The Verdict of You All. Illustrated, page 23
Henry Wade
The Verdict of You All
Illustrated
Originally published in 1926, The Verdict of You All marked the debut of Henry Wade, one of the most respected authors of the Golden Age of detective fiction. A masterful blend of legal drama, psychological insight, and traditional detective investigation, the novel immediately established Wade as a writer of seriousness and skill.
The story opens with the murder of Sir Robert Fyfe, a prominent barrister found dead in his study under suspicious circumstances. As the police delve into the lives of those closest to him—including his family, colleagues, and clients—they uncover a tangled web of motives, secrets, and old grievances. The investigation is led by Superintendent Dodd, whose calm, rational approach slowly unravels the layers of deception surrounding the case. The title refers to the moment of courtroom climax, where the jury's verdict must reflect the complex interplay between justice and human fallibility.
What sets The Verdict of You All apart is its realistic portrayal of police procedure and courtroom dynamics. Unlike the flamboyant detectives of his contemporaries, Wade's approach is grounded in the practicalities of law and the subtleties of human behavior. This restrained, intelligent style makes the novel both gripping and believable.
Henry Wade was the pen name of Major Sir Henry Lancelot Aubrey-Fletcher (1887–1969), a British baronet, army officer, and magistrate. Educated at Eton and Oxford, Wade brought a deep understanding of law, society, and justice to his fiction. He was one of the founding members of the Detection Club (alongside Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers, and others), and is best known for his thoughtful, often morally complex detective novels. His work is characterized by a concern with realism, ethics, and the workings of the British legal system, making him a cornerstone of serious Golden Age crime writing.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 “What is Wrong with Sir John?”
Chapter 2 PC Raffles on the Spot
Chapter 3 Inspector Dobson Takes Charge
Chapter 4 PC Raffles Scores Twice
Chapter 5 Some Questions
Chapter 6 Emily & Rosamund
Chapter 7 More Questions
Chapter 8 A Call in the Night
Chapter 9 Mr Samuel McCorquodale
Chapter 11 “Cherchez La Femme”
Chapter 12 Some Steps Forward
Chapter 13 Some Steps Nowhere
Chapter 14 The Affairs of a Countess
Chapter 15 “You Shall Not Have Her!”
Chapter 16 A New Development
Chapter 17 Beginning Afresh
Chapter 18 An Old Acquaintance
Chapter 19 Closing In
Chapter 20 The Pack Divides
Chapter 21 Arrested
Chapter 22 The Old Bailey
Chapter 23 The Crown Case
Chapter 24 The Missing Witness
Chapter 25 The Case for the Defence
Chapter 26 The Eleventh Hour
Chapter 27 Blinky Todd
Chapter 28 A Letter to the Inspector
Publisher: Andrii Ponomarenko © Ukraine - Kyiv 2025
ISBN: 978-617-8622-20-6
Chapter 1 “What is Wrong with Sir John?”
“If it’s not taking a liberty, Mr Jackson, I’d much like to know what you think is wrong with the master.”
Mr Jackson, thus directly challenged, drew slowly at his cigar and allowed a dignified but respectful frown to appear upon his fine brow. After a suitable pause, sufficient to suggest a reluctance to engage in gossip but not so long as to imply a snub to his attractive questioner, he replied, after the manner of lesser men, with another question.
“What, Mrs Phillips, makes you think that there is anything wrong?”
The conversation was taking place in the cosy “Room” situated in the airy half-basement of St Margaret’s Lodge, a large house standing in its own grounds in that part of St John’s Wood which is so much more pleasant a place for wise—and wealthy—men to live in than is the noisy and overcrowded square mile comprised in the magic word Mayfair. Sir John Smethurst, whose wisdom and wealth were both beyond question to those who were aware of his prominence in the world vaguely but adequately spoken of as “finance,” had yielded to his wife and been taken to live in Mayfair, but directly after her death, and ten years before this story opens, he had hastened to amend an error long since recognized and had moved northwards. He was now housed as comfortably as anyone can be in London, with a reasonable amount of air to breathe, quiet in which to think, and room in which to move.
