Death Has Deep Roots (21 page)

“No, I don’t think it would.”

“You have been engaged in a number of murder cases?”

“Yes. Quite a few.”

“Can you recall any other case in which you have charged the alleged murderer within ninety minutes of your arrival on the scene of the crime?”

“No, I don’t think I can.”

“And that in spite of the fact that there was no case here of a confession or of any very obvious guilt? There were a number of conflicting stories and from them you arrived at so definite a conclusion that you immediately charged the murderer?”

“If I was reasonably certain of her guilt, it was my duty to charge her at once.”

“Why?”

“For many reasons. Among others, so that she should not have to time to destroy evidence.”

“I see. Yes.” This answer seemed to cause Macrea some satisfaction.

“If I may revert to my former question. What was there in the evidence – I don’t mean such evidence as may have come to light now, but the evidence which you gathered in the first two hours – to make you certain of the accused’s guilt? Or was it just an inspired guess?”

“Certainly not. I had the evidence of the weapon. I had evidence that the prisoner had been found standing over the body, which had just that moment been heard falling to the floor.”

“You had Mrs. Roper’s evidence on that?”

“Yes.”

“Which, at that time, you had no reason to disbelieve?”

“I’m not saying I disbelieve it now. The attacks made on her character in cross-examination—”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said—”

“Do I understand that you were in court when Mrs. Roper gave her evidence?”

“I—no.”

“Then why do you refer to ‘the attacks made on her in cross-examination’?”

“I have been told about them.”

“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow that,” said Mr. Justice Arbuthnot. “Do you mean that you were allowed to read a copy of the earlier proceedings?”

“No, sir. It was talked about in my presence. And there were reports in the papers.”

“Yes. I suppose that is inevitable. You realise that it is your duty to give your own evidence, and not be influenced by what other witnesses may or may not have said.”

“I shall endeavour to do so.”

“Now, Inspector,” said Macrea, “perhaps you will deal with my question. You have said that you had the weapon and the evidence of Mrs. Roper. Was there anything else?”

“Certainly. There was the means and opportunity. There was also the motive.”

“I see. You had already considered the question of motive.”

“Yes.”

Mr. Macrea fixed his monocle into his eye, leaned forward slightly, and said,
“At that time,
Inspector, what evidence had you about motive?”

The witness took a minute to think this one out. Then he said, “I had the evidence of Mr. Sainte. He told me that the prisoner had been trying to get hold of Major Thoseby for some time, and that he had come to the hotel to see her.”

“And, in your opinion, a desire to see someone is a motive for murdering them?”

“No. But I gathered that there was something between them.”

“Will you be more explicit?”

“I gathered that the prisoner had given birth to an illegitimate child and that the father was alleged to be Major Thoseby.”

“Mr. Sainte told you this?”

“Yes.”

“Very considerate of him. No doubt you immediately asked the prisoner for information?”

“I put it to her, yes.”

“What did she say?”

“She denied it.”

“I see. Then you had two versions of it. A first – hand denial by the party concerned and a rather grubby third – hand allegation by Mr. Sainte, who never even knew the prisoner in France. What made you prefer his story to hers?”

“He had no motive for misrepresenting the truth. She had.”

“I see. I take it you agree that as an officer of police it was your duty to discover the truth. Not to take sides?”

“Certainly.”

“And not to act as a special prosecutor.”

“I have never done so.”

“Very well. May I refer to you – possibly this is part of the evidence you have
not
read in the newspapers – something that was said by Sergeant Cleeve.” Macrea read the latter part of Sergeant Cleeve’s evidence. “Have you any comment on that?”

“No.”

“You were aware that no fingerprint had been discovered on the bell-push?”

“Yes.”

“Although the bell was in working order and the room had been in frequent use. Sergeant Cleeve spoke of finding the fingerprints of the last
three
occupants in various places in the room.”

“So I understand.”

“Did not the absence of any print from the bell-push strike you as significant?”

“If anything I thought that it told against the prisoner. It disproved her story that Major Thoseby had rung the bell for her.”

