Sir Charles Wildman, as he had said, cared more for honest facts than
for psychological fiddle-faddle.
Facts were very dear to Sir Charles. More, they were meat and drink to
him. His income of roughly thirty thousand pounds a year was derived
entirely from the masterful way in which he was able to handle facts.
There was no one at the bar who could so convincingly distort an
honest but awkward fact into carrying an entirely different
interpretation from that which any ordinary person (counsel for the
prosecution, for instance) would have put upon it. He could take that
fact, look it boldly in the face, twist it round, read a message from
the back of its neck, turn it inside out and detect auguries in its
entrails, dance triumphantly on its corpse, pulverise it completely,
re-mould it if necessary into an utterly different shape, and finally,
if the fact still had the temerity to retain any vestige of its
primary aspect, bellow at it in the most terrifying manner. If that
failed he was quite prepared to weep at it in open court.
No wonder that Sir Charles Wildman, K.C., was paid that amount of
money every year to transform facts of menacing appearance to his
clients into so many sucking-doves, each cooing those very clients’
tender innocence. If the reader is interested in statistics it might
be added that the number of murderers whom Sir Charles in the course
of his career had saved from the gallows, if placed one on top of the
other, would have reached to a very great height indeed.
Sir Charles Wildman had rarely appeared for the prosecution. It is not
considered etiquette for prosecuting counsel to bellow, and there is
scant need for their tears. His bellowing and his public tears were
Sir Charles Wildman’s long suit. He was one of the old school, one of
its very last representatives; and he found that the old school paid
him handsomely.
When therefore he looked impressively round the Crimes Circle on its
next meeting, one week after Roger had put forward his proposal, and
adjusted the gold-rimmed pince-nez on his somewhat massive nose, the
other members could feel no doubt as to the quality of the
entertainment in store for them. After all, they were going to enjoy
for nothing what amounted to a thousand-guinea brief for the
prosecution.
Sir Charles glanced at the note-pad in his hand and cleared his
throat. No barrister could clear his throat quite so ominously as Sir
Charles.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, in weighty tones, “it is not
unnatural that I should have been more interested in this murder than
perhaps any one else, for personal reasons which will no doubt have
occurred to you already. Sir Eustace Pennefather’s name, as you must
know, has been mentioned in connection with that of my daughter; and
though the report of their engagement was not merely premature, but
utterly without foundation, it is inevitable that I should feel some
personal connection, however slight, with this attempt to assassinate
a man who has been mentioned as a possible son-in-law to myself.
“I do not wish to stress this personal aspect of the case, which
otherwise I have tried to view as impersonally as any other with which
I have been connected; but I put it forward more as an excuse than
anything. For it has enabled me to approach the problem set us by our
President with a more intimate knowledge of the persons concerned than
the rest of you could have, and with, too, I fear, information at my
disposal which goes a long way towards indicating the truth of this
mystery.
“I know that I should have placed this information at the disposal of
my fellow-members last week, and I apologise to them wholeheartedly
for not having done so; but the truth is that I did not realise then
that this knowledge of mine was in any way germane to the solution, or
even remotely helpful, and it is only since I began to ponder over the
case with a view to clearing up the tragic tangle, that the vital
import of this information has impressed itself upon me.” Sir Charles
paused and allowed his resounding periods to echo round the room.
“Now, with its help,” he pronounced, looking severely from face to
face, “I am of opinion that I have read this riddle.”
A twitter of excitement, no less genuine because obviously awaited,
ran round the faithful Circle.
Sir Charles whisked off his pince-nez and swung them, in a
characteristic gesture, on their broad ribbon. “Yes, I think, in fact
I am sure, that I am about to elucidate this dark business to you. And
for this reason I regret that the lot has fallen upon me to speak
first. It would have been more interesting perhaps had we been
permitted to examine some other theories first, and demonstrate their
falsity, before we probed to the truth. That is, assuming that there
are other theories to examine.