The occupants of the Room were but two in number—Mr Henry Jackson, the white-haired and venerable butler of tradition, and Mrs (by courtesy) Phillips, thirty years younger than her companion, but, by virtue of her supremacy in her own domain, his equal in rank and privilege.
Mrs Phillips blushed slightly at the austerity of the question with which her own had been met, but she stuck to her guns.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it, but Miss Richards told me that Miss Emily was quite worried about Sir John, and she’s not a girl that chatters, and so I thought there might be something serious.”
“Miss Richards, of course, was quite right to speak to you, Mrs Phillips, if she had to speak at all, and I know the subject will not pass into common talk. As it has come to your ears, I think, perhaps, I am justified in discussing the matter with you.”
Having eased his conscience of any suspicion of gossip, Mr Jackson prepared for a thorough and enjoyable indulgence therein. He settled himself more comfortably in his chair, and put his hand upon a neat decanter which stood on the table at his elbow.
“Another glass, Mrs Phillips? A light and perfectly harmless wine, but of a rare bokay. I have no faith in a full-bodied vintage.” (Jackson was quoting his master, but his companion was suitably impressed.) “You are right, Mrs Phillips; there is, I fear, something unmistakably wrong, though I doubt if the fact has been discerned outside Sir John’s immediate décolletage.” (Jackson was fond of airing his French, though not always happy in his choice of words.) “I have observed it myself, and Mr Hastings has spoken to me about it in confidence on more than one occasion.”
“But what is it, Mr Jackson? It can’t be money, and at his age it can’t hardly be . . . be . . .” Mrs Phillips dropped her eyes becomingly, and the butler palpably ruffled his feathers at the challenge.
“If you mean love, Mrs Phillips, age has nothing to do with it, and Sir John is, in any case, still a young man—younger, in fact, than myself.” The butler was sixty-five, but he had a nice little sum laid aside in the bank, and both he and Mrs Phillips were aware of the fact. “No, I don’t think it’s love, though. My opinion is that it started about the time that South American gentleman, Mr Fernandez, dined here about three months ago. You remember I told you he reminded me of that Valentino we saw at the pictures. He might have been a bit quiet before that—Sir John might, I mean—but that night, after Mr Fernandez had gone, he seemed to me excited like, and since then he has been restless and jumpy. Not exactly frightened, but on edge—excité.”
“What did Mr Hastings say about it, Mr Jackson?”
“He didn’t say much, Mrs Phillips. Just asked me if I’d noticed anything. Said Miss Emily was worried about her father. Asked me not to speak of it to anyone—which, of course, I naturally should not do.”
“It’ll be a worry for Miss Emily, coming just now. And Mr Hastings, too—a pleasant-spoken gentleman, I thought him. Miss Emily brought him down to see me soon after the engagement was announced.”
“He’s more than that, Mrs Phillips. He’s what they call a ‘white man,’ and I know Sir John thinks the world of him, trusts him like a son, more than——” He broke off as a bell trilled twice outside the door. “Ah, there’s the study. That’ll be him going.” He glanced at the clock as he rose from his chair. “Eleven o’clock—earlier than usual. Ah, well, the earlier to bed for me. You’ll be turning in too, I expect, Mrs Phillips. Couchez bien.”
Mrs Phillips started.
“Good night, Mr Jackson,” she said.
As the butler emerged from the basement stairs into the roomy hall, the subject of his recent conversation was standing in the doorway of the study opposite, exchanging some last remarks with his employer inside the room.
Geoffrey Hastings was a tall, well-built man of some thirty-five years of age, with the greying hair and set mouth that came so prematurely to many young men who passed through the crucible of war, but the laughing, happy eyes of a boy. He was universally respected as a shrewd and capable man of business, but still more liked—it would hardly be too much to say loved—both by women and men, for his capacity to get the full measure of happiness out of life and to see that others got it, too. It had, moreover, been revealed to him that even butlers and taxi-drivers had immortal souls, so that his popularity was not confined to people in his own walk of life.
