At the inquest on the body of Sir Horace Fewbanks, which was held at
the Hampstead Police Court, there was an odd mixture of classes in the
crowd that thronged that portion of the court in which the public were
allowed to congregate. The accounts of the crime which had been
published in the press, and the atmosphere of mystery which enshrouded
the violent death of one of the most prominent of His Majesty's judges,
had stirred the public curiosity, and therefore, in spite of the fact
that every one was supposed to be out of town in August, the attendance
at the court included a sprinkling of ladies of the fashionable world,
and their escorts.
Both branches of the legal profession were numerously represented. All of
the victim's judicial colleagues were out of town, and though some of
them intended as a mark of respect for the dead man to come up for the
funeral, which was to take place two days later, they were too familiar
with legal procedure to feel curiosity as to the working of the machinery
at a preliminary inquiry into the crime. They were emphatic among their
friends on the degeneracy of these days which rendered possible such an
outrageous crime as the murder of a High Court judge. The fact that it
was without precedent in the history of British law added to its enormity
in the eyes of gentlemen who had been trained to worship precedent as the
only safe guide through the shifting quicksands of life. They were
insistent on the urgency of the murderer being arrested and handed over
to Justice in the person of the hangman, for--as each asked
himself--where was this sort of crime to end? In spite of the degeneracy
of the times they were reluctant to believe in such a far-fetched
supposition as the existence of a band of criminals who, in revenge for
the judicial sentences imposed on members of their class, had sworn to
exterminate the whole of His Majesty's judges; but, until the murderer
was apprehended and the reason for the crime was discovered, it was
impossible to say that the English judicature would not soon be called
upon to supply other victims to criminal violence. The murder of a judge
seemed to them a particularly atrocious crime, in the punishment of which
the law might honourably sacrifice temporarily its well-earned reputation
for delay.
The bar was represented chiefly by junior members. The senior members
were able to make full use of the long vacation, spending it at health
resorts or in the country, but the incomes of the young shoots of the
great parasitical profession did not permit them to enjoy more than a
brief holiday out of town. Of course it would never have done for them
to admit even to each other that they could not afford to go away for an
extended holiday, and therefore they told one another in bored tones
that they had not been able to make up their minds where to go. The
junior bar included old men, who, through lack of influence, want of
energy, want of advertisement, want of ability, or some other
deficiency, had never earned more than a few guineas at their
profession, though they had spent year after year in chambers. They
lived on scanty private means. Broken in spirit they had even ceased to
attend the courts in order to study the methods and learn the tricks of
successful counsel. But the murder of a High Court judge was a thing
which stirred even their sluggish blood, and in the hope of some
sensational development they had put on faded silk hats and shabby black
suits and gone out to Hampstead to attend the inquest.
The interest of the junior bar in the crime was as personal as that of
the members of the Judicial Bench, though it manifested itself in an
entirely different direction. They speculated among themselves as to who
would be appointed to the vacancy on the High Court Bench. A leading K.C.
with a political pull would of course be selected by the
Attorney-General, but there were several K.C.'s who possessed these
qualifications, and therefore there was room for differences of opinion
among the junior bar as to who would get the offer. The point on which
they were all united was that vacancies of the High Court Bench were a
good thing for the bar as a whole, for they removed leading K.C.'s, and
the dispersion of their practice was like rain on parched ground.
Metaphorically speaking, every one--including even the junior bar--had
the chance of getting a shove up when a leading K.C. accepted a judicial
appointment. Some of the more irreverent spirits among the junior bar, in
drawing attention to the fact that Sir Horace Fewbanks had been one of
the youngest members of the High Court Bench, expressed the hope that the
shock of his death would be felt by some of the extremely aged members of
the bench who were too infirm in health to be able to stand many shocks.
The members of the junior bar chatted with the representatives of the
lower branch of the profession who ranged from articled clerks whose
young souls had not been entirely dried up by association with parchment,
to hard old delvers in dusty documents who had lived so long in the legal
atmosphere of quibbling, obstruction, and deceit, that they were as
incapable of an honest impetuous act as of an illegal one. The gossip
concerning the murdered judge in which the two branches of the profession
joined had reference to his moral character in legal circles. There had
always been gossip of the kind in his life-time. Sir Horace's judicial
reputation was beyond reproach and he had known his law a great deal
better than most of his judicial colleagues. Comparatively few of his
decisions had been upset on appeal. But every one about the courts knew
that he was susceptible to a pretty feminine face and a good figure.
