Collected works of j s f.., p.512
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 512
Meeking said little. The prisoners, he observed, addressing the bench in quiet, conversational tones, were charged, Krevin Crood with the actual murder of the late Mayor, John Wallingford; Simon, with being accessory to the fact, and, if they had not absconded during the previous twenty-four hours, two other well-known residents of the borough, Stephen Mallett and James Coppinger, would have stood in the dock with Simon Crood, similarly charged. He should show their worships by the evidence which he would produce that patient and exhaustive investigation by the local police had brought to light as wicked a conspiracy as could well be imagined. There could be no doubt in the mind of any reasonable person after hearing that evidence, that Simon Crood, Mallett and Coppinger entered into a plot to rid themselves of a man who, had his investigations continued, would infallibly have exposed their nefarious practices to the community, nor that they employed Krevin Crood to carry out their designs. He would show that the murder of Wallingford was deliberately plotted at Mallett’s house, between the four men, on a certain particular date, and that Krevin Crood committed the actual murder on the following evening. Thanks to the particularly able and careful fashion in which Superintendent Hawthwaite had marshalled the utterly damning body of evidence against these men, their Worships would have no difficulty in deciding that there was a prima facie case against them and that they must be committed to take their trial at the next Assizes.
Hawthwaite, called first, gave evidence as to the arrest of the two prisoners. He arrested Krevin Crood in the passage leading from Bull’s Snug about 6.30 the previous evening, and Simon at his own home, half an hour later. Krevin took the matter calmly, and merely remarked that he, Hawthwaite, was making the biggest mistake he had ever made in his life; Simon manifested great anger and indignation, and threatened an action for false imprisonment. When actually charged neither of the accused made any answer at all.
The superintendent stood down, and Meeking looked towards an inner door of the court. An attendant came forward at his nod, bearing a heavy package done up in Crown canvas and sealed. At the same moment a smart-looking young man answered to the name of Samuel Owthwaite and stepped alertly into the witness-box.
CHAPTER XXI
CORRUPTION
T HE TIGHTLY-WEDGED mass of spectators watched, open-mouthed and quivering with anticipation, while the attendant, at Meeking’s whispered bidding, broke the seals and cut the strings of the package which he had just carried in. Clearly, this was some piece of material evidence — but what? A faint murmur of interest rose as the last wrappings fell aside and revealed a somewhat-the-worse-for-wear typewriter. People glanced from it to the witness: some of those present recognized him as a young mechanic, a native of Hathelsborough, who had gone, a few years previously, to work in the neighbouring manufacturing city of Clothford — such began to ask themselves what he could have to do with this case and waited eagerly for his evidence.
But Meeking, the battered typewriter before him, kept the witness waiting. Turning to the bench, he put in the depositions taken at the Coroner’s inquest with respect to the typewritten threatening letter sent to Wallingford and by him entrusted to Epplewhite; the letter itself, and the facsimile of the letter published as a supplement by the Monitor, with a brief explanation of his reasons for bringing them into evidence. Then he addressed himself to his witness and got the first facts from him — Samuel Owthwaite. Mechanic. Employed by Green & Polford, Limited, of Clothford, agents for all the leading firms of typewriter manufacturers.
“I believe you’re a native of Hathelsborough, aren’t you, Owthwaite?” began Meeking.
“I am, sir.”
“Keep up your interest in the old place, eh?”
“I do, sir.”
“Have you any relations in the town?”
“Yes, sir, several.”
“Do they send you the Hathelsborough paper, the Monitor, every week?”
“Yes, sir, regularly.”
“Did they send you a copy of the Monitor in which there was a facsimile of the threatening letter addressed to the late Mayor by some anonymous correspondent?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you look at the facsimile?”
“I did, sir.”
“Notice anything peculiar, or strange, or remarkable about it?”
“Yes, sir, I notice that some of the letters were broken and some defective.”
“You noticed that as an expert mechanic, working at these things?”
“It was obvious to anybody, sir. The letters — some of them — were badly broken.”
“Look at the dock, Owthwaite. Do you know the prisoner, Simon Crood?”
“Well enough, sir!”
“How long have you known him?”
“Ever since I was a youngster, sir — always!”
“Have you ever seen Simon Crood at Green & Polford’s, your employers?”
“I have, sir.”
“When was that?”
“He came in two days after I’d seen the facsimile, sir.”
“Bring anything with him?”
“Yes, sir, that typewriter before you.”
“Sure it was this particular machine?”
“Positive, sir; it’s an old Semmingford machine, number 32,587.”
“Did you hear him say anything about it?”
“I did, sir. He told our Mr. Jeaveson — manager he is — that this was a machine he’d bought in London, many years ago; that the lettering seemed to be getting worn out, and that he wanted to know if we could supply new letters and do the machine up generally.”
“Yes; what then?”
“Mr. Jeaveson said we could, and the machine was handed over to me for repair.”
“Did you make any discovery about it?”
“Yes, sir. That afternoon I just ran the lettering off, to see what defects there were. I found then that the broken and defective letters were identical with those in the facsimile letter that I’d seen in the Monitor two days before.”
