The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  As I looked him over critically, I was not surprised at the eagerness with which the police had fastened on his salient peculiarities. He was quite a striking figure. Dull and commonplace enough in face and feature, the combination of a rather untidy mop of dark-red hair with a noticeably red nose set in a large pale face made him an ideal subject for identification. From the prisoner I turned to his defending solicitor, Mr. Coleman, who sat at the solicitors’ table, listening with sphinx-like impassiveness to the expert’s authoritative pronouncements. Equally unmoved was the prisoner’s counsel, a good-looking Jew named Lyon, who specialized in criminal practice. The counsel for the prosecution, a Mr. Barnes, was on his feet at the moment, and his junior, Mr. Callow, was industriously taking notes of the evidence.

  “Have the defence objected to this evidence?” I asked Thorndyke in a whisper, as the leader for the Crown put what seemed to be his final question.

  “No,” was the reply. “The judge questioned the relevance of it; but, as the defence did not seem interested, he gave no ruling.”

  It seemed to me that Mr. Dobey’s case was being rather mismanaged; and I was confirmed in this opinion when his counsel rose to cross-examine:

  “You have stated that the marks on this window glass are the prints of the prisoner’s fingers. Are you quite certain that those marks were not made by the fingers of some other person?”

  “The chances against their having been made by the fingers of any person other than the prisoner are several thousand millions.”

  “But is it not possible that you may have made some mistake in the comparison? You don’t, I suppose, claim to be infallible?”

  “I claim that the method employed at the Bureau is infallible. It does not depend on personal judgment, but on comparison, detail by detail, of the questioned fingerprint with the one which is known. I have made the comparison with the greatest care, and I am certain that I have made no mistake.”

  “And do you swear, positively, of your certain knowledge, that the marks on this window-glass were made by the fingers of the prisoner?

  “I do,” was the reply; whereupon, having thus unnecessarily piled up the evidence against his client, Mr. Lyon sat down with an air of calm satisfaction. I was astonished at the apparent stupidity of the proceeding. It is seldom worth while to cross-examine fingerprint experts at all closely, for the more they are pressed, the more do they affirm their absolute certainty. And I noticed that my surprise seemed to be shared by the judge, who glanced with a sort of impatient perplexity from the counsel to the sphinx-like solicitor who was instructing him. It must be an exasperating experience for a judge—who knows all the ropes—to have to watch a counsel making a hopeless muddle of a case.

  The next witness was a middle-aged woman who gave the name of Martha Bunsbury, and who was examined by Mr. Barnes in the plain, straightforward fashion proper to a prosecuting counsel.

  “Kindly look at the prisoner and tell us whether you recognise him.”

  The witness bestowed a disdainful stare on the prisoner, and replied, promptly: “Yes. I picked him out of a whole crowd at Brixton Prison.”

  “Where and when had you seen him before that?”

  “I saw him on the second of August, breaking into a house in Sudbury Park. I happened to be at the window at the back of my house when I heard the sound of glass being broken. So I looked out, and then I saw the prisoner getting into the back window of the house in Sudbury Park that is just opposite mine. So I opened the window and called out. Then I ran down to the garden and gave the alarm to two men who were coming along the towing-path of the canal.”

  “And what happened next?”

  “The lady next door to me came out into her garden and she began to call out too. Then the two men started to run along the tow-path towards the bridge, but the prisoner, who had heard us giving the alarm, backed out of the window and ran across the garden with his coat on his arm. When he came to the wall, he laid the coat on the top of it, because the wall has broken glass all along the top, and climbed over. But, as he dropped down outside, the coat dropped down inside. He turned round, and was going to climb back to get it, but, by that time, the two men were running over the bridge. So he left the coat and made off up a side lane between two houses. And that is the last I saw of him.”

  “Yes. A very excellent description,” said Mr. Barnes. “But now I want you to be extremely careful. Look again at the prisoner, and see if you are quite certain that he is really the man whom you saw in the garden of that house. It is most important that there should be no possibility of a mistake.”

  “There isn’t,” was the immediate and confident reply. “I am perfectly certain that he is the man.”

  On this, Mr. Barnes sat down and Mr. Lyon rose to cross-examine.

  “You have said that you saw the housebreaker from the back window of your house, breaking a back window of a house opposite. How far would that window be from yours?”

  “I really couldn’t say. A fair distance. Not so very far.”

  “You spoke of a canal. Is the opposite house on the same side of the canal as your house?”

  “No, of course it isn’t. How could it be? It is on the opposite side.”

  “And how long is your garden?”

  “Oh, a moderate length. You know what London gardens are.”

  “Should I be right in saying that, at the time that you saw this man, you were separated from him by the length of two gardens and the width of the canal?”

  “Yes. That is what I said.”

  “And you say that, having seen this total stranger at that very considerable distance, you are quite certain that you are able to recognize and remember him?”

  “Yes, I am quite certain.”

  “Can you tell us how you are able to identify him with such certainty?”

  “Well,” said the witness, “there’s his nose, you see. I could see that.”

  “Quite so. You looked upon the nose when it was red.”

