Collected works of j s f.., p.830
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 830
He interrupted me with a growl or snarl of anger, and his eyes blazed as he turned from me to glare towards the table we had just left.
‘That’s yon damned Coward!’ he exclaimed. ‘He’s been at you — —’
‘Isn’t it true, Mr Heaviside?’ I asked. ‘Isn’t it — hasn’t it — been known in Hebsworth that you swore, years ago, to have your revenge on Radford and his wife? And now — —’
‘You daren’t tell it out!’ he growled. ‘You wouldn’t be let — —’
‘I shall tell every word to his lordship in open court!’ I said. ‘The circumstances are exceptional. You should never have been on this jury, Mr Heaviside — no honest man, had he felt what you do, would have accepted the duty. And when I’ve said what I shall say in court, where will you be, Mr Heaviside? You’ll be disgraced for life! And I understand you’re a man of some consequence in your town — and a churchwarden!’
He looked at me with something not unlike a threat in his small eyes, but he said nothing. I moved towards the table.
‘So we’ll go down — now!’ I said.
‘Stop!’ he said, fetching his breath hard. ‘What — what do you want me to do?’
‘Fall in with the rest of us!’ I said, promptly.
‘And — it’ll be shut mouths, thereafter?’ he suggested.
‘You may depend on that,’ I answered.
He hesitated a moment; then he made a gesture as if he were baffled.
‘Have it your own way!’ he growled. ‘My time’ll come yet!’
Five minutes later, standing up in a crowded and breathlessly silent court, I heard a voice, swift, formal.
‘Do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty?’
Then I heard my own voice — as if a long way off.
‘Not Guilty!’
And five minutes after that, stepping out of the jury-box, I found myself asking a question which I have been asking myself ever since: Who did kill Roger Maidment?
IV
THE TRUTH, THE WHOLE TRUTH . . (Statement of Richard Radford)
IT IS NOW some five-and-twenty years since I, at that time little more than a mere boy (I was, actually, just over legal age), stood in the dock of the Crown Court at Grandminster Assizes, awaiting — quite calmly, I remember, and with a curious confidence, born of I know not what conviction — the verdict of the twelve men on whose decision my life depended. That verdict, arrived at after hours of debate on their part and waiting on mine, was one of acquittal. Thirty-six hours previously I had been charged in set, formal terms, with the wilful murder of Roger Maidment. I had pleaded Not Guilty. The jury found me Not Guilty. There were people who believed me guilty before the trial and who continued to believe me guilty after the trial. There were people who believed me innocent, both before the trial and after it was over. Probably my guilt or innocence formed a staple subject of conversation in Ullathwaite for a long time. There were other people who could not make up their minds — and there were still others who were insatiably inquisitive. Among these was Mr P. W. Wrenne, who, as chairman of the local bench of magistrates, had presided over the initial proceedings of my prosecution. Mr Wrenne, with whom at a subsequent stage I became great friends, has often asked me, as its sole depository, to tell the truth about this case: he has felt all along, he says, that I always knew it. In that supposition he was not always correct: I did not always know it. I did not know it at the time of the trial; indeed, I did not know it for a good many years after the trial was over. But I guessed at it — and my guess eventually proved to be correct. But I never told anyone what my guess was: that I have kept to myself, jealously, until now. Now, at Mr Wrenne’s suggestion, and, indeed, entreaty, I consent to tell the truth, the whole truth. . . .
I have had the opportunity — and taken it — of reading the statements, given to Mr Wrenne some five-and-twenty years ago, of those men who were concerned in this affair. And I have been struck by the fact that nobody, nobody at all, among all the people mentioned and referred to, ever had any suspicion of anybody but myself! I have often thought, of late, knowing what I do, that a very little reflection, a very little putting this-and-that together, would have fixed the killing of Roger Maidment on the man who did kill him. I am going to reveal the secret: why, this plain statement will reveal. But I could only have attempted the task, now or at any time, under certain conditions. They are now fulfilled by what people call the laws of nature: I mean, all the people whose names will have to come into this story are dead. My father and mother are dead. Henderson is dead: so is Wilsborough: so, I hear, is Nettleton, the foreman of the jury: so is Heaviside, who hated my parents and would gladly have seen me hanged to revenge himself on them. Mrs Norrington is dead: Mrs Hebb and her husband are dead: I, alone, am left of the dramatis personæ. No, there is one other left alive: my sister Audrey. But Audrey is dead to England: she married a man who carried her off to New Zealand, where he is now a big commercial magnate: I don’t think Audrey will visit the old country again. And I am sure that she would approve my acquiescence in Mr Wrenne’s suggestion. Truth, after all, is truth.