“It would not surprise me, however, to learn that you had all leapt to
the conclusion to which I have been driven. Not in the least. I claim
no extraordinary powers in allowing the facts to speak to me for
themselves; I pride myself on no superhuman insight in having been
able to see further into this dark business than our official solvers
of mysteries and readers of strange riddles, the trained detective
force. Very much the reverse. I am only an ordinary human being,
endowed with no more powers than any of my fellow-creatures. It would
not astonish me for an instant to be apprised that I am only following
in the footsteps of others of you in fixing the guilt on the
individual who did, as I submit I am about to prove to you beyond any
possibility of doubt, commit this foul crime.”
Having thus provided for the improbable contingency of some other
member of the Circle having been so clever as himself, Sir Charles cut
some of the cackle and got down to business.
“I set about this matter with one question in my mind and one only—the
question to which the right answer has proved a sure guide to the
criminal in almost every murder that has ever been committed, the
question which hardly any criminal can avoid leaving behind him,
damning though he knows the answer must be: the question—_cui bono?_”
Sir Charles allowed a pregnant moment of silence. “Who,” he translated
obligingly, “was the gainer? Who,” he paraphrased, for the benefit of
any possible half-wits in his audience, “would, to put it bluntly,
_score_ by the death of Sir Eustace Pennefather?” He darted looks of
enquiry from under his tufted eyebrows, but his hearers dutifully
played the game; nobody undertook to enlighten him prematurely.
Sir Charles was far too practised a rhetorician to enlighten them
prematurely himself. Leaving the question as an immense query-mark in
their minds, he veered off on another track.
“Now there were, as I saw it, only three definite clues in this
crime,” he continued, in almost conversational tones. “I refer of
course to the forged letter, the wrapper, and the chocolates
themselves. Of these the wrapper could only be helpful so far as its
post-mark. The hand-printed address I dismissed as useless. It could
have been done by any one, at any time. It led, I felt, nowhere. And I
could not see that the chocolates or the box that contained them were
of the least use as evidence. I may be wrong, but I could not see it.
They were specimens of a well-known brand, on sale at hundreds of
shops; it would be fruitless to attempt to trace their purchaser.
Moreover any possibilities in that direction would quite certainly
have been explored already by the police. I was left, in short, with
only two pieces of material evidence, the forged letter and the
post-mark on the wrapper, on which the whole structure of proof must
be erected.”
Sir Charles paused again, to let the magnitude of this task sink into
the minds of the others; apparently he had overlooked the fact that
his problem must have been common to all. Roger, who with difficulty
had remained silent so long, interposed a gentle question.
“Had you already made up your mind as to the criminal, Sir Charles?”
“I had already answered to my own satisfaction the question I had
posed to myself, to which I made reference a few minutes ago,” replied
Sir Charles, with dignity but without explicitness.
“I see. You had made up your mind,” Roger pinned him down. “It would
be interesting to know, so that we can follow better your way of
approaching the proof. You used inductive methods then?”
“Possibly, possibly,” said Sir Charles testily. Sir Charles strongly
disliked being pinned down.
He glowered for a moment in silence, to recover from this indignity.
“The task, I saw at once,” he resumed, in a sterner voice, “was not
going to be an easy one. The period at my disposal was extremely
limited, far-reaching enquiries were obviously necessary, my own time
was far too closely engaged to permit me to make, in person, any
investigations I might find advisable. I thought the matter over and
decided that the only possible way in which I could arrive at a
conclusion was to consider the facts of the case for a sufficient
length of time till I was enabled to formulate a theory which would
stand every test I could apply to it out of such knowledge as was
already at my disposal, and then make a careful list of further points
which were outside my own knowledge but which must be facts if my
theory were correct; these points could then be investigated by
persons acting on my behalf and, if they were substantiated, my theory
would be conclusively proved.” Sir Charles drew a breath.
“In other words,” Roger murmured with a smile to Alicia Dammers,
turning a hundred words into six, “‘I decided to employ inductive
methods.’” But he spoke so softly that nobody but Miss Dammers heard
him.
She smiled back appreciatively. The art of the written word is not
that of the spoken one.
“I formed my theory,” announced Sir Charles, with surprising
simplicity. Perhaps he was still a little short of breath.
