The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack

by R. Austin Freeman

  “When he has seen his cousin’s body disposed of, he goes home to his lodgings and forthwith proceeds to take possession of the dead man’s property. Andrew Barton’s attache case is already on his table. When or how it came there we do not know; but we do know that, within a few minutes of his return, even while the unburdened seaweed cart was rumbling back up the street, he had possessed himself of some of its contents. For it was with Andrew Barton’s money that he paid his debt to the landlady. The cheque we may admit to have been his lawful property; but the cheque had not been cashed. The money with which Mrs. Baxter’s bill was paid was money that had been stolen from the dead. And again I ask: Is this calm and callous appropriation of the dead man’s money the act of an innocent man?

  “But the same eager greed is apparent in the actions which followed. As soon as he had paid the landlady, he came to the sudden decision to go to London early on the following morning. For the cheque had to be cashed before the tidings of Andrew Barton’s death reached his bank. Otherwise it would have been returned to the payee endorsed ‘Drawer deceased.’ And, once out of the neighbourhood, he decided to stay out. Regardless of his cousin’s corpse, lying in the mortuary, and of the poor wife, waiting for the husband whose voice she was never to hear again, he goes off to Hampstead, there to lie in hiding until things had settled down and all danger might be considered to be over.

  “The sordid avidity for money that we have noted on the part of the prisoner leads us to another point. The will of Andrew Barton contains a clause bequeathing to the prisoner the sum of five hundred pounds. The widow, who is the executrix, will tell you that her husband had been in the constant habit of making loans to the prisoner; loans which, it may be remarked, were never repaid and never expected to be repaid. Now, it seems that Andrew Barton, having regard to the fact that, if he should die, these gifts would necessarily cease, decided to make a provision for his cousin. Accordingly, he effected a separate insurance on behalf of his cousin in the sum of five hundred pounds and in his will directed that this sum should be paid to the prisoner. Thus the prisoner, who was aware of the provision, knew that he stood to benefit by the death of Andrew Barton to the extent of five hundred pounds; a fact which, when we consider his avaricious seizure of his dead cousin’s money, we cannot but find profoundly significant.

  “And now, to sum up in a few words: Taking the prisoner’s conduct as a whole, is it that of an innocent man who has nothing on his conscience, or is it that of a man who has a burden of guilt on his conscience and is harbouring in his soul a guilty secret? Did Andrew Barton die by the chance fall on him of a block of chalk? Or was that block used by murderous hands as a terrible weapon to cover the traces, and perhaps complete the work, of some other weapon? The body has no decisive message for us. We must decide from the conduct of the prisoner. And I submit that the prisoner’s conduct answers the question conclusively, especially when considered in connection with the substantial sum of money which he stood to gain by his cousin’s death. He had a motive—a strong motive to an avaricious man; he was present when the death occurred—he had the opportunity to commit murder; and when the death had occurred, he stole away and instantly laid hands on the dead man’s property, thereafter not only hiding himself but denying to his cousin’s widow that he had seen that dead man for many months. I repeat, he had a motive to commit the crime, he had the opportunity to commit it, and his subsequent conduct has been, in a striking degree, that of a man who has committed a crime.

  “Accordingly, I submit that you can come to no other conclusion but that he did, in fact, commit that crime, and that it will be your duty to return a verdict of ‘Guilty’.”

  CHAPTER XIV

  The Evidence for the Prosecution

  The conclusion of Sir Oliver’s opening speech was succeeded by a brief pause before the calling of the witnesses, during which Andrew reflected in a dull, bewildered fashion on what he had heard. It was all surprisingly plausible, even convincing, and the speaker had contrived, in spite of a studied moderation, to convey the feeling that he, himself, was convinced of the prisoner’s guilt. Of course, it was all quite unreal; but no one besides himself—and perhaps Thorndyke—knew the real facts. Sir Oliver had in no respect exaggerated or distorted the known facts, and the conclusion that he had suggested as inferable from those facts was a fair, reasonable and logical conclusion.

  And now the witnesses would be called; and Andrew knew in advance what they would say. They would fully bear out the counsel’s statement; and what they would say would be the truth which no cross-examination would shake. It did not look promising, but yet Dr. Thorndyke (who knew all that the prosecution knew) had seemed to be quite confident. But at this point, his reflections were broken in upon by a voice, calling the name of Mary Barton. His eyes had been resting almost continuously on her, and he now saw her rise from her seat and walk resolutely towards the witness-box. He noted that she was pale and haggard and obviously distressed, but her face was set in an expression of hard, stern resolution that he found it difficult to connect with the gentle, kindly Molly whom he had known in the days of his happy and peaceful married life.

  Her evidence, as elicited by the “examination in chief,” followed the lines of Sir Oliver’s opening. There was a brief reference to the Hudson murder and to a visit on the 28th of August of a certain Inspector Sands, who had come to make inquiries as to the personal appearance, habits and occupation of her husband, and whom she had referred to her husband’s banker in London and to Mr. Montagu, his agent and dealer. Then there was the more tragic reference to another visit from the inspector on the following morning, to inform her of the finding of a body believed to be that of her husband, and to request her to go to Crompton to confirm the identification; and her dreadful experiences in the Crompton mortuary when she was confronted with that terrible corpse.

