The Baker Street Jurors (21 page)

“Or wielding one,” said Bankstone.

“The remaining alternative is this,” said Mrs. Peabody. “We gather all the available facts, we make any deductions that are warranted—and then we submit them to a jury to decide.”

“You mean we have a trial,” said Nigel.

“Yes, I think you can call it that.”

“For whom?” said Nigel.

“Each of us in turn, I suppose.”

“And what do we do if we find one of us guilty?” said Lucy.

“First things first,” said Bankstone. “Let's get on with it and figure out who it is. Everyone sit down at the table.”

There was a general hesitation—no one had yet come to any conclusion that Bankstone was the boss—but no one had any better suggestions.

So each of them took a seat on one of the benches on either side of the dining table.

For a moment—with the body of Mr. Armstrong laying on the center of the table between them all—no one spoke.

“Talk about awkward,” said Lucy. “We shouldn't have put Mr. Armstrong on the table. Especially if we're all going to get together for breakfast in the morning. I mean, if we ever get the Spam open.”

“My guess is we aren't going to like each other very much by morning anyway,” said Mrs. Peabody. “I mean, presuming of course that we all survive that long.”

“Well, I'm not sitting next to his face,” said Lucy. “It's … morbid.”

“Let's move the bench to the other end of the room, by the fireplace,” said Mrs. Peabody. “And then we'll take turns. One person will sit there on the stool, and the others will sit there on the bench and listen, and another person will ask the questions. When we're done with one person on the stool, we'll all change places and go to the next.”

“What about Mr. Siger?” said Lucy.

“We can worry about him later,” said Bankstone. “If he decided to go for a walk or something in this storm, that's his own problem.”

“I don't think she meant that in the sense of is he in trouble and do we have to go rescue him or something,” said Mrs. Peabody.

Yes, she did, thought Nigel.

“Well, actually, that is what I meant,” said Lucy.

“Oh. Sorry,” said Mrs. Peabody. “But what I'm wondering is—what if it's Mr. Siger that has been—well—killing us? We don't want to convict him in absentia, of course, but if we can determine that it was him, then we'll know that all we have to do to protect ourselves is keep him out until help arrives.”

“All right then,” said Bankstone. “Let's figure out if it's him, and if we decide it isn't him, then we'll decide which of us it is. I'll be the one that asks the questions. I'm the prosecutor.”

“No,” said Nigel. “We'll take turns at that.”

They were standing eye to eye. Bankstone blinked.

“All right,” he said. “We'll take turns.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Mrs. Peabody. “I'm sure that's what you meant. You can begin, Mr. Bankstone.”

With that dispensation, Bankstone took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and stood up very straight. “Now then,” he said. “We know the means. It was this axe, right here.” Bankstone picked the tool up by its handle and displayed it for everyone to see.

“You shouldn't have done that,” said Nigel.

“Done what?”

“Picked up the axe. Now your fingerprints are on it.”

“What's your point?”

“We might have been able to take fingerprints from the axe, with a little charcoal dust from the fireplace. But now you've handled it, so your fingerprints being on it will no longer tell us anything.”

“Bloody hell, I'm not a suspect!”

“Now, be fair,” said Mrs. Peabody. “We're all suspects.”

“The axe won't be conclusive anyway,” said Nigel. “Not by itself. It was out in the rain, and most of us touched it when we moved the body.”

“Fine,” said Bankstone. He began to pace, still holding the axe in one hand. “Then let's do motive.”

He rubbed his chin for a moment, and then he said, “It seems to me that Mr. Siger was behaving a little oddly from the very beginning.”

“How so?” said Nigel.

“Anyone who has any sense at all tries to get out of jury duty—but that bloke seemed to be going out of his way to get on it!”

“Well, actually,” said Mrs. Peabody. “I think your premise is wrong. Of all of us, the only one who I think made an actual effort to avoid jury duty was you. All of the rest of us were willing.”

“Well, in my book, that makes you all suspects. Willing is only one step from eager, and eager is suspicious. But there's more that points to Siger.”

