An icy hand seemed to close round Pam’s heart as Mr Penrose told his dreadful news, So it had come: that fearful thing which she had secretly dreaded ever since she had heard of Platt’s disappearance! Jack arrested! Jack! And for murder! Now that it had happened it seemed incredible: preposterous! How could anyone who knew him doubt his innocence?
Oh, how crookedly things had happened! If only Platt had not lost his head in the cottage on that Saturday morning! If only Jack had appeared a few seconds earlier or later than he did! If only he had not crossed that night, and by the same boat! Everything had occurred in the worst possible way. It was as if Fate was against them.
For a moment Pam could not reply to Mr Penrose. Then she groaned. ‘Oh, it’s not true! It can’t be true! Oh, I’ve been afraid—so afraid! And then the danger seemed over. And now: it’s happened!’
He could but shake his head. She pulled out a chair and made him sit down. He sat motionless with his head bent, as if all the life had drained out of him. She went into the next room and poured him out some brandy.
It revived him. ‘Thank you,’ he said in more normal tones. ‘You must have some yourself.’
‘No,’ she answered as if in a dream. ‘I don’t want it.’
‘My dear, you must.’
She gave in. The movement and thought for him had helped her. The brandy helped her more. The overwhelming numbing horror seemed to lift. The disaster remained appalling, but it was something human, something that might be met and fought, something that was not necessarily irrevocable.
‘Tell me,’ she asked softly.
But there was little more to be told than the one devastating fact. Sergeant M‘Clung and another man had come. They had asked for Jack. They had said they were sorry, but he would have to go to headquarters with them. They had been as civil and kindly as they could. Jack had gone without a word, except for a brief goodbye. He had not been much upset and had waved to them cheerfully enough.
‘He was always plucky,’ she murmured.
‘Yes, he was always plucky,’ he answered, then added with a shake of the head, ‘He’ll need it all now. My son,’ he went on as if unconscious of her presence, ‘oh, my son.’ He sat gazing forward into nothingness. ‘But there,’ he seemed to come back to the present, ‘I mustn’t complain. You’re plucky too. You’re not complaining. We’ve got to work for him now. We’ll see him through.’
Pam felt as if she were living in an evil dream as she broke the news to her father and mother. They were sympathy and goodness itself, but even so, it proved an ordeal. All the same, the thought and effort helped her. Then she returned with Mr Penrose to Hillview. Mrs Penrose had taken Pam to her heart, and now she clung to her as if to draw strength from the contact.
Gradually the first rude shock wore off and they began to discuss the affair constructively.
‘What happens in such cases?’ Pam asked ‘Tell me.’
‘Well,’ Mr Penrose answered, ‘he will be brought before the magistrates this morning and remanded. That’s purely formal. The only thing is,’ he hesitated, ‘he won’t be allowed bail. Then perhaps after some more remands, the magistrates will hear the case. If they think there is a genuine case against him, they will commit him for trial; if not, they will release him then and there. But, my dear,’ he paused again, ‘we needn’t hope for that. He is certain to be committed for trial. And that will be our opportunity.’
‘You say this morning he’ll be brought before the magistrates? Is there nothing then to be done at once? Nothing to prepare for that?’
‘My dear, it’s all done: all that we can do. I arranged it last night, after—it happened. I rang up Irwin of Irwin & Magee of Wellington Place, and asked him to act. I am waiting to hear when Jack is to be brought up, and I will go in and attend the court with Irwin.’
‘I’ll go too,’ Pam declared.
‘I don’t know that—’
‘Of course I’ll go. What would Jack think if I wasn’t there?’
Mr Penrose again demurred, but Pam was adamant and Mrs Penrose took her part. ‘It would show Jack she believed in him,’ she said.
‘Do the others know?’ Pam went on; ‘Fred Ferris and Mac?’
‘I’m afraid everyone knows by now,’ Mr Penrose returned sadly.
Further conversation was interrupted by the telephone bell. Mr Penrose hurried to the instrument.
