Mr. Lincoln-Bright looked down his long and well-shaped nose, and then, sideways, at Miss Barnes, who said, “I’ll give you a little more rope, Mr. Brydon, but not much.”
“Thank you,” said Anthony. And, to Mr. Marsh, “Did you, yourself, see either of the accused tampering with the handle of the mechanism which activates this floor?”
“It was Morris who saw them.”
“One of your chuckers-out. I beg your pardon, attendants.”
“Yes.”
“That’s all right then,” said Anthony. “I shall have a chance of questioning him about it when he gives evidence?”
He waited invitingly, the question-mark hanging in the air like a wisp of smoke, until Inspector Ashford climbed to his feet and said, “We hadn’t intended to call Morris.”
“Then how were you going to prove the offence?” asked Miss Barnes. “Mr. Marsh says he didn’t see ’em.”
“Both boys made statements, on the night in question, admitting that they tampered with the mechanism.”
“Statements,” said Anthony, “which were obtained from them in a state of shock, before their legal adviser arrived, and which they now entirely withdraw.”
Inspector Ashford said, “The statements have been made. I don’t see how they can withdraw them.”
“I think what’s being suggested,” said Tom Allerton, on Miss Barnes’ right, “is that the statements weren’t properly taken, and oughtn’t to be admitted.”
“That’s what I am suggesting, sir,” said Anthony. (If Lincoln-Bright was against you, you could count on Tom Allerton taking your side. It was a perfectly balanced bench, pivoting on the massive impartiality of Miss Barnes.)
The Chairman said, “Let’s hear your reasons.”
“I suggest you’ve only got to look at the two boys. Mason has recovered now, but at the time I saw him on Saturday night he was being sick in the gutter—.”
“You saw him.”
“That is correct. And if these proceedings develop, in a certain way – I can’t say any more about that at the moment – it may be necessary for someone else to conduct the defence so that I can give evidence—”
“We’re giving the press a real field day,” said Miss Barnes. From where she sat, she could see their pencils jumping and skidding across the pages of their notebooks. Arthur Ambrose, editor and leader writer of the Barhaven Gazette, was looking quite pink with excitement.
“We’ll deal with that when it arises,” she added.
“Although I’m not on oath at the moment,” said Anthony, “perhaps you will take it from me that both boys were very badly shaken. Roper’s face speaks for itself.”
“Res ipsa loquitur,” said Miss Barnes. She conferred for a moment, in undertones, with her two fellow magistrates, and then said, “For the moment, we’re not going to decide about this statement, one way or the other. All that we’re going to say is that we should prefer to have the case proved without it. This man Morris, who saw the boys tampering with the machinery, he can come here and tell us about it – I suppose.”
“No difficulty about that,” said Inspector Ashford. “I was simply trying to save the court’s time.”
“I’m sure you didn’t act from any improper motive,” said Miss Barnes. “I shall adjourn this case for seven days. Will that be enough for you, Mr. Brydon?”
“Certainly,” said Anthony. “But before you finally adjourn the proceedings this morning, there is one other point I should like to raise. This is, in form, a Summons and Complaint by the injured party. It is not, in fact, a police prosecution.”
“That’s correct. The complainant is Mr. Marsh.”
“If the matter is to be adjourned for a week, do you think the real complainant might be substituted?”
“Have you got any reason to suppose that Mr. Marsh isn’t the real complainant?”
“I hardly think he can be,” said Anthony. “After all, he’s only an employee. He doesn’t own the Pleasuredrome. If any damage has been done to it, it isn’t Mr. Marsh’s pocket that has suffered.”
Miss Barnes said, “What about it, Mr. Marsh?”
Mr. Marsh looked blank.
“I’m afraid I didn’t quite follow that,” he said.
“Are you the owner of the Pleasuredrome?”
“No, no. I’m just the manager.”
“Who does own it?”
“It’s a company—I think.”
