“You must blame me,” said Mr. Harbord. “Mr. Tarragon is an old friend of mine. I’m afraid I over-persuaded him.”
“Etiquette lays down that I cannot discuss the case with you without a solicitor being present.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Beeding isn’t feeling very well this morning.”
“I read something in the papers. He was assaulted by Gordon, was he not, just before Gordon was apprehended?”
“He was certainly assaulted,” said Bridget.
Mr. Macrea looked up sharply. He thought he detected a note of satisfaction in her voice.
Mr. Harbord said, “Could we get over the difficulty by pretending this isn’t a conference? All we want to do is to tell you a story. If, when you’ve heard it, you choose to throw us out, we’ll go quietly.”
“Well,” said Mr. Macrea, “on that understanding . . .”
Mr. Harbord told his story well. He started with the Stewart Barker case. At the end of it Mr. Macrea interrupted him. “Your suggestion is that a respectable solicitor forged an important piece of evidence for a female client, and thereby induced her to become his mistress. But that she turned on him. Why?”
“I should think very likely she got tired of him. And she ran short of money. Those would be two very good reasons.”
“And you surmise that the litigation clerk, Mr. Henry, got to know of it?”
“It’s a bit more than surmise,” said Mr. Harbord. “I spent the afternoon with him. He as good as told me that Mr. Beeding was up to something. He wouldn’t say what, but he implied that it was to do with the Harry Gordon case, and that Janine was mixed up in it.”
“Drunken ramblings,” said Macrea. “Not very reliable evidence.”
“All right,” said Mr. Harbord. “I agree. But the last thing he said to me was, ‘I’m going to have it out with that old so-and-so Beeding. He won’t push me around any more.’ And he finished up dead, in the safe, in Mr. Beeding’s room. Coincidence, I imagine.”
Mr. Macrea took a pinch of snuff.
“So now,” he said, “we have a solicitor who is not only a forger, a perjurer and a seducer, but also a murderer. And not just a murderer but a double murderer. For I suppose it is part of your story that he was the man Janine was going to see that night – and who shot her with the gun she had so conveniently brought along with her?”
“That’s right,” said Mr. Harbord. “It’s cumulative, of course. One thing led to the other.”
“Where does he live, by the way?”
“Staines – on the outskirts. It’s a big villa, standing back in its own grounds, about two hundred yards along the Chertsey Road.”
Mr. Macrea had extracted a motoring map from the drawers of his desk and was making a few calculations.
“It fits in, roughly, with the mileages,” he said. “Twenty-five miles from Highgate via the North Circular. That makes fifty for the return journey. Add a bit for the trip to Epping. Tell me this, when he had abandoned the car in Harry Gordon’s yard – if he abandoned it, I mean, of course—”
“Of course,” said Mr. Harbord.
“How do you suggest he got home?”
“There’s no difficulty about that. He would catch the 11.50 from Waterloo to Staines. He’d probably get out at Ashford, so as not to attract attention. He could then walk home, by secondary roads and paths, in under fifty minutes.”
Mr. Macrea said, “I’m puzzled, Mr. Harbord. You speak of times and places. How do you know all this?”
“A friend of mine,” said Mr. Harbord, “caught the 11.50 last night and got out at Ashford. Eight other people alighted there. He walked to Mr. Beeding’s house in forty-eight minutes. And he met nobody at all on the way.”
“A very devoted friend.”
“Oh, very,” said Mr. Harbord. “I’ve got a number of friends. All happy to work in the cause of justice.”
Mr. Macrea looked at him curiously, shifted his gaze to Bridget who was sitting beside him, her eyes alight, and then got abruptly to his feet.
