The Second Shot (21 page)

I felt I simply must interpose on this calm settling of my own affairs. ‘You will excuse us, Armorel,’ I said, with deliberate stiffness, ‘but Sheringham and I wish to discuss – ’

‘Whether the superintendent’s going to have you arrested immediately after the inquest, or give you a bit more rope. Come off your perch, Pinkie. We all know the police think you shot Eric, we all know that Mr Sheringham’s come down to try and convince them you didn’t, and
I
want to know what he thinks of his chances. Don’t be a spoil-sport, Pinkie.’

I was so indignant I could not trust myself to speak.

Sheringham, however saw fit to endeavour to be funny. At least, no doubt he thought it funny. Personally, I considered it merely offensive.

‘So you call him, “Pinkie”, do you?’ he said, with an appearance of great interest. ‘That’s odd. I call him “Tapers”, myself.’

‘Yes. So you told us last night. Well, there’s a lot to be said for it, but
I
think “Pinkie” suits him better. Just look at him now, for instance. Did you ever see anything pinker?’

No doubt my countenance was suffused with irritation. It cannot have been considered good taste to refer to the fact.

I rose to my feet, with difficulty keeping my exasperation within decent bounds. ‘There is a time for pleasantry, and for the reverse. I cannot consider this to be the former. When you have finished your joke with Miss Scott-Davies, Sheringham, I shall be interested to hear what you have to tell me. You will find me in Hillyard’s study.’

Armorel caught me by the trouser leg. ‘No, don’t go, Pinkie. I was a beast. It was only to keep my own silly spirits up. Don’t be angry.’

Sheringham too began to apologize, with one of the swift changes of mood which I remembered in him even as a small boy. ‘You’re perfectly right, Tapers. Damned offensive of me. I’m sorry. And good God, it’s no time for joking, as you say.’ He looked doubtfully at Armorel.

I detest the man who, however gross the offence, churlishly refuses to accept a sincere apology for it. Both had made amends for their ill-timed jesting, and I intimated in a word or two that the matter was already forgotten. But I too looked doubtfully at Armorel, and meaningly too.

‘No,
please
don’t send me away,’ she implored, in a manner as different from the one in which she had seen fit to address me a few minutes ago as one can well imagine. ‘Pinkie
darling,
let me hear the news. I’m – I’m almost as anxious as you are, for you to be cleared, you know. And there’s nothing I don’t know about the case already. Do let me stay.’

‘It’s for you to say, Tapers,’ remarked Sheringham, rather gruffly.

I looked down again at Armorel. She was actually clasping my leg, so that I could not have moved if I wished.
‘Please,
Pinkie!’

I really had no option but to invite her to remain.

Sheringham glanced at his watch as I reseated myself. ‘It’s half-past ten.’

‘We haven’t far to go,’ Armorel put in. ‘The inquest is in one of the barns here.’

Sheringham nodded, as if he knew that already. ‘Well, it won’t take me a minute to say what I’ve got to say. I’ve had a talk with the superintendent. He wasn’t inclined to be communicative, but one thing stuck out a yard long: you’re in damned hot water, Tapers, my boy.’

‘I know that,’ I sighed. The news did not surprise me.

‘Are they – are they going to arrest him?’ Armorel asked, with an odd little catch in her voice. The girl seemed really concerned now. I could not make her out.

‘I couldn’t gather that,’ Sheringham replied gravely. ‘But I rather think they are. I hinted that the evidence wasn’t sufficient, that it was only evidence really of motive and opportunity; there was none to connect you at all with the rifle from which the fatal shot was fired, or even to establish your familiarity with firearms at all, which I should have thought indispensable; in fact, what evidence there was in that connection pointed definitely the other way.’

‘Yes?’ I said, quite calmly.

‘And he hinted back that a piece of evidence of some sort or other had just come into his hands which might make all the difference. He wouldn’t give me any idea of what it was, but it’s going to be brought out at the inquest. So prepare for a shock during the proceedings, Tapers.’

‘Certainly,’ I replied. ‘But I’ve had so many shocks these last few days that I don’t think one more can make much difference.’

‘Well, you take it dam’ well, I must say,’ Sheringham was good enough to observe.