‘There’s a special court at eleven,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to hurry. Run and tell M‘Ilrath, will you, Pam? I told him he’d be wanted, so the car’s ready.’
The elderly gardener-chauffeur touched his hat as Pam appeared. Deprecatingly he murmured a few words of sympathy. ‘Don’t you take on, miss,’ he advised. ‘There’s no one that knows Mr Jack that could believe he did a thing like that.’
The kindliness in his tone comforted her. It was irrational perhaps, but when they started, the weight of her despair had somewhat lightened.
They picked up Mr Irwin at his office and drove on to the court. Irwin was a tall fine-looking man with a bony face, large cheekbones and a square jaw. He obviously meant to be kindly, but his manner was a trifle dry.
‘We can do nothing today,’ he said after greetings and a somewhat perfunctory murmur of sympathy. ‘A remand is a certainty. The thing’ll last maybe a couple of minutes—purely formal.’
‘That’s what I’ve told Miss Grey,’ Penrose answered.
Their prophecies were fulfilled to the letter. The case was called, Jack appeared in the dock, formal evidence of arrest was given followed immediately by a request for a remand. Mr Irwin said he was appearing for the accused but had nothing to say at the moment the remand was granted, Jack vanished, and it was all over.
Pam was thankful in a way that it was so quick. She was able to see that Jack looked normally cheerful and to smile at him as warmly and reassuringly as she could.
‘You’ll see him, won’t you, Mr Irwin?’ she said as they left the building. ‘Tell him how utterly I believe in him and that I’m coming to see him when I’m allowed. I will be allowed, won’t I?’
‘Well, we’ll see about that later,’ Irwin answered without enthusiasm, ‘but I’ll visit him myself at once and I’ll not fail to give him your message.’
‘He’s not much good at pretty phrases,’ Penrose remarked when Irwin had been dropped at his office, ‘but he’s magnificent at his job: I know no one better.’
‘What exactly will he do?’
‘I had a chat with him while we were waiting. He’ll see Jack this afternoon and have a talk over things. Jack, of course, has met him several times and I know he has a high opinion of him.’
‘You didn’t think of undertaking the defence yourself, Mr Penrose?’
‘No, my dear, I did not. He’s too close to me for one thing, but besides Irwin & Magee are better at that sort of work. And of course they’ll have any ability that I have at their disposal.’
‘The strength of the two firms?’
‘I hope so. Then we’ll have to get counsel. I’m going to discuss that with Irwin tomorrow, after he’s seen Jack. I think Bernard Coates, if he’s available, and if Irwin agrees. I certainly think he’s the best man we have in Northern Ireland.’
‘Just one barrister?’
‘Yes, but of course he’ll have to have his junior.’
A complicated business, a trial! And why, Pam thought, should the defence be left to the friends of the accused? The state is acting against the accused, why shouldn’t the state arrange for the trial to be fair? Why should private individuals have to pay huge sums to get justice? Suppose they hadn’t the money? Pam thought of the agony of having to put up with perfunctory or second-rate help because one couldn’t afford to give one’s loved one the best chance for his life. And apparently conviction or acquittal did depend pretty largely on who conducted the case for the defence. At least, so she had often heard. It was all wrong! The facts and the facts only should be the deciding factor; not the clever way in which they were put. Pam thought it was all terribly unfair.
But unhappily her opinion didn’t affect the matter one way or another. Jack’s friends had to provide his defence, and it was up to them to provide the best that was possible. Well, she was lucky there. Mr Penrose knew the ropes, and there was enough money. Everything would be done.
And done successfully. Of that, of course, there could be no doubt. It was a dreadful business and they would go through a dreadful time before it was over, but as to the final result there could be no doubt whatever. Not for a moment did Pam allow herself to think of anything else. When at intervals the hideous doubt tried to find an entrance to her mind, she banished it with all the resolution she possessed. Simply she dared not think of that other possibility … It couldn’t happen! Nothing so utterly awful could ever take place.