Many were the conflicts that arose in court between bench and bar as the
result of Mr. Justice Fewbanks's habit of protecting pretty witnesses
from cross-examining questions which he regarded as outside the case.
There was no suggestion that his judicial decisions were influenced by
the good looks of ladies who were parties to the cases heard by him, but
there were rumours that on occasions the relations between the judge and
a pretty witness begun in court had ripened into something at which moral
men might well shake their heads.
While the members of the legal profession struggled to obtain seats in
the body of the court, an entirely different class of spectators
struggled to get into the gallery. For the most part they were badly
dressed men who needed a shave, but there were a few well-dressed men
among them, and also a few ladies. Detective Rolfe took a professional
interest in the occupants of the gallery. "What a collection of crooks,"
he whispered to Inspector Chippenfield. "A regular rogues' gallery.
Look--there is 'Nosey George'; it is time he was in again. And behind him
is that cunning old 'drop' Ikey Samuels--I wish we could get him. Look at
the other end of the first row. Isn't that 'Sunny Jim'? I hardly knew
him. He's grown a beard since he's been out. We'll soon have it off again
for him. He's got the impudence to scowl at us. He'll lay for you one of
these nights, Inspector."
The judicial duties of the murdered man had been concerned chiefly with
civil cases at the Royal Courts of Justice, but when the criminal
calendar had been heavy he had often presided at Number One Court at the
Old Bailey. It was this fact which had given the criminal class a sort of
personal interest in his murder and accounted for the presence of many
well-known criminals who happened to be out of gaol at the time. The
spectators in the gallery included men whom the murdered man had
sentenced and men who had been fortunate enough to escape being sentenced
by him owing to the vagaries of juries. There were pickpockets, sneak
thieves, confidence men, burglars, and receivers among the occupants of
the gallery, and many of them had brought with them the ladies who
assisted them professionally or presided over their homes when they were
not in gaol.
"I wouldn't be surprised if the man we want is among that bunch," said
Rolfe to Inspector Chippenfield.
"You've a lot to learn about them, my boy," said his superior.
"There is Crewe up among them," continued Rolfe. "I wonder what he thinks
he's after."
Inspector Chippenfield gave a glance in the direction of Crewe, but did
not deign to give any sign of recognition. The fact that Crewe by his
presence in the gallery seemed to entertain the idea that the murderer
might be found among the occupants of that part of the court could not be
as lightly dismissed as Rolfe's vague suggestion. It annoyed Inspector
Chippenfield to think that Crewe might be nearer at the moment to the
murderer than he himself was, even though that proximity was merely
physical and unsupported by evidence or even by any theory. It would have
been a great relief to him if he had known that Crewe's object in going
to the gallery was not to mix with the criminal classes, but in order to
keep a careful survey of what took place in the body of the court without
making himself too prominent.
Mr. Holymead, K.C., arrived, and members of the junior bar deferentially
made room for him. He shook hands with some of these gentlemen and also
with Inspector Chippenfield, much to the gratification of that officer.
Miss Fewbanks arrived in a taxi-cab a few minutes before the appointed
hour of eleven. She was accompanied by Mrs. Holymead, and they were shown
into a private room by Police-Constable Flack, who had received
instructions from Inspector Chippenfield to be on the lookout for the
murdered man's daughter.
Miss Fewbanks and Mrs. Holymead had been almost inseparable since the
tragedy had been discovered. Immediately on the arrival of Miss Fewbanks
from Dellmere, Mrs. Holymead had gone out to Riversbrook to condole with
her, and to support her in her great sorrow. But the murdered man's
daughter, who, on account of having lived apart from her father, had
developed a self-reliant spirit, seemed to be less overcome by the
horror of the tragedy than Mrs. Holymead was. It was with a feeling that
there was something lacking in her own nature, that the girl realised
that Mrs. Holymead's grief for the violent death of a man who had been
her husband's dearest friend was greater than her own grief at the loss
of a father.
