The constable shook his head. “That won’t do,” said he. “Mustn’t give way. You’ll be going before the magistrate presently, and you’d better not go on an empty stomach. Take my advice and get a square meal while you can. You’ll feel better after it. You have got some money, and you can have anything in reason that you want. Better let me send out for something.”
Andrew accepted the well-meant and obviously sensible advice, handing over the modest sum that his custodian suggested as sufficient. Then the constable retired, locking the door and leaving him to his own reflections. Those reflections were, naturally, not of the most agreeable kind and were singularly confused. The attitude of the constable impressed him with mild surprise. He might have been a nurse or attendant in some Erewhonian convalescent home for moral invalids, so solicitous did he seem for the welfare of his charge. And even the dry, impersonal civility of the other officers was not what he would have expected.
But, once more, his thoughts reverted to Mrs. Pendlewick. By this time, the lamb cutlets were ruined beyond redemption, but she would not have given him up. He pictured her sitting, working automatically at her lace, looking up from time to time at the clock and painfully aware of the aroma of the half-cremated cutlets.
His meditations were interrupted by the arrival of his meal; and, acting on the further exhortations of the constable, he made a determined and moderately successful effort to dispose of it, with the result foreseen by that experienced officer. He felt better in a bodily sense. The physical depression left him, and even his mental state seemed to be improved.
But his mind was still in a state of utter confusion. Presently he would be brought before a magistrate and charged with a crime that he knew nothing about. What was he to say? Of course, he would declare his innocence, and he would continue to deny that he was the person charged. That he must do, since it was the actual truth. But he realized the utter futility of it. The wine merchant’s bill had labelled him Anthony Kempster, and to that “attribution” he had no answer. It was even doubtful whether he would not further prejudice his case by saying anything at all.
At any rate, there was nothing that he could do. When the time came, he would have to stand passively and watch this tragedy of errors working itself out to its illogical conclusion. He felt like a swimmer in some swift stream, borne along by the irresistible force of the torrent. Ahead of him the rapids were roaring; but he could do no more than drift passively to his destruction.
FOR THE DEFENCE, DR. THORNDYKE [Part 2]
CHAPTER X
Gaol
As Andrew took his place in the dock at the police court, he looked around him with a sort of dull, impersonal curiosity. He had never been in a police court before and had but a vague idea as to the nature of the proceedings that were conducted in such places. First, he noted the persons present. Of those whom he knew, the one who instantly caught his eye was his accuser, Mrs. Kempster; and as he looked commiseratingly at her pale, haggard face and the restless hands that were incessantly clasping and unclasping themselves, he realized the truth of the inspector’s remarks. It was easy to see that she would have given a good deal to be able to undo the knot that she had tied.
Sitting beside her on the same bench was the redheaded man; and, now that he saw them together, the likeness between them which he had detected at the morning’s meeting was still more noticeable. From them his eyes wandered to the inspector and the two officers who had arrested him and, passing quickly over the background of mostly squalid strangers who had loafed in to look on, he looked lastly at the magistrate, a wooden-faced elderly man of a pronounced legal type.
The proceedings were opened by a senior police officer, apparently a superintendent. He began by intimating that he was proposing only to produce evidence of arrest and identification and that he would ask for a remand to enable the necessary evidence to be obtained and the witnesses notified. Then he went on to give a general outline of the case; to which Andrew listened with profound interest, having, up to this time only the most obscure notion as to what he was accused of. “This,” said the superintendent, “is a prosecution under the False Personation Act. The prosecutors are the Griffin Insurance Society, but it has not been possible for them to be represented on this occasion. The facts of the case are, in broad outline, as follows:
“In February, 1919, the accused, Anthony Kempster, came to live as a boarder with Mr. and Mrs. Francis Redwood at Colchester. Francis Redwood was a retired builder who had given up his business on account of bad health. He was more or less an invalid, and, in addition, he suffered from an aneurism, from which it appeared certain that he would die in the course of a year or two. He had saved a little money, on which he lived, but his means were very small and he took a boarder to eke them out. In view of his bad health, and especially of the aneurism, he had some time previously made a will, leaving the little property that he had to his wife and making her sole executrix.
“When the accused had been living with them about a month, he began to urge Mrs. Redwood to insure her husband’s life, pointing out how very little provision there was for her under the will. But, of course, Redwood was uninsurable by reason of his aneurism, as she explained to him, the question of insurance having been already considered. Then Kempster suggested to her that he thought he could manage the insurance if she left the business to him, but stipulated that nothing should be said about the matter to her husband. She did not at all clearly understand what it was that he proposed to do, but, as he assured her that he would take the whole responsibility, she agreed and promised to keep the affair secret from her husband.
“Then Kempster left Colchester for a time and went to live at Dartford under the name of Francis Redwood. There he consulted a Dr. Croft about his health-which was quite good-and mentioned that he was thinking of insuring his life. Now, Dr. Croft was the local examiner for the Griffin Insurance Society, and he naturally recommended his office and, at Kempster’s request, gave him a proposal form. This Kempster filled up—in the name of Francis Redwood—giving the name of Dr. Croft as his ordinary medical attendant. Then he went up to the London office for the medical examination and in the end managed to effect an insurance in the sum of two thousand pounds.
