The Baker Street Jurors (23 page)

“It shouldn't be more than half a mile,” said Nigel. “We should see one fork that goes up the hill toward McSweeney's estate—and another that goes down to his beach and boathouse.”

Lucy ground the gears and managed to get the car into second.

“I think our theory about jury selection through attrition is wrong,” said Nigel, as the car pushed along through the mud. “I don't think this has been about getting one or more specific jurors onto the primary panel. At least not once we reached the island and realized how unlikely McSweeney's alibi is. One or two jurors, no matter how persuasive, would not be able to sway all the rest of us and get an acquittal.”

“What's it about then?”

“It's just about getting a mistrial. Nothing more. Someone is trying to reduce the total number of jurors, so that there won't be a verdict in this trial. What comes after, when McSweeney gets retried, they must not be concerned about.”

“But what good does that do McSweeney, if he just has to face a new trial, with more evidence against him?” said Mrs. Peabody.

“Not much,” said Nigel. “That's my point. I don't doubt that McSweeney would do anything he could to get an acquittal. But there's something else at work here, too.”

Now Lucy reduced their speed to a crawl. “There's the fork,” she said. “Which way?”

They peered through the windows. To the left, one fork went up the hill toward the estate, and to the right, the other fork led toward the cliffs and the beach. The estate wasn't visible; it was beyond the rise, and if it had any lights on, they didn't show.

But it made no difference. That road was gone.

“It's washed out,” said Lucy. “We can't get up there.”

“No,” said Nigel. “And I don't think anyone else could, either, in the last twenty minutes, no matter what they're driving.”

“Then I guess we're going to the beach,” said Lucy, and they took the fork to the right.

It wasn't far. They went perhaps a hundred yards, rounded a curve—and below them, at the end of the access road, they saw a small boathouse—and the sea.

“I don't see a boat,” said Mrs. Peabody.

“No,” said Nigel. “McSweeney doesn't have one. But he's supposed to have his own sea tractor.”

“There,” said Lucy, pointing beyond the boathouse. “Just inside that rocky point on the right!”

Nigel looked. Just inside the surfline, rolling and listing with each white cap, was the sea tractor. It looked like a sort of seagoing cage, not really a watercraft at all, at least not intended to be. It had no hull. It had tires that were over three feet high and two feet wide, and the base of it, on which people were supposed to stand, was perhaps six feet off the ground—but in the high tide and surf, that was not nearly enough. The sides of it were almost completely open, with nothing but a couple of brightly painted horizontal boards to keep its occupants in, and nothing whatsoever to keep the water out.

And there were two occupants—a tall figure at the steering control toward the middle of the platform—and another figure hanging desperately onto the side rails as the vehicle pitched with each swell. And there was a bulky object of some kind laying on the platform.

As they were watching, the vehicle tipped at a 30-degree angle, and the object on the platform slid off and into the surf.

“That can't be good,” said Nigel.

Lucy put the car into gear and drove down the access road until they reached the sand. Mrs. Peabody stayed in the car. Nigel and Lucy got out and ran to the little boathouse. It wasn't much; no bigger than a walk-in closet, with just some beach towels, a couple of ropes, and rescue buoys.

They stood in the boathouse and watched the sea tractor. But only for a moment.

“What in hell are they doing?” said Nigel. “They're running just inside the breakers. They'll tip.”

And just as he said it, the sea tractor leaned radically on its side again with an incoming wave, and the figure standing at the rail was suddenly no longer there.

Nigel and Lucy stared out at the surf line until they saw movement—arms, head, and shoulders, struggling against the white water of the breaking waves.

“There,” said Nigel.

“I see him,” said Lucy.

Now the sea tractor was visible again—and Nigel could see that it had not, in fact, capsized at all. It had listed when they first saw it—but now it had recovered—and there was still a figure standing at the helm.

Nigel expected that the vehicle would be turning now, and coming back toward the person who had gone overboard. But no. It wasn't doing that. It was turning away, heading toward the far end of the point. It was rounding that point now.

“Can you swim?” said Nigel.