“We don’t want to make this any more complicated than it need be,” said Miss Barnes, “but I think I agree with Mr. Brydon that the complaint ought to be in the name of the person who has been damnified. Particularly if these proceedings lead on to further, civil, proceedings, as I understand may be the case. The man, Morris, who saw the alleged offence must give evidence. We make no ruling as to the admissibility of the statements taken from the two boys. When we have heard Morris’ evidence there may be no further need for them. Adjourned seven days, on parents’ recognizances in twenty pounds each.”
Chapter Four
Anthony Tries to do a Morning’s Work
Outside the court room Anthony was buttonholed by Arthur Ambrose.
“Truly magnificent,” he said. “Front-page stuff. I’ll be doing the story myself. If you could give me a couple of minutes of your time, you could fill in a lot of background—”
“I’ve got a very busy morning—”
“Five minutes.”
“Oh, all right.”
“We can get a cup of coffee in here, and chat as we imbibe it.”
“You realise this case is still sub judice.”
“It wasn’t the case I wanted to talk about. Although, incidentally, I thought you handled old Ashford splendidly. You know what they call him in the force? Bull Ashford. I expect that’s because he does his thinking with his—oh—two white coffees please, miss. Not too much milk in mine. No. It’s the Pleasuredrome I wanted to talk about. The Gazette’s had its eye on that place for some time now. Did you see Marsh’s face?”
“Did I—?”
“Did you see his face? When you asked who the real owner of the place was? Owned by a company, he said. Ha! And now he’s going to have to tell the court the name of that company. That’s going to be good. I’m going to be there to listen to that. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Why—”
“A company has shares,” said Ambrose. He had the habit, common to newspapermen and schoolmasters, of speaking in short sentences, with the verb in the middle. “The shares have owners. There are ways of finding out who those owners are. True?”
“Oh, certainly,” said Anthony. “Once you know the name of the company, you can make a search in the Companies Registry—”
“And I’ll tell you what you’ll find. You’ll find that most of the shares are owned—” Mr. Ambrose leaned forward, although the cafe was entirely empty, and whispered in Anthony’s ear— “by Hamish Macintyre.”
“Really?” said Anthony. “Look, I must be going. I’d no idea it was as late as this. I’ve got a terribly busy day. I’m doing most of my father’s work these days, whilst he’s out of action. You’ll have to drink my coffee for me—”
The office of Messrs. Brydon & Pincott, Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths, was on the west side of Connaught Square opposite the Council building. Eleven o’clock was striking as Anthony ran up the steps, but the waiting-room was empty. Chris Sellinge was late; or quite possibly had forgotten his appointment.
His secretary was sitting beside his desk taking down a telephone message in shorthand.
He waited until she had put the receiver back.
“What’s it all about?”
“Do you know a Mr. Raymond Southern? Isn’t he someone on the Council?”
“He’s Vice-Chairman. And next year’s Mayor, provided he doesn’t come a cropper at the elections next week.”
“He’s coming to see you. Twelve o’clock. Is that all right?”
“Our practice is looking up,” said Anthony.
“Certainly it’s all right. Did he say what he wanted?”
“Something to do with forming a company.”
“We ought to be able to do that for him, and talking about companies, that chap who runs the Barhaven Gazette and East Sussex Advertiser, Arthur someone—”
“Arthur Ambrose.”
“He buttonholed me on the way back from court. He had some story about the Pleasuredrome being owned by a company and he hinted that the shares were held by a man called Hamish Macintyre. The way he told me about it, I could see I was meant to jump out of my skin.”
“There’s only one Hamish Macintyre in Barhaven as far as I know,” said Ann, “and he’s the Borough Engineer and Surveyor.”
“Didn’t we have some trouble with him over the drains in the Victoria Park building estate?”
“That’s right. And we may be having some more trouble with him. That is, if you’ll take on another new client. I’ve got you Colonel Barrow.”
