Death Has Deep Roots
Death Has Deep Roots
First published in 1951
© Estate of Michael Gilbert; House of Stratus 1951-2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The right of Michael Gilbert to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
This edition published in 2012 by House of Stratus, an imprint of
Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,
Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.
Typeset by House of Stratus.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.
| | EAN | | ISBN | | Edition | |
| | 0755105206 | | 9780755105205 | | Print | |
| | 0755131827 | | 9780755131822 | | Kindle | |
| | 075513219X | | 9780755132195 | | Epub | |
This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.
Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.
Born in Lincolnshire, England, Michael Francis Gilbert graduated in law from the University of London in 1937, shortly after which he first spent some time teaching at a prep-school which was followed by six years serving with the Royal Horse Artillery. During World War II he was captured following service in North Africa and Italy, and his prisoner-of-war experiences later leading to the writing of the acclaimed novel
‘Death in Captivity’
in 1952.
After the war, Gilbert worked as a solicitor in London, but his writing continued throughout his legal career and in addition to novels he wrote stage plays and scripts for radio and television. He is, however, best remembered for his novels, which have been described as witty and meticulously-plotted espionage and police procedural thrillers, but which exemplify realism.
HRF Keating stated that
‘Smallbone Deceased’
was amongst the 100 best crime and mystery books ever published.
“The plot,”
wrote Keating, “
is in every way as good as those of Agatha Christie at her best: as neatly dovetailed, as inherently complex yet retaining a decent credibility, and as full of cunningly-suggested red herrings.”
It featured Chief Inspector Hazlerigg, who went on to appear in later novels and short stories, and another series was built around Patrick Petrella, a London based police constable (later promoted) who was fluent in four languages and had a love for both poetry and fine wine. Other memorable characters around which Gilbert built stories included Calder and Behrens. They are elderly but quite amiable agents, who are nonetheless ruthless and prepared to take on tasks too much at the dirty end of the business for their younger colleagues. They are brought out of retirement periodically upon receiving a bank statement containing a code.
Much of Michael Gilbert’s writing was done on the train as he travelled from home to his office in London:
“I always take a latish train to work,” he explained in 1980, “and, of course, I go first class. I have no trouble in writing because I prepare a thorough synopsis beforehand.”.
After retirement from the law, however, he nevertheless continued and also reviewed for
‘The Daily Telegraph’
, as well as editing
‘The Oxford Book of Legal Anecdotes’
.
Gilbert was appointed CBE in 1980. Generally regarded as ‘one of the elder statesmen of the British crime writing fraternity, he was a founder-member of the British Crime Writers’ Association and in 1988 he was named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, before receiving the Lifetime ‘Anthony’ Achievement award at the 1990 Boucheron in London.
Michael Gilbert died in 2006, aged ninety three, and was survived by his wife and their two sons and five daughters.
By nine o’clock the queue was long enough to engage the attention of two policemen. At ten it contained enough people to fill the Central Criminal Court three times over. Two more policemen arrived and latecomers, who had now no choice of a seat, were directed to the front of the building where they might have the pleasure of watching the legal celebrities as they arrived.
“There’s something about a woman, I mean – a murderess,” said Baby Masterton to Avis – they were standing about tenth in the queue. “You know what I mean. Just to see her standing all alone in the dock.”
“I know what you mean,” said Avis.
“It’s such a long time since we’ve had a real woman – not awful old bags like Mrs. Wilbraham or that Carter creature who chopped up her grandson – but a girl. French too.”
“I didn’t think she was particularly pretty, dear.”
“Not pretty, no. But smart. French girls know about clothes.”
“Yes.”
“Then, you know, if she did do it – I mean, pretty cold-blooded. Even if they don’t hang her they’ll sentence her to death. There’s something about a girl being sentenced to death. You know what I mean.”
“Yes,” said Avis truthfully. “I know exactly what you mean.”
Mr. Ruby, who was twentieth in the queue – he had attended so many of these functions that he was able to gauge to a nicety the moment of his arrival and had even managed to get a proper breakfast, which was more than most of the queue had done – turned to the untidy young man next to him and said, “Your first murder trial, I expect.”
“Well, yes,” said the young man. “As a matter of fact, it is. I don’t get much opportunity for this sort of thing you know – live in Doncaster. But being up in London for a few days – I say, though, how did you know—?”
