CHAPTER IX
At the inquest on the body of Sir Horace Fewbanks, which was held atthe Hampstead Police Court, there was an odd mixture of classes in thecrowd that thronged that portion of the court in which the public wereallowed to congregate. The accounts of the crime which had beenpublished in the press, and the atmosphere of mystery which enshroudedthe violent death of one of the most prominent of His Majesty's judges,had stirred the public curiosity, and therefore, in spite of the factthat every one was supposed to be out of town in August, the attendanceat the court included a sprinkling of ladies of the fashionable world,and their escorts.
Both branches of the legal profession were numerously represented. All ofthe victim's judicial colleagues were out of town, and though some ofthem intended as a mark of respect for the dead man to come up for thefuneral, which was to take place two days later, they were too familiarwith legal procedure to feel curiosity as to the working of the machineryat a preliminary inquiry into the crime. They were emphatic among theirfriends on the degeneracy of these days which rendered possible such anoutrageous crime as the murder of a High Court judge. The fact that itwas without precedent in the history of British law added to its enormityin the eyes of gentlemen who had been trained to worship precedent as theonly safe guide through the shifting quicksands of life. They wereinsistent on the urgency of the murderer being arrested and handed overto Justice in the person of the hangman, for--as each askedhimself--where was this sort of crime to end? In spite of the degeneracyof the times they were reluctant to believe in such a far-fetchedsupposition as the existence of a band of criminals who, in revenge forthe judicial sentences imposed on members of their class, had sworn toexterminate the whole of His Majesty's judges; but, until the murdererwas apprehended and the reason for the crime was discovered, it wasimpossible to say that the English judicature would not soon be calledupon to supply other victims to criminal violence. The murder of a judgeseemed to them a particularly atrocious crime, in the punishment of whichthe law might honourably sacrifice temporarily its well-earned reputationfor delay.
The bar was represented chiefly by junior members. The senior memberswere able to make full use of the long vacation, spending it at healthresorts or in the country, but the incomes of the young shoots of thegreat parasitical profession did not permit them to enjoy more than abrief holiday out of town. Of course it would never have done for themto admit even to each other that they could not afford to go away for anextended holiday, and therefore they told one another in bored tonesthat they had not been able to make up their minds where to go. Thejunior bar included old men, who, through lack of influence, want ofenergy, want of advertisement, want of ability, or some otherdeficiency, had never earned more than a few guineas at theirprofession, though they had spent year after year in chambers. Theylived on scanty private means. Broken in spirit they had even ceased toattend the courts in order to study the methods and learn the tricks ofsuccessful counsel. But the murder of a High Court judge was a thingwhich stirred even their sluggish blood, and in the hope of somesensational development they had put on faded silk hats and shabby blacksuits and gone out to Hampstead to attend the inquest.
The interest of the junior bar in the crime was as personal as that ofthe members of the Judicial Bench, though it manifested itself in anentirely different direction. They speculated among themselves as to whowould be appointed to the vacancy on the High Court Bench. A leading K.C.with a political pull would of course be selected by theAttorney-General, but there were several K.C.'s who possessed thesequalifications, and therefore there was room for differences of opinionamong the junior bar as to who would get the offer. The point on whichthey were all united was that vacancies of the High Court Bench were agood thing for the bar as a whole, for they removed leading K.C.'s, andthe dispersion of their practice was like rain on parched ground.Metaphorically speaking, every one--including even the junior bar--hadthe chance of getting a shove up when a leading K.C. accepted a judicialappointment. Some of the more irreverent spirits among the junior bar, indrawing attention to the fact that Sir Horace Fewbanks had been one ofthe youngest members of the High Court Bench, expressed the hope that theshock of his death would be felt by some of the extremely aged members ofthe 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 thelower branch of the profession who ranged from articled clerks whoseyoung 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 legalatmosphere of quibbling, obstruction, and deceit, that they were asincapable of an honest impetuous act as of an illegal one. The gossipconcerning the murdered judge in which the two branches of the professionjoined had reference to his moral character in legal circles. There hadalways been gossip of the kind in his life-time. Sir Horace's judicialreputation was beyond reproach and he had known his law a great dealbetter than most of his judicial colleagues. Comparatively few of hisdecisions had been upset on appeal. But every one about the courts knewthat 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 theresult of Mr. Justice Fewbanks's habit of protecting pretty witnessesfrom cross-examining questions which he regarded as outside the case.There was no suggestion that his judicial decisions were influenced bythe good looks of ladies who were parties to the cases heard by him, butthere were rumours that on occasions the relations between the judge anda pretty witness begun in court had ripened into something at which moralmen might well shake their heads.