“How does Colonel Barrow come into your life?”
“He was a friend of my father’s.”
“I see.”
Ann Weaver had been Anthony’s secretary for a month now. He had already made a number of discoveries about her, and a few guesses. Her father, who was dead, had been a Captain in the Regular Army. It had puzzled him that a professional soldier should not have risen beyond the rank of Captain. When he met Mrs. Weaver, that piece of the puzzle had fallen into place.
Captain Weaver must have been commissioned from the ranks. And the studied gentility of Mrs. Weaver suggested that he had married before leaving the ranks. Ann, then, must have been born some time around the end of the War, and her father’s improving rank and status would have ensured that she was sent to a boarding-school; probably a more expensive school than they could really afford.
“Isn’t he head of that prep school? The one whose boys wear a scarlet cap?”
“Castle House School.”
“What does he want?”
“He says they’re trying to shut his school down.”
“Who are?”
“The Borough Council. It’s something about drains.”
Anthony thought about this. It didn’t seem to him to make a lot of sense. But he had a feeling that, added to one or two other things he had heard lately, it ought to mean something. He said, “Fix him an appointment for tomorrow morning.”
“He says it’s practically impossible for him to leave the school at the moment. One of the masters has got mumps, and another one’s broken his leg playing cricket with the boys.”
“You can’t break your leg playing cricket.”
“This one did.”
“All right. Then telephone and say I’ll try and get out after tea today. It’s easier to look at drains than to talk about them. Yes?”
This was to an old man who had poked his head round the door. “It’s a Mr. Sellinge, Mr. Anthony. Says he’s sorry he’s late, he got tied up.”
“Show him in, Bowler.”
“Sorry to be late,” said Sellinge. “I got stopped by Ambrose. Arthur means well, but he can’t stop talking. If we could clear the top of this table, I could spread this map. Now – this is what I was trying to explain to you on Saturday. The red lines are proposed new roads. The green lines are main drainage. The purple are extensions of the grid. Everything comes in from the west, which is natural. The focus of development is always on the London side. That’s the side the main roads and railway and grid come from.
In other words, if you develop west, you’ve got the services on your doorstep. If you develop east, you’ve got to extend them, and pull them out after you, as you go.”
“Which is what the Council are doing.”
“Exactly. And why? Because if they develop east, they won’t have to buy so much land. They happen to own a lot of it already. When they extended the front towards Splash Point they picked up the marshland behind it for a song. They can close down the last nine holes of the Municipal Golf Course, which will ruin it, but what do they care? The Borough Councillors can still play on the Splash Point course, which isn’t affected. And by turning us out of our cricket ground they can grab another six acres.”
Anthony wasn’t really listening. He was looking at the map. This was the twenty-four inch to the mile Ordnance Survey, and it was detailed enough to show private properties, buildings and field divisions.
He ran his finger down the secondary road which snaked out towards Splash Point.
“It’s reclaimed marsh south of this road,” he said. “North of Haven Road there are five or six little private properties – bungalows, I seem to remember. Castle House School here. But who owns this bit?” He outlined with his finger-tip a large, wedge-shaped piece of land bounded on the west by the school playing-fields, and on the north by farmland.
“I’m not dead sure,” said Chris. “It’s some farmer, I think.”
“He’s going to be a very rich farmer.”
“And the best of British luck to him,” said Chris. “I don’t object to private citizens making a profit. It’s when the Council makes a profit out of the private citizens that I get upset. And that’s just what we’re going to stop. Luckily, they’ve given us a handle. Mr. Shanklin – who owns this bungalow here, and who’s a jobbing builder – has bought the strip along the other side of the road, and applied for permission to put up a terrace of four shops with living quarters over. He says there’s a demand for the shops, and he may be right. The Council opposed it, because it didn’t fit in with their development plans, and the planning authorities turned it down. Mr. Shanklin has asked for a local enquiry. The Council fought the idea tooth and nail. I think they’d even have supported his shop scheme, if he’d abandoned the enquiry, but I’ve got some backers on the Council too. People like Tom Allerton and Mike Viney, and we managed to scotch that one. So the enquiry’s on. And that means that we’re going to have a chance of thrashing the whole scheme out in public. Which is the last thing they want.”