One of the directions in which Mrs. Holymead's grief found expression was
in a feverish desire to know all that was being done to discover the
murderer. She displayed continuous interest in the investigations of the
detectives engaged on the case, and she had implored Miss Fewbanks to let
her know when any important discovery was made. She applauded the action
of her young friend in engaging such a famous detective as Crewe, and
declared that if anyone could unravel the mystery, Crewe would do it. She
had been particularly anxious to hear through Miss Fewbanks what Crewe's
impressions were, with regard to the tragedy.
The court was opened punctually, the coroner being Mr. Bodyman, a stout,
clean-shaven, white-haired gentleman who had spent thirty years of his
life in the stuffy atmosphere of police courts hearing police-court
cases. Police-Inspector Seldon nodded in reply to the inquiring glance of
the coroner, and the inquest was opened.
The first witness was Miss Fewbanks. She was dressed in deep black and
was obviously a little unnerved. In a low tone she said she had
identified the body as that of her father. She was staying at her
father's country house in Dellmere, Sussex, when the crime was committed.
She had no knowledge of anyone who was evilly disposed towards her
father. He had never spoken to her of anyone who cherished a grudge
against him.
Evidence relating to the circumstances in which the body was found
was given by Police-Constable Flack. He described the position of the
room in which the body was found, and the attitude in which the body
was stretched. He was on duty in the neighbourhood of Tanton Gardens
on the night of the murder, but saw no suspicious characters and
heard no sounds.
The evidence of Hill was chiefly a repetition of what he had told
Inspector Chippenfield as to his movements on the day of the crime, and
his methods of inspecting the premises three times a week in accordance
with his master's orders. He knew nothing about Sir Horace's sudden
return from Scotland. His first knowledge of this was the account of the
murder, which he read in the papers.
Inspector Chippenfield gave evidence for the purpose of producing the
letter received at Scotland Yard announcing that Sir Horace Fewbanks had
been murdered. The letter was passed up to the coroner for his
inspection, and when he had examined it he sent it to the foreman of the
jury. Then followed medical evidence, which showed that death was due to
a bullet wound and could not have been self-inflicted.
The coroner, in his summing-up, dwelt upon the loss sustained by the
Judiciary by the violent death of one of its most distinguished members,
and the jury, after a retirement of a few minutes, brought in a verdict
of wilful murder by some person or persons unknown.
As the occupants of the court filed out into the street, Crewe, who was
watching Holymead, noticed the K.C. give a slight start when he saw Miss
Fewbanks and his wife. Mr. Holymead went up to the ladies and shook hands
with Miss Fewbanks, and to Crewe it seemed as if he was on the point of
shaking hands with his wife, but he stopped himself awkwardly. He saw the
ladies into their cab, and, raising his hat, went off. As Mr. Holymead
had seen Miss Fewbanks in court when she gave evidence, it was obvious to
Crewe that he could not have been surprised at meeting her outside. It
was therefore the presence of his wife which had surprised him. That
fact--if it were a fact--opened a limitless field of speculation to
Crewe, but in spite of the possibility of error--a possibility which he
frankly recognised--he was pleased with himself for having noticed the
incident. To him it seemed to provide another link in the chain he was
constructing. It harmonised with Taylor's story of Mr. Holymead's
decision to stay at Verney's instead of entering his own home the night
Taylor drove him from Hyde Park Corner.
Rolfe also possessed the professional faculty of observation, but in a
different degree. He had seen Mr. Holymead talking to his wife and Miss
Fewbanks, but he had noticed nothing but gentlemanly ease in the
barrister's manner. What did astonish him in connection with Mr. Holymead
was that after he had left the ladies and was walking in the direction of
the cab-rank he spoke to one of the former occupants of the gallery. This
was a man known to the police and his associates as "Kincher." His name
was Kemp, and how he had obtained his nick-name was not known. He was a
criminal by profession and had undergone several heavy sentences for
burglary. He was a thick-set man of medium height, about fifty years of
age. Apart from a rather heavy lower jaw, he gave no external indication
of his professional pursuits, but looked, with his brown and
weather-beaten face and rough blue reefer suit, not unlike a seafaring
man. The likeness was heightened by a tattooed device which covered the
back of his right hand, and a slight roll in his gait when he walked. But
appearances are deceptive, for Mr. Kemp, at liberty or in gaol, had never
been out of London in his life. He was born and bred a London thief, and
had served all his sentences at Wormwood Scrubbs. For over a minute he
and Mr. Holymead remained in conversation. Rolfe would have described it
officially as familiar conversation, but that description would have
overlooked the deference, the sense of inferiority, in "Kincher's"
manner. For a time Rolfe was puzzled by the incident, but he eventually
lighted on an explanation which satisfied himself. It was that in the
earlier days before Mr. Holymead had reached such a prominent position at
the bar, he had been engaged in practice in the criminal courts, and
"Kincher" had been one of his clients.