2
It was all owing to my having an occasional bet with Fardale, the bookmaker, that I became suspected of the murder of Roger Maidment. That — the betting business — had, of course, nothing whatever to do with the murder: Maidment, as I now know, would have been killed in any case; at least, killed under the circumstances which arose that evening. But if I had never betted with Fardale I should never have been in his power, nor in Hagsdene Wood on the night of the murder, nor in possession of the perforated sovereign about which such a fuss was made, and so ——
But all that is useless for my present purpose: I did bet with Fardale, now and then, and on October 16, 1899, I owed him fifty-one pounds. If only a certain horse had come in first in a certain race a few days before, I shouldn’t have owed Fardale anything at all, but instead of coming in first, or even second or third, it finished somewhere down the course, and accordingly —— But we need not go into that: I was never very lucky. Of course, I should never have betted at all, in my position, which was that of articled clerk to my own father. I think I found some relief, some necessary excitement, in it: things were dull at home. My mother, though the best of women, was severely Puritanical, and my sister and I knew from infancy what it was to be suppressed. I got some relief in cricket and football, but I wanted more than that, and betting on racehorses gave one at least an occasional thrill. It was at first a mere half-crown business; then five shillings at a time; then a stake of a pound, and so on, and so on; Fardale, of course, should never have allowed a mere youngster to bet with him. But Fardale knew there was money behind me; still, when it came to owing him fifty-one pounds, he got nasty.
‘Look here, young man,’ he said, chancing to meet me in Ullathwaite market-place on that sixteenth day of October, ‘you owe me fifty-one pounds. When are you going to pay up?’
I was not without a considerable share of self-assurance and what is called cheekiness in those days, and I answered him flippantly.
‘When you owe me fifty-one pounds!’ I retorted. ‘Then we’ll be square.’
He gave me a straight and sour look.
‘Listen, my lad!’ he said. ‘I’m not going to be played with like this! When you back a winner, you want your money down on the nail — —’
‘Naturally!’ I said, no doubt with impudence.
‘And you get it,’ he continued. ‘I never owe money to my clients! But if you lose, after making a bet on credit, I can’t get the money out of you. I’ve waited some time for you to settle up, and I shan’t wait any longer. Pay up, my son, or take the consequences!’
I was still inclined to be defiant, and even rude.
‘Look here, Fardale!’ I said. ‘Don’t you bully me! Let me call your attention to the law. By the 8th and 9th Victoria, Chapter 109, it’s enacted — —’
‘None of that, my lad!’ he broke in, with a growl. ‘I know the law about my own business as well as you do, and perhaps a good deal better. But there are ways and means outside the law. I’m a bit sick of you, young fellow, so I’ll just tell you straight! You’ll pay me my fifty-one pounds by eleven o’clock day after to-morrow, the 18th that’ll be, or I shall call on your father, tell him all about it, and refuse any more business with you. And don’t you forget that I’m a man of my word, and what I say I shall do, I shall do! I’m giving you forty-eight hours’ grace to find the money, but if it isn’t there — well, you’ll see!’
He moved off, evidently in a nasty temper, before I could say anything, and I knew it was no good running after him to plead for mercy. I also knew that I had about as much prospect of finding fifty-one pounds in cash by eleven o’clock on the day after to-morrow as I had of being made President of the Law Society. All the available money I had in the world was three pounds, ten shillings — pocket-money intended to last me till the end of the half-quarter.
