The Third R. Austin Freeman Megapack
Page 188
“Thus, you will see that the issue that you are trying is really the issue of personal identity. The questions which you have to decide are; first, who was the person whose body was found at the foot of the cliff at Hunstone Gap? and, second, who is the prisoner? I will take these questions in their order.
“First, who was the dead man? Now, we have the evidence of Mr. Cooper that two men were seen walking towards Hunstone Gap, and we may accept it as certain that the body which was found there was the body of one of these two men. For with that body was found the clothing of a man who corresponds exactly in appearance to one of them and who is known to have been in Crompton on that day and to have worn similar clothing.
“Of those two men, one had a broken nose and wore spectacles to conceal the disfigurement. The other had a normal and well-shaped Roman nose. The clothing was that of the man with the broken nose. But was the body also his? That is what you have to decide. Now I wish to impress on you the fact, which seems to have been somewhat overlooked, that that body was never identified. Mrs. Barton saw it and was unable to say whether it was or was not the body of her husband, and there was no one else who was competent to give an opinion. The clothes which were found with it were the clothes of Andrew Barton. Of that there can be no doubt. And from that fact the reasonable inference was drawn that the body was that of Andrew Barton. But I repeat that the body itself was not identified.
“Later, that body was re-examined by Sir Artemus Pope and by Dr. Jervis. Sir Artemus was naturally unwilling to pronounce on the identity of the body since his examination was not concerned with that question. But he admitted that the conditions which he found seemed to be irreconcilable with the personal description of Andrew Barton. On the other hand, Dr. Jervis, who examined the body with the express purpose of ascertaining its identity, gave a clear, definite and emphatic statement that the body was that of a man with a normal and uninjured nose; and furthermore, he produced a plaster cast of the dead man’s nasal bones, which was shown to you and from which, by comparison with the normal skull which was also shown to you, it was quite evident that the nasal bones of the deceased had never been broken until the chalk block fell on them. On these facts, Dr. Jervis declared positively that the body could not possibly be the body of Andrew Barton. The evidence before you, therefore, of your own eyesight, confirmed by the testimony of an expert witness, is that the body found at Hunstone Gap could not possibly have been the body of Andrew Barton.
“But, so far, we have decided only who he was not. We have now to consider the question, who he was. And here you will see that I am not depending on the prisoner’s evidence to decide questions of fact. That evidence is, of course, entitled to the same credit as that of the other witnesses; but I think you will agree with me that it will be more satisfactory if I can show you that the facts can be proved by independent evidence, reserving that of the prisoner to co-ordinate and explain facts that are otherwise difficult to understand.
“Now who was this dead man? We have agreed that he was one of the two men who were seen walking towards Hunstone Gap. All the known facts support this belief. Two men had been bathing in the Gap, for we find the nude body of one and the clothes of the other. The clothes were Andrew Barton’s but the body was not his body. Then, since there were no other clothes, it is clear that Andrew must have gone off in the other man’s clothes. That he could hardly have done so by deliberate choice but presumably by mistake, suggests that those clothes were, in size and appearance similar to his own. But the two men who were seen together were extremely similar in size and figure and were dressed in almost exactly similar clothes. Thus everything goes to prove that the body was that of one of these two men.
“Now of these two men, one is known, and has been proved to have been Andrew Barton. Who was the other? From the evidence of the only two witnesses who saw the two men, Mr. Cooper and the waiter, Albert Smith, we know that the other man—Andrew Barton’s companion—was extraordinarily like the prisoner; so like that both these witnesses instantly identified the prisoner and swore that he was the man whom they had seen. But the prisoner is indistinguishably like Ronald Barton. So like that Mrs. Barton, when he visited her at her house, had no doubt that he was Ronald Barton, and still had no doubt when she was giving evidence in this court.
“The unavoidable conclusion is that the man who was seen with Andrew Barton must have been Ronald Barton. And this conclusion is strongly supported by the fact that Ronald and Andrew were cousins. It was a natural and probable circumstance that Andrew’s companion should be his cousin Ronald.