He greeted Jackson, as the latter prepared to help him on with his coat, with a cheerful grin.
“That was a better bottle of port than I usually get here, Jackson,” he said.
“Yes, Mr Hastings,” said the butler with a chuckle. “Sir John told me to get up a bottle of the ’96 as he said he thought you might be going to bring him some news that you and he might want to celebrate. He said that last Monday, too, but if you’ll remember, sir, you did not dine here, after all.”
Geoffrey Hastings appeared somewhat surprised by this piece of
“Well, anyhow, Jackson,” he said, “it did more credit to your cellar than some of the stuff you palm off on a poor secretary. Oh, by the way, Sir John told me to tell you that he was riding tomorrow; he wants to be called at seven—a God-forsaken hour—and I suppose it means soon after six for you.”
“No, sir; Sir John won’t let me get up early. James calls him. But I—I would willingly do that, and more than that, for Sir John, sir,” said the butler quietly.
“I know you would, Jackson. How long have you been with him?”
“Twenty-three years, sir. Ever since he started to be anything at all. He was a good friend to me, Mr Hastings. I had been in trouble through a woman I was in love with giving me the chuck. He took me with a pretty rotten character—said we’d both got to make something like a fresh start and we might as well do it together.”
Hastings laid his hand on the butler’s arm as he stood in the open doorway.
“I know, Jackson,” he said, “and you’ve only told me one side of the story. I’ve heard the other from Sir John. You’ve been a good friend, too. I only hope that I shall be as lucky when my time comes to start a household of my own. Anyway, early rising or not, it’s time all hard-working men like you and me were in bed. It must be after eleven.”
The butler looked at his watch.
“Five minutes past, exactly, sir.”
“Well, good night and good luck to you, Jackson.”
“Thank you, sir. Good night to you, sir.”
The butler’s eyes followed Geoffrey’s figure, as it moved down the steps and along the winding drive, with a look of genuine affection.
“That’s the right sort,” he muttered to himself as he closed the door. “Pity there aren’t a few more like him—there wouldn’t be all this Bolshevism if there was.”
And as Geoffrey Hastings disappeared through the drive gate into the street, a shadow gently detached itself from the bed of tall geraniums that bordered the drive and flitted into the blacker depths of the shrubs beyond.
Chapter 2 PC Raffles on the Spot
PC Raffles, of N Division, was pacing in leisurely fashion down Regent Avenue, St John’s Wood, at about seven o’clock on the morning of October 28th, his mind pleasantly filled with thoughts of the hot breakfast and comfortable bed that awaited him as soon as his relief appeared, when he became conscious of the fact that his name was echoing down the silent street. Turning round, he saw a strange figure waddling down the road towards him, emitting at intervals between each panting breath the cries which had attracted his attention.
“Mr Raffles! Mr Raffles!”
On nearer approach the figure proved to be none other than the dignified butler of St Margaret’s Lodge, but in a condition hardly recognizable to his acquaintances. Mr Jackson and Mr Raffles had more than once shared a pint of port in the Room already referred to, Mr Jackson being a diplomatist of the first water; but on those occasions the butler was clothed in the stately apparel of his office, to say nothing of the dignity thereof, his voice calm in the assurance of respectful audience, his face gently flushed by the generous wine. Now his appearance was very different. His face was white and haggard, with wild eyes seeming to start from his head on which the grey hair rose in a tumbled mass; his body, shrunk to a mockery of the handsome figure which he was accustomed to present to the admiring world, was enveloped in a flowing Japanese silk kimono, evidently a present from his master, beneath which appeared pink pyjamas, one leg of which, hanging round his ankle, attempted vainly to perform the function of a missing slipper.
“Mr Raffles . . . my master . . . Sir John . . . he’s dead.”
