The Attic Murder by S. Fowler Wright (me reader .txt) đź“–
- Author: S. Fowler Wright
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First of these, Mr. Jellipot drew up and entered an appeal against his client’s existing conviction, in which, though it may have exhausted the legal possibilities of the case in the grounds which it set out, he admitted to his own mind that he had a very limited confidence. But, bold in his cautious way, he intended to make a use of it, as soon as his client should be clear of the capital charge, which would not only be to his immediate benefit, but through which he hoped that further evidence might be procured, of such a nature that the Court of Appeal would not refuse to hear it.
Of perhaps equal, though different importance, was the information that came to Inspector Combridge, as he was vainly searching for additional evidence against Mr. Peter Entwistle, sufficient to justify him in applying for a warrant for his arrest, that that gentleman had disappeared.
His first feeling on hearing this was annoyance, and some anger with his subordinates, who had failed in the duty of observation which had been entrusted to them. Yet he had satisfaction in observing the implications of this disappearance. He knew that actually, if not legally, it is very near to an admission of guilt for a man to take flight under such circumstances, before the hunt has been opened upon him.
He decided that Entwistle, possibly having received a hint that the case against Harold Vaughan was not satisfactory to the police, had decided that it would be prudent to go into some hiding-place — perhaps already prepared against such an emergency — until the result of the present prosecution should appear. Should Harold Vaughan be convicted, or even should his trial conclude without indication that suspicion might be pointing in his own direction, he might then return to his former haunts with his usual coolness, or perhaps decide that it had become time to retire in comfort, to enjoy the fruits of his ten years of successful crime.
And so, by his own action, he had both supplied the Inspector with an additional reason for applying for a warrant against him, and increased his confidence that in so doing he would not be arresting the wrong man a second time.
He talked the matter over with Mr. Jesse Banks, with whom he was careful to keep in contact, recognizing, among other reasons, that that gentleman’s investigations on behalf of the London & Northern ran closely alongside those on which he was more immediately engaged, and, being supported by his almost equally experienced opinion, he took out a warrant.
Fortified with this document, he searched Mr. Entwistle’s two attic rooms, and was more annoyed than surprised to find that, though they had been abruptly left, they contained no incriminating evidence of any kind.
He did not anticipate any prolonged delay in effecting the arrest of the missing man, knowing that it is almost impossibly difficult for any man to remain concealed from his fellows, even with the assistance of the resources which he supposed Peter Entwistle to possess, when the interests of press and public have been united in his pursuit. And he reflected with satisfaction that a figure of unusual height and leanness is not easily overlooked or disguised.
For three days the search was conducted throughout the country with the routine efficiency of the police, but without enlisting the aid of the press, or taking other steps to make Peter Entwistle’s disappearance publicly known.
On the fourth morning, the Inspector, happening to meet Mr. Banks, admitted to him that the arrest had not yet been made. When he added that he had decided that the time had come when he must appeal to press and public to assist the search, the enquiry agent answered doubtfully: “Yes? You should know best about that. But it’s the eleventh now, and I should say he’ll be in court on the thirteenth, if he isn’t scared before then. Might be worth waiting to see.”
Inspector Combridge said that he would think it over, and having done so he decided that it was a hint worth taking. He knew the tendency that most criminals have to attend trials in which they are actually or potentially interested, and he saw that if Entwistle thought that his disappearance had not been remarked, and had probably therefore been a result of unfounded fear, he would be more likely to venture into Mr. Garrison’s court than if he were advertised over England as a wanted man.
Anyway, it was no more than two days to wait. The ports were watched. He had ascertained that, if Entwistle had a passport at all, which was improbable, it had not been taken out in his own name. He resolved to wait-
FRANCIS HAMMERTON had by this time acquired a sufficient experience of the routines of the criminal courts to feel that the dock was a quite natural position in which to stand.
He entered it on this occasion with the comforting assurance that the charges of murder and larceny were to be withdrawn, and with the further knowledge that Mr. Jellipot was moving either for a new trial, or for the quashing of his previous conviction.
Yet such is the perversity of human nature that he was conscious of a more clamant misery than when he had stood there a week before, and heard himself preposterously charged with the murder of a man whom he scarcely knew, and against whom he had no cause of quarrel. He had known then that, even if he were relieved of that monstrous suspicion, which his mind declined to accept as more than a passing cloud, he was yet hopelessly condemned to a long term of confinement, with all the calculated degradations that the modern prison inflicts, and with the ultimate difficulty of resuming the life from which he would so strangely have disappeared.