“I want to be careful not to disappoint you,” he said. “But I’ve got to say this. You’ve just told me a story. It could be true. There’s nothing in the facts, so far as I can see, to disprove your version. In one or two particulars it fits in very neatly. But the Crown has got a story, too. And, at the moment, it’s their version that holds the field. It convinced a jury at the Old Bailey. And very nearly gained the approval of three judges in the Court of Appeal. Indeed, if Harry Gordon hadn’t taken the law into his own hands it would have done so. What are you going to set against it? What concrete evidence have you got – new evidence, that wasn’t available before – to make your version more convincing than theirs?” Seeing the look on Bridget’s face he added, “I really am sorry to say that, but it’s better I should point it out to you now.”
Mr. Harbord said, “There is one person who might help us. He’s a convicted criminal called Pokey Barret, who comes up tomorrow, morning at the South Thames Stipendiary Magistrates Court for a burglary at Laleham. A burglary which he can’t really deny, since most of the proceeds were found under a loose board in his bedroom.”
“How—?”
“I can’t explain the connection. But it’s clear that he had something on Mr. Beeding. At least, that’s the only solution I can think of which squares with the facts. He had undoubtedly stolen a silver cigarette box—”
“Which Mr. Beeding says he kept in his office,” said Bridget, “but I know he didn’t.”
“—and a pair of gold cuff-links. And possibly other things as well. Mr. Beeding neither reported their loss to the police nor made any attempt to get them back. When asked, he even went so far as to deny that the cuff-links belonged to him.”
“It’s odd,” said Macrea, rubbing the tip of his index finger down his leathery chin, “but I still don’t quite see how it’s going to help us.”
“It occurred to me that if you offered your services, as Counsel, to Barret – he’d be enormously flattered, of course, to have a famous Q.C. appearing for him – then the police would have to allow you to talk to him. If you could only get out of him what it is he has on Mr. Beeding—”
“The whole suggestion,” said Mr. Macrea, “is scandalously irregular. Nevertheless—” He touched his bell and Mr. Tarragon appeared.
“Am I doing anything tomorrow morning, Tarragon?”
Mr. Tarragon said, “Yes, sir. You’re appearing for a man called Barret, at the South Thames Court. I’ve just fixed it with his solicitors.”
Late that evening Mr. Harbord was summoned to Macrea’s house in St. John’s Wood. The Q.C. apologised courteously for dragging him out and offered him a glass of port.
There was a fire of logs in the grate, still necessary on that early summer evening, and Macrea stared for a few moments into its depths before saying: “Well – I’ve seen Barret. We had a long talk. There’s no doubt we’re on to something. It’s going to be devilish difficult to handle. Legally, one of the trickiest situations I can remember. And I’m not going into it blindfold.”
“No,” said Mr. Harbord. “What lovely port this is.”
“No credit to me. My father laid it down. I just drink it – with reverent appreciation. I want to know where you come into this. And my clerk. He’s clearly hand in glove with you. And that girl. The whole story.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Harbord.
A quarter of an hour later Macrea said, “I’ve never heard anything like it in my life. I’m half sorry I made you tell me. It makes the thing even more explosive.”
“Do you believe,” said Mr. Harbord, “that Harry Gordon killed Janine Mann?”
“No,” said Macrea. “I don’t.”
“Do you believe that Beeding did kill her?”
“I’m beginning to think it’s very likely he may have done.”
“Then your duty in the matter is clear.”
Macrea sighed. He reflected that it was a rarity, nowadays, to find a man with clear, hard, unc
ompromising ideas of right and wrong. Once upon a time there had been more of them about. They had founded empires, started new religions and executed evil kings. He sighed once again.
“It’s lucky we’ve got old Holland sitting tomorrow,” he said. “He’s pretty broad-minded. I’ll have to tell him, in outline, what I plan to do. And we’d better tip off the press. This is a case where publicity is going to be a great help.”
Regulars at the South London Court were astounded. Apart from those professionally engaged, the morning attendance rarely exceeded a dozen in the public part of the court, and a couple of reporters. On this particular morning they found some difficulty in getting in at all. Latecomers were actually excluded from the Court.