While the members of the legal profession struggled to obtain seats inthe body of the court, an entirely different class of spectatorsstruggled to get into the gallery. For the most part they were badlydressed men who needed a shave, but there were a few well-dressed menamong them, and also a few ladies. Detective Rolfe took a professionalinterest 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 himis that cunning old 'drop' Ikey Samuels--I wish we could get him. Look atthe other end of the first row. Isn't that 'Sunny Jim'? I hardly knewhim. He's grown a beard since he's been out. We'll soon have it off againfor him. He's got the impudence to scowl at us. He'll lay for you one ofthese nights, Inspector."
The judicial duties of the murdered man had been concerned chiefly withcivil cases at the Royal Courts of Justice, but when the criminalcalendar had been heavy he had often presided at Number One Court at theOld Bailey. It was this fact which had given the criminal class a sort ofpersonal interest in his murder and accounted for the presence of manywell-known criminals who happened to be out of gaol at the time. Thespectators in the gallery included men whom the murdered man hadsentenced and men who had been fortunate enough to escape being sentencedby him owing to the vagaries of juries. There were pickpockets, sneakthieves, confidence men, burglars, and receivers among the occupants ofthe gallery, and many of them had brought with them the ladies whoassisted them professionally or presided over their homes when they werenot in gaol.
"I wouldn't be surprised if the man we want is among that bunch," saidRolfe 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 thinkshe's after."
Inspector Chippenfield gave a glance in the direction of Crewe, but didnot deign to give any sign of recognition. The fact that Crewe by hispresence in the gallery seemed to entertain the idea that the murderermight be found among the occupants of that part of the court could not beas lightly dismissed as Rolfe's vague suggestion. It annoyed InspectorChippenfield to think that Crewe might be nearer at the moment to themurderer than he himself was, even though that proximity was merelyphysical and unsupported by evidence or even by any theory. It would havebeen a great relief to him if he had kn
own that Crewe's object in goingto the gallery was not to mix with the criminal classes, but in order tokeep a careful survey of what took place in the body of the court withoutmaking himself too prominent.
Mr. Holymead, K.C., arrived, and members of the junior bar deferentiallymade room for him. He shook hands with some of these gentlemen and alsowith Inspector Chippenfield, much to the gratification of that officer.Miss Fewbanks arrived in a taxi-cab a few minutes before the appointedhour of eleven. She was accompanied by Mrs. Holymead, and they were showninto a private room by Police-Constable Flack, who had receivedinstructions from Inspector Chippenfield to be on the lookout for themurdered man's daughter.
Miss Fewbanks and Mrs. Holymead had been almost inseparable since thetragedy had been discovered. Immediately on the arrival of Miss Fewbanksfrom Dellmere, Mrs. Holymead had gone out to Riversbrook to condole withher, and to support her in her great sorrow. But the murdered man'sdaughter, who, on account of having lived apart from her father, haddeveloped a self-reliant spirit, seemed to be less overcome by thehorror of the tragedy than Mrs. Holymead was. It was with a feeling thatthere was something lacking in her own nature, that the girl realisedthat Mrs. Holymead's grief for the violent death of a man who had beenher husband's dearest friend was greater than her own grief at the lossof a father.
One of the directions in which Mrs. Holymead's grief found expression wasin a feverish desire to know all that was being done to discover themurderer. She displayed continuous interest in the investigations of thedetectives engaged on the case, and she had implored Miss Fewbanks to lether know when any important discovery was made. She applauded the actionof her young friend in engaging such a famous detective as Crewe, anddeclared that if anyone could unravel the mystery, Crewe would do it. Shehad been particularly anxious to hear through Miss Fewbanks what Crewe'simpressions 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 hislife in the stuffy atmosphere of police courts hearing police-courtcases. Police-Inspector Seldon nodded in reply to the inquiring glance ofthe coroner, and the inquest was opened.
The first witness was Miss Fewbanks. She was dressed in deep black andwas obviously a little unnerved. In a low tone she said she hadidentified the body as that of her father. She was staying at herfather's country house in Dellmere, Sussex, when the crime was committed.She had no knowledge of anyone who was evilly disposed towards herfather. He had never spoken to her of anyone who cherished a grudgeagainst him.
Evidence relating to the circumstances in which the body was foundwas given by Police-Constable Flack. He described the position of theroom in which the body was found, and the attitude in which the bodywas stretched. He was on duty in the neighbourhood of Tanton Gardenson the night of the murder, but saw no suspicious characters andheard no sounds.
The evidence of Hill was chiefly a repetition of what he had toldInspector Chippenfield as to his movements on the day of the crime, andhis methods of inspecting the premises three times a week in accordancewith his master's orders. He knew nothing about Sir Horace's suddenreturn from Scotland. His first knowledge of this was the account of themurder, which he read in the papers.
Inspector Chippenfield gave evidence for the purpose of producing theletter received at Scotland Yard announcing that Sir Horace Fewbanks hadbeen murdered. The letter was passed up to the coroner for hisinspection, and when he had examined it he sent it to the foreman of thejury. Then followed medical evidence, which showed that death was due toa bullet wound and could not have been self-inflicted.
