Let's Choose Executors, page 24
7
With the Assize so nearly over there had been few members of the Bar Mess who stayed in Chedcombe after Thursday night, and the weekend had disbanded them completely. On the whole, this was a good thing, Antony thought. He dined in his room, had a long talk with Jenny, and a shorter one with Mark Randall, who told him gloomily: “They were so polite, I’m sure they didn’t believe me.” He then added: “I asked Nell about that account, but she said she couldn’t remember it at all.” That sent Antony to the ’phone book after he had rung off, but though he found a listing Beckhoff & Manning, with a Northdean address, there was no information concerning their activities. Nell might have forgotten the incident because she wanted to, or—more likely—because it was unimportant. It was just one other thing the defence should look into before the new trial, no concern of his any longer. After that he went to sleep rather early over a historical novel which he had bought on the strength of excellent reviews, but which proved on closer acquaintance to be of the “by my halidom” variety.
He was dreaming, uneasily, of spiders when he was aroused by the clamour of a fire bell and staggered across to the window, still only half awake, in time to see the engine disappearing into North Street. It was a while before it occurred to him that there were rather a lot of people about, some of them even running in the same direction. And then he realised that there was another sound to be heard, a roaring sound like the sea rushing into a narrow inlet; and that was a stupid thought, because Chedcombe must be at least forty miles from the coast.
A fire engine . . . people . . . the sound of many voices . . . He gave it up and went back to pick up his watch from the bedside table. It was still only eleven-fifteen. One thing was certain, he wouldn’t get to sleep again in a hurry. He eyed the novel with disfavour, but at least it was better to be irritated by that than driven half frantic by his thoughts. And then the ’phone rang, and he picked it up and heard a thick, muffled voice that said urgently: “Miss Langhorne’s house. She asked me to tell you—”
“What?” he asked. “What?” But the line was already dead.
He could ring back, of course, but he was seized with an illogical conviction that it would be a waste of time. He didn’t take long dressing; slacks and pullover over his pyjamas, and the pair of socks and walking shoes that he had thrust untidily under a chair. The main door of the hotel was open and the night clerk standing there looking in the direction the fire engine had taken. Maitland didn’t stay to question him, but made off across the square.
The bell had stopped, presumably the firemen had reached their destination; but the roar of voices was very loud now, and quite unmistakable. Later he thought it strange that he had found no difficulty in crediting what had happened, for who would expect mob violence in a sleepy little town that prided itself on making its visitors welcome? Now he felt only that he should have anticipated this . . . “you and that woman” they’d said in the pub; and “there’ll be trouble, I’m warning you,” Sid had told him in his shrill voice. The police would be alert in the Market Square, where the previous incidents had taken place; so what better target than Vera Langhorne’s cottage, in a quiet side street, with no one to interfere until the damage was done? She was one of their own, but she had called in an interloper and taken sides with him against the town.
Even in North Street people were milling and shouting; he began to push his way through, unremarkable where roughness was expected. Once a hand clutched his arm, a white face came close to his own, mouthing a question; even if he could have heard, but that was impossible in the uproar he shook the man off and went on. He was conscious now of the acrid tang of burning, though nothing was yet to be seen of the blaze . . .
By the time he turned into the Causeway it was almost impossible to move at all, the narrow road was jammed with people. The flames were clearly visible now, though he couldn’t see from which house they came. There must be some police about, to have made a way for the fire engine so quickly, but now the mob had closed in again. He used shoulder and elbow ruthlessly, but still it was slow going. The hoses weren’t in play yet; he could hear the crackle of the fire, loud above the hostile voices.
And then he was near enough to see over the heads of the crowd. Firemen were working frantically to get the hoses coupled, but they were hampered in the confined space. It was Miss Langhorne’s house all right, and No. 7 was burning too: a man and a girl stood looking up at it, and then at a word from a uniformed constable they turned away slowly and merged into the crowd; the policeman moved on to speak to Vera Langhorne, who wore her sack-like costume and looked no more dishevelled than usual, with her mammoth handbag clasped in her arms as though it was an animal that might escape again and run back into the burning building. As she in turn moved aside the crowd swayed forward, he could see that they were shouting; and it was like a nightmare, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t get any nearer. It never occurred to him that the constable was a better guarantee of her safety than he himself could be.
And then he found that he was moving again; not straight forward now, but toward the side of the street, toward the row of houses. Someone grabbed his right shoulder, but he hardly noticed the pain which in the ordinary way would have sickened him. He reached the narrow pavement and began to edge his way along. Past No. 3, there was an archway here, a narrow passage leading between the houses, the one place where the crowd, so far, had not congregated. As he passed the mouth of the arch he heard, and disregarded, a movement in the shadows; when the blow caught him he was completely unsuspecting, and went down into unconsciousness with only the briefest awareness of surprise and pain.
MONDAY, 3rd FEBRUARY
A voice said clearly in the darkness: “It’s all a mistake really; I assure you, it’s all a mistake.” He wished the chap would shut up, for one thing there didn’t seem to be any sense in what he was saying. For another, his head was aching intolerably, he needed a little peace . . . and quiet.