“Just come down here, Owthwaite; take this sheet of paper, and run the letters off again so that their Worships can compare the broken and defective letters with those in the threatening letter. Now,” continued Meeking, when the mechanic had complied with this suggestion and gone back to the witness-box, “what did you do on making this discovery?”
“I told Mr. Jeaveson about it, sir, and showed him what I meant. He discussed the matter with Mr. Polford afterwards, and it was decided that I should go over to Hathelsborough and see Mr. Hawthwaite, taking the machine with me.”
“Did you do that?”
“Yes, sir, next day, in the evening.”
“Did you tell Superintendent Hawthwaite of your discovery and hand the machine to him?”
“Yes, sir; both.”
“Did he have the machine wrapped and sealed up in your presence?”
“He did, sir.”
“This machine, now on the table?”
“That machine, sir.”
“And this is the machine that the prisoner, Simon Crood, brought himself to Green & Polford’s?”
“That’s the machine, sir.”
Meeking nodded to his witness, signifying that he had no more to ask, but before Owthwaite could leave the box, Stedman, the local solicitor with whom Simon Crood had held a whispered conversation on coming into court, rose and began to cross-examine him.
“Did you happen to be in Green & Polford’s shop — the front shop, I mean — when Alderman Crood brought in that machine?” he asked.
“I was there at the time, sir,” replied Owthwaite.
“Did he come quite openly?”
“Yes, sir. In a cab, as a matter of fact. The cabman carried in the machine.”
“Did Alderman Crood say who he was?”
“Well, sir, to be exact, he saw me as soon as he came in, and recognized me. He said, ‘Oh, a Hathelsborough lad, I see? You’ll know me, young man.’ Then he told Mr. Jeaveson and myself what he wanted.”
“The whole business was quite open and above-board, then?”
“Quite so, sir.”
“He drew your attention himself to the defects of the machine?”
“He did, sir.”
“And this was after — not before — that facsimile appeared in the Monitor?”
“After, sir.”
“Now I want a particularly careful answer, Owthwaite, to my next question. Did Alderman Crood ask you to get these repairs made immediately?”
“No, sir, he did not. He said he was in no hurry.”
“You were to take your own time about them, the machine remaining with you?”
“Just that, sir.”
Stedman sat down, as if satisfied, and Owthwaite left the witness-box. At the calling of the next witness’s name Tansley nudged Brent.
“Now we may hear something lively!” he whispered. “This chap’s been the Borough Accountant for some years, and I’ve often wondered if he doesn’t know a good deal that he’s kept to himself. But, if he does, will he let it out? Old Crood doesn’t look over pleased to see him anyway!”
Brent glanced from the new witness, a quiet, reserved-looking man of middle age, to Simon Crood. There was a dark scowl on the heavy features, and, Brent fancied, a look of apprehension. Once more Simon beckoned to his solicitor and exchanged a few whispered words with him across the front of the dock before turning to the witness. And to him Brent also turned, with an instinctive feeling that he possibly held a key to those mysteries which had not yet been produced.
Matthew James Nettleton, Member of the Society of Incorporated Accountants and Auditors. Borough Accountant of Hathelsborough during the last seven years. During that period in close touch with all the persons concerned in the present matter.
“Mr. Nettleton,” said Meeking, “you are Borough Accountant of Hathelsborough?”
The witness folded his hands on the ledge of the box and shook his head.
“No,” he answered. “Was.”
“Was? What do you mean?”
“I have resigned my appointment.”
“When?”
“Yesterday — at six o’clock last evening, to be precise.”
“May I ask why?”
“You may, sir. Because I knew the inquiry just held by the Inspector of the Local Government Board to be an absolute farce! Because I know that the financial affairs of the borough are rotten-ripe! Because I utterly refuse to be a cat’s paw in the hands of the Town Trustees any longer! Those are my reasons.”
Tansley dug his elbow into Brent’s ribs as an irrepressible murmur of surprise broke out all round the court. But Brent was watching the men in the dock. Krevin Crood smiled cynically; the smile developed into a short, sharp laugh. But Simon’s flabby face turned a dull red, and presently he lifted his big silk handkerchief and wiped his forehead. Meeking waited a moment, letting the witness’s outburst have its full effect. Then, amidst a dead silence, he leaned towards the box.
“Why didn’t you say all that at the recent inquiry?” he asked.
“Because it wouldn’t have been a scrap of good!” retorted the witness. “Those affairs are all cut-and-dried. My only course was to do what I did last night — resign. And to give evidence now.”
Meeking twisted his gown together and looked at the magistrates. He ran his eye carefully along the row of faces, and finally let it settle again on his witness.
“Tell their Worships, in your own fashion, your considered opinion as to the state of the borough finances,” he said. “Your opinion based on your experience.”
