Let's Choose Executors, page 15
“A benefit to humanity, in fact.” He found the Judge’s eye resting meditatively on him, and spared a moment to wonder why Appleton was holding his peace. “So you carried the test tube about in your pocket for several days before you brought it to your family’s notice.”
“Yes, I did.”
“And on Boxing Day, at teatime . . . why did you produce it then?”
“I don’t really know.” He was scowling again. “For a lark, I suppose.”
“And because all the family were there at that time, to be impressed . . . or frightened.”
“I didn’t think of it like that. It was nothing to be scared of, anyway.”
“You’d been handling the test tube, I suppose. It would have your fingerprints on it?”
“Of course.
“Did you explain to your family exactly what was in it?”
“I just said there was enough poison there to kill everyone in the house.” His attempt to sound offhand was not altogether successful.
“And you told them how it had been obtained.”
“It wouldn’t have been any good explaining. I told them it came from the common foxglove.”
“What did Mrs. Randall say to that?”
“Just . . . she was angry.”
“Yes, you have told us that before, and I don’t find it very surprising. Exactly what did she say to you?”
“That it wasn’t safe for me to have it.” And suddenly his resentment seemed to come to boiling point. “As if I’m not dealing with poisonous things every day of my life! But she never could see—”
“What did she say to you, Mr. Randall?”
“I don’t see . . . oh, very well! She said she never believed in children being allowed to play with dangerous toys.”
Maitland grinned at that, not sympathetically. “That was cutting you down to size, wasn’t it?” he observed. “Have you any other childish hobbies, Mr. Randall?”
“It was a serious experiment,” said the witness hotly.
“Child’s play . . . you said.”
“That was just a manner of speaking.”
“You’ve outgrown such childish pastimes as . . . throwing stones, for instance?” Mark was suddenly very still.
“I don’t know what you mean. “
“You were making invisible ink in your kindergarten, I must suppose. Visible ink which later disappears is an interesting variant, I admit.”
Mark eyed him sullenly for a moment, and then gave a crack of quite genuine laughter. “Try to prove it!” he said. Mr. Justice Halford was looking plaintive. Appleton bounced to his feet and said loudly, forgetting formality:
“What nonsense is this?” Maitland looked at the witness and said, smiling:
“It really isn’t worth while.” He looked up at the Judge, as though Halford had given voice to his discontent, and added: “I have no more questions, my lord.”
“Really, Mr. Maitland, I don’t understand this line of questioning at all.”
“Your lordship must forgive my somewhat fumbling approach. I have had—er—very little time to study my brief.”
“It seemed to me you had something definite in mind,” said the Judge querulously. Antony made no attempt to reply.
“Oh, very well, very well! Have you any more questions, Mr. Appleton?”
“Don’t know what you’re at,” said Vera Langhorne quietly as Maitland sat down again, “but it won’t make a good impression, treating the boy like that.”
Behind them Davenant, puzzled himself and increasingly uneasy, saw counsel turn to his junior, and heard the quick, angry stammer in his voice as he replied: “I d-don’t want to m-make a good impression. I just w-want to p-prove our client’s innocence. R-remember?”
The last witness that afternoon was Frederick Byron, and his evidence was obviously intended to be the climax of the prosecution’s case. Antony had to admit to himself that it was effective: opportunity had already been proved, and now the jury’s attention was to be turned to motive and perhaps this was, after all, the strongest link in the chain. But even as he thought this, it occurred to him that the most telling point in the case for the Crown had been made by implication only. Here was a girl with good reason to commit the crime, who visited the old lady in exceptional circumstances and mixed the drink in which the poison was administered; would it not be an incredible coincidence if someone else had chosen that very evening . . . ?
Byron was, as Tommy Davenant had admitted, a handsome man, and if he was fifty-five he didn’t look it. His fair hair was thick, and waved in an orderly way that immediately aroused Antony’s envy; he had regular features, a rather ruddy complexion, and vividly blue eyes. He was tallish, a little portly, but no more than lent him dignity. And he was immaculately turned out, down to the last detail. It would be an odd thing if Chedcombe didn’t count his appearance as being in his favour in the matrimonial stakes . . . that is, if they were right about his intentions toward Nell Randall.
There was nothing unexpected in the evidence, though much of it would be new to the jury. Mrs. Alice Randall was an old and valued client; she had come to his office on the morning of Friday, December 27th, without an appointment, arriving at about a quarter to eleven.
“Were you at all surprised to see her?” In spite of his occasional explosiveness, Appleton was a versatile chap; this was a smooth, man-to-man approach, and Byron responded with equal affability.
“No, not at all. I don’t think it ever occurred to her, you know, that I might have other commitments.” He spoke indulgently, with a half-smile for the vagaries of an old lady.
“Were you, in fact, engaged?”
“As it happened, no.”
“And what was her purpose in visiting you, Mr. Byron?”
“She wished to add a codicil to her will.”