Those who did get in observed that the press benches were full to overflowing; and that a number of men whom they had never seen before, and who appeared somewhat out of their element in those surroundings, were seated on the benches normally reserved for solicitors and counsel.
“What’s it all about?” said Burroughs, of the Morning News to his next-door neighbour.
“No idea. We were told there was some tie-up with the Gordon case. Might be nothing in it, but we couldn’t risk missing anything.”
Burroughs nodded. His dramatic escape and recapture had elevated Harry Gordon into a position above Prime Ministers or pop singers.
“Isn’t that old Macrea coming in?”
“That’s right. It is. That’s Superintendent Lacey – in the bowler hat – and isn’t that Beeding – the solicitor? There is something in it then.”
He gauged with expert eye the distance to the door. If a story really was going to break, he was going to have to get to a telephone.
Mr. Holland came in. The Court rose, and subsided. Mr. Holland, who looked like an intelligent parrot and had a croaking voice to match, said, “I understand, Mr. Macrea, that you have an application to make.”
“I’m obliged,” said Macrea, climbing to his feet. “I appear for Sidney Arthur Barret, charged with burglary, at Laleham, on March 15th last. Mr. Fellow is with me.”
“Yes, Mr. Macrea.”
“I have an application to make, and I understand from the clerk that it will be convenient to take it first.”
“Certainly, Mr. Macrea. Where is the accused?”
The policeman nearest the door shouted, ‘Barret’. The door was opened, and the prisoner came in. He was a scruffy, cheerful, insignificant little man, who appeared gratified by the public attention focused on him. He grinned at a friend in the public benches and was hustled into the dock.
“The position,” said Macrea, “is somewhat unusual. I was instructed at a late hour yesterday, and I have only had an opportunity of one conference with my client—”
Mr. Barret smiled in a gratified way. His client !
“Nevertheless, my instructions are quite clear. He has indicated that he is prepared to plead guilty to the offence as charged – on condition that three other offences are taken into consideration at the same time.”
“If he wishes to plead guilty the plea should be made to the Assizes, when the case comes up.”
“I appreciate that,” said Macrea. “But if he withdraws his plea, then preliminary proceedings will have to take place here, will they not?”
“I don’t think he can bargain with the Court.”
“In the normal way,” said Macrea, “I should respectfully agree. The time for considering other offences is after sentence has been passed. But there is a further complication here. One of the offences which my client particularly wishes to have taken into consideration is alleged by the police never to have taken place.”
There was a moment’s silence. Mr. Holland looked at the police solicitor who half rose to his feet. Before he could speak, Macrea intervened.
“If you would allow me,” he said, “to indicate, very briefly, the nature of the dispute between my client and the police—”
For a breathless moment Mr. Holland considered the matter. He knew that what was being suggested was completely irregular – but he also knew Macrea.
He said, “Very well, Mr. Macrea.”
“My client,” said Macrea, “tells me – indeed he insists – that he carried out a burglary at a dwelling-house outside Staines on the night of November 16th. He is quite clear about the date, which happens to be both his birthday and his wedding anniversary.”
“Married twenty-two years,” said Barret, “and never a hard word.”
“You’ll have an opportunity of addressing the Court later,” said Mr. Holland. “Go on, Mr. Macrea.”
“It also stuck in his memory because the owner of the house, as he found out afterwards, was one of the persons involved – indirectly involved – in the Harry Gordon murder case. A murder alleged to have been committed on November 16th.”
The heads on the press benches jerked up, in unison. On the other side of the Court Mr. Beeding turned as red as if a spotlight had opened on him. Then the colour drained slowly out of his face, leaving it whiter than before.
“It was the house of a Mr. Alfred Beeding, the solicitor appearing in that case. My client described to me in some detail how he watched this particular house from nine o’clock onwards. It was not a very comfortable vigil since it was raining hard, but he was afraid to enter the house since Mr. Beeding was apparently entertaining a visitor who, he feared, might emerge at any moment. The visitor’s car, a red Aston Martin, was parked outside the front door.”
