Trial and Error Page 28

  “Do you agree that a recent firing of the weapon, which would have removed any rust, together with a thorough cleaning afterwards, is a more probable explanation of the absence of rust?”

  “No.”

  “Not so probable as that the old, dried oil had somehow acquired a magical quality and prevented rust even after its oleaginous properties had been dried out of it?”

  “I cannot say that the old oil would not have prevented rust.”

  “Do you agree that, if there is an explanation for the dried oil, there was nothing whatever to indicate that this weapon had not been recently fired?”

  “I was satisfied that it had not been.”

  “Oh yes, by your enquiries. When were these enquiries made?”

  “During November last.”

  “After or before you had seen the revolver—we won’t say ‘examined’ it?”

  “After.”

  “And they showed you that this weapon had never been fired?”

  “That is so.”

  “But did you not make the assertion, in the presence of the accused after your glance at the revolver, that it had never been fired?”

  “I may have done so.”

  “I put it to you that you did so?”

  “It is possible.”

  “That is, before you made the enquiries at all?”

  “Yes.”

  “But if it was the enquiries, and the enquiries only, that convinced you that the revolver had not been fired, how could you assert this as a fact before those enquiries had been made?”

  “The presence of the dried oil and the absence of any signs of striation or lead fouling gave me the impression that the revolver had never been fired. The enquiries I made afterwards confirmed it.”

  “Oh, so it is only an ‘impression’ now?”

  “I was satisfied,” repeated the sergeant with a maddening stolidity that made Mr Todhunter want to scream, “that the weapon had never been fired.”

  “Now I understand that you had an opportunity of examining Mr Todhunter’s house. What impression did you form of it?”

  “It was quite a nice house.” In spite of his training the sergeant showed a trace of bewilderment.

  “It struck you as the house of a man who liked to be comfortable?”

  “I think I could say that.”

  “There is no need to be so cautious. You could surely judge by the evidence. Was it for instance a clean house or a dirty house?”

  “It struck me as quite clean.”

  “Well, was it a warm house or a cold house?”

  “It was quite warm.”

  “Did you notice whether there were any signs of comfort—central heating, for instance?”

  “I saw that central heating was installed.”

  “And electric fires in the bedrooms?”

  “I only entered the one bedroom.”

  “Well, was there an electric fire there?

  “Yes,” said the now unhappy sergeant, who saw the drift at last.

  Sir Ernest threw off the mask.

  “Exactly. You know the susceptibility of oil, particularly the fine oils used in the care of firearms, to heat?”

  “I am not an expert in oils.”

  “Is there any need to be an expert to know that oil dries rapidly in a warm atmosphere?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “You tell us that it was not until November that you looked at this revolver. Miss Norwood, as we know, died in September. Are you prepared to assert on oath that the oil on a revolver would not have become dry if left without attention for over two whole months in an overheated room in a warm house?”

  “I should not care to assert anything on oath concerning oils,” was the best that the sergeant could manage.

  “Yet you were ready enough to assert it, apparently, when you were not on oath?”

  “I pronounced an opinion.”

  “Yes. And put it to you that, without the necessary experience or knowledge, you pronounced an opinion that you were not qualified to voice, that you repeated this to your superiors not as an opinion at all but as a fact, and that you now feel compelled to justify your dogmatic and groundless assertion?”

  Sir Ernest had got under the sergeant’s skin at last.

  “That is not at all a fair way of putting it,” he said indignantly.

  “It is the way I do put it,” retorted Sir Ernest and sat down, beaming.

  Mr Bairns handled his now slightly flustered witness with care.

  “Without going into highly technical and possibly unnecessary details, is it fair to say that your training, even though it may not have specialised in the more peculiar properties of oils, enabled you to recognise at once on examining the revolver that it had never been fired?”

  “That is correct,” said the sergeant and was allowed to leave the box with a relief that was obvious.

  In spite of the indignation with which he had listened to the sergeant’s examination in chief (how could the man have had the face to assert as a fact what could have been nothing but the wildest guess?), Mr Todhunter could not help sympathising with him. His own relief was even greater. Sir Ernest had wriggled out of a nasty predicament with remarkable skill.

  But Mr Bairns had not finished yet.

  He shuffled his papers and looked at the usher.

  “Call Miss Julia Fairey.”

  And who on earth, wondered Mr Todhunter, is Miss Julia Fairey?

  He was to be enlightened without delay.

  A curious, hunched old person in black crept into the witness box rather like a large snail and took the oath in a mouselike voice.

  Her evidence, as reported by the press agencies, ran as follows:

  “I live at 86 Hamilton Avenue, Richmond. I am the cook there. The house is next door to that occupied by the late Miss Norwood. I have often seen Miss Norwood walking in her garden. It is possible to see portions of the garden from our windows. I am acquainted with the general layout of the late Miss Norwood’s garden. About three months ago I was returning to 86 Hamilton Avenue from the theatre. It was late at night. I think it was just about midnight. I can fix the date from the fact that it was the only occasion on which I have been to a theatre in the West End of London for over a year. The date was the third of December. Just as I was entering the house I heard a loud noise from the direction of Miss Norwood’s garden. It appeared to come from near the summerhouse. I was alarmed, remembering that Miss Norwood had been shot there last autumn, and hurried into the house. The noise sounded like a shot. It was a noise like an explosion. I mentioned the incident to my fellow servants the next day. We all looked at the papers for several days. to see if anyone else had been shot like Miss Norwood.”