“Please tell us exactly—”
The witness complied, going into some detail over the original dispositions and the change which was proposed; his natural verbosity encouraged, Maitland thought resentfully, by the questions with which Appleton was plying him. At last—,
“What was your own reaction to this, Mr. Byron?”
“I was very worried about it. I think I may say I was appalled. I ventured to remonstrate with her, I felt it to be my duty. But her mind was quite made up.”
“Did she give you any reason why Miss Gifford should be favoured in this way?”
“My lord,” suggested Maitland, waking up, “my friend might care to rephrase his question.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Appleton, it would be more satisfactory if you ask merely the reason for the change. Will that content you, Mr. Maitland?”
“If it contents your lordship.”
“She refused to give me any explanation at all,” said the witness, obviously indignant at the recollection. “I could only hope that she would think better of it in the interval between giving me her instructions and signing the codicil. But I could not persuade her to delay the matter beyond the following Monday—and then only, I am sure, because the weekend supervened.”
“Did you inform the accused of her good fortune?”
“Most certainly not!”
“Even though she worked in your office?”
“That made no difference to the position. I dictated the revision to my own clerk; I believe she came in on Saturday to type the fair copy.”
“The office is not open on Saturdays?”
“Not as a general rule.”
“And where was this codicil in the interval between typing and signature?”
“On my desk, the engrossment and draft together. I took the precaution of piling some other papers on top of them, in case Miss Gifford had occasion to come in.
“Did she, in fact, do so?””
“Not to my knowledge.”
“And when Mrs. Randall came in on Monday, she had not yet changed her mind.”
“There is no evidence, my lord,” said Counsel for the Defence, in a bored tone, “that the deceased lady ever had second thoughts in the matter.”
“Are you not being overcritical, Mr. Maitland?”
“The question, my lord, is capable of more than one interpretation. If my learned friend would care to be more explicit―”
“Had Mrs. Randall changed her mind when she came to your office on Monday the 30th December?” said Appleton, in a goaded tone. Maitland smiled at him disarmingly, and sat down again.
“No, she had not.”
“What had transpired on that occasion?”
“I read the codicil to her, and she signed it. My partner, Mr. Davenant, and my clerk, Miss Barber, witnessed her signature.”
“Did you again bring up this question of restoring the position?”
But the afternoon was drawing on; the Judge had already glanced several times at the electric clock that had been affixed, incongruously, to the wall of the court. “I think, perhaps, we should pursue these matters after a recess, Mr. Appleton,” he remarked apologetically. “The court will adjourn until Monday. . . ”
3
Antony waited for the crowds to disperse a little before he made any attempt to leave the hall. He was frowning to himself as he piled his papers together; if the case for the prosecution could have been completed that afternoon, he’d have been ready to waive cross-examining Frederick Byron, rather than recall his testimony to the jury on Monday morning. After all, there was nothing in his proof that could possibly help the defence; nothing that would answer his own urgent questions. Now, of course, Appleton would go over the whole thing again . . .
“Going to sit here all night?” inquired Vera Langhorne, beside him.
“Sorry. I was thinking.” Even Davenant had gone, he realised, and got up in a hurry and followed her out into the aisle. He hoped she wasn’t going to catechise him about his plans for the weekend, but she plodded along a little ahead of him in silence, making no attempt to speak.
The street lamps had been lit long since; they didn’t afford any very dazzling illumination. Several groups of people still stood about on the pavement, and Frederick Byron and his partner were going down the steps ahead of them, slowly, and in earnest consultation. Antony didn’t notice the girl until he heard his name spoken, and turned to see her move out from the shadow of one of the pillars. “You’ll be Fran Gifford’s London lawyer?” she said; and answered her own question before he could speak. “Well, I know you are. I saw you inside.”
He could see now that she was very young, not much older than Marian Randall, but of a very different type. A little thing, with a fair, rather fluffy prettiness; but then he saw her eyes, china blue, and fixed on him with a hard, almost calculating look. He said, “Can I do something for you?” and thought with impatience that the words meant nothing at all. But they couldn’t stand here staring at each other, and she seemed to be waiting for him to speak.
Beside him, Vera Langhorne said brusquely: “Now then, Nancy. You can’t be up to your tricks here.”
“That’s all you know about it,” said the girl. “I’ve got business with him . . . see?”
“What can I do for you?” asked Maitland again.
“You can get Fran Gifford out of this. You can do that, can’t you? That’s what you’re here for.”
“I think perhaps . . . do you know this lady?” he asked, turning his head to look at Vera Langhorne.
“She’s well known in Chedcombe,” said Vera grimly. “And if her business is what I think it is—”
“Well, it’s not, then. I told him—”
“You’re a friend of Miss Gifford’s, perhaps?”
She laughed at that, an uncomfortably mirthless sound. “I just want to know you’ll get her off,” she said again.
“Well . . . why?”
“Hasn’t she told you?”
“I still don’t know your name, “ said Antony irritably.