  “I should think it is always red,” said Mrs. Bunsbury. “At any rate, it was red then, and it is red now. And then there is his hair.”

  “Very true. There is his hair. But he is not the only man in the world with a red nose and red hair.”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” replied the witness, doggedly. “But I do know that he is the man. I’d swear to him among ten thousand.”

  This apparently finished Mr. Lyon, for, having again prejudiced his client’s case to the best of his ability, he sat down with unimpaired complacency.

  The next witness, Miss Doris Gray, gave evidence to the same effect, though with somewhat less emphasis; and, when she had been cross-examined and finally vacated the witness-box, Mr. Barnes rose and announced that “that was his case.” As soon as he sat down, Mr. Lyon rose and made his announcement.

  “I call witnesses, my lord.”

  “Now,” Thorndyke said to me in a low tone, “we are going to see whether there is really a case for the defence.”

  “They haven’t made much of it up to the present,” I remarked.

  “Exactly,” he replied. “That is what makes me a little hopeful. They have certainly given the prosecution plenty of rope.”

  I should have liked to have this observation elucidated somewhat—and so, probably, would Superintendent Miller, who, at this moment, came forth from some inconspicuous corner and took his place at the solicitors’ table; for there was more than a shade of anxiety on his face as he looked expectantly at the witness-box. But there was no opportunity for explanations. Even as Miller took his seat, the first witness for the defence was called, and appeared in the person of a pleasant-looking middle-aged lady wearing the uniform of a trained nurse, and bearing, it transpired, the name of Helen Royden. In reply to a question from Mr. Lyon, she deposed that she was the matron of the cottage hospital at Hook Green, near Biddenden in Kent.

  “Will you kindly look at the prisoner and tell us if you recognize him?”

  The w
itness turned her head and cast a smiling glance at the accused (whereupon Mr. Dobey’s rather saturnine countenance relaxed into a friendly grin), “Yes,” she replied, “I recognize him as Mr. Charles Dobey, lately a patient at my hospital.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “On the first of October, when he was discharged from hospital.”

  “What were the date and the circumstances of his admission?”

  “He was brought to the hospital on the thirtieth of July by Dr. Wale, the medical officer of the hospital, suffering from a compound fracture of the left tibia. I understand that the doctor found him lying in the road.”

  “Do you remember the exact time at which he was brought in?”

  “It was a little before eleven in the forenoon.” As the dates were mentioned, I observed the judge and the two prosecuting counsel hurriedly turn over their notes with an expression of astonishment and incredulity, and the jury very visibly “sat up and took notice.”

  “Did you communicate with any of the patient’s relatives?”

  “Yes. At the patient’s request, I wrote to his wife, who lives at East Malling in Kent, informing her of his admission, and inviting her to come and see him.”

  “And did she come?”

  “Yes. She came the next day, and I allowed her to stay the night at the hospital. After that, she came to see him usually twice a week.”

  “Have you any doubt that the prisoner is the man whom you have described as your patient, Charles Dobey?”

  “No. I couldn’t very well be mistaken. He was in the hospital just over two months, and I saw him several times every day, and often had quite long talks with him. Ours is a small hospital, and the patients are rather like a family.”

  “Did you learn what his occupation was?”

  “Yes. He described himself as a plumber and gas-fitter.”

  “Had you any reason to doubt that that was his real occupation?”

  “None whatever. In fact, we had evidence that it was; for, when he was convalescent and able to get about, he repaired all the taps in the hospital, and did a number of odd jobs. He seemed to be quite a clever workman.”

  “Do you keep a record of admissions and discharges?”

  “Yes. I have brought the register with me.”

  Here she produced from a business-like handbag a rather chubby quarto volume which she opened at a marked place and handed to the usher, who conveyed it to the counsel. When the latter had examined it and verified the dates, he passed it up to the judge, who scanned it curiously and compared it with his notes. Finally, it was handed to the prosecuting counsel, who appeared to gaze on it with stupefaction, and returned it to Mr. Lyon, who handed it back to the usher for transmission to the witness. This concluded the examination-in-chief, and Mr. Lyon accordingly thanked the witness and sat down. I waited curiously for the cross-examination, but neither of the Crown counsel made any sign. The judge glanced at them enquiringly, and, after a short pause, the witness was dismissed and her place taken by her successor. The new witness was a shrewd-looking, clean-shaved man, in whom I seemed to recognize a professional brother. And a doctor he turned out to be; one Egbert Wale by name, and the medical officer of the Hook Green Cottage Hospital. Having given the usual particulars, and been asked the inevitable question, he deposed as follows:

  “On the thirtieth of last July, at about twenty minutes to eleven in the forenoon, I was driving down a by-road between Headcorn and Biddenden when I saw a man lying in the road. I stopped my car and got out to examine him, when I found that he had sustained a compound fracture of the left leg below the knee. I accordingly dressed the wound, put on a temporary splint, lifted him into my car, and drove him to the Hook Green Cottage Hospital, of which I am visiting medical officer. He gave the name of Charles Dobey, and explained that he had broken his leg in dropping from a motor-lorry on which he had taken a free lift without the knowledge of the driver. I detained him in the hospital for two months, and discharged him as convalescent on the first of October.”