Now for Pam, and indeed for all those who knew and loved Jack Penrose, a terrible period of anxiety and suspense set in. It drew Pam closer to people than ever before. Soon she found her acquaintances divided themselves into two groups. The larger was definitely friendly and tried in all sorts of unobtrusive ways to show her sympathy and kindness. But a few people grew aloof. If she met them they passed without stopping, and if they saw her coming they had business elsewhere.
Among those who seemed most anxious to help were her cousins, Dot and Dash Whiteside. Mrs Penrose had rung them up to tell them the news on the first day, and when Pam got back from court she found them both at her home. The three young women had always been friends, but never till now had Pam realised the goodness that lay behind the other’s somewhat bouncing manners. Indeed, so overcome was she by their sympathy that to her own shame she broke down and sobbed openly. But the outbreak proved a relief, and as she bathed her eyes she smiled for the first time since the blow fell.
Ferris and M‘Morris were another pair who were tremendously upset by the news. Pam indeed was surprised that they should take it so much to heart. They had always been friendly and she had got on well with both, but she had never really cared for either. She had considered them good business acquaintances, but not exactly friends as she thought of others in her set. But now there could be no doubt of their distress, and she felt drawn to them more than ever before.
On two successive weeks Jack was remanded, and then came the preliminary hearing. This last was a period of unrelieved horror for Pam. She was appalled by the strength of the prosecution’s case and disappointed beyond words when Mr Brennan, Coates’ junior, rose and said that the defence would be reserved, with its immediate consequence of Jack’s committal for trial. Surely, she thought bitterly, Irwin and Coates might have done better than that? They might have put up some sort of fight instead of handing over everything to the enemy. Why, they were running away before the battle!
She said something of the kind to Mr Penrose and was relieved to find that he was not greatly depressed by the proceedings. ‘Trust Coates,’ he advised; ‘he knows best. It was all discussed carefully beforehand. In the first place nothing could have prevented Jack being committed for trial, so there was no good trying to do that. In the second, Coates didn’t want to give away his line of defence and have the prosecution spending weeks working up arguments against it. He thought it better to spring it on them at the trial when they could only make an improvised reply.’
In this Pam found some comfort, though it seemed to her unhappily like the ‘strategic retirements’ announced by the commander of a defeated force. However, there it was and nothing could be done about it. She reminded herself that the preliminary hearing must now be forgotten and her attention turned to that vastly more terrible period now only six weeks away—the trial itself. On the trial and on Coates’ defence rested not only Jack’s whole future, but her own. She could not bring herself to contemplate any other than a successful ending to that awful ordeal, but she knew that if Jack’s life were destroyed hers would also be. Without him existence would be insupportable.
There now dawned for Pamela Grey an even more dreadful period than that of the past few weeks. Since the hearing before the magistrates Jack’s peril seemed to her infinitely more pressing. She was no longer able to comfort herself by the thought that a conviction was impossible. The case against him was terribly strong, far stronger than she had imagined. Indeed, at moments of maximum depression, she wondered whether it was not quite overwhelming. That he was entirely innocent she knew. She would have staked her life on it without the slightest hesitation. But unhappily her beliefs didn’t matter. Would the jury believe it? Would she herself believe it if she hadn’t known Jack? She didn’t know, and sank still lower in her slough of despond.
Pam indeed felt stunned. She did not know what to do. And yet if something were not done there was the fear, there was more than the fear, that her worst forebodings would be realised.
Mr Penrose seemed stunned too. He had aged in these weeks. He had been a fine upstanding man before the trouble arose; elderly, of course, but still vigorous and capable. Now both appearance and manner gave the impression of age. He had grown paler, more fragile looking, more bent, less capable of incisive thought and action. Pam now saw how wise he had been to entrust the defence to other hands.
