“Yes.”
“Which, at that time, you had no reason to disbelieve?”
“I’m not saying I disbelieve it now. The attacks made on her character in cross-examination—”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said—”
“Do I understand that you were in court when Mrs. Roper gave her evidence?”
“I—no.”
“Then why do you refer to ‘the attacks made on her in cross-examination’?”
“I have been told about them.”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow that,” said Mr. Justice Arbuthnot. “Do you mean that you were allowed to read a copy of the earlier proceedings?”
“No, sir. It was talked about in my presence. And there were reports in the papers.”
“Yes. I suppose that is inevitable. You realise that it is your duty to give your own evidence, and not be influenced by what other witnesses may or may not have said.”
“I shall endeavour to do so.”
“Now, Inspector,” said Macrea, “perhaps you will deal with my question. You have said that you had the weapon and the evidence of Mrs. Roper. Was there anything else?”
“Certainly. There was the means and opportunity. There was also the motive.”
“I see. You had already considered the question of motive.”
“Yes.”
Mr. Macrea fixed his monocle into his eye, leaned forward slightly, and said, “At that time, Inspector, what evidence had you about motive?”
The witness took a minute to think this one out. Then he said, “I had the evidence of Mr. Sainte. He told me that the prisoner had been trying to get hold of Major Thoseby for some time, and that he had come to the hotel to see her.”
“And, in your opinion, a desire to see someone is a motive for murdering them?”
“No. But I gathered that there was something between them.”
“Will you be more explicit?”
“I gathered that the prisoner had given birth to an illegitimate child and that the father was alleged to be Major Thoseby.”
“Mr. Sainte told you this?”
“Yes.”
“Very considerate of him. No doubt you immediately asked the prisoner for information?”
“I put it to her, yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She denied it.”
“I see. Then you had two versions of it. A first – hand denial by the party concerned and a rather grubby third – hand allegation by Mr. Sainte, who never even knew the prisoner in France. What made you prefer his story to hers?”
“He had no motive for misrepresenting the truth. She had.”
“I see. I take it you agree that as an officer of police it was your duty to discover the truth. Not to take sides?”
“Certainly.”
“And not to act as a special prosecutor.”
“I have never done so.”
“Very well. May I refer to you – possibly this is part of the evidence you have not read in the newspapers – something that was said by Sergeant Cleeve.” Macrea read the latter part of Sergeant Cleeve’s evidence. “Have you any comment on that?”
“No.”
“You were aware that no fingerprint had been discovered on the bell-push?”
“Yes.”
“Although the bell was in working order and the room had been in frequent use. Sergeant Cleeve spoke of finding the fingerprints of the last three occupants in various places in the room.”
“So I understand.”
“Did not the absence of any print from the bell-push strike you as significant?”
“If anything I thought that it told against the prisoner. It disproved her story that Major Thoseby had rung the bell for her.”
“In that case, Inspector, would you not have expected to have found some fingerprint on the bell? Anyone pressing a bell-push is bound to leave a fingerprint – prints last, I understand, for weeks, even months.”
“Possibly the bell-push had been dusted.”
“Possibly. I can’t help thinking that it was a very remarkable hotel if it was so. But don’t you think that the defence should have been given the facts?”
“I do not agree that there was any fact to give them.”
“I see. It wouldn’t be true to suggest that you were suppressing any facts that told against your case?”
“I resent that.”
“Then if a fact told plainly in favour of the prisoner it would be your duty to produce it?”
“If it told plainly in her favour.”
“Even though it weakened the case being put forward by the police?”
“Yes.”
“I am glad to have your assurance on the point. Now might I refer once again to the extract which I have put to you from Sergeant Cleeve’s evidence. Am I wrong, Inspector, in detecting a certain change of theory in the police case?”
“I’m afraid I have no idea what you mean.”
“I will try to explain then. At the outset of Sergeant Cleeve’s examination by my learned friend the theory which he expounded – I do not suggest that it was his own idea – I take it that it represented the Gospel according to Scotland Yard – was that the presence of Miss Lamartine’s fingerprints on the handle of the knife showed that she used the knife to commit this crime. Not to chop onions, Inspector. To murder Major Thoseby.”
“Yes.”
“However, when, under cross-examination by myself, it seemed that the position of the fingerprints might rule them out for this purpose – then Sergeant Cleeve reverted – or perhaps I should say moved on – to a second suggestion. That if the murderer had been wearing gloves it would account both for the absence of what I might call ‘lethal’ fingerprints – and the blurring over of the existing ‘kitchen’ fingerprints.”
“That is so.”
“Well, you can’t have it both ways. Which is your theory, Inspector?”
“Taking everything into account, I think it is very possible that the murderer wore gloves.”
“I see. Well, I am glad to get that settled.” Macrea glanced at his notes. “Now, Inspector, in examination you indicated – correct me if I am wrong – that Monsieur Sainte, as soon as he had seen the body, had all the people concerned collected in one room?”
“In Mrs. Roper’s room.”