‘He’s been
marvellous,’
Armorel said vigorously, catching at my arm, which she continued to hold in a curiously protective kind of way. ‘Oh, Mr Sheringham, you must clear him – you must!’

‘I’m sure Sheringham will do his utmost, my dear girl,’ I remarked.

Sheringham muttered something to the effect that he certainly would.

‘And is that all your news?’ I asked.

‘Yes. I don’t think the superintendent’s going to be obstructive, but I equally don’t think he’s going to be helpful. And listening between the words, I’m pretty sure he’s made up his mind about you, Tapers. You’re guilty, I rather gather, because nobody else can be.’

‘In other words,’ Armorel put in, ‘simply because he was down there when that last shot was fired, and no one else was?’

‘Yes, and no third person was either, to witness that Tapers didn’t fire the shot. Or to prove that Hillyard’s
was
the second shot. That comes to the same thing.’

‘Yes, I see,’ Armorel said thoughtfully. ‘We want two people really, don’t we? One, the guilty person, and one to witness that Pinkie didn’t fire the second shot. Or, as you say, that John did.’

‘If we could find the first of those two, the second wouldn’t be needed.’

‘Yes, but as we can’t, the second would at any rate clear Pinkie, if it didn’t help to find out who actually did shoot Eric. If – if it really wasn’t an accident after all.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Sheringham agreed. ‘The second would do that.’ He spoke without enthusiasm, and it was evident that he had no hopes of such a person existing. ‘By the way,’ he added to me, ‘I didn’t say anything about – you know what.’

‘What?’ asked Armorel quickly.

‘No,’ I said quietly.

‘You absolutely forbade it, remember.’

‘Quite correct.’

‘
What
?’ Armorel repeated.

‘Oh, one piece of evidence at any rate that Sheringham’s unearthed which may prove helpful later on,’ I said, purposely carelessly.

‘It might prove helpful now,’ Sheringham said with emphasis. ‘It might very well prevent your arrest. Don’t be a fool, Tapers. Let me tell the superintendent.’

‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘Not yet.’

Sheringham shrugged his shoulders.

Armorel looked from one to the other of us, but as it was clear that she was not to be enlightened, had the rather unexpected good sense to refrain from pressing us.

Sheringham jumped suddenly to his feet. ‘Well, I mustn’t waste any more time. I’m not coming to the inquest. I can read all the evidence afterwards. It’s too good an opportunity to miss of having a look around undisturbed. See you later, Tapers. And if they do put the gyves on you, keep your tail up. I’ll make the superintendent the sorriest man in Devonshire before I’m done.’

I am not likely to forget the inquest on Scott-Davies so long as I live.

I had never attended an inquest before, so that the procedure was unfamiliar to me. If I were a practised novelist no doubt I should be able to dilate on the contrast between the old stone-built barn, with its homely smell of hay and straw, and the grim purpose to which it was now being put; on the strange aspect of the trestle tables set out upon its mud-trodden floor, with the coroner and the solemn-faced jury at one and the sharp-featured reporters at another end; on the interest with which I watched this inquiry into the circumstances attending the death of a man known to myself.

I intend to do none of these things, for they were no more than surface impressions. My real and only feeling, which I will not conceal from the reader though I did my best to hide it at the time, was one of sick apprehension regarding this vital piece of evidence which Sheringham had told me was now in the hands of the police. What it might be I could not imagine, but it was clearly serious. Had they in some cunning way managed to connect me with that rifle which had been removed from the house earlier in the day? I did not see how it was possible, but nothing could surprise me now.

I sat on a bench, between John and Ethel; and it seemed to me that the anxious solicitude with which Ethel was treating me must stamp me indubitably to all onlookers as the guilty person. John was naturally aware of my uneasiness, and endeavoured to distract me by pointing out the various local bigwigs. The coroner, I learned, was a solicitor in Budeford, the foreman of the jury an important farmer; the rest of the jury was composed almost entirely of men gaining their livelihood from agriculture, whether as employers or employed. It was only to have been expected, but the fact did not make me feel any the easier; it has been my experience that the practice of agriculture dulls the wits of all who engage in it.

Besides the coroner, the police solicitor was the only other legal man present. I of course was not represented, in spite of John’s urging.