  “Did Dobey make a good recovery?”

  “Yes, excellent. When he left the hospital, the wound was quite healed, and the broken bone firmly united, but there was a large knob of callus, or new bone, which, I hope, will disappear in time.”

  “Would you recognize the wound if you were to examine it?”

  “Certainly I should. I saw it last only about three weeks ago.”

  “Then, if his lordship will grant his permission, I will ask you to make the examination.”

  His lordship—bearing in mind; no doubt, the evidence of the fingerprint experts—gave his permission readily; whereupon the doctor came out of the witness-box and went over to the dock. There he proceeded dexterously to unwind a length of bandage from the prisoner’s leg—which had been exposed by its owner in readiness for the inspection—and examine the member by sight and touch. Then he replaced the bandage and returned to the witness-box.

  “What is the result of your examination?” Mr. Lyon asked.

  “I find the wound and the fracture in much the same condition as when I saw it last about three weeks ago.”

  “You have no doubt that it is the same injury?”

  “Not the slightest. I recognize every detail of it.”

  “What is meant by a compound fracture? Is it a very serious injury?”

  “A compound fracture is a break in a bone accompanied by a wound of the flesh and skin which communicates with the broken part of the bone and exposes it to the air. It is always a serious injury, even under modern surgical conditions, because the wound and the fracture have both to be treated, and each may interfere with the treatment of the other.”

  “And you have no doubt that the prisoner is the person whom you treated at the hospital?”

  “I identify the prisoner as the man of whom I am speaking. I am quite certain that he is the same person.”

  On receiving this answer, Mr. Lyon sat down, and the witness looked expectantly at the counsel for the prosecution. But, as before, they made no sign, and, accordingly, the witness was dismissed. As he retired, the foreman of the jury rose and announced that he and his colleagues did not want to hear any more evidence. “The jury are of opinion,” he added, “that this is a case of mistaken identity.”

  “It is difficult to avoid that conclusion,” the judge admitted. Then, turning to the prisoner’s counsel, he enquired what further evidence he had proposed to offer. “I had proposed to call the prisoner’s wife, my lord, and then to put the prisoner in the box.”

  The judge reflected for a few moments and then, addressing the foreman, said: “I think, in fairness to the prisoner, we should hear the rest of the evidence. You will note that the question of the document has not been cleared up. That document was found, you will remember, on premises belonging to the prisoner. We had better hear the evidence, though it may not be necessary for the learned counsel for the defence to address you.” The jury having agreed to this eminently sensible suggestion, the prisoner’s wife, Elizabeth Dobey, was called and took her place in the witness-box.

  “Is the address at East Mailing that you have given your permanent address? Is that your home?” Mr. Lyon asked, when the preliminaries had been disposed of, and the witness had described herself as the wife of Charles Dobey, the prisoner, “Yes. We rent a cottage with a nice bit of garden. My husband is very fond of gardening.”

  “With regard to the flat in London, 103 Barnard’s Buildings? Do you spend much of your time there?”

  “Me? I have never been there at all. It isn’t a flat. It’s just a place where my husband can sleep and cook a meal when he is in Town, looking for a job.”

  “Do you remember when the prisoner first went up to Barnard’s Buildings after he came home from the hospital?”

  “He only went up once. That was when the police took him. It was about a week after he came home—on the eighth of October.”

  “Did he send anyone else up to the flat, before he went hi
mself?”

  “No. There wasn’t anyone to send, and there wasn’t any reason to send them.” This concluded the examination-in-chief. But, this time, as Mr. Lyon resumed his seat, Mr. Barnes rose with remarkable promptitude. “You have said that your husband kept this flat in London to sleep in when he was looking for a job. What kind of jobs would he be looking for?”

  “He is a plumber and gas-fitter by trade. He would be looking for jobs in his own line, of course.”

  “You have heard the police witnesses state that they found in that flat a number of burglars’ tools, a quantity of stolen jewellery, and a stolen document. Do those tools and that stolen property suggest anything to you as to the kind of jobs that your husband went to London to look for?”

  “No, they have got nothing to do with his trade.”

  “Can you account for the presence of burglars’ tools and stolen property in the rooms of a plumber and gas-fitter?”

  “Yes, I can,” Mrs. Dobey replied, viciously, “after all the false swearing that there has been in this court today. If you ask me, I should say that the police put them there.” At this rather unexpected reply a low rumble of laughter filled the court, including the jury box; and a faint, appreciative smile stole over the judge’s face, and was even reflected on the countenance of Mr. Barnes himself.

  “I am afraid,” he said, good-humouredly, “that you are taking a prejudiced view. But with regard to this flat; have you ever taken any measures to ascertain what your husband does at those rooms?”

  “No,” she replied. “I don’t go spying on my husband. It isn’t necessary. I can trust him, if other people can’t.”

  Here it apparently dawned upon Mr. Barnes that he was not going to do his case any good with this witness, Accordingly, he thanked her, and resumed his seat; and, as Mr. Lyon was not disposed to re-examine, Mrs. Dobey retired in triumph, and her husband was conducted from the dock to the witness-box.