“They are, as I said just now, absolutely rotten!” declared Nettleton. “It is now seven years since I came to this place as Borough Accountant. I found that under an ancient charter the whole of the financial business of the borough was in the hands of a small body known as the Town Trustees, three only in number. It is marvellous that such a body should be allowed to exist in these days! The Town Trustees are responsible to nobody. They elect themselves. That is to say, if one dies, the surviving two elect his successor. They are not bound to render accounts to anyone; the Corporation, of which they are a permanent committee, only know what they choose to tell. This has gone on for at least three centuries. It may have served some good purpose at some period, under men of strict probity, but, in my opinion, based on such experience as I have been able to command, it has of late years led to nothing but secret peculation, jobbery and knavery. As regards my own position, it has simply been that I have never at any time been permitted to see any accounts other than those placed before me by the Town Trustees. My belief is that no one but themselves actually knows what the financial condition of the town really is. I am of impression that this Corporation, as a Corporation, is bankrupt!”
There now arose a murmur in court which the Chairman and officials found it difficult to suppress. But curiosity prevailed over excitement, and the silence was deep enough when Meeking got in his next question.
“You affirm all this in face of the recent inquiry?”
“I do — and strongly! The accounts shown at the recent inquiry were all carefully manipulated, arranged, cooked by the Town Trustees. I had nothing to do with them. They were prepared by the Town Trustees, chiefly, I imagine, by Mallett and Coppinger, with Crood’s approval and consent. They were never shown to me. In short, my position has been this, simply, I have had certain accounts placed before me by the Town Trustees with the curt intimation that my sole duty was to see that the merely arithmetical features were correct and to sign them as accountant.”
“Could you not have made a statement to this effect at the inquiry?”
“I could not!”
“Why, now?”
“Because I could not have produced the books and papers. All the books and papers to which I have ever had access are merely such things as rate books and so on — the sort of things that can’t be concealed. But the really important books and papers, showing the real state of things, are in the possession of Mallett and Coppinger, who, with Crood, have never allowed anybody to see them. If I could have had those things brought before the inspector, I could have proved something. But I couldn’t bring them before a court of inquiry like that. You can bring them before this!”
“How?” demanded Meeking.
“Because, I take it, they bear a very sinister relation to the murder of the late Mayor,” replied the witness. “He was as well aware as I am that things were all wrong.”
“You know that?”
“I know that he did his best, from such material as he could get at, to find out what the true state of things was. He worked hard at examining such accounts as were available. To my knowledge he did his best to get at the secret accounts kept by the Town Trustees. He failed utterly — they defied him. Yet, just before his murder, he was getting at facts in a fashion which was not only unpleasant but highly dangerous to them, and they were aware of it.”
“Can you give us an example of any of these facts — these discoveries?”
“Yes, I can give you one in particular. Wallingford was slowly but surely getting at the knowledge of the system of secret payment which has gone on in this place for a long time under the rule of the Town Trustees. He had found out the truth, for instance, as regards Krevin Crood. Krevin Crood was supposed to be paid a pension of £150 a year; in reality he was paid £300 a year. Wallingford ascertained this beyond all doubt, and that it had gone on ever since Krevin Crood’s retirement from his official position. There are other men in the borough, hangers-on and supporters of the Town Trustees, who benefit by public money in the shape of pensions, grants, doles — in every case the actual amount paid is much more than the amount set down in such accounts as are shown. Wallingford meant to sweep all this jobbery clean away!”
“How?”
“By getting the financial affairs of the town into the full and absolute control of the Corporation. He wanted to abolish the Town Trustees as a body. If he had succeeded in his aims, he would have done away with all the abuses which they not only kept up but encouraged.”
“Then, if Wallingford’s reforms had been carried out, Krevin Crood would have lost £150 a year?”
“He would have lost £300 a year. Wallingford’s scheme included the utter abolition of all these Town Trustee-created pensions and doles. Lock, stock and barrel, they were all to go.”
“And the Town Trustees — Crood, Mallett, Coppinger — were fully acquainted with his intentions and those of his party?”
The witness shrugged his shoulders.
“That’s well known!” he answered. “They were frightened of him and his schemes to the last degree. They knew what it meant.”
“What did it mean?”
Nettleton glanced at Simon Crood and smiled.
“Just what it’s come to, at last,” he said. “Exposure — and disgrace!”
“Well,” said Meeking, when a murmur of excited feeling had once more run round the court, “a more particular question, Mr. Nettleton. Did the late Mayor ever come to your office in the course of his investigations?”
“He did, frequently. Not that I had much to show him. But he carefully examined all the books and papers of which I was in possession.”
“Did he make notes?”
“Notes and memoranda — yes. At considerable length, sometimes.”
“What in?”
“In a thickish memorandum book, with a stout cover of red leather, which he always carried in his pocket.”
“Could you identify that book if you saw it?”
“Certainly! Besides, you would find it full of his notes and figures.”
“That will do for the present, Mr. Nettleton, unless my friend here wants to examine you. No? Then recall Superintendent Hawthwaite for a moment. Superintendent, you have just heard of a certain pocket-book which belonged to the late Mayor. Was it found on his dead body, or on his desk, or anywhere, after the murder? No? Not after the most careful and thorough search? Completely disappeared? Very good. Now let us have Louisa Speck.”