He pulled himself up on the verge of saying for the third time that there had been a mistake; and as he did so he remembered the noisy street, the crackle of the flames, the inhuman roar of the crowd. But here it was quiet, now that his own voice had stopped. Blissfully quiet. He opened his eyes and saw, rather mistily, Vera Langhorne’s face hovering anxiously above him. “Now I know I’m in heaven,” he said, and grinned at her.
Vera took this in her own way. “Feeling better,” she assured him gruffly; but when he tried to sit up she pushed him back again. “Doctor left some muck for you,” she said, and disappeared for a moment out of his line of vision. He recognised now the smaller of the two lounges at the George, but he hadn’t the faintest idea how he had got there.
She saw his puzzled look as she came back to the sofa where he was lying. “Thought you wouldn’t want a fuss,” she told him. “Manager frantic, threw him out. And the others. Better drink this.”
Antony obeyed her, there didn’t seem to be anything else to do. Her hand behind his head was surprisingly gentle, but there was a look in her eye that reminded him irresistibly of a sergeant major he had once known and loved. The draught had obviously been concocted by someone who believed that nothing pleasant could be good for you. It had no noticeable effect on his headache, but when he had mastered his initial impulse to vomit he found his mind was clearer. “What happened?” he asked.
Miss Langhorne pulled up a chair and sat down with her hands on her knees. “Think someone hit you,” she said.
“I know that.” Antony’s hand went up to his head, and his eyes met hers rather anxiously as he felt the heavy bandage.
“Manager—fool of a man—wanted to send you to hospital. Doctor said no need,” she reassured him. “Unless you think you’d be more comfortable. Bound to be bruised.”
“Now you mention it,” said Antony, “I am. But I meant, what happened to you?”
“Nothing to worry about.”
“No, damn it all—” He sat up . . . an incautious move. When the room stopped spinning about him he looked at her reproachfully. “You’d better tell me,” he said.
“Started with a gang of youths in the square, the constable tells me. There was an extra patrol on duty—all this painting business—and when they told the boys to move on they started kicking up a row. It was just after the pubs closed, so the noise attracted others, you see. They got to my place a little before eleven.” It was the longest speech he had ever heard her make. Antony said in a worried way:
“I thought it was outside interference they disliked. I thought you’d be safe enough.”
“Well, so I am.”
“Yes, but the house—”
“Can’t be helped. Sorrier for the youngsters next door, really, newly married, still care about things. My age, past all that,” said Vera, at her most abrupt.
“How did it happen?”
“Stones through the windows, first. Finally, sort of a—a torch. Furniture old stuff, highly inflammable.” She glanced at him sharply. “No loss,” she said, daring him to sympathise.
He looked at her helplessly. “Can they stop it spreading?”
“Pretty well contained when I left. Police came quickly, got the fire engine through, held the crowd back as well as they could.”
“Well, that’s something to be thankful for.” He wasn’t thinking as he spoke of her unknown neighbours, whose possessions were now presumably safe, but of the surge and sway of the crowd as he had seen it just before he was hit, the impression of uncontrolled menace. Perhaps Vera understood this, for she said more gruffly than ever:
“They kept me safe enough.” And then, as he opened his mouth to reply: “Sorry you were hurt.”
The hint that a change of subject would be welcome was broad enough to have convinced the most insensitive of men. Antony shifted his position a little and said obligingly: “A herd of elephants stampeding couldn’t have done a better job.”
“Lucky for you someone recognised you and raised a shout; took the crowd’s attention. Police forced their way through just as they’d started to use their feet.”
“Er—did you say lucky?”
“Might have been trampled to death, if no one had known you were there.”
“I’m not at all sure yet that I haven’t been,” said Antony; and was glad to see that this time she returned his smile, though rather austerely.
“Nothing I could do there,” she said. “More of a nuisance really. Got them to bring us both here. Chap in the crowd said you’d been hit by falling masonry; all nonsense, there wasn’t any where you were.
“Did you ask someone to ’phone me?” She stared at him, and shook her head. “I thought not, but that’s how I got on the scene.”
“Someone taking advantage of the disturbance?”
“That’s right. Well, it doesn’t matter, after all. The police can sort it out, and tomorrow”—he paused—“tomorrow I throw in my hand.”
She ignored the bitterness in his voice. “Well enough to go into court?”
“If Halford will hear me without my wig.” He got up stiffly as he spoke; the pain in his head had subsided into a dull throbbing, but the dizziness had passed. As a consequence, of course, he was now more painfully conscious of his shoulder. “Have they fixed you up with a room?” he asked.
“Yes, all arranged.” She went over to the table and tucked her handbag under her arm. “Get what I need tomorrow,” she told him; and opened the door and stood waiting until he got himself across the room to join her.