“As soon as the business was concluded, he went back to Colchester and took up residence with the Redwoods. After a month or two, he notified the Insurance Company of his change of address, still in the name of Francis Redwood, although he had by now resumed his own name of Anthony Kempster, imitating Redwood’s signature as he had done on the proposal form.
“In April, 1921, shortly after the second premium had been paid, Francis Redwood died. But he did not die of the aneurism. He died of pneumonia following influenza, and a death certificate was given to that effect. Accordingly, as there was nothing unusual in the circumstances of the death, no inquiries were made but when the will was proved, the two thousand pounds were paid to the executrix in the ordinary way.
“About six months after the death of Francis Redwood, Kempster proposed marriage to the widow, Elizabeth Redwood, and was accepted. They were married at Ipswich and went to live there, having sold the Colchester house. After the marriage, Kempster managed to persuade his wife to allow him to put all their money into his bank with a view to making some investments. But those investments were never made. What became of the money, Mrs. Kempster never knew. In some way it disappeared; and then Kempster himself disappeared; and from that time until a week or two ago she never set eyes on him again.
“Then one day she got a passing glimpse of him getting into a train and was subsequently able, with the assistance of her brother, Joseph Blake, to locate him as living in the neighbourhood of Hampstead. There he was arrested this morning by Detective Sergeant Morton. On his arrest, he stated that his name was not Anthony Kempster and that he had never heard of such a person. At the police station he was confronted with Mrs. Kempster, who identified him as her husband, Anthony Kempster, but he still denied that that
was his name and insisted that she was mistaking him for someone else.”
“Apart from the identification by Mrs. Kempster,” said the magistrate, “is there any evidence that he is Anthony Kempster?”
“Yes, your worship,” replied the superintendent. “As he refused to give any name or address or any sort of account of himself, it was necessary to search him. Then there was found in his pocket a bill addressed to A. Kempster; but he still denied that that was his name. That is a summary of the case, your worship, and I shall now call the witnesses to prove the arrest and the identity.”
The first witness was Detective Sergeant Roger Morton who deposed that, acting on information received, he had that morning proceeded to Hampstead Heath where he had arrested the accused, who was then engaged in making a sketch of the Heath, in execution of a warrant. He had administered the usual caution and the accused had made no statement beyond a flat denial that he was the person named in the warrant. Accused had not, however, resisted arrest.
The next witness was Inspector Frank Butt. He deposed that the accused had been brought to the station by the last witness at 1.45 pm. He (the inspector) had read the charge to him and administered the usual caution. The accused was then confronted with Elizabeth Kempster, who identified him as her husband, Anthony Kempster. The accused declared that she was mistaken and that he was not Kempster, but he would not say who he was or give any address or any account of himself whatever. He was then searched and there was found in his pocket a wine merchant’s bill (produced and handed to the magistrate), addressed to A. Kempster. He could not account for his having this bill in his pocket, but he still maintained that the charge was a mistake and that he was not Kempster.
When the inspector had retired, the superintendent intimated that that was all the evidence that he was producing on this occasion; that he was asking for a remand to enable him to produce the other evidence and summon the witnesses, and that, as the accused refused to give any account of himself and his place of abode was unknown, he opposed bail.
The magistrate looked curiously at Andrew for a few moments and then said: “You have heard the evidence that has been given. Do you wish to say anything? You are not bound to. But—” and here followed the inevitable caution.
“I don’t wish to say anything at present,” Andrew replied, “excepting that my name is not Anthony Kempster and that Mrs. Kempster is mistaken in believing me to be her husband.”
“What do you say that your name is?” the magistrate asked.
“I prefer not to give my name, at present.” Andrew answered.
“Nor your address or occupation?”
“No, your worship.”
“Then,” said the magistrate, in the calm, impersonal tones to which Andrew was becoming accustomed, “you will have to be remanded in custody. You are remanded for seven days.”
Thereupon Andrew was taken in custody by two constables and removed from the court. But he was not taken back to the police cells. Instead, he was conducted out of the building by a side passage and, on emerging into the street, found a prison van drawn up at the kerb. Passing—like a wedding guest, but with certain differences—between two rows of spectators, he was conducted to the van and assisted up the back steps into the dim and rather malodorous interior.
He had often wondered what the inside of a prison van was like. Now his curiosity was satisfied. It consisted of a dark and narrow passage with a row of doors on either side. Each door was furnished with a keyhole and a small grated window like the inspection trap in a convent gate. When one of the doors was opened, it disclosed a narrow compartment suggesting something between a sentry box and an extremely ascetic sedan chair, with a fixed seat, polished by friction with the persons of dynasties of disreputable occupants, and a small space in front of it to accommodate the feet of the sitter. On this uncommodious seat Andrew sat down gingerly, not without some uncomfortable speculations as to the characteristics and personal habits of the last occupant; and as soon as he was seated, the door was closed and locked.
