Death Has Deep Roots (9 page)

“At about twenty to eleven, therefore, if I may again recapitulate briefly, the position was as follows. The lounge was by this time empty. Colonel Alwright had retired to his room – he slept in the main part of the building – Mrs. Roper was in her room, and the other guests had not yet returned. Camino was in the kitchen, the manager, Monsieur Sainte, was in his office, the prisoner was on duty at the reception desk. There is no dispute about all that. You will hear each of those persons testifying to it. There are, however, two radically different versions as to what happened next. It will be your duty to choose which one you will believe. I will come back to that in a moment.

“The next fact about which all parties are agreed is that at about a quarter to eleven, there was a very loud scream. The scream came from Major Thoseby’s room. Mrs. Roper, who occupies, as you will see, the next room, ran into the passage. She saw that the door of Major Thoseby’s room was ajar. Further screams came from inside the room. She says that they were so loud and so panic-stricken that she had no shadow of doubt that some awful tragedy had taken place. She pushed the door open and looked in. The prisoner was standing in the middle of the room looking down at the floor. On the floor was Major Thoseby’s body.”

“It really is quite astounding,” said Macrea suddenly to Mr. Rumbold, “how Summers does it—have you noticed?—without a single note. It impresses the jury, no doubt about it. I never could get the trick of it. I tried a scheme once of writing out the headings of what I wanted to say – a sort of mnemonic. Tried it out in a seduction case I was doing. I intended to start off by saying ‘On the night of the sixth my client, the plaintiff, then a mere girl of nineteen, was induced to visit the defendant’s room.’ What I actually said was ‘On the night of the nineteenth my client, a mere girl of six’ – ruined the whole effect.”

“The screams,” said Mr. Summers, “had by now attracted others. Monsieur Sainte had heard them in his office and was running up the side stairs. Camino, coming from the kitchen, was a few steps behind him. At the same time three more of the guests, returning to the hotel, entered the foyer.

“As soon as Monsieur Sainte reached the room he realised that Major Thoseby was dead. He immediately sent for the police. You will hear their evidence, and the evidence of a number of experts, which I will not anticipate now, beyond mentioning one thing. The weapon with which Major Thoseby had been murdered was discovered at the preliminary search. It had been thrust down in the space between the back and the seat of the sofa. It was an ordinary black-handled kitchen knife. Under microscopic examination the handle gave the appearance of having been hastily wiped, but in spite of this attempted obliteration, prints were reconstructed. They were the thumb prints and fingerprints of the prisoner. The prints of her left hand. It is right to tell you that she does not deny them. She says that the knife was one which she often used in the course of her duties in the kitchen. It is right also to mention at this point her explanation of how she came to be in Major Thoseby’s room. It is a very simple explanation. She says that whilst she was in the office the bell indicator for Room 34 carne up. She did not know that Room 34 was Major Thoseby’s room. She did not even know that he had arrived. It was part of her duty to answer bedroom bells, and she therefore went up. When she got there she went in and found the body.”

Mr. Summers paused again. He had presented the facts, together with the prisoner’s explanation of them, quite flatly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. This was his habit. It was one of the things which made him a very dangerous prosecuting counsel. Now, however, he was approaching more debatable ground and his style changed imperceptibly.

“I have reserved to the last,” he said, “the question of motive. This is a matter which is apt to be misunderstood. It is the well-settled law of England – and his lordship will guide you on this, I am sure – that the onus is not on the prosecution to prove motive. Put in another way, we have not to undertake the task of explaining
why
a murder was done. Our duty is discharged if we show that a murder was done, and that, beyond a reasonable doubt, it was done by the hand of the prisoner. Why then is motive so often in discussion? The answer to that is, of course, that normal beings – sane human beings – do not commit murders. If, therefore, the prosecution can adduce an adequate motive it must have an immense additional compulsive force. I should explain, however, that by ‘adequate’ I do not mean what you might think adequate, or what I might think adequate. You may hold the act of murder in such horror – I trust you do – that no motive would seem adequate for it. That is what is meant when it is sometimes said that the motive must be measured against the actor. You have here a young woman trained, for many years, in violence. I shall deal with that training in evidence. Again, she is a woman who suffered treatment at the hands of the German police which might have turned the mind of the sanest. Finally, she is a woman – at the time of which I am going to speak, the middle years of the war, a young and inexperienced woman – who was seduced, and who gave birth to a child. In prison. In a Gestapo prison. A woman who was released by the happy turn of the war and who set out in search of the father of her child. Who in the course of that search saw her child die of malnutrition. Who came to England to further the search for this man. Who found him in Room 34 of his hotel.”