“I formed my theory. Of necessity much of it was guesswork. Let me
give an example. The possession by the criminal of a sheet of Mason &
Sons’ notepaper had puzzled me more than anything. It was not an
article which the individual I had in mind might be expected to
possess, still less to be able to acquire. I could not conceive any
method by which, the plot already decided upon and the sheet of paper
required for its accomplishment, such a thing could be deliberately
acquired by the individual in question without suspicion being raised
afterwards.
“I therefore formed the conclusion that it was the actual ability to
obtain a piece of Mason’s notepaper in a totally unsuspicious way,
which was the reason of the notepaper of that particular firm being
employed at all.” Sir Charles looked triumphantly round as if awaiting
something.
Roger supplied it; no less readily for all that the point must have
occurred to every one as being almost too obvious to need any comment.
“That’s a very interesting point indeed, Sir Charles. Most ingenious.”
Sir Charles nodded his agreement. “Sheer guesswork, I admit. Nothing
but guesswork. But guesswork that was justified in the result.” Sir
Charles was becoming so lost in admiration of his own perspicacity
that he had forgotten all his love of long, winding sentences and
smooth-rolling subordinate clauses. His massive head positively jerked
on his shoulders.
“I considered how such a thing might come into one’s possession, and
whether the possession could be verified afterwards. It occurred to me
at last that many firms insert a piece of notepaper with a receipted
bill, with the words ‘With Compliments’ or some such phrase typed on
it. That gave me three questions. Was this practice employed at
Mason’s? Had the individual in question an account at Mason’s, or more
particularly, to explain the yellowed edge of the paper, had there
been such an account in the past? Were there any indications on the
paper of such a phrase having been carefully erased?
“Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed Sir Charles, puce with excitement, “you
will see that the odds against those three questions being answered in
the affirmative were enormous. Overwhelming. Before I posed them I
knew that, should it prove to be the case, no mere chance could be
held responsible.” Sir Charles dropped his voice. “I knew,” he said
slowly, “that if those three questions of mine were answered in the
affirmative, the individual I had in mind must be as guilty as if I
had actually watched the poison being injected into those chocolates.”
He paused and looked impressively round him, riveting all eyes on his
face.
“Ladies and gentlemen, those three questions _were_ answered in the
affirmative.”
Oratory is a powerful art. Roger knew perfectly well that Sir Charles,
out of sheer force of habit, was employing on them all the usual and
hackneyed forensic tricks. It was with difficulty, Roger felt, that he
refrained from adding “of the jury” to his “Ladies and gentlemen.” But
really this was only what might have been expected. Sir Charles had a
good story to tell, and a story in which he obviously sincerely
believed, and he was simply telling it in the way which, after all
these years of practice, came most naturally to him. That was not what
was annoying Roger.
What did annoy him was that he himself had been plodding on the scent
of quite a different hare and, convinced as he had been that his must
be the right one, had at first been only mildly amused as Sir Charles
flirted round the skirts of his own quarry. Now he had allowed himself
to be influenced by mere rhetoric, cheap though he knew it to be, into
wondering.
But was it only rhetoric that had made him begin to doubt? Sir Charles
seemed to have some substantial facts to weave into the airy web of
his oratory. And pompous old fellow though he might be, he was
certainly no fool. Roger began to feel distinctly uneasy. For his own
hare, he had to admit, was a very elusive one.
As Sir Charles proceeded to develop his thesis, Roger’s uneasiness
began to turn into downright unhappiness.
“There can be no doubt about it. I ascertained through an agent that
Mason’s, an old-fashioned firm, invariably paid such private customers
as had an account with them (nine-tenths of their business of course
is wholesale) the courtesy of including a statement of thanks, just
two or three words typed in the middle of a sheet of notepaper. I
ascertained that this individual had had an account with the firm,
which was apparently closed five months ago; that is to say, a cheque
was sent then in settlement and no goods have been ordered since.
“Moreover I found time to pay a special visit myself to Scotland Yard
in order to examine that letter again. By looking at the back I could
make out quite distinct though indecipherable traces of former
typewritten words in the middle of the page. These latter cut halfway
down one of the lines of the letter and so prove that they could not
have been an erasure from that; they correspond in length to the
statement I expected; and they show signs of the most careful
attempts, by rubbing, rolling and re-roughening the smoothed paper, to
eradicate not only the typewriter-ink but even the actual indentations
caused by the metal letter-arms.