“And you interviewed them in there?”
“No. I saw them one at a time in the empty bedroom – the one on the other side of the passage.”
“And it was there, after interrogating her, that you cautioned the prisoner and took her with you to the police station?”
“Yes.”
“It would be part of your duty, I take it, to have the room where Major Thoseby’s body was found thoroughly searched?”
“Certainly.”
“And Mrs. Ropers room?”
“Yes.”
“And no doubt the prisoner herself was searched when she arrived at the police station?”
“Yes.”
“And the results of that search were reported to you.”
“Yes.”
“Then you will be able to set our minds at rest at once. Did you find the gloves?”
“I—I beg your pardon.”
“I asked if you found the gloves.”
“No. As a matter of fact, I didn’t.”
“There were no gloves?”
“No.”
“None at all?”
“No.”
“Neither on the prisoner, nor in any of the places she had been in after the murder?”
“Well—no.”
“Never mind, Inspector. You can always revert to your first idea. Or possibly you might like to put forward a third and entirely new theory. Possibly the murder was committed by a disembodied spirit with no hands at all.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Mr. Rumbold missed a good deal of the final cross-examination.
He was thinking about a conversation which he had had that morning, before th
e court opened, with Macrea, in his chambers. They had sat there together for half an hour, in the sunlight under the rows and rows of King’s Bench and Chancery Law Reports, in leather bindings (sometimes consulted by his pupils, never, so far as anyone could remember, by Macrea).
Not much had been said. They were old friends, both of them experienced, fighters at law. They knew they had reached the storm center.
“The prosecution case will be finished by lunch-time,” Macrea had said. “The only important witness to come is Inspector Partridge. I’ll take him as far as I can on the lines of prejudice. After that we shall have to see what we can make of it from our side.”
“Have you decided what line to take?”
“Well – there are two lines. We can simply put the prisoner in the box to give her version of the story and trust her to come through the cross-examination. I think the jury’ll like her. She’s so patently honest. Then we’ll go all out on a plea that the prosecution haven’t proved their case. In short, that a number of other people could have murdered Thoseby and the prisoner is by no means the most likely.”
“Only if we have to,” said Mr. Rumbold.
“All right. But we’ve got to think about it, because that’s the way nine out of ten defences do go. It’s the easiest line and the safest.”
“It may be safe,” said Mr. Rumbold, “but I still don’t like it. What’s the alternative?”
“We do suggest who did the murder.”
“All right,” said Mr. Rumbold. “Let’s do that. I think I know who did it, all right,” he added.
“As a matter of fact,” said Macrea, “so do I. But that’s a very different thing from being able to prove it. However, let’s look at the four candidates.”
“Four?”
“Certainly. First Mrs. Roper. She’s a crook. She had plenty of opportunity. She could have stolen the knife.”
“On the other hand,” said Mr. Rumbold, “she had no ascertainable motive – and she doesn’t look like a murderer. She’s not the right calibre at all. A little crook – and an associate of little crooks. Not a killer.”
“I agree,” said Macrea. “Then we have Monsieur Sainte. Quite another proposition. He struck me as being a capable and quite a ruthless person. He would have had every opportunity to acquire the weapon. He may well have met Major Thoseby. It is not difficult to imagine some sort of motive. Supposing he had been an undercover Gestapo agent?”
“Well, it’s possible,” said Mr. Rumbold, “but it seems a little far-fetched. Surely they wouldn’t have waited all that long to do something about it. The war’s been over a long time.”
“I agree. There’s a much worse snag than that, though. How did he get up to Major Thoseby’s room and back again without being seen by Camino and Colonel Alwright – supposing he did the job before half-past ten? Or by Mademoiselle Lamartine herself if he did it afterward?”
“Quite so. The sealed box. What about Camino?”
“Could have had some motive connected with wartime happenings in France. Again not very likely. He’s the type who might use a knife – and there’s no doubt he could have got hold of this one. He worked in the kitchen.”
“Also don’t forget it was Camino who delayed sending for the doctor. If he did the murder at all he must have done it before half-past ten, so it would have been important to delay the medical inspection as long as possible so as to confuse the time of death.”
“I’m glad you were attending to my searching cross-examination,” said Macrea with a grin. “Exactly the same objections, however, apply to Camino. How did he get up there? He daren’t have left the reception desk—not with Colonel Alwright calling for a whisky every five minutes, and people liable to come in at the front door; any time. The risk was too great.”
“All right,” said Mr. Rumbold. “You said four. Who’s the fourth?”
“My fourth,” said Macrea slowly, “is an unknown man operating from the street at the back. The only thing known about him is that he answers to the name of Benny.”
“But—how did he do it? How did he get up there and down again? Miss Box didn’t say she saw a man climbing up. She said she heard someone calling up. Who is this unknown person, anyway—”
“Dammit,” said Macrea irritably, “this isn’t a detective story. The murderer doesn’t have to be one of the principal characters. It might have been any old enemy of Thoseby’s, who happened to choose that moment to finish him off.”
