The 12.30 from Croydon (33 page)

Sir Richard Brander, who rose to examine, was politeness itself. He regretted having to ask painful questions, but he had no alternative. Under his suave inquisition Una said that Charles had wished to marry her, and had proposed to her on several occasions. She had not given him a definite answer, as she had not at that time made up her mind. No engagement had therefore existed, and none existed now.

Heppenstall then rose, said he did not wish to cross-examine, and sat down again. To Charles this seemed the last straw. He could have screamed. Were these men going to do
nothing
for him? Was that the idea of a barrister – to take money in huge amounts and do nothing to earn it? Panic settled down on Charles once more. If nothing was going to be done, he was lost! Vainly he tried to catch Quilter’s eye.

But now Una had vanished, and a discussion took place as to the desirability of adjourning. Crosby’s evidence on the family history had taken a long time, as had Peter’s and Witheroe’s. It was after five. Finally his lordship decided that it was time for the adjournment. In a state almost of collapse from weariness and dread and want of food, Charles suffered himself to be led listlessly back to his cell.

His motive had been proved – up to the hilt. What would happen to him to-morrow? He groaned aloud at the thought.

For one thing Charles had reason to be thankful: he slept all night through. So tired that his limbs were actually aching, he threw himself on his bed at the first possible moment, and fell at once into a heavy slumber. It was as if he were drugged. He did not dream. He was conscious of nothing till his cell was opened next morning and his breakfast brought to him.

He was feeling much more optimistic than he could have believed possible after the shocks of the previous day. He told himself that invariably, as the case for the prosecution draws to an end, a spectator at a trial assumes the guilt of the prisoner. Almost equally invariably, when the defence have completed their case, he sees that the prisoner must be innocent. Until he had heard what Heppenstall had to say Charles would not despair. Heppenstall had a tremendous reputation. And he was doing better than Charles had realized. Charles now saw that he had been right not to cross-examine Una. To have made things more awkward for Una than they were would have alienated sympathy. Heppenstall had known what he was about.

This morning the same dreary wait took place in the cell under the court as on the first day, followed by the same sudden spurt of activity when the judge had taken his seat. But this morning there were not the same preliminaries to be gone through. The names of the jurors were called, they took their places, and the case was resumed.

The first witness was Penelope Pollifex. Like Una she was pale, and she gave evidence with reluctance. Yes, she had told the accused about his uncle’s anti-indigestion pills, mentioning that he took them three times a day after meals. Yes, the accused had lunched at The Moat on the 17th of August, and dined on the 25th. On each occasion the ladies left the room on the conclusion of the meal, and he remained alone with the deceased.

‘Now tell me, Mrs Pollifex,’ went on Coppard, ‘did you keep control of the linen cupboard at The Moat?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Do you remember the night on which the accused dined with you?’

‘Yes.’

‘The 25th of August?’

‘Yes.’

‘On the next day, the 26th of August, did your late butler, John Weatherup, make any request to you in connexion with linen?’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘What did he ask?’

‘He asked me for a clean tablecloth.’

‘For a clean tablecloth. On what grounds did he ask for it?’

‘On the grounds that after dinner on the previous night a glass of wine had been spilled on the old one.’

‘Did you see the old tablecloth yourself?’

‘I did.’

‘And was it stained as alleged?’

‘It was.’

Beyond obtaining the admission that, so far as the witness herself knew, the wine might have been spilled by Weatherup rather than by either of the diners, Byng did not press his cross-examination. He did, however, make one point. The witness swore positively that Charles’s manner had betrayed no unusual excitement on the night on which he dined – the night on which he was accused of changing the pills.

Rollins was next called. With evident regret he told about Charles taking the pictures to be cleaned and bringing them back, in each case giving the dates.

On the call of Samuel Truelove Charles saw that the whole of the picture episode was coming out. How the police had found Truelove he could not imagine, or indeed how they had got on to the question of the pictures at all.