“In that case, Inspector, would you not have expected to have found
some
fingerprint on the bell? Anyone pressing a bell-push is bound to leave a fingerprint – prints last, I understand, for weeks, even months.”

“Possibly the bell-push had been dusted.”

“Possibly. I can’t help thinking that it was a very remarkable hotel if it was so. But don’t you think that the defence should have been given the facts?”

“I do not agree that there was any fact to give them.”

“I see. It wouldn’t be true to suggest that you were suppressing any facts that told against your case?”

“I resent that.”

“Then if a fact told plainly in favour of the prisoner it would be your duty to produce it?”

“If it told plainly in her favour.”

“Even though it weakened the case being put forward by the police?”

“Yes.”

“I am glad to have your assurance on the point. Now might I refer once again to the extract which I have put to you from Sergeant Cleeve’s evidence. Am I wrong, Inspector, in detecting a certain change of theory in the police case?”

“I’m afraid I have no idea what you mean.”

“I will try to explain then. At the outset of Sergeant Cleeve’s examination by my learned friend the theory which he expounded – I do not suggest that it was his own idea – I take it that it represented the Gospel according to Scotland Yard – was that the presence of Miss Lamartine’s fingerprints on the handle of the knife showed that she used the knife to commit this crime. Not to chop onions, Inspector. To murder Major Thoseby.”

“Yes.”

“However, when, under cross-examination by myself, it seemed that the position of the fingerprints might rule them out for this purpose – then Sergeant Cleeve reverted – or perhaps I should say moved on – to a second suggestion. That if the murderer had been wearing gloves it would account both for the absence of what I might call ‘lethal’ fingerprints – and the blurring over of the existing ‘kitchen’ fingerprints.”

“That is so.”

“Well, you can’t have it both ways. Which is
your
theory, Inspector?”

“Taking everything into account, I think it is very possible that the murderer wore gloves.”

“I see. Well, I am glad to get that settled.” Macrea glanced at his notes. “Now, Inspector, in examination you indicated – correct me if I am wrong – that Monsieur Sainte, as soon as he had seen the body, had all the people concerned collected in one room?”

“In Mrs. Roper’s room.”

“And you interviewed them in there?”

“No. I saw them one at a time in the empty bedroom – the one on the other side of the passage.”

“And it was there, after interrogating her, that you cautioned the prisoner and took her with you to the police station?”

“Yes.”

“It would be part of your duty, I take it, to have the room where Major Thoseby’s body was found thoroughly searched?”

“Certainly.”

“And Mrs. Ropers room?”

“Yes.”

“And no doubt the prisoner herself was searched when she arrived at the police station?”

“Yes.”

“And the results of that search were reported to you.”

“Yes.”

“Then you will be able to set our minds at rest at once. Did you find the gloves?”

“I—I beg your pardon.”

“I asked if you found the gloves.”

“No. As a matter of fact, I didn’t.”

“There were no gloves?”

“No.”

“None at all?”

“No.”

“Neither on the prisoner, nor in any of the places she had been in after the murder?”

“Well—no.”

“Never mind, Inspector. You can always revert to your first idea. Or possibly you might like to put forward a third and entirely new theory. Possibly the murder was committed by a disembodied spirit with no hands at all.”

Mr. Rumbold missed a good deal of the final cross-examination.

He was thinking about a conversation which he had had that morning, before the court opened, with Macrea, in his chambers. They had sat there together for half an hour, in the sunlight under the rows and rows of King’s Bench and Chancery Law Reports, in leather bindings (sometimes consulted by his pupils, never, so far as anyone could remember, by Macrea).

Not much had been said. They were old friends, both of them experienced, fighters at law. They knew they had reached the storm center.

“The prosecution case will be finished by lunch-time,” Macrea had said. “The only important witness to come is Inspector Partridge. I’ll take him as far as I can on the lines of prejudice. After that we shall have to see what we can make of it from our side.”

“Have you decided what line to take?”