“How did he reach the bedroom?”
“I don’t know. There’s a lot we don’t know. We want more facts. Where’s that son of yours?”
“I wouldn’t mind knowing that myself,” said Mr. Rumbold.
Part Three
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“It is customary,” said Macrea, “for the defending counsel in a capital charge to open his remarks to the court by saying that ‘he has never listened to a case in which such a serious charge was supported by so little evidence.’ That, I say, is the customary opening. It does not apply to this case. In this case there is a great deal of evidence. Some people might feel, rather too much evidence. The difficulty is to examine such a body of evidence critically and to see what it means.
“Upon the primary point – about the basic fact – there is no dispute. Major Thoseby was stabbed to death, in that room. It is the duty of the prosecution to marshal all the relevant evidence – all the relevant evidence – I shall return to that point in a minute – and then to say to you: ‘On this evidence we contend that there is only one reasonable solution. The prisoner murdered Major Thoseby.’
“That is their job. Have they done it?
“Is their chain of reasoning so cogent that you must say to yourselves, “There is only one reasonable explanation. We are satisfied that the prisoner struck the blow’?
“I suggest that when you come to examine the evidence critically you will find no such thing. Rather you will find that it adds up to some proposition such as this.
“The prisoner could have murdered Major Thoseby. It was physically possible. She could have left the reception desk, walked up that flight of stairs, along that corridor, and opened that door. Major Thoseby would, no doubt, have got to his feet when he saw her. That is in accordance with the evidence. She could have pulled out that knife and thrust it, upward, in the way she had been taught, into Major Thoseby’s body. She could then have hidden the knife.
“None of that is impossible.
“But – and here is where I want your full and critical attention—” Macrea swiveled round and glanced briefly at each member of the jury in turn—“this proposition is supported, in a positive way, only by a line of evidence which rests on the flimsiest reasoning. The prosecution is asking you to say that because the prisoner was the only person in the hotel who had previously known Major Thoseby, the only person who had a history of association with him, the only person, so far as we know, who was making actual efforts to see him again—therefore, she must be the person who killed him.
“She knew him. She could have killed him. She did kill him.
“When the proposition is put as baldly as that, I hope you begin to perceive its weakness.
“I will deal with the two parts of the proposition separately, and in some detail. I will then conclude by summing up for you what I might call the additional, or extrinsic evidence.
“The prisoner knew Major Thoseby in France. It is not denied. But look what an elaborate structure the prosecution is trying to build on that simple foundation. An attempt has been made to persuade you on evidence so flimsy that I think I can, in this case, say without exaggeration that it is no evidence at all – that the prisoner and Major Thoseby were lovers. That Major Thoseby was the father of an illegitimate child, a boy, who has since died. The only positive evidence put forward in support of this is that the prisoner and Major Thoseby once spent a night together, with fifteen other people, in a barn!
“The danger of this sort of suggestion is that it
is easier to make than it is to demolish. It instills a poison which it is impossible entirely to eradicate. However, I propose to make the attempt. Our contention has always been, as you know, that the father of this child was a Lieutenant Wells, a British officer who fell into the hands of the Gestapo, and subsequently disappeared. Now the normal method of establishing this would, I suggest, have been by examination of the persons most closely concerned. One of the candidates, however, has disappeared. The other has been murdered. Different methods will, therefore, have to be employed. And, at the last moment, as the result of our investigations, a reasonably convincing method of proving this matter has presented itself.”
The pressmen all looked up.
“The defence is often accused of concealing witnesses and springing them on the prosecution at the last moment. I plead not guilty to that. The evidence about which I am now speaking came to light at four o’clock yesterday afternoon. We can hardly be accused of delay in bringing it to your notice.
“I will leave that for the moment and go on to point two. The significance – the only possible significance – of the often recited fact that the prisoner could have committed this murder lies, I take it, in its corollary: that no one else could have done so. The prosecution have themselves used the expression ‘a sealed box’ in this connection.
“Now it has often been said, and I will repeat it again, that it is no part of the defence’s business to suggest who, in fact, did the murder, and I will not, therefore, attempt to do so. In the face of the above allegation, however, it is open to us to show that the ‘box’ far from being ‘sealed’ had a number of cracks or loopholes in it.
“I will pass over the obvious fact that at least one other person – Mrs. Roper – had considerably easier access to Major Thoseby than did the prisoner – and will remark on two other points. First, at almost any time in the evening, an outsider, choosing one of those moments when the waiter Camino was absent from his post, serving Colonel Alwright with a drink – quite a frequent occurrence – any outsider, I say, could have made his way into the hotel and slipped, unnoticed, up the back stairs. He could then have hidden – in the empty bedroom – come out at his leisure later and killed Major Thoseby. All right so far, you say, but how did he get down again? There is nothing obscure about that, either. When he had killed Major Thoseby he rang the bell and retired to his hiding place. As soon as Miss Lamartine came past and entered Major Thoseby’s room the way was clear. He calmly walked downstairs and disappeared.
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