“But if the body that was found was that of Andrew’s companion, then it was the body of Ronald Barton; in which case it is unnecessary to point out that the prisoner cannot be Ronald Barton, but must be some other person.
“And now let us approach this question from another direction. The prisoner was arrested, in the first place, in the name of Anthony Kempster on an information sworn by Elizabeth Kempster, who identified him as her husband, Anthony Kempster, and swore to his identity as such. It is, therefore, obvious that the prisoner is either Anthony Kempster or someone who is indistinguishably like him. But who is Anthony Kempster? He is someone who is the indistinguishable double of the prisoner. But the prisoner is indistinguishably like Ronald Barton. Then it follows that Kempster must also be indistinguishably like Ronald Barton. As such indistinguishable likenesses are excessively rare, there is an obvious probability that these three men, Kempster, Ronald and the prisoner, are one and the same person; namely, Ronald Barton. And the fact that Kempster had a cousin named Andrew Barton confirms this probability so far that we may conclude confidently that Kempster was, or is, Ronald Barton.
“The question that we now have to decide is whether or not the prisoner is Anthony Kempster. For if we agree that Kempster is Ronald and the prisoner is Kempster, then the prisoner must be Ronald Barton. But we have evidence that Anthony Kempster served a term of imprisonment under the name of Septimus Neville. There is no doubt that Septimus Neville and Anthony Kempster are one and the same person, for we have the evidence of Kempster’s wife to that effect. But we have the evidence of the officer from the Fingerprint Department that Neville and the prisoner cannot possibly be the same person. The prison photographs show these two men were extraordinarily alike; so much so that it would have been hardly possible to distinguish one from the other. But their fingerprints are totally different. It is therefore certain that the prisoner cannot possibly be Septimus Neville. But since Neville and Kempster are one and the same person, the prisoner cannot be Anthony Kempster; and since Kempster is Ronald Barton, the prisoner cannot be Ronald Barton.
“So far, we have answered the question, Who is the prisoner? from the negative side. We have shown who he cannot be. He cannot be the person in whose name he stands indicted. Now let us approach the question from the positive side. Who can the prisoner be? Who is it possible for him to be?
“He is not Ronald Barton; but he is someone so like Ronald that those who knew Ronald well, including his wife, have mistaken him for Ronald. The prisoner and Ronald have that curious resemblance that is usually associated with what are called ‘identical twins.’ Now there is only one person who is known to us who has this strange resemblance to Ronald—his cousin, Andrew. The only possible inference seems, therefore, to be that the prisoner is Andrew Barton. For, if he is not, then he must be some third person who is indistinguishably like the other two. But this is against all reasonable probabilities. It is a sufficiently strange coincidence that we should have this pair of identical twins. It would be outrageous to turn them into identical triplets by postulating the existence of a hypothetical third person who is indistinguishably like them both.
“But we have still more convincing evidence that the prisoner must be Andrew Barton. We know that Andrew suffered from a depressed fracture of the nasal bones. Now, to the eye, the prisoner appears to have a well-shaped Roman nose. But the X-ray photograph shows that he has suffered,
and still suffers, from a depressed fracture of the nasal bones; that the symmetrical appearance of the nose is due to a filling of a translucent substance, which must be paraffin wax since there is no other known substance which it can be, which fills up the deep notch caused by the injury and has restored the bridge of the nose. In short, the X-ray photograph shows us a condition of the nasal bones which is known to have existed in Andrew Barton; which was peculiar to him, and by which he could be distinguished from all other human beings. Even alone, it would be enough to identify him as Andrew Barton.
“Thus you see that, without referring to the prisoner’s evidence, the case against him has been completely disproved. With that evidence I do not propose to deal. It would be useless for me to occupy your time by flogging a dead horse. You heard his evidence and it will be fresh in your memories. All that it is necessary for me to do is to point out to you that, strange as was the story that he told you, it was an entirely consistent story and that you have every reason to believe that it was a true story. It did not conflict in any way with any other evidence that you have heard. On the contrary, its truth has been confirmed in the most striking manner by the evidence of all the other witnesses; not only of the witnesses for the defence, but also of those for the prosecution, and even by the able opening address of my learned friend, the counsel for the Crown. I shall, therefore, conclude by reminding you briefly of the facts which have been proved.