“Well – there are two lines. We can simply put the prisoner in the box to give her version of the story and trust her to come through the cross-examination. I think the jury’ll like her. She’s so patently honest. Then we’ll go all out on a plea that the prosecution haven’t proved their case. In short, that a number of other people could have murdered Thoseby and the prisoner is by no means the most likely.”

“Only if we have to,” said Mr. Rumbold.

“All right. But we’ve got to think about it, because that’s the way nine out of ten defences do go. It’s the easiest line and the safest.”

“It may be safe,” said Mr. Rumbold, “but I still don’t like it. What’s the alternative?”

“We
do
suggest who did the murder.”

“All right,” said Mr. Rumbold. “Let’s do that. I think I know who did it, all right,” he added.

“As a matter of fact,” said Macrea, “so do I. But that’s a very different thing from being able to prove it. However, let’s look at the four candidates.”

“Four?”

“Certainly. First Mrs. Roper. She’s a crook. She had plenty of opportunity. She could have stolen the knife.”

“On the other hand,” said Mr. Rumbold, “she had no ascertainable motive – and she doesn’t look like a murderer. She’s not the right calibre at all. A little crook – and an associate of little crooks. Not a killer.”

“I agree,” said Macrea. “Then we have Monsieur Sainte. Quite another proposition. He struck me as being a capable and quite a ruthless person. He would have had every opportunity to acquire the weapon. He may well have met Major Thoseby. It is not difficult to imagine some sort of motive. Supposing he had been an undercover Gestapo agent?”

“Well, it’s possible,” said Mr. Rumbold, “but it seems a little far-fetched. Surely they wouldn’t have waited all that long to do something about it. The war’s been over a long time.”

“I agree. There’s a much worse snag than that, though. How did he get up to Major Thoseby’s room and back again without being seen by Camino and Colonel Alwright – supposing he did the job before half-past ten? Or by Mademoiselle Lamartine herself if he did it afterward?”

“Quite so. The sealed box. What about Camino?”

“Could have had some motive connected with wartime happenings in France. Again not very likely. He’s the type who might use a knife – and there’s no doubt he could have got hold of this one. He worked in the kitchen.”

“Also don’t forget it was Camino who delayed sending for the doctor. If he did the murder at all he must have done it before half-past ten, so it would have been important to delay the medical inspection as long as possible so as to confuse the time of death.”

“I’m glad you were attending to my searching cross-examination,” said Macrea with a grin. “Exactly the same objections, however, apply to Camino. How did he get up there? He daren’t have left the reception desk—not with Colonel Alwright calling for a whisky every five minutes, and people liable to come in at the front door; any time. The risk was too great.”

“All right,” said Mr. Rumbold. “You said four. Who’s the fourth?”

“My fourth,” said Macrea slowly, “is an unknown man operating from the street at the back. The only thing known about him is that he answers to the name of Benny.”

“But—how did he do it? How did he get up there and down again? Miss Box didn’t say she saw a man
climbing
up. She said she heard someone
calling
up. Who is this unknown person, anyway—”

“Dammit,” said Macrea irritably, “this isn’t a detective story. The murderer doesn’t
have
to be one of the principal characters. It might have been any old enemy of Thoseby’s, who happened to choose that moment to finish him off.”

“How did he reach the bedroom?”

“I don’t know. There’s a lot we don’t know. We want more facts. Where’s that son of yours?”

“I wouldn’t mind knowing that myself,” said Mr. Rumbold.

“It is customary,” said Macrea, “for the defending counsel in a capital charge to open his remarks to the court by saying that ‘he has never listened to a case in which such a serious charge was supported by so little evidence.’ That, I say, is the customary opening. It does not apply to this case. In this case there is a great deal of evidence. Some people might feel, rather too much evidence. The difficulty is to examine such a body of evidence critically and to see what it means.

“Upon the primary point – about the basic fact – there is no dispute. Major Thoseby was stabbed to death, in that room. It is the duty of the prosecution to marshal all the relevant evidence –
all
the relevant evidence – I shall return to that point in a minute – and then to say to you: ‘On this evidence we contend that there is only one reasonable solution. The prisoner murdered Major Thoseby.’