“Like what?” said Nigel.

“He spent a lot of time analyzing other jurors in the canteen. That's exactly what someone would do if their purpose in being there was to stack the jury somehow. He was assessing everyone, to determine how they would likely vote, so he'd know who to bump off and who to leave on.”

“That's a stretch,” said Nigel.

“No,” said Mrs. Peabody, thoughtfully. “No, I don't think so. It rather makes sense to me. Are we ready to take a vote?”

“No, wait—don't answer yet,” said Bankstone. “There's more.” Something in the way he phrased that caused them all to look at him with great anticipation. Bankstone continued, “Doesn't it seem odd to any of you that Siger has known so much about the island? And what about the questions that he asked during the trial? And talk about cold-blooded—have you ever met anyone who knows so little about sports? So little about the celebrities on reality telly?”

“Weirdness is not evidence,” said Nigel.

“All right then—there's the axe, which was the means; and the motive, which is jury nobbling; and the opportunity—did he have that? The answer is yes!” Bankstone turned with a great flourish, clearly wanting to point at someone—but of course Siger wasn't there to point at.

But Mrs. Peabody was nodding in agreement. Even Lucy looked as though perhaps she was being swayed. She glanced at Nigel.

Nigel stood. “Your entire premise is faulty,” he said to Bankstone. “You've presented no motive for Siger to have wanted to influence the jury, but even if he had one, there is no way he could have planned any of this. None of the events associated with the island—starting with the insurance salesman's plunge from the cliff and including the axing of Armstrong—could have happened unless we came to the island. And there was no plan to do that when the trial began. Siger could not have known that it would happen, and he did not do anything to make it happen. Coming here was the judge's decision.”

“Bloody fool of a judge,” said Bankstone. But then he thought about it. “Now wait a moment,” he said. “It wasn't the judge that wanted to do this—it was one of us! It was the question from the jury that made it happen. And that question was not from Siger, that question was from … from … from you!”

Bankstone was pointing right at Nigel, and now continued with great energy. “Were you or were you not alone in this kitchen just thirty minutes ago?”

“Well … yes, but—”

“And your only excuse for having come down here was to find a can of Spam?”

“Well … yes.”

Bankstone turned to the other jurors. “A can of Spam!” he said, with an inflection that said they should be as incredulous as he was. Then he turned back to Nigel.

“You seriously expect these jurors to believe that you came down to the kitchen in the dead of night for nothing but a can of Spam?”

“Yes,” said Nigel. “Pretty much. Spam and whatever else it might lead to. But I really don't think you're giving Spam the credit it deserves. When thinly sliced and properly fried, so that it is nice and crispy around the edges—”

“That's quite enough about the preparation of Spam, thank you. Now let us back up just a bit. Let us think back, to the first day of the trial. Do you remember that?”

“Of course.”

“Then let me ask you—were you in the hallway when primary juror number seven fell down the stairs?”

“Yes.”

“And in the canteen, did you warn Lucy here not to get the white sauce for the pasta?”

“Well, yes.”

“And it was indeed your question that resulted in this site visit and our trip to this accursed island, was it not?”

“Yes.”

“And on the cliff, you were the last to touch the insurance salesman before he fell?”

“I … think so.”

“And you were downstairs alone this evening before the body of Mr. Armstrong was discovered?”

“Well … yes.”

“Aha! Fellow jurors, I submit that Mr. Heath here is the planted juror and is the one who has been bumping us off. It's time to take a vote.”

“Sit down, young man,” said Mrs. Peabody. “This is not an election and it's not a popularity contest. It's a trial.” Mrs. Peabody said this with great authority, and for a moment Bankstone looked just a little sheepish.

He sat down. “All right, all right, as you say.”

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Peabody. “Now then—does anyone have anything else to say?”

Apparently no one did—Nigel looked from one to another, and no one had any help to offer.

“I didn't do it!” said Nigel.

“Yes, of course, you are entitled to your denial,” said Mrs. Peabody. “So—now it is time to take a vote. What say you all?”