“This I held to be conclusive proof that my theory was correct, and at
once I set about clearing up such other doubtful points as had
occurred to me. Time was short, and I had recourse to no less than
four firms of trustworthy inquiry-agents among whom I divided the task
of providing the data I was seeking. This not only saved me
considerable time, but had the advantage of not putting the sum-total
of the information obtained into any hands but my own. Indeed I did my
best so to split up my queries as to prevent any of the firms from
even guessing what object I had in mind; and in this I am of the
opinion that I have been successful.
“My next care was the post-mark. It was necessary for my case that I
should prove that my suspect had actually been in the neighbourhood of
the Strand at the time in question. You will say,” suggested Sir
Charles, searching the interested faces round him, and apparently
picking upon Mr. Morton Harrogate Bradley as the raiser of this futile
objection. “You will say,” said Sir Charles sternly to Mr. Bradley,
“that this was not necessary. The parcel might have been posted quite
innocently by an unwitting accomplice to whom it had been entrusted,
so that the actual criminal had an unshakable alibi for that period;
the more so as the individual to whom I refer was actually not in this
country, so that it would be all the easier to request a friend who
might be travelling to England to undertake the task of posting the
parcel in this country and so saving the cost of the foreign postage,
which on parcels is not inconsiderable.
“I do not agree,” said Sir Charles to Mr. Bradley, still more
severely. “I have considered that point, and I do not think the
individual I have in mind would undertake such a very grave risk. For
the friend would almost certainly remember the incident when she read
of the affair in the papers, as would be almost inevitable.
“No,” concluded Sir Charles, finally crushing Mr. Bradley once and for
all, “I am convinced that the individual I am thinking of would
realise that nobody else must handle that parcel till it had passed
into the keeping of the post-office.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Bradley academically, “Lady Pennefather may have
had not an innocent accomplice but a guilty one. You’ve considered
that, of course?” Mr. Bradley managed to convey that the matter was of
no real interest, but as Sir Charles had been addressing these remarks
directly to him it was only courteous to comment on them.
Sir Charles purpled visibly. He had been priding himself on the
skilful way in which he had been withholding his suspect’s name, to
bring it out with a lovely plump right at the end after proving his
case, just like a real detective story. And now this wretched
scribbler of the things had spoilt it all.
“Sir,” he intoned, in proper Johnsonian manner, “I must call your
attention to the fact that I have mentioned no names at all. To do
such a thing is most imprudent. Do I need to remind you that there is
such a thing as a law of libel?”
Morton Harrogate smiled his maddeningly superior smile (he really was
a most insufferable young man). “Really, Sir Charles!” he mocked,
stroking his little sleek object he wore on his upper lip. “I’m not
going to write a story about Lady Pennefather trying to murder her
husband, if that’s what you’re warning me against. Or could it
possibly be that you were referring to the law of slander?”
Sir Charles, who had meant slander, enveloped Mr. Bradley in a crimson
glare.
Roger sped to the rescue. The combatants reminded him of a bull and a
gadfly, and that is a contest which it is often good fun to watch. But
the Crimes Circle had been founded to investigate the crimes of
others, not to provide opportunities for new ones. Roger did not
particularly like either the bull or the gadfly, but both amused him
in their different ways; he certainly disliked neither. Mr. Bradley on
the other hand disliked both Roger and Sir Charles. He disliked Roger
the more of the two because Roger was a gentleman and pretended not to
be, whereas he himself was not a gentleman and pretended he was. And
that surely is cause enough to dislike any one.
“I’m glad you raised that point, Sir Charles,” Roger now said
smoothly. “It’s one we must consider. Personally I don’t see how we’re
to progress at all unless we come to some arrangement concerning the
law of slander, do you?”
Sir Charles consented to be mollified. “It is a difficult point,” he
agreed, the lawyer in him immediately swamping the outraged human
being. A born lawyer will turn aside from any other minor pursuit,
even briefs, for a really knotty legal point, just as a born woman
will put on her best set of underclothes and powder her nose before
inserting the latter in the gas-oven.