  The examination was conducted with the utmost delicacy and consideration that was possible; and Molly rose bravely to the occasion, though now and again there came a break in the clear voice, and her steady answer petered out into something very like a sob. But the counsel passed as quickly as he could over the most distressing incidents, and, when he proceeded to the prisoner’s visit to Fairfield, she recovered her self-possession completely. “When the prisoner came to see you,” said Sir Oliver, “did he mention when he had last seen your husband?”

  “Yes, I asked him. At first he seemed not to remember, but afterwards he said that he had not seen him for about two years.”

  “With reference to the benefit which the prisoner receives under your husband’s will; was anything said about that?”

  “Yes. I reminded him of the special life insurance that my husband had effected on his behalf.”

  “You say you reminded him. That seems to imply that he knew that the arrangement had been made. Can you say, of your own knowledge, that he was aware of it?”

  “Yes. When my husband took out the policy and made his will, he wrote to his cousin, Ronald, and told him exactly what he had done. I saw the letter and read it.”

  “In that letter, was the amount mentioned?”

  “Yes. It was clearly stated that, in the event of my husband dying before Ronald, the latter would receive five hundred pounds free of legacy duty.”

  “In the course of your interview with the prisoner on this occasion-on the 6th of September-was anything said about future visits?”

  “Yes. He said that he should come and see me again soon, and that he thought we ought to see more of each other than we had done in the past.”

  “And what did you reply to that?”

  “I told him that I would rather that he did not come to see me again just at present, as I found that his great resemblance to my husband made his presence painful to me.”

  “You found it painful to be in his society?”

  “Yes. His likeness to my husband got on my nerves. I felt that I could not bear to have him in the house.”

  “Are you sure that
it was the likeness only that caused this feeling of repulsion? Was there nothing else in your mind?”

  “I know of nothing else. He seemed unconsciously to be mimicking my husband, and I felt that I could not bear it.”

  On receiving this reply, Sir Oliver paused to take a glance at his brief. Then he reached down below the bench and produced an attache case which he handed to an attendant who conveyed it to the witness. “Can you tell us anything about the case which has just been handed to you?” the counsel asked.

  “It belonged to my husband,” was the reply. “He was carrying it when he left home on the morning of the 28th of August.”

  “You have no doubt that it was your husband’s case?”

  “None whatever. The letters stamped on the lid are his initials, A. B. He stamped them himself with book-binder’s letters. I have the tools here, and you can see that they fit the stamped initials.”

  She produced from a handbag three brass “handled letters,” an A, a B, and a stop, which were taken by the attendant, with the attache case, and passed round for inspection by the judge and jury. “Can you tell us,” Sir Oliver continued, “what the case contained when your husband left home?”

  “I understood that it contained one or two small water colours, but I did not see them. Of the other contents I know nothing.”

  The case and the tools made their round, being eventually deposited as “exhibits.” Meanwhile, Sir Oliver took another glance at his brief, and finding, apparently, that he had exhausted his matter, sat down; whereupon Dr. Thorndyke rose to cross-examine. “You have told us,” he began, “that on the 29th of August, you went to Crompton mortuary for the purpose of inspecting and, if possible, identifying a body which was lying there and which was believed to be the body of your husband, Andrew Barton. I deeply regret the necessity of recalling to your memory what must have been a very terrible experience, but it is essential that we should be quite clear as to the facts. Were you able to identify that body?”

  “No,” Molly replied, with a visible shudder. “It was quite unrecognizable. But the clothes were my husband’s clothes.”

  “Yes,” said Thorndyke. “You identified the clothes as your husband’s; but, apart from the clothes, were you able to form any opinion as to whether the body was or was not that of your husband?”

  “No,” Molly replied. “I was not. I said so.”

  “So far as you know, was any evidence as to the identity of the body, apart from the clothing, given at the inquest?”

  “No. The identity of the body was established by means of the clothing.”

  “You referred just now to a severe injury to the nose from which your husband had suffered. Did the medical witness at the inquest mention having found any traces of that injury?”

  “No. I don’t think he knew about it when he made his examination. At any rate, he said nothing about it.”

  “Did you ever learn what was the exact nature of that injury?”

  “Yes. The surgeon at the hospital gave me a certificate for the insurance office. It described the injury as a depressed and comminuted fracture of the nasal bones.”

  “You have spoken of your alarm when your husband did not come home on the night of the 28th of August. May we take it that he was not in the habit of staying away from home without notice?”

  “He never stayed away from home without notice,” Molly replied, emphatically. “He hardly ever stayed away at all.”

  “Did he ever stay away from home, and away from you, for a considerable period; say for more than a month?”

  “Never. We used, occasionally, to go away together, but he never went away by himself for longer than a weekend.”

  “Now, Mrs. Barton,” Thorndyke said in a persuasive tone, “I want you to try to give me a statement of your husband’s whereabouts on a particular date. Can you remember where he was on Good Friday in the year 1925?”

