Yet there can be no doubt that Andrew Seeley encountered somebody, for here we come to what is, perhaps, the most remarkable feature of this strange and terrible history. When Andrew Seeley’s body was found, it was not only wounded in the head, Ladies and Gentlemen, but it was bound. Police witnesses have shown you exactly how. It is this binding which precludes any suggestion that Mr Seeley had taken his own life, even had the half-finished letter he left behind him not been sufficient to cast a grave doubt in our minds on the likelihood of this eventuality.
Whoever accompanied or met Andrew Seeley on that Sunday afternoon bound him and afterwards brutally shot him. Now this is no sudden emotional crime. Whoever killed Andrew Seeley must have premeditated the act. The rope which bound the body has been exhibited to you, together with a portion of skylight cord brought by the police from an attic in the deceased’s home, easily accessible to anyone in the household. We have heard the evidence of experts upon this subject, and we have compared the two pieces of cord ourselves. I think it is reasonable to admit that there is no difference in the texture, or the gauge, of these two pieces, when we make due allowance for the time that the one has been immersed in water.
In this long and difficult inquiry we have been confronted again and again by evidence which has pointed in one direction. But we must not blind ourselves to the fact that this evidence has in every case been purely circumstantial, and when we come to examine direct and proven fact we are faced with a wide gulf between those facts and the explanation which the circumstantial evidence would seem to bring most naturally into our minds.
To continue with the evidence which Mr Featherstone, solicitor acting for the Faraday family, has felt it right to produce.
Mrs Finch, proprietress of ‘The Red Bull’ hotel in Knox Street, has come forward and has told you positively and upon oath that William Faraday entered her establishment, betraying every symptom of the malady from which he says he suffers, at – and this is important, Ladies and Gentlemen – fifteen minutes to one on the Sunday in question, and remained there until fifteen minutes past, behaving in a way which she has described to us as absent-minded. I have questioned this witness carefully before you, and I think we must agree that she has said nothing, nor has she behaved in any way which could lead us to believe that her evidence is not reliable. Alfred Robins, the potboy employed by Mrs Finch at ‘The Red Bull’ hotel, is a witness whose story corroborates his employer’s in every detail. And we also have to consider the evidence of Frederick Shepherd, builder’s clerk, of Grey Street, who has told us that he entered the saloon bar of ‘The Red Bull’ hotel at ten minutes to one on the Sunday, to find a man at the bar whom he took to be tipsy, and with whom he had a drink. When asked if he could identify this man in the court, you will remember that he unhesitatingly picked out William Faraday.
Now I feel it is only just to interpolate here an inference, which has occurred to me, and which may also have occurred to you. The process of tying up a man, even if he has been previously stunned, or perhaps shot, and of lifting that body, is an arduous undertaking and would leave, one may legitimately suppose, signs upon the clothing and hands of anyone who had performed such an act. Moreover, the wound which the deceased sustained was of a very grievous nature, and there would be a considerable amount of blood in the vicinity of his body after it had been made. I feel that we must ask ourselves, could any man have lifted or moved such a body without becoming stained? Each of the three witnesses produced by Mr Featherstone has told you upon oath that at five minutes to one on the Sunday Mr Faraday was immaculately dressed, and that he looked, as Mrs Finch described him, as though he came straight from church.
We now come to the question of the weapon. Mr Faraday reported to the police through his solicitor that he had at one time been the possessor of a revolver of the same calibre as that from which the fatal shot was fired. William Faraday’s revolver was stored, with his old army uniform, in an unlocked trunk in the same attic from which the police have procured the window cord. The police have searched for this revolver and found it to be missing. I should like to dwell upon the point that Mr Faraday made the statement voluntarily. The trunk was kept unlocked. It was within reach of all in the household, and yet the person who removed it might have been reasonably assured that the loss would not be discovered for months, and possibly for years.