It was a strange experience and far from an agreeable one. On the closing of the door, he seemed to be plunged into almost total darkness, excepting a faint glimmer from a ventilator over his head and the little square of twilight before him which indicated the position of the tiny grated window. For the back door of this criminal omnibus, when it was closed, admitted no more light than what was able to struggle through a very moderate-sized grated opening, and even this was largely obscured by the person of the “conductor.”
But any deficiency in the matter of light was more than made up in smell. The whole vehicle was pervaded by the peculiar and distinctive odour of unwashed humanity; and, as the van proceeded on its round, picking up from time to time fresh consignments (which were fresh only in a limited sense), the flavour of the “imperfect ablutioner” became ever more pronounced. Yet these halts were not altogether unwelcome; for then, for a few moments, the back door was flung open and the depressing darkness was relieved by a flood of light, by which Andrew, peering out through the little grating, could get a glimpse of the new arrivals and could observe that the few other gratings which were within the range of his vision were each occupied by an eye similarly engaged in inspecting the new tenants.
But even the round of a prison van comes at last to an end. The termination of this journey was indicated to Andrew by a slowing down of the vehicle, a sudden increase of darkness, and then, as the van stopped, a clang from the rear as of the shutting of a heavy gate. After a brief interval there came a sound from the front like the opening of another gate; the van moved on, the light reappeared, the gate—now behind—clanged to and its closure was immediately followed by the click of a large lock. Finally, the van stopped once more, the back door was opened, the doors of the respective cells were unlocked, and the process of unloading began.
As he took his place in the queue that filed in at the prison gate, Andrew glanced curiously at his fellow sufferers. Assuming with more probability than charity that they were mostly criminals, their appearance was no advertisement for crime as a profession. Nor did it suggest that the profession was favoured by the elite of mankind. Manifest poverty and physical unclean-ness were the distinguishing characteristics of the immense majority and, taken as a random sample of the population, even this small group was noticeably below the average both in physique and in the outward signs of intelligence. It looked as if crime were not a “paying proposition,” though, to be sure, it might be argued that the present assembly represented only the unsuccessful practitioners.
Meditating this question as he followed the shuffling crowd, Andrew was yet again impressed by the civil and tolerant attitude of the officials. In the reception ward, the officer who presided over the ceremonies instructed him quite kindly in the necessary preparations; and the doctor who examined him might have been the medical referee of an insurance office. Nevertheless, the general atmosphere of the place was unspeakably grim and forbidding. Never for a moment was the inmate allowed to forget that he was a prisoner in the custody of the law. As he followed the warder from “Receptions” to his final resting-place in a faraway gallery, every one of the innumerable light iron gates which they passed had to be unlocked to admit them and was immediately locked behind them; and when, tramping along the iron-floored gallery, they came to a door bearing a number corresponding to that on the label which had been attached to his coat, that door had to be unlocked to admit him to his cell, though being furnished with a spring lock, it fastened him in without the aid of a key. But before it was closed the warder, having gathered that he was a “green hand,” lingered to give him a few general instructions, to explain the use of the bell by which an attendant could be summoned and to caution him against the improper use of this important appliance. Then he retired from the cell; the heavy door slammed, the spring lock snapped audibly, and the sounds from the galleries without suddenly became muffled and remote.
When Andrew was left alone he proceeded
to do what every man probably does when he finds himself in prison for the first time; he made a tour of inspection of his apartment and examined its furniture and appointments. There was little of the picturesque dungeon in the appearance of the cell. It was just a small, bare room with whitewashed walls and a fair-sized iron-framed window with very small panes. The furniture consisted of a small fixed table, a solid stool and a plank bed, with the bedding—mattress, pillow, blanket, sheets, rug and pillow-slip—neatly rolled up into a cylindrical bundle, not without regard to the decorative possibilities of the variously-coloured items. There was a tin jug, filled with water, a drinking vessel (officially known as a “pint”), a tin plate, a salt cellar and a wooden spoon. Other conveniences included a tin basin, a comb and brush, a dust pan, a queer little sweeping brush like a tiny besom without a handle, and a slate with a stump of pencil attached by a length of string. A bell push communicated with the warder’s room and actuated a sort of semaphore arm outside the cell; and, lastly, the massive door was furnished with a tiny round window of thick glass covered by a sliding shutter-but the shutter was outside and beyond the prisoner’s control.
Having made his inspection, he looked round for other objects of interest. The slate did not attract him. As a writing or drawing medium it was a poor substitute for the excellent paper to which he was accustomed; and the stump of pencil was worn to a shapeless end which repelled him. He would have liked to sharpen it, but his knife had been taken from him. Then he transferred his attention to the walls of the cell. In one respect they conformed to the traditional ideas of a dungeon, for they were covered with the comments and lamentations inscribed by former tenants; and, as these were written in lead pencil, it was obvious that they were the work of “remands” like himself. He wandered round idly reading them and filled with an ever-increasing wonder at their amazing puerility and the almost incredibly low intelligence that they suggested. He was surprised, too, to notice the almost complete absence of any tendency to obscenity in them. They seemed to be just the harmless outpourings of perfectly vacant minds. Most of them might have been the work of backward children of eight or nine.
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