  Molly looked at him in evident surprise, but replied, after a few moments’ thought: “I believe he was at home; at any rate, I have no recollection of our having been away at that time.”

  Thorndyke was manifestly dissatisfied with the reply and pressed for a more precise answer. “Take a little time to think,” he urged, “and see if you cannot recall the circumstances. It is only three years ago, and Good Friday is a very distinctive date. You will surely be able to remember where you spent your Easter.”

  Again she reflected with knitted brows. Suddenly she exclaimed: “Oh, yes, I remember. He was at home.”

  “Something has recalled it to your memory,” he suggested.

  “Yes. In that year I undertook to decorate the parish church, and my husband helped me. In fact, he did most of the decoration.”

  Thorndyke paused to make a note of the answer and then proceeded: “With reference to the prisoner’s visit to you on the 6th of September; you have said that his resemblance to your husband was so close as to cause you great distress. In what respect did he appear to resemble your husband?”

  “In every respect,” Molly replied, “excepting, of course, that his nose was different. Otherwise, he seemed exactly like my husband; even in the face, in spite of the difference in the shape of the nose. And his figure was the same and he had the same tricks of movement with his hands and the same rather unusual way of picking up his tea-cup without using the handle.”

  “And what about the voice?”

  “That was the worst of all. It was exactly like my husband’s. If I had shut my eyes, I could have thought that it was my husband speaking.”

  “To what extent had you been acquainted with Ronald Barton? Had you previously seen much of him?”

  “No. I had met him only twice, when he came to see us. The second occasion was a little over two years ago.”

  “When you were in his society on that occasion, were you greatly impressed by his resemblance to your husband?”

  “Not so much. I could see, of course, they they were very much alike, but the resemblance did not strike me as so very extraordinary when I saw them together and could compare them.”

  “When the prisoner came to see you in September, did his great resemblance to your husband come upon you in any way as a surprise?”

  “Yes, very much so. I had no idea that the two men were so much alike. It was quite a shock to me.”

  “Did it appear to you that he was in any respects different from the Ronald Barton whom you remembered? Did he seem to have changed in any way?”

  “Yes, he did seem to have changed in some respects. He was quieter in manner; less boisterous. In fact, he was not boisterous at all, as he used to be. But I put that down to the sad circumstances in which his visit was made. It was only a few days after the funeral.”

  “Did you notice any other differences from what you remembered of him previously?”

  “There was one thing that surprised me. He seemed to know so much more about pictures and painting than I had supposed he did; and he was so much more interested in them. On the previous occasions, he had not seemed to be interested at all in my husband’s work or in painting in general.”

  “Then, taking your impressions as a whole, would it be correct to say that the Ronald Barton who came to see you in September did not seem to be quite the same kind of person as the Ronald Barton whom you remembered having met formerly?”

  “Yes, I think that would be correct.”

  “And would it further be correct to say that such changes as seemed to have occurred, increased his resemblance to your husband?”

  “Yes, I think that is so.”

  On receiving this answer, Thorndyke sat down; and Andrew took a deep breath. He was beginning to understand his counsel’s tactics. But he was the only person present who did. Throughout the cross-examination, the judge had listened attentively with an obviously puzzled expression, and Sir Oliver and his junior, Mr. Horace Black, had looked frankly bewildered. Even Molly, though she answered readily and with conscientious care, was evidently surprised at the appar
ent irrelevancy of the questions. There was no re-examination, the two prosecuting counsel being clearly of the opinion that no point had been made and that there was nothing to contest. Accordingly, Molly was released from the witness-box and went back to her seat.

  The next witness was Mr. Cooper, the carver and gilder, whose evidence repeated in detail the account which had been given by Sir Oliver in his opening address. Having regard to the importance and damaging character of that evidence, it was obviously a matter of surprise to the judge and the prosecuting counsel that Thorndyke allowed the witness to leave the box without any attempt at cross-examination. He was followed by Albert Wood, the waiter at the Excelsior Restaurant, whose evidence was also ignored by Thorndyke. Then the name of Samuel Sharpin was called, and a copper-faced elderly man in a stiff suit of blue cloth, rolled into the witness-box and fixed a seafaring blue eye on Sir Oliver’s monocle. In much the same terms as he had used at the inquest, he described the circumstances in which he had observed the body through his glass, had put inshore and salved it and had conveyed it in the seaweed cart to the police station at Crompton. When the narrative was completed, Sir Oliver, having taken out his monocle, wiped it with his handkerchief and refixed it securely, addressed the witness in quiet but impressive tones, pointing his hand towards the dock. “Look attentively at the prisoner and tell me if you have ever seen him before.”

  The witness turned slowly and with seeming reluctance and cast a commiserating glance at the prisoner. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve seen him before.”

  “Where did you see him?” Sir Oliver demanded, with something of a dramatic flourish.

  “I see him,” replied Sharpin, “in the prison yard, yonder, along of a lot of other fellows in a row. I was told to see if I could pick him out.”