The Baker Street Jurors (25 page)

The ground was still wet, of course, but it couldn't be helped. He'd sat on worse surfaces in his life. He sat down, and got out his pipe, but didn't light it—smoke would rise up and be visible. So he kept the pipe unlit, and waited.

And waited. He was beginning to grow impatient. Perhaps this was not such a good idea after all. Perhaps it was a capital mistake. Or if not a capital mistake, at least an inconvenient one, as far as he personally was concerned. Perhaps his message had not gotten through and the chill in the ground was aching his bones for no good purpose at all.

He shifted position uneasily. His knees were cramped. His lower back hurt. His butt was cold. He wanted to stand up.

And then he heard it.

The splash of footsteps. Heavy. Long strides. But now growing nearer, and now becoming tentative.

Now very near—and now stopped.

Siger waited—just one moment longer—and then he heard the sound he was waiting for.

The squeak of the metal trapdoor.

Siger jumped up, aching joints notwithstanding, and turned, ready for a face-to-face confrontation.

Looking back at him, slack-jawed in surprise, was Mr. Walker, the bailiff. In one hand he was grasping the opened trapdoor to the tunnel—and in the other hand he held Bert's checkered flannel handkerchief—with all the DNA on it that Bert had so recently deposited.

Mr. Walker straightened to his full height. Siger, not at all short himself, but no match for the man he was staring at, stood very still, saying nothing but giving no ground.

Finally the bailiff let out a heavy sigh. “I knew it,” he said.

“Yes,” said Siger quietly. “It's not something I say often—but sometimes you should trust your instincts.”

Mr. Walker let go of the DNA evidence he had hoped to plant. He looked over his shoulder. Behind him, coming out of the back door of the pub, were Wembley and Rutledge—and behind them, with a look of disappointment and dismay so clear that it broadcast all the way across the lawn, was the judge.

“I knew it had to be a trap,” said Mr. Walker, looking about lamely as they all gathered around. “I knew it had to be. And I came anyway.”

The judge just stared, sadly. He could say nothing, and finally Chief Inspector Rutledge just escorted Mr. Walker back into the pub.

Nigel walked up next to Wembley, Sergeant Thackeray, and Slattery the prosecutor, as they stood by the tunnel entrance. Siger was still standing there as well. He looked at Nigel, and then at the officials, and he waved off the opportunity to explain, and began to light his pipe instead. Nigel turned to Wembley and the others.

“This tunnel is how Mr. Walker got to the sea tractor on the island, and then returned to the mainland after, without anyone knowing,” said Nigel. “If things had gone according to plan, he wouldn't have had to do it. But I don't think things went according to plan.

“And the tunnel is also how McSweeney got across from the island so quickly and without being seen. He discovered the entrance on the island after he began prepping the Scout camp for construction. He didn't tell anyone at the time, of course—the historical conservancy would have stopped him from building there if they'd known about it. In any case, now that we know how he got back and forth, I expect you can use this to destroy his alibi in the retrial.”

“You're right,” said Wembley. “I think we've got him now.”

Slattery shook his head. “Not with the way everyone feels about McSweeney. We'll give it a go, of course. But they've poked holes in our motive before, and they will do so again.”

“That can't be so, can it?” said Sergeant Thackeray. “What about the letters? They found her love letters, didn't they? And that shows motive, doesn't it?”

“It might have, sergeant,” said the prosecutor. “It just might have. But between the Scout lodge washing away, and the jurors going into the surf and losing everything they had in their pockets—well, there's nothing left of the letters. But we'll do our best. We'll get him if we can.”

Nigel, Wembley, and Slattery walked back into the pub. The sergeant remained behind, staring disgustedly down at the tunnel entrance. Siger remained behind as well, puffing on his pipe, and now he walked up to the sergeant.

“Perhaps you should tell them,” said Siger.

“Tell them what?”

Siger sighed and consolingly put a hand on the sergeant's shoulder. “That's not up to me to say,” said Siger, before walking on. “I'm just a juror.”

