The 12.30 from Croydon (30 page)

The strength seemed to leave Charles’s knees and he sank back into his chair. His heart seemed to be beating in a queer way and he found it hard to breathe. What was this incredible thing that he had heard? They couldn’t arrest him on mere suspicion surely? And they couldn’t, they
couldn’t
have any real evidence against him. No, no; it was not possible. He had left no loopholes. They were making some ghastly mistake. Or was he asleep? God, this wasn’t real. It wasn’t real!

Confusedly he was conscious of movement. Then a tumbler was before him and he heard French’s voice. ‘Drink some of this, sir.’

Charles gulped down the brandy which had been taken from the decanter on his side-table. It was what he had wanted. Suddenly his nerves grew steady. He put down the glass with a firm hand and actually smiled.

‘Yes, I don’t deny you gave me a fright. I’m afraid, superintendent, you’ve made a pretty bad mistake, though I know there’s no use in my telling you that. If I have to go with you, I’ll do so, of course. The matter’ll be quickly put right.’

‘I hope so, Mr Swinburn,’ Lucas answered. ‘You’ll be able to see your solicitor at once and make whatever arrangements you think best. In the meantime, sir, will you please come along.’

Charles got up. ‘I’m quite ready. I’d like to get a coat.’

‘Certainly, sir.’

To Charles’s surprise they did not touch or hold him in any way, nor was he handcuffed. But he could not but realize that both men kept so close to him that any movement he might make could be instantly checked. They went, a compact trio, into the hall. Charles made for his coat.

‘I’ll get it for you, sir,’ said French. He took down the coat and held it. Charles slipped his arms into it, put on his hat, also handed to him by French, and turned towards the door. Then he stopped.

‘We’d better tell Rollins,’ he said, ‘or will you do that?’

‘As you like, Mr Swinburn.’

‘Then touch the bell, there, will you?’

The speed with which Rollins appeared showed that he had appreciated what was taking place. His face wore an expression of absolute horror.

‘I’m going with these gentlemen,’ Charles said as lightly as he could. ‘I expect to be back in a day or so.’

Rollins achieved a tolerable ‘Very good, sir,’ and Charles passed out of the hall into the night. In spite of his brave front, his heart sank. The doubt assailed him as to whether he should ever see that hall door again. Was this a mere episode, a momentary police error, or was it the end? Then Lucas’s voice came: ‘Will you step in, sir?’

French had got into the waiting car and Charles, feeling numb, followed. The superintendent got in after Charles, the three of them squeezing into the back seat. A policeman in plain clothes, who had been waiting outside the door, mounted in front with the driver, and the vehicle moved off.

During the drive no one spoke. Charles was conscious only of horror. He could not think connectedly. He could not believe that these men really could have anything against him, and yet he knew that police will not arrest unless they have obtained what they consider pretty convincing evidence. Well, there was time enough to think of all that. What he must now concentrate on was to get through this immediate present without doing or saying anything to give himself away. He had heard of these police inquiries. They were not exactly unfair, but there were the wits of several keen, practised and unperturbed men against the single and often terrified individual. However, thanks to the brandy and the excellence of his scheme, he would be able to hold his own.

The drive seemed interminable. It was dark, but Charles could make out the black masses of the trees surrounding the house, then the open country and the bridge over the Gayle, the isolated houses, the streets, and finally the turning in through a gateway into a courtyard and the closing of the gate behind them. Charles had no time to think of the significance of that closing gate, but its clang remained in his memory, heavy with hideous suggestion. They quickly dismounted, and still in a compact trio, entered a bare room with a desk in the corner. The superintendent’s manner became more businesslike and events moved so quickly that Charles could scarcely keep pace with them.

First he was formally charged with having, on the 25th of August and the 1st of November, respectively, feloniously murdered Andrew Crowther, of The Moat, Cold Pickerby, and John Weatherup, butler at the same address. He was then asked if he wished to make any statement, being told that he need not do so, but that if he did, what he said would be used in evidence. Charles answered that beyond declaring that a mistake had been made, he had nothing to say at the moment.