No weapon has been found. Inspector Oates has told you of the lengths to which the police, in their zeal, have gone to discover it, without success. Neither of these two revolvers, then – for it has not been shown that they are identical – has been produced.
Ladies and Gentlemen, you have now to consider your verdict. But before you retire I should like to remind you of one thing: this is not a police court. We are here only to decide in what manner this unfortunate man met his death. That is, the cause of death alone is our concern. If you find upon the evidence that he was murdered, you must say so. If you consider that you have not heard enough evidence to show either in what manner, or by whose hand, he died, then you must bring in a verdict coinciding with that view. But if you are agreed that the evidence has clearly indicated the man or woman who is responsible for this cruel and, as far as we know, motiveless crime, then it is your solemn duty to point him out. Ladies and Gentlemen of the Jury, you may retire to consider your verdict.
After a deliberation of only twenty minutes the jury brought in a verdict of ‘Wilful Murder by Person or Persons Unknown.’
CHAPTER 19
UNDER THE BLACK WING
THE CORONER HAD departed and the jury had shuffled out after him, having delivered their verdict. Stolid officials shepherded the spectators out of the court by the public entrance, but the principal actors remained in the centre of the slightly stuffy room, waiting to make their exit from a side door, where Mr Campion’s car was awaiting them. The Faraday automobile was drawn up at the public entrance, so that the idle crowd which always collects on such occasions might be misled and wait in vain for the victims of their insatiable curiosity.
It was while Uncle William, pink and slightly triumphant, was still surrounded by congratulatory acquaintances, that Joyce and Mr Campion, who were standing talking to Marcus, noticed simultaneously the florid and unexpected face of Cousin George peering at them over the heads of the other spectators in the slowly moving group at the back of the court. Moreover, it was at the very moment that Mr Fred Shepherd, builder’s clerk, of Grey Street, was shaking Uncle William vigorously by the hand, and the old man was trying to appear grateful without being unduly friendly, that he also caught sight of his cousin. His little blue eyes dilated, he blew out his cheeks, and he left the startled Mr Shepherd very suddenly indeed, pushing his way over to Marcus.
The unexpected length and severity of the ordeal which the inquest had proved, had told upon them all, more especially upon Uncle William, who had certainly borne the brunt of the coroner’s careful questioning. Now that it was over, although the mystery seemed no nearer solution, they all felt that at least there was some respite from the tension of the past week, and, a moment before George’s appearance, thankfulness had almost reached the point of rejoicing in the little group. Even the Inspector seemed relieved. He had made his peace with Mr Campion on the second day of the hearing, and now strolled over to join him. As he did so he caught a glimpse of the startled expression upon Joyce’s face, and followed the direction of her glance across the hall, until he too saw the heavy red face and little dark eyes of George Makepeace Faraday.
The man met his gaze for an instant, and then turned abruptly and disappeared among the out-going crowd.
The Inspector darted after him, but the chairs and benches which lay in his path impeded his progress, and by the time he came out into the evening sunshine the man had vanished, just as he had vanished before, after his precipitate flight from Tomb Yard. Hampered by the mob, the Inspector gave up any idea of a chase and returned to join the others.
When he found the family again they were sta
nding in a group in the side entrance, waiting to enter Campion’s venerable Bentley. Campion detached himself from the others to speak to the Inspector.
‘I say,’ he said, coming up, ‘did you see that fellow?’
‘I did,’ said the Inspector bitterly. ‘But he was too sharp for me again. I’d like to have a word with that customer – and I shall. If he’s back in the town we ought to find him easily enough.’
Campion nodded, but he did not speak, and the Inspector went on regretfully.
‘This inquest hasn’t got us anywhere, you know,’ he said. ‘This’ll be another case for the Black List against the police if we don’t look out. It’s too bad.’
He was speaking softly, although there was not much danger of being overheard. He looked gloomy and dejected, and if Mr Campion had not had sufficient troubles of his own he would have been sorry for him.
‘What are they going to do now?’ the Inspector demanded, jerking his head towards the three others.