“I think,” Roger said carefully, anxious not to wound legal
susceptibilities (it was a bold proposition for a layman to make),
“that we should disregard that particular law. I mean,” he added
hastily, observing the look of pain on Sir Charles’s brow at being
asked to condone this violation of a _lex intangenda_, “I mean, we
should come to some such arrangement as that anything said in this
room should be without prejudice, or among friends, or—or not in the
spirit of the adverb,” he plunged desperately, “or whatever the legal
wriggle is.” On the whole it was not a tactful speech.
But it is doubtful whether Sir Charles heard it. A dreamy look had
come into his eyes, as of a Lord of Appeal crooning over a piece of
red tape. “Slander, as we all know,” he murmured, “consists in the
malicious speaking of such words as render the party who speaks them
in the hearing of others liable to an action at the suit of the party
to whom they apply. In this case, the imputation being of a crime or
misdemeanour which is punishable corporeally, pecuniary damage would
not have to be proved, and, the imputation being defamatory, its
falsity would be presumed and the burden of proving its truth would be
laid upon the defendant. We should therefore have the interesting
situation of the defendant in a slander action becoming, in essence,
the plaintiff in a civil suit for murder. And really,” said Sir
Charles in much perplexity, “I don’t know what would happen then.”
“Er—what about privilege?” suggested Roger feebly.
“Of course,” Sir Charles disregarded him, “there would have to be
stated in the declaration the actual words used, not merely their
meaning and general inference, and failure to prove them as stated
would result in the plaintiff being nonsuited; so that unless notes
were taken here and signed by a witness who had heard the defamation,
I do not quite see how an action could lie.”
“Privilege?” murmured Roger despairingly.
“Moreover I should be of the opinion,” said Sir Charles, brightening,
“that this might be regarded as one of those proper occasions upon
which statements, in themselves defamatory, and even false, may be
made if from a perfectly proper motive and with an entire belief in
their truth. In that case the presumption would be reversed and the
burden would be on the plaintiff to prove, and that to the
satisfaction of a jury, that the defendant was actuated by express
malice. In that case I rather fancy that the court would be guided
almost wholly by considerations of public expediency, which would
probably mean that—”
“Privilege!” said Roger loudly.
Sir Charles turned on him the dull eye of a red-ink fiend. But this
time the word had penetrated. “I was coming to that,” he reproved.
“Now in our case I hardly think that a plea of public privilege would
be accepted. As to private privilege, the limits are of course
exceedingly difficult to define. It would be doubtful if we could
plead successfully that all statements made here are matters of purely
private communication, because it is a question whether this Circle
does constitute, in actual fact, a private or a public gathering. One
could,” said Sir Charles with much interest, “argue either way. Or
even, for the matter of that, that it is a private body meeting in
public, or, _vice versa_, a public gathering held in private. The
point is a very debatable one.” Sir Charles swung his glasses for a
moment to emphasise the extreme debatability of the point.
“But I do feel inclined to venture the opinion,” he plunged at last,
“that on the whole we might be justified in taking up our stand upon
the submission that the occasion _is_ privileged in so far as it is
concerned entirely with communications which are made with no _animus
injuriandi_ but solely in performance of a duty not necessarily legal
but moral or social, and any statements so uttered are covered by a
plea of _veritas convicii_ being made within proper limits by persons
in the _bona fide_ prosecution of their own and the public interest. I
am bound to say however,” Sir Charles immediately proceeded to hedge
as if horrified at having committed himself at last, “that this is not
a matter of complete certainty, and a wiser policy might be to avoid
the direct mention of any name, while holding ourselves free to
indicate in some unmistakable manner, such as by signs, or possibly by
some form of impersonation or acting, the individual to whom we
severally refer.”
“Still,” pursued the President, faint but persistent, “on the whole
you do think that the occasion may be regarded as privileged, and we
may go ahead and mention any name we like?”
Sir Charles’s glasses described a complete and symbolical circle. “I
think,” said Sir Charles very weightily indeed (after all it was an
opinion which would have cost the Circle such a surprisingly round sum
had it been delivered in chambers that Sir Charles need not be grudged
a little weight in the delivering of it). “I think,” said Sir Charles,
“that we might take that risk.”
“Right-ho!” said the President with relief.