This completed the business side of the affair, and he was taken to another room. There he was searched with the greatest thoroughness. Finally, his clothes were returned to him minus several of the articles he had had in his pockets, such as his knife, folding scissors, and one or two other sharp metallic instruments, and he was led to a cell and locked up.

He was a little surprised at the kindly way in which everything was done. There had been no attempt to question him, still less to browbeat him or trap him into some unintentional admission. The men who had searched him had been almost friendly, and had certainly tried to save him humiliation. The constable who locked him up wished him good night civilly. Both French and the superintendent had treated the whole matter as a regrettable but impersonal piece of business routine. Lucas had undertaken to inform Charles’s solicitor, Alec Quilter, of what had taken place, and to arrange for him to have an interview with Charles in the morning. Charles could not have expected better treatment.

It was not till he settled down on his hard mattress, with that locked door between him and everything he valued in the world, that real panic swept over Charles. He thought he was safe; but so had many another who had gone to that unthinkable end. Crippen must have felt quite sure that all was well when he had not only hidden the traces of his crime, but successfully left the country. Smith, Mahon, Rouse, did one of these, or a score of others, doubt their own safety? Why should Charles fare better than they?

Somehow, alone there in the semi-darkness, the excellence of his own plans seemed less convincing than ever before. Stories he had read recurred to him in which the guilty had made perfect plans, but in all cases they had broken down. Those double tales of Austin Freeman’s! All the criminals had been so sure of their safety and the perfection of their schemes, and in every case these watertight schemes had been like sieves; just honeycombed with errors and oversights and clues.

Charles, for not the first time since he had embarked on his desperate remedy, knew real anguish of mind. He simply could not look forward to the horrors which might be in store for him. For hours he tossed, then at last he fell into an uneasy sleep. Hideous dreams pursued him till he was wakened by the friendly constable, who presently brought him some breakfast.

‘Mr Quilter’ll be here at half-past nine,’ said the constable. ‘You’ll go before the magistrates at eleven, but that’ll be only formal: won’t take five minutes. You can see Mr Quilter before it.’

‘Thanks,’ Charles answered. ‘Will Mr Quilter be brought here?’

‘Yes; here.’

Though Charles was still terribly upset, his extreme panic of the night had passed off. He could now at least think collectedly, and by the time the solicitor arrived he was almost cheerful.

Alexander Quilter was a big man, with a rugged face, and the reputation of being better at court work than on questions of intricate law. His partner, Dunsfold, was the authority on the latter, the two of them making a formidable combination. Quilter had a boisterous manner, and his greeting of Charles was loud and hearty.

‘My dear fellow,’ he exclaimed before the door had well opened, ‘this is a terrible business. But we’ll soon have you out again. What has the super been thinking of?’

‘How are you, Quilter? Good of you to come so promptly.’

Quilter replied in kind. For a few moments he continued to talk encouraging platitudes, then, lowering his voice, he turned to business. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘tell me exactly what has occurred, and don’t you, as you value your liberty, keep anything back. Let’s have it all, whatever it is. Then we’ll know where we are.’

Charles began. He told of his financial difficulties, of his visits to The Moat, of his late uncle’s reactions to his requests, all exactly as the incidents had occurred. Then he spoke of the machines for the works, the attempt to borrow from the bank and from Bostock, and of his raising money on the pictures. He described his visit to London, mentioning the business of the pictures and the machines at Reading only. He explained about his feeling run down and his deciding to go on the Mediterranean cruise, recounted his receipt of the message at Naples, his journey home, and his arrival in time for the funeral. Finally he told of the purchase of the machines and the improved position of his firm. Everything he said was true, except when he denied point-blank knowing anything about the deaths of either his uncle or Weatherup.

‘That sounds all right,’ Quilter said when he had finished, ‘though I admit one or two things are a bit unfortunate. But we’ll have no trouble with them. By the way, you knew what was coming to you under the will?’