“Like a fish,” said Lucy. “And I took the training. I'm even better than Daisy.”

Nigel didn't ask who Daisy was. He handed one rescue buoy to Lucy and he took the other, and they both went into the surf.

 

23

It was almost dawn.

Nigel and Lucy and Mrs. Peabody all huddled in the boathouse, wrapped in all the available beach towels except one.

That one was draped over the body of Mr. Bankstone.

“You were very brave to try,” said Mrs. Peabody. “It was just too late.”

Nigel and Lucy just nodded. They were too exhausted from their rescue efforts to speak.

“I'm glad you know it wasn't me that drugged you,” said Mrs. Peabody. “I've never had any complaints about my Earl Grey before.”

“It had to be Bankstone,” said Nigel. “I saw the allergy pill wrappers that he just tossed under the counter. We know you would never have done that, Mrs. Peabody. You are tidy. You would have carefully disposed of them in the coffee can.”

Lucy turned to Mrs. Peabody and said, “It actually was rather good tea. And I don't even like Earl Grey.”

“Thank you, dear.”

“Bankstone was taking no chances,” said Nigel. “He was sure one of us was the murderer, but he didn't know which—so he drugged us all.”

Now Mrs. Peabody suddenly stood. “Look!” she said. “Look! Out there! We're saved!” She was pointing out to sea, just beyond the promontory.

Nigel and Lucy, as exhausted as they were, got up and looked, too.

It was a pontoon boat—the emergency services rescue boat. Just now crossing the white crests of the surf line, disappearing for an instant behind a swell but then appearing again as surely as Big Ben chimes the hour. Sunlight was breaking through the clouds, striking the boat, which gleamed in response.

It was glorious.

Standing at the front, leaning forward as if doing so would propel them all the faster, was the judge, his white hair blowing in wispy strands.

“Yes,” said Lucy, wiping away sea water from her eyes, “I believe we are.”

 

24

An hour and a half later, morning sunlight glistened on the residual raindrops still clinging to the signboard of the Running Monk pub. The waves had subsided, and so had the wind and tide that had generated them.

The few remaining surfers were no longer at the tidal inlet at all, but well to the south, catching the last storm swells before they could disappear entirely.

There were no pub patron cars in the car park. The entrance had been cordoned off with yellow tape and portable barricades; two police cars were parked there, and another was directly in front of the pub. A car next to that one was unmarked—except for the New Scotland Yard parking sticker in the corner of the windshield.

There was a medical emergency vehicle as well, just now pulling away from the car park, but with no siren—it was too late for that. It was followed by the same chartered bus, with darkened windows, that had delivered the jurors originally.

The constables at the car park entrance allowed those vehicles to depart, but then quickly closed the barricade again, ahead of the first news van that had now appeared at the far end of the road.

The pub door opened, and Maggie stepped out to hand a cup of coffee to Constable Bailey, stationed at the door. He nodded gratefully; she smiled in return. And then, before going back inside, she paused to look out toward the island. A police helicopter was moving slowly across the interior of the island, and the sea tractor—its blue railing glinting in the sun—was turning away from the island shore and coming back toward the pub—with, apparently, no one but the driver on board.

Maggie shook her head sadly and went back into the pub. On a normal late morning, Maggie would have been heating up Heinz beans and tomatoes and other essentials that the locals liked in their English breakfast. On this morning, no locals without official business had been allowed to get in—but there were hungry people even so, and she went into the kitchen to prepare their plates.

She had already lit the wood in the fireplace. She had done that as soon as the coast guard boat with three soaked jurors had come up and docked. Those jurors were now wrapped in gray wool blankets and seated on the bench in front of the fire.

Standing at the bar were two coast guard crew members, filling out something on a clipboard. Seated at a table between the bar and the fireplace were all the officers of the McSweeney court—Mr. Justice Allen, Mr. Slattery, Mr. Langdon, the steward Ms. Sreenivasan, and the bailiff, Mr. Walker, who sat calm but alert, looking from the jurors to the front door and then back again. The judge sat with his head down in his hands. He would look up occasionally at the jurors drying out in front of the fire and then bury his head in his hands again.