The oily gentleman whom he had met in Arundel Street seemed more at home in the box than had the previous witnesses. He described, very fairly, as Charles had to admit, their interview. Charles had brought the pictures, saying he wished to raise a loan on them for about six months. He, witness, had had them valued, and he had been able to offer £2,100 on them. Charles had agreed to this figure, and the money had been paid over in notes, in order, he had said, to avoid the transaction passing through his bank and becoming known.

Byng cross-examined with the easy-going slackness which made Charles so furious. The accused had mentioned a period of six months as the probable time during which he would require the loan. Was this strictly so? Had no other period been mentioned?

In reply, Truelove said that at first Charles had not known how long he might want to be accommodated, then had mentioned six months as a basis of discussion. He had, however, ascertained that the firm would keep the pictures for possible redemption for a period of two years. He had remarked that this would suit him, as before the end of two years his business would be either flourishing or dead.

With regard to Charles’s precautions to secure secrecy, Truelove admitted that this was a usual accompaniment of business done with his firm. It meant nothing except that clients did not wish the public to know they were in low water.

This was not so bad, but at sight of the next witness Charles shivered. He was a thin old man with a stoop, blinking through his glasses, and like a rather draggled old bird. He gave his name as Ebenezer Peabody.

Sir Richard Brander rose to examine him. He was, he stated, the proprietor of a chemist’s shop in Stamford Street, near Waterloo Station, in London. He remembered the 23rd of August. On that date a gentleman had come to his shop and asked for some potassium cyanide to destroy a wasps’ nest. He, witness, had demurred and pointed out that he was not allowed to sell poison to strangers. The gentleman had thereupon said that he understood that, but that there was no doubt of his identity. He showed a visiting card with the name ‘Francis Carswell, The Dove Cot, Sycamore Avenue, Surbiton’, engraved upon it. He also took some letters out of his pocket and passed them over. They bore the same address and had been through the post, as the stamps were cancelled. He, witness, was satisfied as to his caller’s identity, but before handing over the cyanide he made two further and, as he thought, conclusive tests. He knew Surbiton himself, and some of the doctors there, and he asked the caller if he knew one of them, a Dr Davis? The man said, ‘Of Eden Road?’, giving the correct address, and then further mentioned another doctor as being his own, again with the correct address. This quite convinced witness that all was right, but even still, to be on the safe side, he took occasion when going for the cyanide to look up the telephone directory, and he found Mr Carswell’s name there, given under the correct address.

‘So,’ went on Sir Richard, ‘you gave him the poison?’

‘Yes, sir, I gave it to him.’

‘How much?’

‘A tin containing one ounce – the usual amount for the purpose.’

‘Did you get him to sign your poison book?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Is that the book?’ Sir Richard took a book from his junior and passed it over.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Is that the man’s signature?’

‘Yes, sir. That’s what he wrote, anyhow.’

‘Quite. Now, Mr Peabody,’ Sir Richard became dramatic, ‘look round you. Do you see in court the gentleman who gave his name as Francis Carswell, and to whom you sold the cyanide?’

The old man blinked short-sightedly at Charles. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Who is it?’

‘The prisoner, sir.’

‘You’re quite sure of that? Remember you’re on your oath.’

‘I’m quite sure, sir.’

Sir Richard sat down. Charles, sunk in a trough of hopeless despair, could not but see the effect this evidence had had upon all present, and particularly on the jury. After this there could be no doubt as to the end. What was the good of going on? Let the thing be finished up at once and get the end over as soon as possible. He was lost!

But Heppenstall was on his feet, careless, nonchalant, apparently a little bored. Before beginning his cross-examination he stooped to whisper something to Byng, and laughed – actually
laughed
– at the younger man’s reply. Only that nothing mattered any more, Charles felt like getting up and screaming with impotent fury. To take his money and to do nothing to earn it, and actually to
laugh
at such a point in the proceedings! Charles had no language to describe his feelings.

‘Now, Mr Peabody,’ Heppenstall began in a pleasant, courteous tone, ‘you say you saw the accused in your shop on the 23rd of August, when you sold him some potassium cyanide. When did you next see him?’

The man thought. ‘May I look at my book?’ he asked, and when permission was given he went on: ‘On Tuesday, the 31st of October.’