“Guilty,” said Bankstone quickly.

“I vote guilty, too,” said Mrs. Peabody.

Now Mrs. Peabody looked at Lucy. Lucy hesitated. Nigel looked at her expectantly, and she looked back—but still she hesitated.

“I abstain,” she said.

“You can't abstain!” said Mrs. Peabody, sounding quite exasperated now. “We have to reach a decision!”

Lucy looked away from Nigel. She looked at each of the other people in the room, one at a time, then up at the ceiling—and then she finally looked back at Nigel again, and she sighed. “Guilty,” she said.

Nigel stared at her, open-mouthed. He could not believe what he'd just heard.

“Right, then,” said Bankstone. “Let's tie him up.”

“I don't think so,” said Nigel, standing.

“No one agreed to anything about tying anyone up!” said Lucy.

“Well, that's the whole point, isn't it?” said Bankstone. “How else are we going to get any sleep? If we don't tie him, he'll wait until we're all asleep and then sneak up and hit us with an axe!”

“But what if he's not the real killer?” said Lucy.

“She has a point,” said Nigel.

“We just now found him guilty, did we not?” said Mrs. Peabody.

“Yes, but what if we're wrong? What if the real killer is one of the rest of us? If we tie him and leave him down here by himself, he'll be at the killer's mercy.”

“Well … that's a risk I'm willing to take,” said Bankstone. “Anyway, we've reached a verdict. It's time to pass sentence.”

Bankstone turned toward Mrs. Peabody. “What do you say?”

“Personally, I just hope someone comes to rescue us soon. Another hour of this, and we're all going to just degenerate into something like out of
Lord of the Flies
.”

“Oh, that can't happen,” said Lucy. “We're English, after all.” Then she thought about it. “Oh. Right. I see your point.”

“So let's all keep calm. I think I know just what will help,” said Mrs. Peabody. “I want you all to just sit right here very quietly, and don't do anything rash, while I go into the kitchen for a few moments.”

“But what—” began Bankstone.

“Shh,” said Mrs. Peabody. “I said quietly.”

Mrs. Peabody picked up her purse and went into the kitchen. Nigel, curious, half-stood to follow. She shook her finger at him. “Sit.”

Nigel sat.

It took several minutes. While they waited, Bankstone glared suspiciously just once in Nigel's direction, but then looked away. Nigel looked at Lucy, trying to understand why she had voted the way she did, but she just gave a sheepish smile in return, then turned up her nose and looked straight ahead at nothing.

After a few minutes and some metallic banging noises—and then a scent that was unmistakable—Mrs. Peabody emerged from the kitchen.

“Here we are,” she said. She had a paper cup in each hand, both of them full of something hot, by the way she was carrying them. “Of course we've no milk at all. But one can't get more civilized than this.”

“You have Earl Grey tea?” said Bankstone, sniffing the air.

“You had matches?” said Nigel.

“Yes and yes,” said Mrs. Peabody. “I saved it all for when we would need it most. I think that appears to be now.” She handed the first cup to Lucy. “Here you are, dear,” she said. “No
Lord of the Flies
for us.”

She gave the second one to Bankstone. “You've been trying ever so hard, I know,” she said. “A spot of tea will chirp you right up. Or even you out. Or whatever. As my late husband used to say, good for what ails you.”

She looked at Nigel and said, “Now don't think I've forgotten you. I'll be right back.” She went back to the kitchen and then returned with two more cups, one of her own, and one for Nigel.

“Here, dear, nice and warm. Very relaxing. We didn't mean to upset you.”

Mrs. Peabody looked about the room, at each of them holding their cups of tea. “Well, go on,” she said, “sip up.”

Everyone obliged.

“Now then,” said Mrs. Peabody. “Clearly there's only one thing to do, and that's for all of us to just stay right here in the same room until help arrives. That way, the perpetrator, whoever it is, can't take any of the rest of us unawares.”

“Oh, that can't work,” said Bankstone.

“Why not?” said Lucy.

“Because … because … well, what about going to the loo?”