Before the proceedings began I noticed a conference taking place at one end of the barn which I did not care about at all. It was between the coroner, Mr Gifford (the police solicitor), Superintendent Hancock, and a tall man with grey hair whom John had already pointed out to me as Colonel Grace, the chief constable. None of them so much as glanced in our direction, yet I felt utterly positive that I was their subject. When the conversation finished Superintendent Hancock seated his burly form on a bench opposite us close to the door of the barn. Still he did not glance towards me, apparently busy with a notebook, but I had the uncomfortable feeling that he was watching me the whole time.

The jury were sworn, and then immediately were marshalled out to view the body, which was lying in an adjacent shed. They returned more solemn even than before, and the coroner at once began to make his preliminary statement, addressing the jury in quite informal tones and language.

Unexpectedly to myself, but to my relief, I was the first witness called, as having been the person to discover the body. When I have an unpleasant task ahead of me, I prefer to get it over as soon as possible. At least I should not be long now in learning the worst.

I think I may flatter myself that I succeeded in presenting a collected front as I took up the position indicated to me at the witness table. None of the strangers whose eyes were fastened on me could have gathered that beneath my calm appearance my heart was thumping in a really suffocating manner.

The first questions were purely formal, my age, my profession or occupation, the length of time I had known the Hillyards, and the rest. I answered them in a voice which, I was privately pleased to find, remained perfectly steady. Furthermore, the coroner, a little elderly man with a trim grey beard and gold spectacles, was courtesy and kindness itself. If he had received any warning to treat me as what I believe is termed a hostile witness, there was no trace of it in his manner. I began to feel just a very little bit more at my ease.

‘Now, Mr Pinkerton,’ he said, after I had, so to speak, identified myself, ‘I’m not going to ask you any questions about how this little play that all of you enacted, as I was telling the jury, came into being. Mr Hillyard, who I understand was largely responsible for its composition, can tell us that. We’ll go straight on, if you don’t mind, to its performance. Now just tell the jury in your own words what happened after you left the house at approximately, I understand’ – he shuffled hurriedly among his notes – ‘yes, 2:45 that afternoon.’

‘With pleasure,’ I replied, with a slight bow, and turning to the jury I gave as succinct an account as I could of the events in question. From time to time the coroner interposed a question to make clear some point insufficiently elucidated. It was all exactly as I had expected. My troubles, I knew, would not come yet.

I described our performance of the mock drama. (‘I want you to listen very carefully to this, gentlemen,’ remarked the coroner confidentially to the jury. ‘It is essential that we should differentiate clearly between what was pretended and what actually happened.’) I narrated the part played by the three pseudo-detectives, who were of course all now in court, and I put forth the circumstances in which I heard the two shots fired, with my own subsequent discovery of the body. Fortunately it seemed that the officious individual who is popularly supposed to be included always in a coroner’s jury did not seem on this occasion to be present, for none of them volunteered to ask awkward questions – though I knew that my fill of awkward questions would very soon arrive.

It did so with the end of my narrative, when the coroner leaned back in his chair and murmured: ‘Thank you, Mr Pinkerton, thank you. That seems very clear. Er – have you any questions you wish to put to the witness, Mr Gifford?’

Mr Gifford rose with alacrity. I knew my real ordeal was upon me, and took a fresh grip of myself.

His first remarks were quite unexpected. ‘Just one or two points, Mr Pinkerton. In a case like this, you’ll agree that accuracy regarding times is essential. Now I have here a suggested timetable covering the period with which we’re really concerned, and I should like to know whether you agree with it. I’ll read it out:

‘3:30 p.m. You and Mrs Fitzwilliam begin to ascend the hill, Professor Johnson and Mr Bradley having gone on a few yards ahead of you.

‘3:32 p.m. The first shot.

‘3:33 p.m. You go back.

‘3:34 p.m. You reach the bottom and pass out of Mrs Fitzwilliam’s observation.

‘3:37 p.m. The second shot.

‘3:43 p.m. You begin to ascend again.

‘3:44 p.m. You reach the point where you left Mrs Fitzwilliam and do not find her there, and a strange impulse seizes you to go down again, which you do.

‘3:45 p.m. You discover the body in an unfrequented track, and, without examining it, turn away to find help, and encounter Mr Hillyard.