‘Yes, of course I knew it. Everyone knew the old man intended to divide the bulk of his money between Mrs Morley and myself. He had said so again and again.’

Quilter now began asking questions – shrewd questions, some of which gave Charles a good deal of trouble to answer. However, he acquitted himself well. He was pleased with the story he was able to put up, and when he had finished his case seemed watertight and his innocence unquestionable.

‘That’s about all we can do at present,’ Quilter said at last. ‘You’ll be brought before the magistrates at eleven and there’ll be a remand. Then we can go seriously into the question of defence.’

‘I suppose nothing can be done before the magistrates now?’

Quilter shook his head. ‘Nothing. There’s certain to be a remand. The police always get it. No, you’ll have to put up with that. And there’ll be no bail. I’m sorry, old man, but you needn’t expect it. It’s never granted on such a charge. But you’ll be all right. A bit irksome, I admit, but it’ll soon pass. We can’t really do much till we get the prosecution’s case. Then we’ll know where we are. We can discuss counsel and all that sort of thing later.’

Charles did not know whether to be elated or depressed as a result of the interview. Quilter evidently believed the case would go to trial, that was, that the police had a case. On the other hand, he was cheerily certain of the result. But was that only his manner? Charles felt once more a sinking horror come over him as he thought of the possibilities.

But he hadn’t much time to brood. He was presently brought into court. There on the bench were four of his own friends in the town. They looked embarrassed and sorry for themselves and him. They were very businesslike, listened to the superintendent giving evidence of arrest, and granted the remand without discussion. In a few minutes Charles was back in his cell.

Then Charles began to learn something about the length of time. The hours dragged interminably. He could not complain of his treatment. He was allowed books and the food was not too bad. No one was unpleasant to him. But he could not escape from his own thoughts.

He had, moreover, a terribly disquieting suspicion that Quilter seemed more and more grave about the case upon each successive visit. Occasionally also he asked some extremely awkward questions. He asked, for instance, whether Charles had ever bought any potassium cyanide? He was quite emphatic about it. ‘Now, look here, Swinburn,’ he had said, ‘tell me the fact: did you or did you not buy it?’ and when Charles declared he hadn’t, he went on, ‘Then, if the prosecution allege you did, you’ll be able to contradict them?’ Charles, inwardly quaking, had given the required assurance.

Time dragged slowly on. At the final proceedings before the magistrates, when he was committed for trial, Charles was rendered almost speechless with horror at the strength of the case against him. Quilter, however, seemed less impressed, merely saying that the defence was reserved. Quilter had worked hard, both before and after this hearing, till at last, a fortnight before the trial, everything was ready. Mr Lucius Heppenstall, perhaps the most eminent K.C. at the bar, had been briefed for the defence, and he was to be assisted by Mr Everard Byng, also a man of the highest standing in his profession. Conferences had been numerous and everything that money and skill could do had been done. Charles was bearing up better than he had expected, though periods of optimism and hope were usually followed by others of depression and a cold fear. It was at night that he suffered most. Often he could not sleep and then he sweated in sheer terror. He had in the last month grown thin and pale, and streaks of white were showing in his hair.

And then, at long last, but inexorably, came the day of the trial.

During the nine weeks of his incarceration Charles had lost a good deal of his cheery optimism. While he still clung desperately to his belief in the impossibility of an adverse verdict, at times he was the victim of dreadful doubts. He would have given a large sum to know what Quilter and Lucius Heppenstall really thought. They never said anything despondent; always they spoke as if the trial were the merest formality, an unpleasant ritual certainly, but one which could not under any circumstances have a sinister result. But always Charles wondered… Those nine weeks had added nine years to his life.

He woke on that Tuesday morning overshadowed by the vague weight of some impending calamity. Then, as he realized what it was, panic once again submerged him. He had frequently felt that he would be glad when the trial had come. Terrible as the ordeal would be, it could scarcely be worse than this frightful suspense he had so long borne. But now he saw that the loss of hope would be worse even than suspense.