“The charge against the prisoner is that he, Ronald Barton, murdered his cousin, Andrew Barton. What has been proved is:
“First, that there is not the slightest reason to believe that any murder was committed by anybody.
“Second, that the body which was found was not the body of Andrew Barton.
“Third, that the prisoner is not Ronald Barton.
“Fourth, that he is Andrew Barton, the person whom he is accused of having murdered.
“Thus the charge set forth in the indictment has been disproved at every point and in every detail. It has been made abundantly and convincingly clear that the prisoner is innocent of the crime named in that charge; and I, accordingly, claim for him a verdict of Not Guilty.”
CHAPTER XVII
The Verdict
As Thorndyke sat down, a low murmur pervaded the court, and the judge glanced furtively and a little wistfully towards the jury. After a brief interval, Sir Oliver rose without alacrity and proceeded to polish his eyeglass with a thoughtful and somewhat hesitating air. As Thorndyke had really left him nothing to say, his reply could be little more than an empty formality, and he was apparently considering how he could best dispatch it when the foreman of the jury came to his relief with the intimation that the jury had heard as much as they considered necessary for their purpose. Thereupon, the Clerk of the court rose and inquired whether they had agreed on their verdict; to which the foreman replied that they had. The Clerk then put the momentous question: “Do you find the prisoner Guilty or Not Guilty?”
“Not Guilty,” was the reply, delivered with some emphasis; and even as the words were spoken, the court resounded with thunders of applause and Molly buried her face in her handkerchief. After a few moments, the judge held up his hand and the applause instantly died away, giving place to a profound silence. Then His Lordship leaned back in his chair and, regarding Andrew with a quizzical smile, addressed him thus:
“Mr. Barton—I can safely address you by that name, though I will not venture to be more particular—the jury have found you to be Not Guilty of the crime with which you were charged. I consider it a very proper verdict and I concur unreservedly. You are accordingly discharged and are free to go your ways; and I hope that your troubles are now at an end. There are a few loose strands which you will have to gather up with the Insurance Society, and perhaps with the Probate Court; but they will probably present no serious difficulties. But, before you depart, I will counsel you most earnestly, the next time you are accused of murder or any other crime, to seek legal assistance rather more promptly than you did on the last occasion.”
He concluded with a smile and a friendly nod; the gate of the dock was thrown open; the officer at Andrew’s side wished him “good luck,” and the prisoner stepped down to the floor of the court where Molly was waiting for him. While the judge had been speaking, she had risen and stolen across to the dock; and now, as he stepped down, she raised her eyes to his and silently held out her hands. Both were too overwhelmed for speech, or even to be conscious of the multitude of inquisitive eyes that were eagerly watching them. Passively, they allowed themselves to be shepherded by the discreet Jervis—who was acutely conscious of the curious though sympathetic spectators—out of the court and into a small room that opened off from the great corridor. Only then, when Jervis had slipped away with an excuse, did Molly trust herself to speak. “Oh, Andy!” she exclaimed shakily, “is it really you? Can it really be you, or is this only a tantalizing dream?”
“It isn’t a dream, Molly dear,” he replied. “It is an awakening from a nightmare; a nightmare of my own creating. I am the very prince of idiots. Say your husband is a fool, Molly.”
She laughed a little hysterically. “Shall I?” she said. “Then I will. Andy, you have, really and truly, behaved like a—perfect—old—donkey! But never mind that, darling. Only a few hours ago, I was a miserable widow. And now—”
She broke off with a sob and, laying her head on his shoulder, wept quietly and happily.