The remaining members of her immediate circle reacted very much as might have been expected. Her own father and mother were full of sympathy, but owing to Mr Grey’s health they were unable to do anything active to assist: not, as she told herself despairingly, that there was anything that they could have done. Mrs Penrose was herself heart-broken, upset not only about her son, but in a lesser degree about her husband also. At the same time her goodness and her understanding were a relief to Pam. Both Ferris and M‘Morris were extraordinarily distressed. ‘Sure no one that knows anything at all about him could think he’d done a thing like that,’ Ferris said indignantly again and again, and M‘Morris agreed.
But of all the people who showed their sympathy with Pam, the one whose companionship she found most comforting was Dot Whiteside. Both Dot and Dash and, indeed, the whole Whiteside family had been goodness itself all through, but somehow Dot seemed to understand better and to be more genuinely distressed than the others. Pam found herself slightly surprised, for though she had always liked Dot, she had never been actually fond of her. Now she felt a very genuine attachment growing between herself and the somewhat bouncing young woman.
For some days Pam’s inertia lasted and then the very urgency of the danger forced her to action. What, her one cry was, can we do? In vain she was assured that Irwin and Coates were doing all that mortal could: she wanted to act herself. She wanted to feel that things really were on the move: she wanted the relief of personal effort. Importunately she urged first Penrose and then Irwin to let her help.
She had been exhaustively questioned by both Irwin and Coates on her knowledge of the affair, in the hope of bringing out some useful facts. But she did not consider this enough. She urged that all the remaining members of the syndicate should meet counsel, on the chance that from their collective wisdom might come help. And at last, more out of kindliness to her than from faith in the idea, Coates agreed.
But this also proved a disappointment. The meeting was held and the case was discussed from A to Z, unhappily without finding any fact or argument which had not been known before. Pam waylaid Coates as he was leaving and clung on to his arm till he gave her satisfaction. ‘Tell me, Mr Coates,’ she implored him, ‘tell me quite truly and directly what are our chances?’
‘Oh, good,’ he answered cheerily, but the answer did not sound too convincing in her ears. ‘We’ll be all right, you’ll see. All the same,’ he lowered his voice and became more confidential, ‘I don’t mind telling you that our best defence would be to find the real murderer.’
The excitement of the meeting and these interviews with Irwin and Coates sustained Pam for a few days, but as time continued inexorably to pass and nothing fresh happened, she grew almost frantic. She had begged to be allowed to see Jack, but all concerned had conspired together to prevent her. She could not find out who was to blame for this: there was always a good reason why it could not be done at that particular time. She could not break down this blank wall of opposition and she felt baffled and despairing. But both Mr Penrose and Irwin had conveyed messages backwards and forwards, though neither would take letters, saying they were pledged not to do so. From these messages and their accounts it appeared that Jack was bearing up bravely, that he was optimistic about an acquittal, and that he had no complaint to make of his treatment.
The negotiations about the petrol process were still hanging fire and the affair remained another worry to Pam, a subconscious worry like an aching tooth, forgotten in the daily round. Compared with her real trouble it was of infinitesimal importance, but still it added to her feeling of frustration and hopeless disappointment. On Jefferson’s recovery from his accident he had written that he was ready for Ferris to go over to give the complete demonstration and sign the final agreement. But now Ferris had crocked up. Pam did not know exactly what was wrong, but it seemed a kind of food poisoning. However, though he was about again, he could not travel, and once more the business of the syndicate was held up.
So the days went by, endless leaden days while Pam was living through them, and yet passing with appalling haste as inexorably they brought the trial nearer.
At last the fatal morning dawned. Pam had not slept, and as she got up and looked out at the dull sky heavy with rain clouds and listened to the mournful howl of the wind through the trees at the back of the house, she felt her fear grow, as if the very weather had joined in the effort to destroy Jack which was so soon to be made.
But Mr Penrose, when he called for her a little later, proved distinctly encouraging. ‘Wait till you hear Coates,’ he advised. ‘Up till now you have only heard the prosecution. A case always looks badly till the defence have had their innings. Our chances are good,’ and during the journey to the court he continued his efforts to cheer her.
