There was a good deal of speculation at the Sheridan Club, of which he
was a popular and much envied member, as to the cause for the complete
disappearance from their midst of Francis Ledsam since the culmination
of the Hilditch tragedy.
“Sent back four topping briefs, to my knowledge, last week,” one of the
legal luminaries of the place announced to a little group of friends and
fellow-members over a before-dinner cocktail.
“Griggs offered him the defence of William Bull, the Chippenham
murderer, and he refused it,” another remarked. “Griggs wrote him
personally, and the reply came from the Brancaster Golf Club! It isn't
like Ledsam to be taking golfing holidays in the middle of the session.”
“There's nothing wrong with Ledsam,” declared a gruff voice from the
corner. “And don't gossip, you fellows, at the top of your voices like a
lot of old women. He'll be calling here for me in a moment or two.”
They all looked around. Andrew Wilmore rose slowly to his feet and
emerged from behind the sheets of an evening paper. He laid his hand
upon the shoulder of a friend, and glanced towards the door.
“Ledsam's had a touch of nerves,” he confided. “There's been nothing
else the matter with him. We've been down at the Dormy House at
Brancaster and he's as right as a trivet now. That Hilditch affair did
him in completely.”
“I don't see why,” one of the bystanders observed. “He got Hilditch off
all right. One of the finest addresses to a jury I ever heard.”
“That's just the point,” Wilmore explained “You see, Ledsam had no idea
that Hilditch was really guilty, and for two hours that afternoon he
literally fought for his life, and in the end wrested a verdict from the
jury, against the judge's summing up, by sheer magnetism or eloquence
or whatever you fellows like to call it. The very night after, Hilditch
confesses his guilt and commits suicide.”
“I still don't see where Ledsam's worry comes in,” the legal luminary
remarked. “The fact that the man was guilty is rather a feather in the
cap of his counsel. Shows how jolly good his pleading must have been.”
“Just so,” Wilmore agreed, “but Ledsam, as you know, is a very
conscientious sort of fellow, and very sensitive, too. The whole thing
was a shock to him.”
“It must have been a queer experience,” a novelist remarked from the
outskirts of the group, “to dine with a man whose life you have juggled
away from the law, and then have him explain his crime to you, and
the exact manner of its accomplishment. Seems to bring one amongst the
goats, somehow.”
“Bit of a shock, no doubt,” the lawyer assented, “but I still don't
understand Ledsam's sending back all his briefs. He's not going to chuck
the profession, is he?”
“Not by any means,” Wilmore declared. “I think he has an idea, though,
that he doesn't want to accept any briefs unless he is convinced that
the person whom he has to represent is innocent, and lawyers don't like
that sort of thing, you know. You can't pick and choose, even when you
have Ledsam's gifts.”
“The fact of it is,” the novelist commented, “Francis Ledsam isn't
callous enough to be associated with you money-grubbing dispensers of
the law. He'd be all right as Public Prosecutor, a sort of Sir Galahad
waving the banner of virtue, but he hates to stuff his pockets at the
expense of the criminal classes.”
“Who the mischief are the criminal classes?” a police court magistrate
demanded. “Personally, I call war profiteering criminal, I call a good
many Stock Exchange deals criminal, and,” he added, turning to a member
of the committee who was hovering in the background, “I call it criminal
to expect us to drink French vermouth like this.”
“There is another point of view,” the latter retorted. “I call it
a crime to expect a body of intelligent men to administer without
emolument to the greed of such a crowd of rotters. You'll get the right
stuff next week.”
The hall-porter approached and addressed Wilmore.
“Mr. Ledsam is outside in a taxi, sir,” he announced.
“Outside in a taxi?” the lawyer repeated. “Why on earth can't he come
in?”
“I never heard such rot,” another declared. “Let's go and rope him in.”
“Mr. Ledsam desired me to say, sir,” the hall porter continued, “to
any of his friends who might be here, that he will be in to lunch
to-morrow.”
“Leave him to me till then,” Wilmore begged. “He'll be all right
directly. He's simply altering his bearings and taking his time about
it. If he's promised to lunch here to-morrow, he will. He's as near as
possible through the wood. Coming up in the train, he suggested a little
conversation to-night and afterwards the normal life. He means it, too.
There's nothing neurotic about Ledsam.”
The magistrate nodded.