The reporters’ pencils squeaked and scurried.
Macrea, who could sense that the sands of Mr. Holland’s patience were running out fast, hurried on. “At about a quarter past ten, however, my client saw Mr. Beeding emerge. His visitor – a lady – appeared to be in the last stages of drink, since he had to drag her to the car—”
“Really, Mr. Macrea,” said Mr. Holland, “I hardly think this is the time and place—”
Out of the corner of his eye Macrea saw Mr. Beeding get to his feet and push his way to the door. The reporters saw it, too. With one accord they rose to their feet and stampeded towards the exit.
Burroughs had the lead by a short head. He got through the front door of the Court as Mr. Beeding reached his car. He ran across. “Would you care to make any comment?” he said, and this was as far as he got. Mr. Beeding shook him off, jumped into the car and started the engine. The gear lever was rammed home, and the car shot away.
Burroughs scampered to the nearest telephone . . .
“Do you think it was an accident?” said the Assistant Commissioner.
“It’s difficult to say,” said Lacey. “He was evidently making for his house. By all accounts he was driving much too quickly. It was pouring with rain, and the road was greasy. He couldn’t turn the corner just short of his house. Went over the bank, and into the river.”
“Yes,” said the Assistant Commissioner. He was thinking what a curious part rain had played in the whole story. If it hadn’t been a vile night on November 16th, when Harry Gordon started out after Janine – if he hadn’t bogged his car in Epping Forest – if the road outside Mr. Beeding’s house hadn’t been slippery . . .
“One thing’s certain,” said the Assistant Commissioner. “No one’s going to believe Harry Gordon did it. Not now.”
“What puzzles me,” said Lacey, “is how they got Pokey to help them. Without him they wouldn’t have got far.”
“He hadn’t much to lose,” said the Assistant Commissioner. “The Laleham job was open and shut. He was going down on that for a certainty. And he knew we were on to the others. So it was sensible to bring them in. Of course, he might have had other reasons, too. He might have had strong ethical objections to capital punishment.”
One of the difficulties with the A.C., Superintendent Lacey had found, was to know when he was joking. On this occasion he felt quite safe in laughing . . .
The Lord Chief Justice addressed the figure in the dock.
“In all the circumstances,” he said, “and
having regard to every possible contention so ably put forward by Counsel on your behalf and having considered the new evidence now brought forward—”
Harry glanced at the policeman beside him. He was, he noticed, a particularly large and wide-awake policeman.
“—we have come to the unanimous conclusion that the conviction and sentence in this case cannot stand.”
The policeman was grinning.
“We therefore direct that the prisoner be set at liberty. Usher, kindly restrain those people in the public gallery. This is not a theatrical performance.”
Outside the door, at the foot of the stairs, Harry found Bridget waiting for him.
Michael Gilbert Titles in order of first publication
All Series titles can be read in order, or randomly as standalone novels
Inspector Hazlerigg
Close Quarters (1947)
They Never Looked Inside (alt: He Didn’t Mind Danger) (1948)
The Doors Open (1949)
Smallbone Deceased (1950)
Death has Deep Roots (1951)
Fear To Tread (in part) (1953)
The Young Petrella (included) (short stories) (1988)
The Man Who Hated Banks and Other Mysteries (included) (short stories) (1997)
Patrick Petrella
Blood and Judgement (1959)
Amateur in Violence (included) (short stories) (1973)
Petrella at Q (short stories) (1977)
The Young Petrella (short stories) (1988)
Roller Coaster (1993)
The Man Who Hated Banks and Other Mysteries (included) (short stories) (1997)
Luke Pagan
Ring of Terror (1995)
Into Battle (1997)
Over and Out (1998)
Calder & Behrens
Game Without Rules (short stories) (1967)
Mr. Calder and Mr. Behrens (short stories) (1982)
Non-Series
Death in Captivity (alt: The Danger Within) (1952)
Stay of Execution Page 20