The butler leant against the neighbouring wall as he gasped out his message, but the stolid presence of the Law appeared to calm him, and he gradually recovered his breath and his equanimity.
“Dead, Mr Jackson? I’m sorry to hear that. Heart, is it; or has he had a stroke?”
“No, no. He’s been killed—murdered!”
The policeman at once began to take more than a polite interest in the butler’s news.
“Good Lord! Murdered? Where? In your house?”
“Yes; in the study. Someone broke into the house last night. But won’t you come and see?”
“Of course I will, Mr Jackson.” The Law got slowly under way. “Are you sure he’s dead?”
“Oh, yes. No doubt of that. Dead hours, I should think. But I told James to telephone to Dr Bryant. I was that flustered I didn’t like to speak on the ’phone myself. I saw you passing down the street from the study window, and I said to myself: ‘This is a police matter. I’ll get the police; James can get the doctor—he can’t do any good, but he’s got to be sent for.’”
“You did right, Mr Jackson. Is that chap going in at your gate?”
“Ah, that is Dr Bryant.”
The police constable at once broke into a run.
“He mustn’t touch that body without me present,” he jerked out.
His fear was groundless, as the doctor was only just being admitted to the house by the footman as he came panting up to the steps.
“Good morning, officer,” said Dr Bryant. “Are we the first on the scene?”
“Yes, sir, as far as I know. The butler was just fetching me when I saw you arrive. It was my duty to see that the body wasn’t moved, sir, so I put on a bit of extra speed.”
“That’s all right, officer; I know the routine in these cases. Now then, where’s the body?”
They turned to the butler, who was just entering the house. He led them to the door of the study on the right-hand side of the entrance hall, and turned the key.
“Hullo, door locked?” said the constable.
“Yes, sir; I locked it,” replied the butler, “to make sure no one came into the room while I was out fetching you. I didn’t touch the window or let anyone stand outside it—I thought it might upset possible clues.”
“Right again, Mr Jackson. Pity there aren’t more like you. But was the door locked when the body was found?”
“I think not, sir. But Alice, the head house-maid, will tell you about that; she found the body.”
“Right; then we’ll go in.”
The three men entered the room, in which the electric light was still burning, the butler closing the door after them and remaining by it. The other two at once walked across to the body, which was lying face downwards between the writing-table and one of the French windows. The doctor knelt down beside it, whilst the policeman established himself in a commanding position at its feet, from which he could see that mere Medicine should in no way interfere with the ordered course of the Law. But Dr Bryant, as he had said, knew the routine in these cases. A glance at the skin had been enough to confirm the fact of death, but as a matter of routine he touched the wrist and held a watch-glass to the small amount of mouth and nostril which was visible. After closely scrutinizing the back of the dead man’s head and gently feeling it with his sensitive fingers, the doctor rose to his feet and turned to the constable.
“Yes, dead several hours. Fractured base of skull, I should think. Of course, a proper examination must be made, but no doubt your divisional surgeon will wish to do that. Oh, by the way, Jackson, what about Miss Smethurst? Is she away?”
“No sir. I have not yet informed Miss Emily of the contretemps. As there was no doubt as to Sir John being dead, I thought it best not to bring her upon the scene until the police were in charge. (“Ain’t he a bloody little pearl?” PC Raffles murmured into his moustache.) I propose with your permission to ring up Mr Hastings, her fiancé and Sir John’s secretary, and ask him to break the sad news to her.”
The doctor, inwardly calling the butler a cold-blooded old fish, shrugged his shoulders.
“Very well, Jackson,” he said. “I dare say you’re right. Well, I must be off. Shall be at my surgery till eleven, officer. Jackson knows where it is; in the book, of course. Good morning.”
“Thank you, sir. I don’t doubt but what you’ll be wanted to give your opinion. Now I’ll shut this room up and get in touch with my headquarters at once. Perhaps I should have done so before, but I had to be in here with you, and I don’t like using the whistle unless there’s something like a scrap on. Good morning, sir.”