Maggie suspected that he desperately wanted a pint, but she brought him the coffee he had asked for instead. “Please serve them first,” said the judge, nodding toward Nigel, Lucy, and Mrs. Peabody, all seated by the fire. “I arrived here yesterday with fourteen jurors. Now I have eleven. At the rate bad things seem to be happening to them, I'd like to at least make sure these three don't die of malnourishment.”

“They'll eat first,” said Maggie, “but you take this right now.” She put the coffee down in front of him and went back to the kitchen.

The front door opened and two chief inspectors and one sergeant entered. The judge raised his head, but he didn't speak to the men who'd just arrived. He was too tired, and aside from that, it was not really his place to do so. This would be a new investigation, and he must stay out of it. He nodded toward the blanketed jurors in front of the fireplace and then turned back to his coffee.

Chief Inspector Wembley from London, in the well-worn gray suit, paused to let the local chief inspector, who had clearly worn his best to this occasion, to approach the jurors first. Chief Inspector Rutledge moved toward them, and when none of the exhausted jurors immediately raised their heads, he stepped between the nearest of them and the warming fire.

Mrs. Peabody looked up at him and said, “Have you located Mr. Siger?”

“No,” said the inspector.

“Then rescue services is still searching?”

“Of course.”

Nigel looked up and followed that exchange—but said nothing.

“Now then,” said the inspector, “I am Chief Inspector Rutledge of the Devon West district. With me are Inspector … Chief Inspector … Wembley from Scotland Yard and Sergeant—”

“Sergeant Thackeray, sir,” said the sergeant.

The inspector nodded, and continued. “We know you must all be quite tired. But we have some questions, if you don't mind.”

“We don't mind,” said Lucy. “Provided that, as Mrs. Peabody said, this isn't slowing the search for Mr. Siger. And also provided that you don't stand between us and the fire.”

“Quite so,” said Mrs. Peabody, looking up at the inspector. “You are being rude, young man. And if you cause me to get a worse pneumonia than I'm already likely to get, I'll sue you.”

The local inspector took a step back.

Inspector Wembley smiled slightly and helped Sergeant Thackeray drag some chairs over from a nearby table and set them up on the periphery.

“Where do you want us to start?” said Nigel.

“From the beginning would do,” said Inspector Rutledge.

Nigel hesitated and looked at Wembley for clarification. “Let's start with when you last saw Mr. Siger alive,” said Wembley. “And how the three of you came to be at that beach.”

“We all took refuge at the Scout camp,” said Nigel. “Mr. Siger and I went out to the bluff to send a signal to the mainland, and then we returned to the camp. We all tried to turn in for the night, but eventually we all ended up downstairs in the kitchen. Except Mr. Siger. He was missing. And except Mr. Armstrong, whom we discovered dead at the woodpile.”

“So none of you saw or heard anything of Mr. Siger after that?”

“No,” said Lucy.

“No,” said Mrs. Peabody.

Nigel scratched the back of his neck, looked Wembley directly in the eye—and just shook his head.

Wembley studied Nigel for a moment, then continued. “Who found the body of Mr. Armstrong?” said Wembley.

“I did,” said Lucy. “I came back in and told the others.”

“And then we brought the body in and put it on the table,” said Mrs. Peabody. “And then we all gathered around—the four of us—and had a delightful argument about what was going on and who was doing it. And then—”

The local inspector put up his hand to stop her. “Not getting along well, then, the lot of you?” he said.

“Oh,” said Mrs. Peabody. She paused and thought about why he was asking, and she said, “Well, nothing like
that,
of course.”

“Like what?” said the local inspector.

Mrs. Peabody looked to Lucy and Nigel for help.

“It was just a conversation,” offered Nigel. “It did not get out of hand.”

Wembley looked hard at Nigel for a moment, and then said, to all of them, “In any of the conversations among you—did you hear anything that might make you think that anyone might want to harm any of the jurors?”