it. I know very little about science, but I imagine that when presenting a scientific argument, you point to the results of various experiments and justify your theory because of those results. Unlike your hypothetical friend and his ghost, the personality of the man conducting the experiments doesn’t affect the outcome.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t, unless you think he falsified his results. But if the experiment can be repeated and the same result reached, then that’s objective truth.’ Carrington relaxed, happy to be on familiar ground. ‘You can debate his conclusions, of course.’

  ‘And that’s the position the police are in.’ Jack shifted in his chair, linking his fingers together. ‘They have the objective fact of Andrew Dunbar’s murder to account for. Their conclusion is that you murdered him. We want to debate that conclusion, but we can’t do it by asking them to show their proofs. They haven’t got any, in the sense you mean. What they have got is a chain of inference, shaky as it may be, and that’s all they need. In court your actions will be examined as if you had shot Dunbar. You might say that’s a false premise, but it’s what they’ll be acting on. All they have to show is that it’s beyond reasonable doubt that you killed Dunbar. It’s not scientific. It can’t be, any more than a friend who says he saw a ghost can be judged scientificall
y. It’ll simply be the jury’s opinion based on your actions. We have to see it from their point of view. If you can provide an innocent and reasonable account of your actions, then we’ve got a chance.’

  Carrington gave a fleeting smile. ‘Is this meant to be cheering me up?’

  ‘It’s meant to stop you asking for scientific proof of their accusation. Science, in your sense – real science – where the truth of a proposition can be tested by a series of experiments, won’t help us. Dunbar’s murder was a unique event and, as such, has unique characteristics. You can’t reproduce the exact event to see if the same consequences occur.’

  Carrington gazed at him. ‘I see. Yes, of course, I see.’ He rubbed his hand through his hair anxiously. ‘No one’s put it quite like that before but it’s obvious, really. I’ve been using the wrong methodology,’ he added, more to himself than to Jack. He suddenly looked very unsure of himself. ‘But if science won’t help . . .’ He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘I’ve been rather stupid, haven’t I? I . . . I don’t know what to do. When Inspector Rackham came to interview me, I obviously put his back up. I got on better with my solicitors but I could tell they didn’t understand my point about the nature of the proofs against me. They didn’t explain it as you’ve just done.’ He gave Jack a worried glance. ‘It’s partly arrogance, I suppose. No, let me be honest. It was arrogance. I was so stunned when I was accused and I found the idea so idiotic, I demanded they should prove it, really prove it, I mean. I realized they didn’t know what I was talking about. It seemed so ridiculous they couldn’t understand what I meant.’

  ‘It could be shock, too,’ said Jack. ‘You were grasping for a way of looking at things which seemed familiar.’

  Carrington nodded eagerly. ‘That’s right. I wanted their proofs.’

  ‘But Inspector Rackham thought he’d answered your question, because he does know what proof means in the courts’ sense of the word. It means, if I can put it like this, the balance of probabilities.’