He had been desperate before, but he was now tortured with doubtful hope; for Mr. Jellipot, conscious of the legal difficulties with which he was confronted, and anxious not to raise too confident anticipation in his client’s mind, had been so cautious in forecasting the results of the application that he was about to make, that he had done no more than raise a hope so faint as to be more torturing than despair.
He saw no one he knew. He met Mr. Garrison’s eyes, keenly and yet distantly regarding him. He saw the row of legal gentlemen who had combined in disposing of his case so expeditiously the week before. He saw the uniformed policemen about the doors: the motley crowd of spectators who would have been more numerous had there not been a report circulated that the police would ask for a further remand, and that, on this occasion, there would be little to hear or see.
He saw Miss Jones in one of the foremost seats, looking her usual self-possessed self, but she showed no consciousness of his regard. He saw, indifferently, a very tall thin man, well though quietly dressed, who, having failed to obtain a seat, looked easily over the heads of others, as he stood in a gangway at the rear of the court… He became aware that Mr. Dunkover had risen, and was addressing the magistrate.
“My instructions are,” he was saying, “that certain additional information has come into possession of the police during the last few days which has an important bearing upon the prisoner’s position, and, in the result, they do not propose to proceed further with the present charges. I ask therefore that the prisoner may be discharged.”
Mr. Garrison considered this. “I think, Mr. Dunkover,” he said, “I ought to know rather more than that.”
Mr. Dunkover was still sparing of words. “I have advised,” he said, “that it is a case, as it now stands, on which no jury would convict.”
Mr. Jellipot rose with an unusual agility. “I must protest,” he said. “I ask for my client’s release not because the case against him would be hard to prove, but because he is an absolutely innocent man.”
Mr. Dunkover, after a whispered consultation with his instructing solicitors and Inspector Combridge, rose to say: “My friend is entitled to say that; which the prosecution does not dispute.”
Mr. Garrison rubbed his chin. He saw that there was more here than he was intended to know, which he did not like. He preferred to have reason for what he did. But after that moment’s silence, he said no more than: “Very well. The prisoner is discharged.”
It meant no freedom for Francis, who was hurried back to the cells. Before he was removed from the dock, he had observed that Inspector Combridge had already risen, and left the court by a side-door.
The movement had no significance for him, nor for a man who was more directly concerned. But, a moment later, the Inspector re-entered at the back of the court. He approached Mr. Entwistle from behind. That gentleman had made no motion to leave. His gaze passed over the court, now astir in the momentary interval before the next charge was called with the movements of those who had risen to leave, as though he were looking for someone who was not there.
It appeared that he had no intention of going himself, for he was about to occupy a vacated seat when Inspector Combridge touched him upon the arm.
“May I have a word with you?” he asked.
Mr. Entwistle looked surprised. He said shortly: “Yes. What is it?”
The Inspector answered quietly: “If you will come with me — - We can’t talk here.”
Mr. Entwistle frowned. He looked displeased and hesitant. But he controlled himself to say nothing. He rose and went out with the Inspector, whose hand rested lightly upon his arm, in a way which he would not appear to observe, though he did not like it.
When they were in a small adjoining room, with two uniformed constables at the door, Inspector Combridge said: “Peter Entwistle, it is my duty to arrest you for the wilful murder of William Rabone; and I have to warn you that anything you say may be used against you in evidence.”
The accused man maintained his calmness of voice and manner, though he could not control the blood that had left his face.
“I can only say,” he replied, “that the charge is an absolute surprise to me. I know nothing about the murder beyond what I have read. Why I never even — - ” He checked himself and added only: “I reply that I am not guilty. You should know well enough that — - “
He checked himself in mid-sentence again. He had often imagined such a moment as this, though it had not been a charge of murder which he had then expected to hear. But he had not supposed that he would twice come near to saying such foolish things.
Later in the day, he was brought before the magistrate, and formally remanded for seven days, by which time it was understood that the police would be prepared to open their case.
MR. JELLIPOT played a bold card. He briefed Rossiter to apply in Chambers for bail for Francis Hammerton (convicted in the name of Harold Vaughan) pending the hearing of his appeal.
Mr. Justice Fordyce heard the application with the patient immobility of expression due to an eminent counsel who was making the best of an impossible plea.
Even when he heard that Sir Reginald Crowe was prepared to provide bail to any amount which he might require, he did not allow any trace of the surprise he felt to appear.
He asked laconically: “Any amount, Mr. Rossiter?”
“Yes, my lord. Those are the instructions I have received. Sir Reginald will stand surety for any amount which you may require.”
He conferred for
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