“No,” said the prisoner softly. “No, no, no, no, no.”

“Well, that is all that I have to say at this juncture,” said Mr. Summers. If he had heard the interruption he gave no sign of it. “We shall show you, in order, by the evidence of the witnesses that we shall bring before you that only one person had the opportunity. That the means were to the hand of one person. That the motive was the motive of one person. When that is established, whatever may be your feelings, ‘and whatever may or may not happen to the prisoner afterward, your duty is quite clear. You must find the prisoner guilty of murder. Such a verdict may quite easily be distasteful to you. That does not absolve you from the obligation of giving it.”

“My lord,” said Mr. Macrea. He was on his feet so swiftly that both counsel were standing together. “May I make one matter plain. My learned friend has very freely offered my client his sympathy. I do not doubt for a moment that he is sincere. But on her behalf I must refuse the offer. It is not needed. Our case is not, odd though it may seem, that she committed this murder and is very upset about it. Our case is quite the opposite. It is that she did
not
commit this murder. I am sorry, but there it is.” He sat down as swiftly as he had got up.

Mr. Summers resumed his seat more slowly.

All the crime reporters on the press bench looked up together and then looked down again and started scribbling away at twice the speed, like a bunch of second violins who have suddenly received a flick from the conductor’s baton. It was clear to them, for the first time, that there was going to be a fight.

The judge said, “I think we have just time for your formal evidence, Mr. Summers. I shall then adjourn the court until two o’clock.”

A thin young man with an ambitious mustache stepped into the box, told the court that his name was Edward Webb, that he was a qualified architect’s draftsman, and that he had drawn the plan of the hotel which the jury had seen. Somewhat to his disappointment he was not cross-examined.

The court adjourned for lunch.

Mr. Rumbold was one of the first to get clear of the building. He was not attracted by criminal work. He himself was a company lawyer and an expert on the leisurely intricacies of patent rights. So far as he was concerned a murder trial at the Old Bailey meant hurrying to and fro in taxicabs with suitcases full of papers, endless conferences and last-minute telephoning; it meant sandwiches for lunch and lateness for evening meals and working into the small hours of every morning. Unless he was very careful it was going to mean a thundering attack of dyspepsia.

He trotted into the A.B.C. opposite the court for a cup of coffee, swallowed his drink before it had had time to cool, and hurried out to look for a taxi to take him back to the office. As usual he was unable to find one, and decided, as usual, that it would be just as quick by bus. As usual, as soon as he had got on to the bus four empty taxis went by.

At the office he found the boy standing by, and sent him out for sandwiches, shouted for his secretary and made his way to the sanctuary of his own room.

“Any messages,” he said. “Anything from France yet?”

“Nothing from Mr. Anthony yet,” said Miss Hardiman. She was a plump, cheerful girl, fortified in her not infrequent differences with Mr. Rumbold by the knowledge that she could never be dismissed since she was the only living person who understood his filing systems.

“What about McCann?”

“He rang from Winchester just before you came in. He didn’t say much. He might be going on to Salisbury. There was one rather—”

“What on earth are all those?”

“Oh, that’s the newspapers.” Miss Hardiman tried not to sound impressed. “They’ve been ringing you up all the morning. I was saying there was—”

“Carrion,” said Mr. Rumbold. He slit open half a dozen envelopes and consigned their contents to the “out” basket. “What were you saying?”

“I was telling you,” said Miss Hardiman patiently, “Mrs. McCann has been on the phone.”

“Mrs. McCann?”

“Major McCann’s wife. She wants you to go and see her.”

“Go down to Shepherd Market? Now?”

“She said it was important. She’s got a witness. She wouldn’t tell me any more over the telephone.”