Of Pam’s immediate associates only Mr Penrose, Ferris, M‘Morris, Dot, Dash and old Mr Whiteside were to be present. Pam’s father was too infirm to attend, and much as her mother wished to know what was going on, she felt she could scarcely bear the proceedings. Mrs Penrose would not go, as she feared her presence might tend to upset Jack.
They drove the twenty miles through Ballynahinch to the old assize town of Downpatrick. The court, when at last they reached it, was already crowded. But Penrose was known and with respectful salutes he and his party were shown to seats at the solicitors’ table. Irwin had arrived, and immediately began whispering to Penrose. ‘Coates may be a minute or two late,’ Pam heard him say, ‘but he’ll be here all right.’
The disposition of a court was no mystery to Pam. On different occasions Jack had taken her with him to hear cases on which he had been engaged, and she had a fair idea not only of the structural arrangement of the room, but also of the proceedings which obtained. But the mere fact that it was Jack who had taken her made the present visit all the more distressing.
She had never seen a court so packed. Except for the jury box, every seat was occupied. All round the table were barristers in their wigs and gowns and legal-looking men seated before masses of papers. These were chatting in groups and even laughing! How, Pam wondered sickly, could anyone laugh in such a place? Policemen in uniform stood here and there or walked importantly about. There was a buzz of conversation and a somewhat subdued movement until someone called ‘Silence!’ Then everyone stood up while the red-robed judge entered and took his place on the bench beneath the Royal Arms.
It was simple, that entry, yet extraordinarily impressive. Pam felt herself overawed by the slight bewigged figure. With the utmost anxiety she searched its face for some indication of the man who lay behind. The expression was stern, and yet she was convinced his disposition was kindly. As she examined the strongly marked features she felt a growing assurance that Jack would get a fair hearing. Abstractedly of course she had known this all along, but it was different to believe it as a result of her own observation.
Directly the judge had taken his place on the bench Jack appeared in the dock. Pam was slightly relieved that her seat was so close beneath the dock that she could only see him by turning and looking up. She wanted him to see her and to feel that she was near to him, but she did not want him to think that she was watching him. After bowing to the judge he glanced quickly round and she caught his eye and smiled warm encouragement.
On the whole she was pleased with his appearance, which, she felt, would make a good impression. He was certainly pale, a good deal paler than usual, but he looked well and not too depressed. He had been careful also with his dress and was well shaved and neatly turned out. How utterly incapable he looked of such a crime! Already she thought she could read approval in the glances of those present.
But she had little time for registering impressions. The business of the court began at once, and she was too much interested to allow her attention to wander.
Without haste, but without delay, the preliminaries were gone through. Jack pleaded ‘Not guilty!’ in a clear convincing voice, and the jurors were called and sworn and took their places. With the same anxiety as in the case of the judge, Pam scrutinised their faces. There were nine men and three women and they looked what they obviously were, ordinary decent citizens of the middle or lower middle class. The foreman was a portly, good-humoured looking man, rather of the butler type, though less well dressed. Pam put him down as perhaps a small shopkeeper. He, she felt sure, would take the easy or the charitable view. He would probably be for an acquittal, though he might be overruled by his neighbour, a dark man with a thin hatchetty face, gloomy eyes, and a forceful chin. The other men were not in any way remarkable—except two who looked downright stupid—but they all seemed straight and out to do what they thought fair. The women were also of ordinary types, more inclined, Pam felt sure, for mercy than for judgment.
But she had not time to continue her surmisings. Mr Carswell, the Crown Prosecutor, was on his feet and about to make his opening statement. He was a big forceful-looking man with dark impelling eyes and a large blue chin. His reputation was that of a brilliant advocate and a hard fighter, but a clean fighter, fair and not vindictive. Now he got into his stride at once, wasting but little time on introduction and none on rhetoric, but coming speedily to the facts of the case. These he put forward in simple language, speaking quietly and making no attempt to stress his points by action or manner.
Pam with the rest of those present, stiffened into attention.