That Fardale should tell my father that I owed him fifty-one pounds as a betting debt was the last thing I desired. My father, though not so Puritanical as my mother, was a very strict man about certain things, and he detested gambling in any form. Moreover, if Fardale told my father, my father would tell my mother — and I knew what that would mean. Did Fardale really intend to carry out his threat? In my opinion he did.
What was to be done? Where and how was I to raise fifty-one pounds in forty-eight hours? I walked back to my father’s office feeling very much upset. Before reaching there I met a friend of my youth, Jim Halstan: he buttonholed me.
‘I say, old man!’ he said. ‘Have you got anything on to-morrow’s three-thirty?’
‘What is to-morrow’s three-thirty?’ I growled.
‘Great Oakshire Handicap, you ass!’ he exclaimed. ‘Forgotten?’
‘Clean!’ said I. ‘No!’
‘Well, I’ve just had a special tip, old man,’ he went on. ‘Charlie Swann gave it me — he’s had it from a chap that really is in the know. Heather Mixture, old man, is the tip! — dead cert! Look here!’
He pulled out a midday edition of a sporting paper and proceeded to show me the name of Heather Mixture in the list of entries for the race concerned. I shrugged my shoulders.
‘Pooh!’ I said scornfully. ‘A rank outsider!’
‘Never mind, old man!’ he retorted. ‘I had it from Charlie Swann, and Charlie had it from a man who knows something about the stable. Heather Mixture, my boy, will be there!’
‘Have you backed it?’ I asked.
‘I have, old man. A fiver. With Sanderson, old man. Your man’s Fardale, isn’t he?’
‘What did Sanderson give you?’ I demanded, ignoring the last part of the question. ‘It’s at twenties here.’
‘Sanderson, old man, gave me twenty-five,’ he answered. ‘Have a spec, old man — Charlie Swann — —’
But I had nodded and turned away. Halstan did not know why, nor would I have told him. But just as he was speaking his last words, I, happening to glance over his shoulder, saw behind him the plate-glass window of a tailor’s shop. In it, fixed in a roll of cloth, was a cardboard label, on which was boldly imprinted the words ‘Heather Mixture.’
I went straight to a certain tavern in a quiet alley off the market-place where I knew I could find Sanderson. I caught him in a snug little parlour which at that moment he had all to himself: he looked at me with some surprise.
‘Do anything for you, Mr Richard?’ he asked.
‘What price Heather Mixture?’ I asked, without ceremony.
‘To-morrow’s three-thirty, eh?’ he said. ‘Ah, well — twenty, Mr Richard.’
‘No!’ I exclaimed. ‘You gave Jim Halstan twenty-fives.’
‘Aye, but it’s shortening since then,’ he answered. ‘However, as it’s the first time I’ve had the pleasure, Mr Richard — well, twenty-five, then. Cash, sir?’
I flung two sovereigns on the table before him and went away. If Heather Mixture won the Great Oakshire Handicap next day, I should be able to pay Fardale. If it didn’t . . .
At three-forty-five the following afternoon, October 17, I got the result of the Great Oakshire Handicap. Heather Mixture, placed second, had lost by a short head.
3
I reflected, as I threw the paper aside, no doubt with a muttered curse, that Heather Mixture would have been more fitly named Forlorn Hope! — anyhow, the transaction had not only ruined my hope of paying Fardale, but had left me two pounds worse off than I was before interviewing his rival bookmaker, Sanderson. I was in the market-place again when I heard this unwelcome result of my speculation, and there again I met Halstan. He grinned all over his face at sight of me.
‘What did I tell you?’ he shouted. ‘Didn’t I say Heather Mixture would be there — or thereabouts?’
‘You damned ass!’ I snarled. ‘Heather Mixture was second!’
‘Isn’t that thereabouts?’ he retorted. ‘Of course, you backed him both ways? I did!’
‘Well, I didn’t!’ I said. ‘I backed him to win.’
‘Why didn’t you back him both ways?’ he persisted. ‘I got one third the odds — so I’m all right. Why didn’t you?’
I made no reply: it would have been no good telling him that I wanted fifty pounds and in wanting it had thought of nothing else. And I was sheering off, still cursing my bad luck, when he stopped me.