‘Mrs Faraday has ordered us all to return to dinner,’ said Campion. ‘Miss Blount is returning to the house tonight, very much against my advice. How about you; are you leaving the town?’
‘Are you?’ said Stanislaus.
The young man shook his head wearily. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not for a little while. To tell you the truth, I daren’t. I have a feeling that the really important part of this affair is going to begin at any moment now.’ He paused and glanced at the other man inquiringly from behind his big spectacles.
Somewhat grudgingly the Inspector gave him the information he desired.
‘I shan’t go up tonight,’ he said. ‘And if you get a line on anything, for heaven’s sake let me know. No more monkey tricks behind my back – hints or no hints.’
‘Right,’ said Campion. ‘And you come across if you have any conversation with Cousin George.’
Oates scowled. ‘He’s no use to us really,’ he said. He sighed. ‘What a rotten unsatisfactory case this is! I knew it would be the moment I spotted that coincidence at the beginning. I’m not a superstitious man, but you can’t help noticing queer things when they happen over and over again. If I had my way about this case I’d write “Act of God” across the docket and shut it up in a drawer.’ He stopped abruptly, alarmed at the expression which passed across his friend’s face. ‘What’s up!’ he demanded.
‘That’s one of my own pet superstitions,’ said Mr Campion. ‘Look here, when shall I see you again? Tomorrow, I hope?’
‘I shall be here,’ said the Inspector. ‘I wish you’d come across with this airy-fairy theory of yours. What’s rattling you?’
Mr Campion’s reply was entirely unexpected. ‘I say, Stanislaus,’ he said, ‘what’s the penalty for arson?’
The Inspector did not reply, and Campion turned away. He seemed fagged out and worried. The Inspector drew him back again.
‘What’s on your mind?’ he insisted.
Campion sighed. ‘I don’t know that I shall ever be able to convince you of it,’ he said, ‘but I tell you I would rather take that carload of people to East Lane on Saturday night than back to that house. I’ve waited five days, but I’ve a feeling that if it’s coming, it’s coming tonight.’
‘I don’t follow you,’ said the Inspector grumpily. ‘But if you’re expecting another attack from the same source you’re on the wrong track. Whoever is responsible for this lot will wait for another six months or so now, you mark my words.’
‘We’re up against something you never dreamed of,’ said Mr Campion. ‘See you tomorrow.’ And he strode out to the car, where the others awaited him impatiently.
Marcus and Uncle William sat in the back. They were both weary, both a little apprehensive. Joyce, a bright spot of colour burning in her cheeks, sat in front next to Campion. They drove slowly through the town. The ‘Varsity had officially returned the day before, and the place had sprung to life. Young men in amazing motor-cars filled the streets, bicycles had become a menace, and battered ‘squares’ and ragged gowns were everywhere. As they emerged into the long broad sweep of Trumpington Road, Joyce sighed with relief and spoke.
‘Oh, I’m glad it’s all over,’ she said. ‘Did you – did you see Cousin George? I’m afraid he’ll be at home when we get there. It’s just like him to turn up and worry Aunt Caroline for money at a time like this. He’s bound to come, don’t you think?’
Mr Campion looked at her dubiously. ‘I say,’ he said, ‘do you think it’s wise, quite apart from Cousin George, to have come back to the house so soon? Why not make up your mind to stay with Ann for another day or so?’
The girl shook her head. ‘No, I’m all right now,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to burden Ann any more than I can help. She’s been so very sporting, bearing with me all this week. Besides, I’ve sent my things back. I shall stay at Socrates tonight.’
She could see he was disappointed, and hastened to vindicate herself.
‘I’ve been away five days,’ she said. ‘I went as soon as you insisted, but nothing happened, did it? Besides, if Cousin George does come I shall be a great help to Great-aunt Caroline, and she needs someone, poor darling.’
Mr Campion made no reply, and they continued down the road and turned into the gate in silence.