  Sir Ernest rose, a little puzzled but undismayed.

  “This mysterious noise—you say it sounded like a shot?”

  “Just like a shot, sir.”

  “How many shots have you heard fired in your life, Miss Fairey?”

  “I’ve never heard a shot fired, sir.”

  “Then how do you know this noise sounded like one?”

  This appeared a novel point of view to the witness. “Well, it did, sir.”

  “Would it not be fairer to say, since you must have heard many fireworks discharged, that it sounded like a firework?”

  “Well, it did sound like a firework, too, a loud one.”

  “Or a motorcar backfiring?”

  “Yes, that sort of noise, it was.”

  “Or a motor launch on the river? Someone trying to start the engine, you know? You must have heard that kind of noise many times? Was it like that?”

  “Yes, just like that, sir.”

  “Let me see,” said Sir Ernest engagingly, “this house where you live must be two beyond mine, I take it, so we have about the same sort of view. Now, from where you stood would the summerhouse in Miss Norwood’s garden have been between you and the river?”

  “Yes, it would.”

  “So that this n
oise, which struck you as coming from the summerhouse, might really have come from the river beyond it?”

  “Yes, I suppose it could, if you put it like that sir.”

  “But of course a shot in the summerhouse made a better story to tell the others the next morning?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand, sir.”

  “Never mind. How old are you, Miss Fairey?”

  “I’m fifty-six, sir.”

  “Are you really? Dear me. Faculties getting a bit impaired or not?” asked Sir Ernest, dropping his voice a little.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  Sir Ernest maintained the same slightly lower tone, which was nevertheless perfectly audible to Mr Todhunter.

  “I asked whether your faculties were getting impaired or not?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I couldn’t quite. . .”

  Sir Ernest dropped another semitone. “I mean, are you getting at all hard of heading?”

  “I can’t quite make out the question, sir.” Miss Fairey innocently cupped a hand to her ear.

  “I asked,” said Sir Ernest very loudly, “whether you were getting bit hard of hearing?”

  “No, that I’m not,” retorted Miss Fairey with indignation, “when folks speak up properly.” She looked round in astonishment at the laughter which broke from the whole Court.

  Amid the laughter Sir Ernest sat down.

  Mr Bairns took counsel with the ceiling.

  “In any case, Miss Fairey, you have no doubt of what you heard on the night of the third of December. It was a noise that sounded like a shot, and it seemed to come from the direction of the summerhouse in the late Miss Norwood’s garden?”

  “Yes sir. That’s what I said, sir,” retorted Miss Fairey, still a little ruffled, and made a snail-like exit.

  “Call Police Constable Silverside,” requested Mr Bairns.

  Police Constable Silverside gave his evidence like a book.

  “On the night of December the third I was on duty from midnight to 4 a.m. My beat includes Lower Putney Road. I know the accused’s house. I have called there several times on different matters. On those occasions I have often interviewed the accused. Also he has often bidden me good morning or good afternoon as the case might be. I know his house of a nighttime. It is one of the first houses on the beat to put its lights out. The lights are usually out before midnight. On the night of the third of December the lights were on till after 1 a.m. It was a light on the first floor. It was not on when I went first on my beat. I noticed it on when I passed the house about 12.30 a.m. It was on for about half an hour. It made an impression on me because I knew the gentleman wasn’t very well. I thought he might have been taken ill. I approached the front door to see if I might be needed to render assistance. The door was locked. I did not ring. While I was standing there, the light went out. I have no doubt about the date, because I made me note in my book. I made the note in case the gentleman had been taken ill suddenly and it was needed later to establish the time.”

  Sir Ernest was beginning to get the drift of this mysterious evidence, just there was little he could do so far as the present witness was concerned.

  “Is it your habit to stand by in order to act as sick nurse to the inhabitants on your beat?” he began with heavy sarcasm.

  “No.”

  “Then why did you do so in this case?”

  “I happened to know the nature of the gentleman’s complaint and thought it might be necessary to summon assistance in a hurry.”

  “Did it not occur to you that the telephone might be quicker?”

  “I knew there were only women in the house if the gentleman had been taken bad, and they might like to know a man was standing by.”

  “How long did you stand by?”

  “It was only a minute or two before the light went out.”

  “You say you noticed the light first at half past twelve. You did not approach the house then?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I did not think there was need. It was only when I passed the house half an hour later. The light was still on then and it surprised me. While I was standing there the light went out.”

  “What were your hours of duty that night?”

  “From midnight till 4 a.m.”

  “You are on duty every night on that beat between those hours?”

  “No, we take it in turns.”