“Your camera,” said Mr. Ruby with a dry smile. “If you try to take that inside the court you’ll find yourself in the dock, not the public gallery.”
“My goodness,” said the young man, hurriedly slipping the camera strap off his shoulder. “How very lucky I happened to speak to you – what had I better do with it?”
“I should put it in your pocket, or hand it to the attendant at the door. He’ll look after it for you.”
“Well, thank you,” said the young man. “It’s really very kind of you.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Mr. Ruby. “I go to a lot of these criminal trials. In fact, I should describe myself as rather a student of the forensic science. Now this one should be particularly interesting. There’s no doubt, I think, that the girl’s guilty – but with Claudian Summers prosecuting and Poynter for the defence – they’re both Silks, of course – I think we shall see some great cut and thrust.”
“Yes, yes, I suppose we shall,” agreed the young man. Indeed his eyes were already alight, as one who waits to hear a
geste
or a tale of ancient chivalry. “Both K.C.’s you say?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Ruby. “You’d hardly expect anything less than a leader in a capital case. But Poynter’s a magician with a jury. If the prisoner
is
guilty – and I say, from reading the proceedings at the police court I can hardly see how she can be anything else – then she couldn’t have a better counsel than Poynter. I’ve seen every man and woman in the jury in tears – all twelve of ’em – before he’d finished with them.”
“Well, I never.”
“And with Claudian Summers for the Crown, she’s going to need all the defending she can get—oh, here comes a photographer.” Mr. Ruby straightened his bow tie and smoothed his thinning hair.
The press, having time on their hands before the arrival of the principals, had turned their attention to the queue and were getting some human stuff for the center pages. The man and woman at the head of the queue had already revealed, for the benefit of the five and a half million registered readers of the
Daily Telephone,
that their names were Edna and Egbert Engleheart, that they came from East Finchley and that they had already been waiting five hours and forty-five minutes, when, on a signal that the judge was arriving, the pressmen vanished as suddenly as they had come.
“They’re opening the door,” said Mr. Ruby. “Come on, we shall get a good seat.”
This was optimistic if taken as describing the seat itself which was as hard as teak and as narrow as a legal distinction; but they certainly had a good view of the court. The box-shaped room, looking oddly fore-shortened as seen from above; the benches at the back for the legal hangers-on (“My God,” said Baby. “Young Fanshawe pretending to be a law student or something.” “If anyone takes him for a lawyer,” said Avis, “they’ll mistake me for the Queen of Sheba.” “Well, I wouldn’t go as far as that,” said Baby)—in the middle the dock, enormous and, as yet, empty. Then the cross-benches, steadily filling with wigged and gowned counsel and dark-coated solicitors.
“Lord bless me,” said Mr. Ruby, suddenly leaning forward and gripping his companion by the arm, “what’s happening?”
The young man was pardonably startled. It crossed his mind that someone might be attempting a last-minute rescue of the prisoner. Mr. Ruby, after several shots, got his pince-nez from their case and focused them on the foremost cross-bench.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes. It is! I thought I couldn’t be mistaken.”
“What is it? What’s happening?”
“It’s Macrea.”
“My God, so it is,” said a middle-aged man on the right. “There’s no mistaking him, is there? I thought Summers was leading for the Crown.”
“He is – he is,” said Mr. Ruby impatiently. “He’s just come in – that’s him talking to the usher—” He indicated a thin, slight figure, standing by the door. “Macrea must have been brought in for the defence – or else – where’s Poynter? He can’t have refused the case at the last moment.”
In the midst of this speculation the prisoner suddenly appeared in the dock. One moment it was empty, the next moment she was sitting there, with the wardresses on chairs behind her.
“I see what you mean,” said Baby to Avis. “But you must admit she’s got a certain sort of chic. Does she speak English?”
“Oh yes, quite well. They had an interpreter at the police court but they didn’t have to use him. She’s got a funny sort of accent.”
“I expect it’s a French accent.”
At this point the clerk to the court got up from his desk in front of the judge’s rostrum and was observed to go across and have a confabulation with Mr. Summers; who took off his wig, scratched his fine grey hair with a long forefinger, and then replaced his wig slightly askew.