2
It took him all his time to get to the Shire Hall the following morning to see Fran Gifford before the court convened. There had been the police to see, and the doctor, and in the end he left both with ruffled feelings. But it wasn’t surprising that he hadn’t much time for their troubles, he was too preoccupied with his own, so that he was barely conscious of the difficulties of dressing, the ache in his arm and shoulder, the soreness of his head. Going out into the Market Square he noticed vaguely that there were more people than usual about, but he wasn’t surprised that his appearance occasioned a few sidelong looks and didn’t connect either with the reopening of the trial until he saw the crowd of would-be spectators milling around the side entrance where the public were admitted. It occurred to him then that there were also an unusual number of uniformed police in sight.
Miss Langhorne had reached the Shire Hall before him, and had already given Tommy Davenant an account of the night’s events. Probably a sketchy one, thought Maitland as he came up to them and noted the rather dazed look in the solicitor’s eye; but at least it meant that they could go to the interview room with the minimum of delay. Vera was ready for court; it was lucky she’d left her things in the robing room over the weekend. Antony had his gown over his arm, and Davenant insisted on helping him into it . . . an attention for which he should have been grateful, and wasn’t.
The room was as cold and unfriendly as it had been on Thursday evening, and Fran came in with her usual composure, but it didn’t take a second look to detect a new urgency in her manner. She greeted each one of them punctiliously before she turned to Davenant and demanded: “What’s happened to Hugo?”
Tommy said weakly, “Oh, you’ve heard about that, have you?” and looked beseechingly from one of his colleagues to the other. Obviously he did not relish the task of explanation. Maitland said:
“He’s under arrest for the murder of Nancy Selkirk,” and then stepped forward and grabbed her arm and thrust her into the nearest chair. He said disjointedly: “I’m sorry, but if you’ve heard rumours . . . it’s best to know.” She looked up at him blankly, and in silence, and after moment he added roughly: “Don’t look like that. He didn’t do it.”
Davenant was making some sort of protest, but he hadn’t attention for anything but the girl. The brown eyes were becoming aware again. She said, not much above a whisper: “Is that true?””
“It’s what I believe.”
“But . . . but―”
“Don’t say anything now. Just listen. I’ve two things to tell you. The first is that I shall be making application this morning for a retrial . . . somewhere else, away from local prejudice. There are advantages and disadvantages to this, but Mr. Davenant will explain to you that we’ve thought it over very carefully. The second thing is that I may not be able to act for you when the case is reheard . . . he’ll explain about that, too. So I want to tell you, don’t try to hide anything; Hugo has told me why he quarrelled with his grandmother, and that you told him about the new codicil the day before she was murdered. It may not help to tell the truth, but it will confuse matters terribly if you don’t.”
For a moment he wondered if she had heard him, then she said: “She was so bitter, so terribly bitter. I’m sorry I lied to you, but I couldn’t have told you that. And I knew you’d think that Hugo . . . but now, with Nancy dead—”
“If you ever had any faith in him, Fran, hold on to it now.”
“I’ll do that, if you say I should. About . . . about the murders—”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“No, but . . . do you think they don’t matter, all the other things that have happened?” She paused, and then said carefully: “I might not mind, but it means, you see, that he doesn’t care at all.” She looked up and met Maitland’s eye, and thought for an instant that he looked as if he hated her.
“If it helps at all,” he said angrily, “you’re wrong about that.”
Fran shook her head disbelievingly. “She said he took after his father,” she went on, in the same quiet voice. “And she said Nancy was pregnant again. She told me to see she was looked after; a matter of—of elementary justice, she said; and Ravenscroft was to be sold, she didn’t want any Randalls there, when she’d gone.”
“When did you see the draft codicil?”
“On the Monday morning, I was looking for the lease of the Vaughan property, it had to be engrossed.” She glanced uncertainly at Davenant as she spoke, and he nodded reassuringly. Maitland said, with his intent look:
“Was there nothing in writing, no confirmation of the verbal instructions she gave you?”
“Nothing at all. Would it have helped?”
“Any confirmation—” Antony was vague again. “Well, I expect Miss Langhorne and Mr. Davenant will be talking to you after the court adjourns, but―”
“You meant what you said? You won’t help me any more.” She was staring down at her hands now, avoiding his eye, but when he did not reply at once she looked up at him and said in a surprised tone, “You’ve hurt your head,” as though she had only just noticed the bandage.
“It’s nothing. You’ll be in very good hands, you know; you can rely on Miss Langhorne.”
“Oh yes, I know that.” He heard Vera clearing her throat in the background, a subtly admonitory sound. “It’s just that I was hoping . . . I mean, you say I should trust Hugo, but do you trust him? And I’ve told you the truth now, really I have.”
But they were interrupted there, to Maitland’s relief. It was almost time for the prisoner to go into court. He thought he saw panic in her eyes as she gave him her hand for an instant and thanked him in her careful way; and when she had gone he stood staring after her for so long that Davenant, coming up behind him, asked urgently: “Are you feeling all right?”
“Perfectly.”
“We ought to be getting into court ourselves.”
“I’ll be along in a minute. I want to look at my notes.” After they had gone he pulled a handful of envelopes from his pocket and stared at them in a vague way, perhaps as some justification for the brief delay. The words he must use were written down there, but he knew them reluctantly by heart.