  “How often would that period fall to you?”

  “Every six days.”

  “So on five days out of six you would have no opportunity of observing the accused’s house at those hours of the night.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Then you are not really in a position to say whether it was unusual for a light to be on at that time?”

  “I had never seen it before.”

  “You saw the light through the curtains?”

  “I saw it between the curtains.”

  “The curtains were not properly drawn?”

  “There was a streak of light between them.”

  “If they had been properly drawn, you could not have told whether there was a light in that room or not?”

  “I can’t say.”

  With a shrug of his shoulders Sir Ernest sat down.

  Again Mr Bairns asked his witness only one question.

  “You have no doubt that, between 12.30 and I a.m., there was a light in a first-floor room in the accused’s house which struck you as unusual?”

  “That is correct.”

  Sir Ernest appealed to the judge.

  “My lord, I fear I must trespass on your indulgence again. Matters have been raised which it is only fair that the accused should have a chance of answering. Have I your permission to put him in the box again for a minute or two?”

  “I suppose so,” said the judge with a sigh.

  Mr Todhunter, who had managed to preserve a masklike demeanour during the last half-hour, at grave risk to his life was tenderly escorted once more into the witness box.

  “Mr Todhunter,” said Sir Ernest in tones of rich commiseration, “can you say whether a light was on in a first-floor room of your house between the hours of 12.30 and 1 a.m. on the third of December last?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “Can you suggest a possible explanation?”

  “Very easily. I am a poor sleeper. I frequently wake up in the night. When I think I am not likely to sleep again for some time, I turn on the light and read.”

  “That happens often?”

  “Very often.”

  “What kind of curtains have you in your bedroom?”

  “Heavy rep, lined with casement cloth,” replied Mr Todhunter glibly. He was not going to be caught out over a matter of domestic detail.

  “They would exclude any artificial light inside the room from being seen outside?”

  “I imagine so.”

  “Are they usually closely drawn at night?”

  “So far as I know.”

  Sir Ernest grasped the bull firmly by the horns.

  “Mr Todhunter, did you on the night of December the third leave your house, make a journey to Miss Norwood’s garden, there fire off your revolver near the summer house for the first time and return to your home about 12.30 a.m.?”

  Mr Todhunter stared at him. “Would you mind saying that again?”

  Sir Ernest repeated the question.

  “Good gracious, no,” said Mr Todhunter.

  Sir Ernest looked enquiringly at Mr Bairns, but the latter, without taking his eyes off the ceiling, mutely shook his head.

  “Thank you, Mr Todhunter,” said Sir Ernest.

  The court then adjourned for the day—not, Mr Todhunter felt, before it was time. The strain was becoming more severe than he cared about.

  4

  “So that’s what he was getting at?” said Mr Todhunter as, wrapped in rugs, the taxi drew clear of the staring crowd.

  “That’s it. Damned ingenious, eh? Cl
ever fellow, Bairns,” said Sir Ernest ungrudgingly.

  Mr Chitterwick ventured to supply the comment that seemed to be called for.

  “But you were cleverer. Your cross-examination disposed of the theory altogether.”

  Sir Ernest beamed. “I fancy I gave it a shrewd knock. But we can’t count on it. Juries are queer cattle. This one’s going to acquit our friend here if they can find half a chance.”

  “You really think that?” said Mr. Chitterwick anxiously.

  “Well, it just doesn’t do to be too optimistic, that’s all.” Sir Ernest rubbed his rosy jowls. “I wonder where he got hold of that idea? It’s really damned ingenious. Suppose you didn’t really carry out any midnight expedition along those lines, Todhunter?”

  “Don’t be a damned fool,” snapped Mr Todhunter savagely.

  “Now, now,” said Sir Ernest in alarm and preserved a subdued silence until the taxi decanted him at his club.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  The next morning Mr Bairns developed his theory in detail.

  There were two major facts, he contended, which the prosecution relied on to link the present accused with the crime: his possession of the dead woman’s bracelet and the probability that the only bullet found in the summerhouse had not been fired from the revolver belonging to Vincent Palmer—the inference of course being that it had been fired from the accused’s.

  But when more closely examined, both these facts were valueless. The possession of the bracelet proved only one thing: that the accused had been in contact with the dead woman. It did not even prove that he had been in contact with her after death, for she might have handed it over to him in life, to have a stone reset or a copy made or for any other feasible reason. Nevertheless the police were prepared to admit that Mr Todhunter might have been on the scene after the death; what they were not prepared to admit was that he had had any hand in it.

  As for the revolver bullet—well, really! implied Mr Bairns.

  This bullet had been found in a beam in a remote corner of the summerhouse. It must have been an almost incredibly bad shot that placed it there, so far out of the line of aim. Moreover Mr Todhunter had apparently forgotten all about this second bullet (a second bullet only according to his own account), in spite of the fact that he would have been reminded of it by the fact that there would be two empty shells left in the chamber for him to dispose of and not one. He had in fact only remembered it, most conveniently, when two independent witnesses were present to look for it. This alone was striking enough.