Inside the pub, Constable Bailey entered to help Inspector Rutledge take Mr. Walker into custody. But no assistance was needed. The bailiff stood calmly at the door waiting for them—and as he waited, he tried to explain it to the judge.

“I've been gambling a bit, sir,” said Mr. Walker. “Well, a lot, actually. And losing. And not to the legitimate bookies, either, but to the types that were here yesterday. They gave me a chance to erase it all. But it wasn't supposed to go this way.”

Nigel, Mrs. Peabody, and Lucy walked over to him now. “How was it supposed to go?” said Nigel. The bailiff took a breath, and then he told them.

“I was in debt to the gambling syndicate, but I wasn't the only one. On the first day of jury selection, they had seven jurors in the assembly hall who they had already bought or blackmailed. When the random selections were made, two of those seven were put into the general selection pool. That should have been enough. One of those two got himself booted out by wearing an England cricket team jersey. I think he got cold feet and did it on purpose. But we still had the insurance salesman, and he was a very persuasive bloke. He alone might have been able to sway the whole jury to an acquittal—and if he couldn't get that for us, at least he would hang the jury. It was my job to get him from the alternate pool into the primary twelve, and I managed it—I just gave the first woman a little nudge on the stairs, nothing serious, mind you, just enough of an injury to remove her from the pool. And then I got two more primary jurors out by adding a little something to their pasta sauce as they went through the lunch queue. And that was enough to move our insurance salesman ringer into position. But then he got himself drunk and stood too far out on the rocks. That wasn't my fault. Act of god, so to speak. But that meant we no longer had anyone on the jury we could control. And it wasn't going well, especially when jurors started poking holes in the alibi. There might have been a conviction. The scum that hold my debt wouldn't take that chance. So they—I—did the only thing we could—reduce the number of jurors to the point that there would have to be a mistrial.”

“You killed two people!” said Mrs. Peabody.

“Only jurors,” said the bailiff. And at that moment, Constable Bailey put the plastic ties on his wrists, and escorted him out the door.

Mrs. Peabody said to the judge, “Does he think that makes it all right?”

The judge put a hand on her shoulder. “Don't take it personally. You may have wondered why I am so against juror fraternizing? Mr. Walker had a bad experience last year, and I'm afraid he's been going downhill ever since. A young female juror passed her phone number to him in a note. They went out, even though we have rules against it. And when he was suspended temporarily for doing that, she dumped him. Apparently her initial attraction toward him had something to do with the uniform.”

“Oh. Well … I suppose I can understand that,” said Mrs. Peabody. “He did look quite sharp in it.”

 

26

On Monday morning at the Old Bailey, the McSweeney jurors gathered in the Court 13 corridor once more.

Mr. Justice Allen had given some consideration to not bringing them together in the courtroom again at all. So much had transpired that nothing could be normal. He knew the motion that would be made, and he knew that he would grant it. To assemble the jurors for this seemed at first to be an unnecessary formality.

But he had decided that it was not a formality. He wasn't assembling the jurors again for the sake of this trial, or even for the sake of the system.

Yes, the Crown would offer counseling to them, and probably that would help; it was the least the Crown could do. But his sense of it was that this last meeting might do something immediately that would take counseling months or years to accomplish. It might offer closure.

But even if it didn't do that, it would at least give the court an opportunity to say what he wanted to say.

Ms. Sreenivasan—the same steward they'd had all along—opened the doors and called the jurors in. Nigel, Lucy, Mrs. Peabody, and Mr. Siger all filed in together, and took their seats in the primary jurors section, with the other surviving jurors. Eleven, in total.

The barristers for both sides were already present, and appeared to be as exhausted as Nigel felt. They were not squabbling, and they did not look as though they were about to.

McSweeney himself was present as well. Of all the people in the courtroom, he was the only one who seemed—well, happy.

A new bailiff called the court to order, and the judge entered. He sat down in a silent courtroom. He looked at the barristers. “Do you have a motion?” he said.