With a cheerful smile Holymead brought the conversation to an end and
went on his way. Kemp walked on hurriedly in the opposite direction. He
had his eyes on a young man whom he had seen in the gallery, and who had
seemed to avoid his eye. It was obvious to him that this young man, for
whom he had been on the watch when Mr. Holymead spoke to him, had seized
the opportunity to slip past him while he was talking to the eminent K.C.
The young man, even from the back view, seemed to be well-dressed.
"Hallo, Fred," exclaimed Mr. Kemp, as he reached within a yard or two of
his quarry.
"Hallo, Kincher," replied the young man, turning round. "I didn't notice
you. Were you up at the court?"
"Yes, I looked in," said Mr. Kemp. "There wasn't much doing, was there?"
"No," said Fred.
"He won't trouble us any more," pursued Mr. Kemp.
"No." The young man seemed to have a dread of helping along the
conversation, and therefore sought refuge in monosyllables.
Mr. Kemp coughed before he formed his question.
"Did you go up there that night?"
"No." The reply came instantaneously, but the young man followed it up
with a look of inquiry to ascertain if his denial was believed.
"A good thing as it happened," said Mr. Kemp.
"I had nothing to do with it," said Fred, earnestly.
"I never said you had," replied Mr. Kemp.
"Nothing whatever to do with it," continued the young man with emphasis.
"That's not my sort of game."
"I'm not saying anything, Fred," replied the elder man. "But whoever done
it might have done it by accident-like."
"Accident or no accident, I had nothing to do with it, thank God."
"That is all right, Fred. I'm not saying you know anything about it. But
even if you did you'd find I could be trusted. I don't go blabbing round
to everybody."
"I know you don't. But as I said before I had nothing to do with it. I
didn't go there that night--I changed my mind."
"A very lucky thing then, because if they do look you up you can prove
an alibi."
"Yes," said Fred, "I can prove an alibi easy enough. But what makes you
talk about them looking me up? Why should they get into me--why should
they look me up? I've told you I didn't go there."
"That is all right, Fred," said the other, in a soothing tone. "If that
pal of yours keeps his mouth shut there is nothing to put them on your
tracks. But I don't like the looks of him. He seems to me a bit nervous,
and if they put him through the third degree he'll squeak. That's my
impression."
"If he squeaks he'll have to settle with me," said Fred. "And he'll find
there is something to pay. If he tries to put me away I'll--I'll--I'll
do him in."
"Kincher" instead of being horrified at this sentiment seemed to approve
of it as the right thing to be done. "I'd let him know if I was you,
Fred," he said. "I didn't like the look of him. The reason I came out
here to-day was to have a look at him. And when I saw him in the box I
said to myself, 'Well, I'm glad I've staked nothing on you, for it seems
to me that you'll crack up if the police shake their thumb-screws in your
face.' I felt glad I hadn't accepted your invitation to make it a
two-handed job, Fred. It was the fact that some one else I'd never seen
had put up the job that kept me out of it when you asked me to go with
you. A man can't be too careful--especially after he's had a long spell
in 'stir,' But of course you're all right if you changed your mind and
didn't go up there. But if I was you I'd have my alibi ready. It is no
good leaving things until the police are at the door and making one up on
the spur of the moment."
"Yes, I'll see about it," said Fred. "It's a good idea."
"Come in and have a drink, Fred," said "Kincher." "It will do you good.
It was dry work listening to them talking up there about the murder."
Fred accompanied Mr. Kemp into the bar of the hotel they reached, and the
elder man, after an inquiring glance at his companion, ordered two
whiskies. "Kincher" added water to the contents of each glass, and,
lifting his glass in his right hand, waited until Fred had done the same
and then said:
"Well, here's luck and long life to the man that did it--whoever he is."
Fred offered no objection to this sentiment and they drained glasses.