The coroner, in his summing-up, dwelt upon the loss sustained by theJudiciary by the violent death of one of its most distinguished members,and the jury, after a retirement of a few minutes, brought in a verdictof wilful murder by some person or persons unknown.
As the occupants of the court filed out into the street, Crewe, who waswatching Holymead, noticed the K.C. give a slight start when he saw MissFewbanks and his wife. Mr. Holymead went up to the ladies and shook handswith Miss Fewbanks, and to Crewe it seemed as if he was on the point ofshaking hands with his wife, but he stopped himself awkwardly. He saw theladies into their cab, and, raising his hat, went off. As Mr. Holymeadhad seen Miss Fewbanks in court when she gave evidence, it was obvious toCrewe that he could not have been surprised at meeting her outside. Itwas therefore the presence of his wife which had surprised him. Thatfact--if it were a fact--opened a limitless field of speculation toCrewe, but in spite of the possibility of error--a possibility which hefrankly recognised--he was pleased with himself for having noticed theincident. To him it seemed to provide another link in the chain he wasconstructing. It harmonised with Taylor's story of Mr. Holymead'sdecision to stay at Verney's instead of entering his own home the nightTaylor drove him from Hyde Park Corner.
Rolfe also possessed the professional faculty of observation, but in adifferent degree. He had seen Mr. Holymead talking to his wife and MissFewbanks, but he had noticed nothing but gentlemanly ease in thebarrister's manner. What did astonish him in connection with Mr. Holymeadwas that after he had left the ladies and was walking in the direction ofthe cab-rank he spoke to one of the former occupants of the gallery. Thiswas a man known to the police and his associates as "Kincher." His namewas Kemp, and how he had obtained his nick-name was not known. He was acriminal by profession and had undergone several heavy sentences forburglary. He was a thick-set man of medium height, about fifty years ofage. Apart from a rather heavy lower jaw, he gave no external indicationof his professional pursuits, but looked, with his brown andweather-beaten face and rough blue reefer suit, not unlike a seafaringman. The likeness was heightened by a tattooed device which covered theback of his right hand, and a slight roll in his gait when he walked. Butappearances are deceptive, for Mr. Kemp, at liberty or in gaol, had neverbeen out of London in his life. He was born and bred a London thief, andhad served all his sentences at Wormwood Scrubbs. For over a minute heand Mr. Holymead remained in conversation. Rolfe would have described itofficially as familiar conversation, but that description would haveoverlooked the deference, the sense of inferiority, in "Kincher's"manner. For a time Rolfe was puzzled by the incident, but he eventuallylighted on an explanation which satisfied himself. It was that in theearlier days before Mr. Holymead had reached such a prominent position atthe 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 andwent on his way. Kemp walked on hurriedly in the opposite direction. Hehad his eyes on a young man whom he had seen in the gallery, and who hadseemed to avoid his eye. It was obvious to him that this young man, forwhom he had been on the watch when Mr. Holymead spoke to him, had seizedthe 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 ofhis quarry.
"Hallo, Kincher," replied the young man, turning round. "I didn't noticeyou. 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 theconversation, 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 upwith 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 doneit 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. Buteven if you did you'd find I could be trusted. I don't go blabbing roundto everybody."
"I know you don't. But as I said before I had nothing to do with it. Ididn't go there that night--I changed my mind."
"A very lucky thing then, because if they do look you up you can provean alibi."
"Yes," said Fred, "I can prove an alibi easy enough. But what makes youtalk about them looking me up? Why should they get into me--why shouldthey 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 thatpal of yours keeps his mouth shut there is nothing to put them on yourtracks. 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 myimpression."
"If he squeaks he'll have to settle with me," said Fred. "And he'll findthere is something to pay. If he tries to put me away I'll--I'll--I'lldo him in."
"Kincher" instead of being horrified at this sentiment seemed to approveof 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 outhere to-day was to have a look at him. And when I saw him in the box Isaid to myself, 'Well, I'm glad I've staked nothing on you, for it seemsto me that you'll crack up if the police shake their thumb-screws in yourface.' I felt glad I hadn't accepted your invitation to make it atwo-handed job, Fred. It was the fact that some one else I'd never seenhad put up the job that kept me out of it when you asked me to go withyou. A man can't be too careful--especially after he's had a long spellin 'stir,' But of course you're all right if you changed your mind anddidn't go up there. But if I was you I'd have my alibi ready. It is nogood leaving things until the police are at the door and making one up onthe 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 theelder man, after an inquiring glance at his companion, ordered twowhiskies. "Kincher" added water to the contents of each glass, and,lifting his glass in his right hand, waited until Fred had done the sameand 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.