“Selkirk.” She was very close to him now, looking up at him intently. “None the wiser, are you? Well, ask Fran Gifford . . . ask her!”
“What am I to ask her?”
“About the money. And then you can come and tell me, can’t you? Anyone’ll tell you where I live.”
“If you would explain exactly—”
“I might be able to help you, at that.” The thought seemed to be new to her. “But you find out first,” she said, “and then I’ll think about it.” She ran down the steps without waiting for his reply; paused to look up at him, so that he saw her face for an instant, a white blur in the darkness, then she was out of sight and her light footsteps were dying away in the distance.
“What on earth was all that about?” he asked.
“Up to no good,” said Vera Langhorne gruffly.
“But she said—”
“Wanted to get your interest. Out for anything new.”
“Oh,” said Antony, rather blankly. And then: “She’s very young.”
“Bad reputation, said Vera, warming to her theme. “Take my advice, don’t get mixed up with her.”
“I’ve no intention—” But the absurdity of the situation struck him suddenly, and he began to laugh. “Why is her reputation bad?” he asked.
She began to move down the steps again. “Never was good,” she said at last. “Had a baby last year, should have been still in school. Defiant attitude, made it worse.”
“She isn’t married, then? The father—?”
“Could have been one of several. She wouldn’t say.”
“What did Chedcombe make of the problem?” His tone was sarcastic; he didn’t care, just then, if he offended her.
“They didn’t like it,” said Vera, missing the point. “Mother’s a fool; girl’s been running wild ever since.”
“Well, what did she have to do with Fran Gifford?”
“Nothing. That’s why I told you—” She obviously had no patience with his obtuseness.
“If you think she was making a pass at me,” said Antony bluntly, “she wasn’t!”
She stopped in her tracks, and stood eyeing him, obviously trying to assess his capability to speak as an expert witness. “I suppose you’d know,” she said doubtfully.
“I think I should,” he told her gravely.
“Now you’re laughing at me,” she said, without resentment, and was silent for a moment. When she spoke it was to change the subject. “Why did you bully young Mark?”
“Did I bully him?”
“You know very well—”
“It would give me a good deal of pleasure to wring his neck,” said Antony, “but I didn’t think Halford would altogether approve. Contempt of court, or something,” he added vaguely.
Vera gave one of her rare laughs. “Do you really suppose it was Mark who broke your window?”
“Yes, of course. And sent me a damn silly anonymous letter besides.”
“Did you take it to the police?”
“There wasn’t much point. The writing had disappeared this morning.
“Oh, I see,” she said doubtfully. “But I don’t see why—”
“Neither do I. I wish I did.”
“Was it wise to let him see that you knew?”
“The idea,” he told her patiently, “was to discourage him from any further action.” Again she thought for a moment before replying.
“Should have done that, all right,” she agreed.
4
But, setting out on foot for the Judge’s Lodgings that evening, Maitland became aware of uneasiness. When he turned from Market Square into Abbot’s Walk there seemed to be an echo to his footsteps. He was so convinced of this that he drew back once into the shadow of a doorway, and waited; but the steps behind came on firmly and passed him, and a moment later, when he saw the man under a lamp, he was sure it was a stranger.
What was worrying him, anyway? He had done his best to anger Mark Randall, and partly that had been because he felt he had a score to pay. There had been a note of genuine amusement in the boy’s laughter, but he had laughed because he was nervous. So it was of all things the most unlikely that Mark would be in Chedcombe that evening; besides which he’d decided—hadn’t he?—that no one was following him at all.
Abbot’s Walk was hardly more than a passage, really, leading into the Close, where the Judge’s Lodgings held an honourable place. Everyone had told him he must see the Cathedral, but he hadn’t really meant to do so by moonlight; the sky was cloudless and it was much colder, and the moon—in its second quarter—gave a fair illumination here, as it had done in the square. He walked on, past the welcoming lantern outside the Judge’s door, and after a while was able to gaze up at the dark mass of the Cathedral, silhouetted against the sky.
So now he could say he had seen it, and Halford, he imagined, would frown on a tardy arrival. He turned and walked back past the old, elegant houses, and thought that as the Close looked tonight it had looked three hundred years ago, with the moon shining down through bare branches; and suddenly he was aware again, more strongly than before, of the feeling that something was wrong. He had no idea why he felt this, if there had been a movement in the shadows ahead he had not observed it consciously, but this time he wasn’t in any doubt at all.
He did not slacken his pace or give any other sign of what was in his mind. The pavement was dry tonight, and in the cold air his steps rang clearly. And then he became aware of the other footsteps, no echo now, a slower, more ponderous tread; a moment later his learned friend, Mr. Appleton, marched out into the moonlight, bound—of course!—for the same destination as himself.
There was a square of grass in front of the lodgings, with a neat, narrow path leading across it to the door. If he wasn’t wrong, if he wasn’t letting his own imagination scare him, the only place for an ambush was in the shrubbery beyond.