At this moment the door opened and Jervis entered, accompanied by Thorndyke, bearing the attache case and the picture and followed by Mrs. Kempster. The latter, still red-eyed and somewhat emotional, advanced shyly and addressed herself to Andrew: “I have come,” said she, “to ask for your forgiveness for all the mischief I have made. I never supposed—”
“Forgiveness!” interrupted Molly, seizing both her hands impulsively. “Why, you dear creature, you have been our good angel! It was you who broke the spell and brought us all back to realities. We can never be grateful enough to you. And don’t forget that you are our cousin.”
Here the door opened again to admit two more visitors; none other than Sir Oliver and his junior, Mr. Black. They both shook Andrew’s hand heartily, and Sir Oliver, having carefully inserted his eyeglass, spoke for them both. “We congratulate you most warmly, Mr. Barton. You have given us a magnificent entertainment and we glory in our defeat. Your champion has displayed his usual invincible form; and we, the Philistines, have been smitten hip and thigh. But NOT with the jawbone of an ass.”
DEATH AT THE INN (1937) [Part 1]
(Published in the U.K. as Felo de Se?)
PART 1
The Gambler
Narrated by Robert Mortimer
CHAPTER I
The Man in the Porch
Throughout the working hours of the working days, the streets resound with the roar of traffic and the pavements are packed with a seething, hurrying multitude. But when the evening closes in, a strange quiet descends upon the streets, and the silent, deserted by-ways take on the semblance of thoroughfares in some city of the dead.
The mention of by-ways reminds me of another characteristic of this part of London. Modern, commonplace, and dull as is the aspect of the main streets, in the areas behind and between them are hidden innumerable quaint and curious survivals from the past; antique taverns lurking in queer, crooked alleys and little scraps of ancient churchyards, green with the grass that sprang up afresh amidst the ashes of the Great Fire.
With one of these curious “hinterlands”—an area bounded by Cornhill, Gracechurch Street, Lombard Street, and Birchin Lane, and intersected by a maze of courts and alleys—I became intimately acquainted, since I usually crossed it at least twice a day going to and from the branch of Perkins’s Bank at which I was employed as a cashier. For the sake of change and interest, I varied my route from day to day—all the alleys communicated and one served as well as another—but the one that I favoured most was the very unfrequented passage which took me through t
he tiny churchyard of St. Michael’s. I think the place appealed to me specially because somewhere under the turf reposes old Thomas Stow, grandfather of the famous John, laid here in the year 1527 according to his wish “to be buried in the litell Grene Churchyard of the Parysshe Church of Seynt Myghel in Cornehyll, betwene the Crosse and the Church Wall, nigh the wall as may be.” Many a time, as I passed along the paved walk, had I tried to locate his grave; but the Great Fire must have made an end of both Cross and wall.
I have referred thus particularly to this “haunt of ancient peace” because it was there, on an autumn even in the year 1929, that there befell the adventure that has set me to the writing of this narrative; an adventure which, for me, changed the scene in a mom from a haunt of peace to a place of gruesome and tragic memories.
It was close upon eight o’clock when I emerged from the bank and started rather wearily on my way homeward. It had been a long day, for there had been various arrears to dispose of which had kept us hard at work hours after the bank had closed its doors; and it had been a dull, depressing day, for the sky had been so densely overcast that no single gleam of sunlight had been able to break through, and we had perforce kept the lamps alight all day. Even now, as I came out and shut the door behind me, twilight seemed to have descended on the City, though the sun had barely set and it was not yet time for the street lamps to be lit.
I stood for a moment looking up the gloomy, twilit street, hesitating as to which way to go. Our branch was in Gracechurch Street close to the corner of Lombard Street, and both thoroughfares were equally convenient. Eventually, I chose Gracechurch Street, and, crossing to the west side, walked up it until I came to the little opening of Bell Yard. Turning into the dark entry, I trudged up the narrow passage, cogitating rather vaguely and wishing that I had provided some thing better than the scanty cold supper that I knew awaited me at my lodgings. But I was tired and chilly and empty; I had not had enough food during the day, owing to the pressure of work; so that the needs of the body tended to assert themselves to the exclusion of more elevated thoughts.