“It seems to me that there’s a good deal to be said on both sides.”
“You’d better not be too broad-minded about it. If we’re going to fight the Council, we shan’t have to pull our punches.”
“I’m not sure that I am going to take it on.”
Chris stared at him. Then he said, “There’s nothing illegal about this, you know. We’ve got as much right to press for the development our side as they have on theirs.”
“I know,” said Anthony.
“If it’s the costs you’re worried about, my clients aren’t exactly paupers.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Anthony. “I know you, and I know a lot of the people who are behind you, and I’m perfectly certain that you’re all sound as the Bank of England.”
“What’s the trouble then?”
“The trouble is,” said Anthony, “that whichever way this comes out, it’s going to cause a lot of ill-feeling. I don’t need to tell you. You’re on the Council yourself. You know that.”
“There’ll be a lot of dirt flung about, but why should any of it stick to you? You’re a professional man. You’ll just be doing a job.”
“I know,” said Anthony, unhappily. “I know. The trouble is, that once you start on a thing like this, you just can’t help getting involved. Can I think it over and let you know?”
“We can’t wait too long. The hearing’s in less than three weeks. You’ll have to brief Counsel, I expect.”
“I’ll let you know tonight,” said Anthony. “Without fail.”
He had ten minutes with his morning mail before his next client was due but his mind wasn’t on his letters.
Nothing that Chris had told him was news to him. He had heard it all half-a-dozen times, from James Sudderby, from Charlie Roper, from Tom Allerton, from old General Crispen (who had been a Sapper, and knew more about roads and railways than the rest of the Council put together). Most of them were his friends. He thought that there was a lot to be said for a big, impersonal,
London practice where clients were clients, and business stopped at the office door.
“Have I got a smut on my nose?” said Ann.
“No—why?”
“You were staring at me – opening and shutting your mouth – just like one of our goldfish.”
“I’m sorry,” said Anthony. “I was thinking.”
“I’ll get you a cup of tea,” said Ann. “The stuff Bowler brews is guaranteed to take your mind off any problem. And your next client’s due any moment now.”
Raymond Southern was a small man with a pink face, blue eyes and white hair. He wore a pin-striped flannel suit with a double-breasted waistcoat. He was neat, from the top of his well-brushed hair to the tips of his shiny shoes; as neat as if he had been unwrapped from a cellophane wrapper a moment before; so neat that you might have started by thinking him effeminate, though the impression would not have lasted long.
“I’ve just sacked my accountant,” he said. “I’ve had my suspicions of that man for some time.”
“Davies dishonest?” said Anthony. “You really do surprise me. If you’d said incompetent—”
“He’s not dishonest. He’s too damned honest. Do you know what I caught him doing on Saturday? Playing golf with the Inspector of Taxes. I told him he’s got no right to be friendly with the Inspector of Taxes. The Inspector’s my enemy. If Davies worked for me, my enemies must be his enemies.”
“What did he say?”
“He blethered about the personal touch, and how it was easier to arrange things on a friendly basis. I don’t operate by being friendly with my enemies. I fight them.”
“All right,” said Anthony. “Who do you want to fight now?” He knew Raymond Southern too well to be afraid of him.
“At the moment, I’m not fighting anyone. I’m forming a company. Mentmores are the solicitors I usually go to, but now that Arthur Mentmore has been made Clerk to the Justices – a piece of nepotism, between you and me: Lincoln- Bright’s his cousin, and Magda Barnes is related to his mother – and being on the Council myself, it might conceivably have made things a bit difficult. Are you willing to take me on?”
The Crack In the Teacup Page 3