‘Look here, old man!’ he said. ‘I know of another good thing — same source of information — for the first race, the one-thirty to-morrow. Flycatcher! I can get you fifteens off Sanderson. Dead cert, old man!’
I had thirty shillings in my pocket, of my own, and ten shillings which belonged to the office. I pulled out the two pounds and handed it over.
‘All right — stick it on, then, with Sanderson, mind, nobody else — and both ways, this time,’ I said. ‘See you to-morrow afternoon, somewhere.’
I left Halstan then, and went on my way — I had something to do. And in telling what that something was, I shall introduce a matter which had a most important bearing on the catastrophe already close at hand, but all undreamed-of by me — or, I suppose, by anybody. The something was this. When I met Halstan I was on my way to the bookstall at Ullathwaite Railway Station: my business there was to collect three new novels which I had ordered some days before for Mrs Norrington. Mrs Norrington, usually resident in Ullathwaite, was just then staying in Harrogate: I had an appointment to meet her at Harrogate that very evening of October 17.
Mrs Norrington, like almost everybody concerned in this story, is dead now, and if she were alive she would not mind, now, that I write down all I am going to write down. So I shall tell all about her and myself, keeping nothing back.
Mrs Norrington, at the time of which I am telling, was a very pretty, vivacious woman of about twenty-eight or thirty — looking back on that time from my present standpoint of middle-age, I remember her as a very attractive woman. But she was married — I was going to say she had the bad luck to be married, though some people would have called it good luck having a view to material considerations — to a man who was some forty years older than herself. I never knew the real truth about that marriage: she scarcely ever mentioned her husband to me. But it was said that she had been a professional nurse, and that Mr Norrington, a very wealthy man, retired from business, and an invalid, had married her so that she could nurse him. And certainly from what I saw of their ménage she was more nurse and housekeeper than wife; Mr Norrington was always more or less ill, and when he was fit for any movement she had to cart him about to one health resort, in England or on the Continent, or another. Still, she did get some occasional relaxation, and during the winter of 1898-99 she took part in an amateur theatrical performance at Ullathwaite in which I also figured; that was how I made her acquaintance. I used to walk home with her after rehearsals and performances; after the theatricals were over we used to meet: I used to get books for her — perhaps we were in love with each other: I never really knew. But we did meet, openly at first; then secretly. There was a summer-house in the Norringtons’ grounds where we often met, late at night. . . .
However, that is scarcely to the point of what is absolutely relevant to this account. What is relevant is that on the night of that 17th October I had an appointment to meet Mrs Norrington in Harrogate. She and her husband were staying at the United Empire Hotel there: I was to meet her at a certain place in the garden of the hotel at eight o’clock. Of course, no one was to know anything about this, and in order to put my own people clean off the scent I gave out that I was going over to spend the night with a friend of ours, Mr Verrill, at Lowsthorpe, some thirty miles away. What I really intended to do was to meet Mrs Norrington at Harrogate, and, after seeing her, go on to Lowsthorpe — I believe I had some sort of notion that I might tell Verrill my trouble about Fardale and get him to help me out of it. As things turned out, however, I never went to Lowsthorpe at all.
I made my preparations for setting out for Harrogate about six o’clock that evening, having previously mentioned, casually, that I was bound for Verrill’s house at Lowsthorpe. Fetching my bicycle into our front hall, I strapped on the carrier the parcel of books which I had got that afternoon from the station bookstall, and, thinking that I might need it next morning, if, as was usual when I stayed with him, I went for a walk round his farm with Verrill, I also strapped on to the cross-bar a certain thick ash-plant stick which had a spud at the end. My sister Audrey came into the hall while I was making these preparations, and, woman-like, began to ask inquisitive questions.
‘What’s in that parcel, Dick?’ she demanded.
‘What’s that got to do with you?’ I retorted, brother-like.
‘It’s books!’ she said, handling the parcel. ‘Are you taking them to Verrill’s? Are they novels? Because, if they are, you might have let me read them first.’