Alice admitted them. She was smiling, and her red face shone above her severe black afternoon frock and stiff white apron. It was evident that the news of the verdict which Mr Featherstone, senior, had just brought to the house, had already percolated to the domestic quarters.
‘Mrs Faraday is in the drawing-room,’ said Alice. ‘Mr Featherstone and Mrs Kitty are with her. She said for you to go in.’
The great drawing-room, which caught the last rays of the evening sun, was much brighter than Campion had expected. Great-aunt Faraday sat bolt upright in her chair by the fireplace, a frail but luxurious creature in her magnificent laces. Aunt Kitty sat beside her, an insignificant pathetic little body. The strain of giving evidence had told upon her, and her webby eyelids fluttered nervously.
Featherstone, senior, who looked older than both of them, his natural air of monumental ruin even more pronounced than usual, sat opposite and at a distance at which they must have appeared a mere blur to him. He rose unsteadily to his feet as Joyce entered, the others following her.
Aunt Kitty, who could be relied upon to do the embarrassing thing, bounced up with a squeal of excitement, tripped across the room, threw her arms around the uneasy bulk of Uncle William’s shoulders and burst out hysterically: ‘Dear, dear Willie! Safe at last! Safe!’
Uncle William, who was very much on edge already, drew back from her.
‘Don’t be a fool, Kitty,’ he muttered testily. ‘I’ve been made a scapegoat in this affair, I know that, but I’m not going to be treated to it for the rest of my life, thank you.’ He stalked past her and sat down.
Aunt Kitty looked hurt and a little frightened now that she found herself alone in the middle of the room. She stood fluttering until Joyce put an arm round her and led her to a settee on the opposite side of the fireplace to Great-aunt Caroline.
Old Featherstone cleared his throat. ‘Well,’ he began in his deep and somewhat too musical voice, ‘as I have been telling Mrs Faraday, I think we are all to be congratulated. We have, of course, to be very grateful to the woman Finch and her employee. We were lucky to get hold of them, more especially as we received no help in that direction from you, Mr Faraday.’
Uncle William scowled at him. ‘I was ill, I tell you,’ he said. ‘Nobody seems to realize that. I was very ill. I still am very ill. This affair might have been the death of me. Not one of you seems to have grasped that.’
‘Oh, but we have, Willie. That’s what has been frightening us.’ Aunt Kitty had spoken before Joyce could stop her, and it was, unfortunately, only too obvious what she meant.
Uncle William exploded. ‘I like that!’ he said. ‘Twelve perfect strangers have told the world quite plainly that I’m as innocent as a new-born babe and yet t
he moment I come back into this house I’m accused by my own sister. Not one of you here has any sympathy except Campion. And I don’t know why you’re congratulating yourself, Featherstone. It was Campion who found you all your witnesses. Remarkable! He deduced where I’d been when I didn’t know myself.’
‘William.’ Great-aunt Caroline, who had sat very still during this interlude, her sharp black eyes taking in the varying expressions of the little group, now stirred herself. ‘William,’ she repeated, ‘now is not the time for ingratitude. If you are not thankful for your deliverance, I am. Come and sit here by me, if you please.’
Uncle William went. He muttered to himself a little and the words ‘scapegoat’ and ‘disgusting exhibition’ were distinctly audible, but finally he sat down.
Great-aunt Caroline smiled at old Featherstone. ‘I am very grateful to you,’ she said. You have been a very true old friend. Now, I want you all to sit down, for I have something to say before we go in to dinner.’
Marcus glanced sharply at Campion. The same thought was in both their minds. Surely Great aunt Caroline should be acquainted with Cousin George’s presence in the town? However, the opportunity passed, for the old lady was already speaking again.
‘I am very glad that this inquest has ended as it has,’ she began, ‘and I am very grateful to all of you who have helped us. But there is a point of which I feel we must not lose sight. It is this: this terrible affair is not yet at an end, and the odium which has fallen upon this house is still as strong as though some one of us had been arrested.’
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