The Attic Murder by S. Fowler Wright (read me like a book txt) 📕

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He entered it on this occasion with the comforting assurance that the charges of murder and larceny were to be withdrawn, and with the further knowledge that Mr.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.