‘Tuesday, the 31st of October,’ Heppenstall repeated. ‘Quite so. And where did you see him?’

‘At Cold Pickerby.’

‘Now how did you come to think of travelling to Cold Pickerby?’

‘The police asked me to.’

‘Did they tell you why?’

‘Yes, sir, they did.’

‘And what was the reason?’

‘They wanted me to see if I could recognize the man to whom I sold the poison.’

‘Quite so.’

Heppenstall had an eyeglass with which he made great play, taking it out to consult his brief and screwing it in again to gaze at the witness or the jury. Now he screwed it in, and in his quiet, pleasant voice asked his next question:

‘How long was this customer to whom you sold the poison in your shop, Mr Peabody?’

‘How long?’ The man thought. ‘Three or four minutes, I should think. Perhaps five. I didn’t watch the clock.’

‘Of course not. All I want is an estimate, and you estimate the time as from three to five minutes. Now tell me, is your shop well or poorly lighted?’

‘It’s not so bad,’ the man began in a hesitating way, but Heppenstall cut him short.

‘Not so bad? That’s no answer, Mr Peabody. I ask you, is your shop well or badly lighted? Remember that many of us have been there and know.’

The man appeared crestfallen. ‘It’s not too well lighted, I’m afraid,’ he said apologetically. ‘I’ve wanted to make some alterations to improve it, but times have been bad and I put it off.’

‘Quite. Don’t think I’m criticizing you. I’m simply trying to get the facts. The shop was not well lighted. How is that? Is the light obstructed in any way?’

‘The windows are rather small for the size of the shop.’

‘The shop is badly lighted because the windows are too small. Now another point. Can you tell the jury whether the purchaser of this poison stood with his face or his back to the light?’

The old man hesitated, then admitted: ‘With his back.’

‘He stood with his back to the light. What kind of hat was he wearing?’

Again Mr Peabody hesitated. Heppenstall repeated the question a little more sharply.

‘I didn’t just rightly take notice of that,’ the chemist answered with a certain sullenness. ‘I was thinking of my business and not what he was wearing.’

Heppenstall was urbanity itself. ‘You were thinking of your business and not of the appearance of your customer. Very natural, Mr Peabody. As I said before, you mustn’t think I’m criticizing your conduct. I simply asked if you had noticed his hat, and you hadn’t. Was he wearing glasses?’

Peabody was clearly about to reply, then his eyes swung round to Charles as he sat in the dock, and he hesitated.

‘Was he wearing glasses?’ Heppenstall repeated.

‘I thought he was,’ the old man said, instantly correcting himself to ‘I think he was.’

‘You thought he was, but on looking at the accused and seeing that he has none, you are now doubtful. Is that it?’ Heppenstall’s voice was more severe.

Sir Richard Brander was instantly on his feet to protest against this imputation of unworthy motives.

‘I impute no motives, worthy or otherwise,’ Heppenstall retorted. ‘I ask the witness if his customer was wearing glasses, and he tells me in effect that he doesn’t know. Is that correct, Mr Peabody?’

Peabody moved uneasily. ‘No,’ he returned. ‘I remember now. He was wearing glasses.’

‘Oh,’ said Heppenstall; ‘on second thoughts you believe he was wearing glasses. Did you notice if they were pince-nez or spectacles?’

‘Spectacles, I think.’

‘You think? Do you state on your oath that they were spectacles?’

Peabody did not. He wasn’t sure. Nor could he say whether the glasses were rimless or had gold or tortoiseshell rims.

Charles, realizing what Heppenstall was trying to do, was now listening with a painful intensity.

He saw that he had been wrong about Heppenstall. The man was earning his money all right. He knew what he wanted and he was getting it with consummate skill. Once again Charles believed there was hope.

Under Heppenstall’s courteous but persistent interrogation, Peabody was getting flustered. Systematically Heppenstall took him through his customer’s dress. The man swore his caller had a fawn-coloured overcoat or waterproof, though he couldn’t tell which. He didn’t know if he wore gloves, nor had he seen rings on his hands. On the other hand, he could not swear there were none. When Heppenstall turned from the subject his credibility as a witness had been shaken.