“We do, my lord,” said Slattery. “The Crown moves for a mistrial.”

“The defense concurs,” said Langdon.

“It is so ordered,” said the judge.

And then he turned to the jury. “Members of the jury,” he began. “You may think the events that have transpired in this trial are extraordinary. And they are, of course. But many trials are extraordinary. I think it is fair to say that all trials are, if not extraordinary, at least profound, in the effects that they have on the parties involved. Nothing I have seen in the law is as extraordinary as the transformation that I see in jurors when they undertake their responsibilities. It happens every day. But I have never seen it happen to such an extent as I have seen in this jury. And so when I thank you now on behalf of the Crown, I want you to know that I am thanking you for more than your service. I am thanking you for restoring my faith. Thank you.”

And then he rapped his gavel. “Court is adjourned.”

Ten minutes later, with the lawyers having already gone in their own directions, the jurors in the corridor began to slowly disperse. Four of them were dispersing more slowly than the others. There were two exits from the corridor, and they would be going in different directions, and they hesitated.

Mrs. Peabody spoke first, and she put her hands on theirs. “As I used to say to my late husband,” she began, “if you'll indulge me this one last time—as I used to say to my late husband—I shall miss you very much.”

She turned, her blue eyes shining, and went toward the stairs.

Siger stood with his pipe in his hand, unlit. He was staring at it. He was having trouble looking at Nigel and Lucy. Finally he did.

“I apologize if I caused either of you any concern by sneaking out that way in the middle of the night,” he said. “I was reasonably certain there had to be a tunnel—there was really no other explanation for McSweeney being able to get back and forth to the mainland, unseen, to commit his murder. And I knew where the opening was, having actually tripped over it. It was arrogance on my part to go off exploring it secretly on my own while you all slept, I suppose, and for me to contact the authorities to set up the sting at the pub. I've been accused of that flaw before. In my youth, anyway. But also, I didn't want to put anyone else at risk. Ancient tunnels aren't the most predictable of places to take a stroll, especially when you aren't equipped for spelunking. With little light and no compass, it's easy to lose your direction. Which, in fact I did. I was detoured in off-branches of the main tunnel more than once, which I regret—because otherwise I would have encountered the bailiff on his way across.”

“That's history,” said Nigel. “What I want to know is, will you go back to playing the violin?”

Siger smiled slightly and nodded. “My thanks to you both,” he said. “I will. But perhaps I'll do some other things as well. It is, after all, every man's business to see justice done.” He turned and walked away down the corridor.

Now it was just Nigel and Lucy. She smiled—and then spoke before he could, in a move that he knew was intended to forestall any that he might make.

“You saw my tattoo, didn't you?”

“The England cricket team? Yes, I saw it.”

“I was seventeen,” she said, “and my first boyfriend was a fan of the team, and I was a foolish fan of his. That's all there was to that.”

“I see.”

“Do you want to see the other ones?”

“Other tattoos?”

“Yes.”

“I most certainly do.”

She pulled down the back edge of her halter top to expose an area just below the shoulder.

They were small, which was fine; it gave Nigel an excuse to look closely.

A daisy. And a rose. Both the same size, next to each other. Both appeared to be relatively recent, within the last few years.

Nigel thought about it. He thought about what Lois had said. The swimming lessons. The ballet lessons. And, what's more—the fact that even though Lucy clearly had the responsibility of taking someone to swimming lessons and ballet lessons, the court did not exempt her from jury duty.

“Daisy and Rose,” said Nigel. “Your daughters.”

“Twins,” said Lucy with a laugh, and then she said, “And my husband and I are not divorced. Just disagreeing.”

“So I gathered,” said Nigel.

“Really? You did figure that out?”

Nigel nodded. “Of course,” he said. “Elementary.”

She kissed him on the cheek and then walked away down the hall.

 

27

At Bob's Newsstand on Baker Street, the headlines read, “McSweeney Will Play!”

“What do you think of that?” said Bob, as Nigel stopped for his morning coffee.