“Got a witness? For God’s sake. A witness to what?”

“She wouldn’t say.”

“Have you got her number? All right, ring her up and I’ll talk to her. What are those?”

“Egg sandwiches, sir. Real egg.”

“Good boy. Oh—yes—yes—it’s Mr. Rumbold. Mrs. McCann. You’ve got what? Oh, yes. Of course, certainly. No trouble at all. I’ll come right away. See if you can get a taxi, Sam. Yes, I’ll be there in about ten minutes. Don’t let her go. Good-bye.”

He crammed one of the sandwiches into his mouth, gave the other three to Miss Hardirnan, and made for the street at a trot.

At the Leopard he found Mrs. McCann waiting for him and was conducted through the lunch-hour crowd at the bar, up the stairs and into her sitting room.

“It’s a girl,” said Mrs. McCann without preamble. “Her name is Irene, and she sings—”

“Sings for her supper?”

“Yes, when she can get an engagement.”

“Is she—?”

“No,” said Mrs. McCann. “She isn’t. I don’t say that if times got hard she mightn’t be, but at the moment, in my opinion, she’s just an honest little trouper without much stuffing.”

“Is she here?” said Mr. Rumbold, with a sideways look at his watch, “Because—”

“I’ve sent for her. I don’t keep her on the premises. Whilst you’re waiting why not have some lunch? You look about all in. I could have it sent in here.”

“Well, really—”

“Steak pie. Some Dutch cheese and a small Guinness.”

“All right,” said Mr. Rumbold. “Only I shall have to hurry.”

“What time does the curtain go up?”

‘The court reassembles at two o’clock.”

“You’ve plenty of time, then. It’s not more than fifteen minutes by taxi.”

“I can never seem to get a taxi,” said Mr. Rumbold.

“Leave it to me,” said Mrs. McCann. “I can
always
get a taxi.”

Irene arrived with the cheese. Her coat and her hair were russet red and her skin had the yellowish oily look that stage faces often have by daylight. She was round and plump and the combination of colors made her look not unlike a little Dutch cheese herself. She was desperately genteel and she moved in a cloud of unidentifiable perfume. Despite all this, Mr. Rumbold found himself liking her. He agreed with Mrs. McCann. She was patently honest and could have had no conceivable motive for coming forward but the goodness of her own heart.

“I was in the Benbow Café,” she said, “with a lot of the boys and girls. It’s a little place we use when we’re resting. Ellie Pinkerton who runs it was in Panto herself for years till one night when she was flying on to give the lovers her blessing – she was the good fairy – the wire broke and dropped her in the orchestra and that was the end of what you might call her active career – it’s a little place in Gower Street – I said good night at just before half-past ten—”

“Wait a minute,” said Mr. Rumbold, “what night was this?”

“I’m telling you – the fourteenth of March. The night that officer got done in at the hotel in Euston.”

“How do you remember the date? Not that I disbelieve you but it’s as well to be quite clear about it.”

“I was telling you. It was my birthday. Between you and me, I’d hate to get up in public and say which number, but definitely my birthday. We’d been having a sort of do at Ellie’s, to celebrate.”

“Good enough,” said Mr. Rumbold. “Please go on.”

“Well, I live in Dunbar Street – that’s this side of Mornington Crescent, so I thought I’d walk home. It was a nice night – warm for spring, and I’d been having one or two, just to celebrate – you know.”

“I know,” said Mr. Rumbold.

“I was about halfway home – just at the turning into Pearlyman Street – I thought I’d sit down for a minute and take my weight off my feet. You know the hotel – there’s a little street runs behind it – Pearlyman Mews or Pearlyman Court or something like that – it’s nice and quiet and quite dark.”

“Pearlyman Passage.”

“That’s it. Well, I parked on a low wall and got my back against a buttress and started to think about life.”

“How long would this have been after you’d left the café?”

“If you said a quarter of an hour you wouldn’t be far off it. Well, I was sitting there, quite quietly, minding my own business, when I heard a window go up and someone called out, softly, but plain enough to hear.”

She paused and Mr. Rumbold, aware of a slight dryness in the throat, asked, “Could you make out what was said?”