“Run along, then, my merry Andrew,” he said, “but see that Ledsam keeps
his word about to-morrow.”
Andrew Wilmore plunged boldly into the forbidden subject later on that
evening, as the two men sat side by side at one of the wall tables in
Soto's famous club restaurant. They had consumed an excellent dinner.
An empty champagne bottle had just been removed, double liqueur brandies
had taken its place. Francis, with an air of complete and even exuberant
humanity, had lit a huge cigar. The moment seemed propitious.
“Francis,” his friend began, “they say at the club that you refused to
be briefed in the Chippenham affair.”
“Quite true,” was the calm reply. “I told Griggs that I wouldn't have
anything to do with it.”
Wilmore knew then that all was well. Francis' old air of strength and
decision had returned. His voice was firm, his eyes were clear and
bright. His manner seemed even to invite questioning.
“I think I know why,” Wilmore said, “but I should like you to tell me in
your own words.”
Francis glanced around as though to be sure that they were not
overheard.
“Because,” he replied, dropping his voice a little but still speaking
with great distinctness, “William Bull is a cunning and dangerous
criminal whom I should prefer to see hanged.”
“You know that?”
“I know that.”
“It would be a great achievement to get him off,” Wilmore persisted.
“The evidence is very weak in places.”
“I believe that I could get him off,” was the confident reply. “That
is why I will not touch the brief. I think,” Francis continued, “that
I have already conveyed it to you indirectly, but here you are in plain
words, Andrew. I have made up my mind that I will defend no man in
future unless I am convinced of his innocence.”
“That means--”
“It means practically the end of my career at the bar,” Francis
admitted. “I realise that absolutely: Fortunately, as you know, I am not
dependent upon my earnings, and I have had a wonderful ten years.”
“This is all because of the Hilditch affair, I suppose?”
“Entirely.”
Wilmore was still a little puzzled.
“You seem to imagine that you have something on your conscience as
regards that business,” he said boldly.
“I have,” was the calm reply.
“Come,” Wilmore protested, “I don't quite follow your line of thought.
Granted that Hilditch was a desperate criminal whom by the exercise
of your special gifts you saved from the law, surely his tragic death
balanced the account between you and Society?”
“It might have done,” Francis admitted, “if he had really committed
suicide.”
Wilmore was genuinely startled. He looked at his companion curiously.
“What the devil do you mean, old chap?” he demanded. “Your own evidence
at the inquest was practically conclusive as to that.”
Francis glanced around him with apparent indifference but in reality
with keen and stealthy care. On their right was a glass division,
through which the sound of their voices could not possibly penetrate.
On their left was an empty space, and a table beyond was occupied by a
well-known cinema magnate engaged in testing the attractions in daily
life of a would-be film star. Nevertheless, Francis' voice was scarcely
raised above a whisper.
“My evidence at the coroner's inquest,” he confided, “was a subtly
concocted tissue of lies. I committed perjury freely. That is the real
reason why I've been a little on the nervy side lately, and why I took
these few months out of harness.”
“Good God!” Wilmore exclaimed, setting down untasted the glass of brandy
which he had just raised to his lips.
“I want to finish this matter up,” Francis continued calmly, “by making
a clean breast of it to you, because from to-night I am starting afresh,
with new interests in my life, what will practically amount to a new
career. That is why I preferred not to dine at the club to-night,
although I am looking forward to seeing them all again. I wanted instead
to have this conversation with you. I lied at the inquest when I said
that the relations between Oliver Hilditch and his wife that night
seemed perfectly normal. I lied when I said that I knew of no cause for
ill-will between them. I lied when I said that I left them on friendly
terms. I lied when I said that Oliver Hilditch seemed depressed and
nervous. I lied when I said that he expressed the deepest remorse for
what he had done. There was every indication that night, of the hate
which I happen to know existed between the woman and the man. I have not
the faintest doubt in my mind but that she murdered him. In my judgment,
she was perfectly justified in doing so.”
There followed a brief but enforced silence as some late arrivals
passed their table. The room was well-ventilated but Andrew Wilmore felt
suddenly hot and choking. A woman, one of the little group of newcomers,
glanced towards Francis curiously.
“Francis Ledsam, the criminal barrister,” her companion whispered,--“the
man who got Oliver Hilditch off. The man with him is Andrew Wilmore, the
novelist. Discussing a case, I expect.”