Chapter Nineteen

Lloyd Disposes

“I simply have to tell you that if you do what John asks I believe it will be a grave mistake,” said Lloyd to Lorna.

They were on their own in the flat. Chittering had left before Lloyd had arrived, and Ethel had gone for her evening hour off. “The truth is that John is in a highly emotional state, and he can’t hope to assess the situation dispassionately. I know all about his compulsive drive. I can guess what he would do if he were out of prison. But he isn’t. I tell you that if this advertisement should ever appear, if claimants came forward for the reward and were proved to have lied, then it would take away one of the most important factors of the defence. John overlooks the fact that the police can’t prove there wasn’t a car here on Tuesday night. In his defence, we can say that it isn’t established that no one brought Farmer, that the lack of witnesses in itself is by no means conclusive. We need that element of doubt very badly indeed, and a single false claimant to the reward could kill it.”

“I don’t see why,” Lorna objected.

“It must be obvious! This reward, any reward of such magnitude, is an open invitation for false statements, and the prosecution would make a lot of play on it – arguing that you were virtually bribing people to come forward and perjure themselves. And if we got witnesses to come forward in this way, we might not be able to prove if they were lying, but counsel might when he got them in the witness box. I tell you that it’s a very grave risk indeed, and you ought to persuade John to drop it.”

Lorna said: “I see what you mean. Yes. Would it—?” she broke off. “All right, Geoff. I’ll think about it.”

“I wish you’d see a doctor and get a sedative,” grumbled Lloyd. “You look tired out.”

“I’m all right,” Lorna said flatly. The telephone rang, and she was glad of the interruption, for she knew exactly how John had felt. Somehow this reward suggestion would be the kind to appeal to his sense of the dramatic – and he would feel frustrated to a point of exasperation by Lloyd’s clinical attitude of disapproval. “Excuse me.” She went across to the telephone. “Hallo … Oh, good evening, Mr. Entwhistle!”

For a moment, hope surged.

“I’m afraid I haven’t had any luck,” Entwhistle reported, brisk as always. “But I shall keep on trying, and so will everyone I saw tonight. They’re solidly behind Mr. Mannering, you can be sure of that.”

“You’re very good,” Lorna said. “Very many thanks for calling. Good night.”

“Don’t worry too much,” urged Entwhistle.

Don’t worry too much …

“It was a neighbour,” Lorna told Lloyd. “They’re all being very kind.” She spoke mechanically, and did not feel that she could talk in any other way to Lloyd just now; she almost disliked the solicitor. “Everyone is. Geoffrey, I really must try to get some rest.”

Lloyd was obviously aware that her mood towards him had changed, that she wanted him to go. He hesitated before turning towards the door, then swung round again in his forceful way, and said: “Lorna, you may hate my guts at this moment, but I’m advising you for the best. You don’t seem to understand – John could hang for these murders.”

Lorna stood very still; shocked.

“These murders?”

“Yes, murders. You don’t need to be told there are the two,” said Lloyd, almost desperately. “Whoever hit the man Farmer also hit and killed Samuel Blest. John could have—”

“He wasn’t anywhere near the flat!”

“Perhaps he wasn’t, but can he prove it? He had been out that afternoon. Samuel Blest was last seen alive just after two, and was found dead at five. John could have gone out to Notting Hill and killed him, and got back in plenty of time to see the girl Rebecca at Quinns.”

“Geoffrey,” said Lorna, quietly. “I don’t think you’re the right man to be defending John.”

“For God’s sake cut out this emotional nonsense and see this as a cold legal problem!” Lloyd almost shouted, and he drew nearer her, one quivering hand raised. “John was out. I haven’t asked him directly, but I’ve asked him in roundabout ways, and he can’t establish where he was that afternoon. He went to three or four auction rooms and second-hand shops in the Portobello Road area, but only looked in the windows of some of them. And he travelled by bus and taxi; he didn’t take the car because of parking difficulties. I tell you that the prosecution could turn this into a capital murder charge, and if they did that and John was found guilty, he would hang.” When Lorna didn’t answer, but stood there, shocked beyond words, Lloyd went on: “Why won’t you admit that I’m doing my absolute best, that I’ve got a feeling about this case, and I think it’s going wrong. We’ve got to have the strongest defence we possibly can. If the police catch us out in a single act which looks as if we’re trying to buy John off – my God, it will finish him.”

“I see, Geoffrey. When are you planning to see John again?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Well, don’t go,” Lorna said. “I’ll send someone else. I’ll tell him that you’re ill, if that will make you feel better, but I don’t want you to see John again, and I don’t want you to handle this case any longer.”

“Now, Lorna—”

“There isn’t anything to argue about,” Lorna said. “I don’t believe that anyone who is so sure that John killed these men can possibly help him.”

“That’s damnably unfair.”

“It’s damnable all right,” Lorna said. “Will you go, please?”

Lloyd started to speak again, then turned round and clumped out; the door closed with a snap. Lorna heard his footsteps on the landing, then on the passage and the stairs; they faded. She felt clammy cold, and frightened. When at last she turned away, she asked herself in a low-pitched voice: “What on earth’s the matter with everyone?” And then: “What’s the matter with me?”

She shivered. She hated every word that Lloyd had said, but he had put doubt back into her mind, had rekindled the fear which she had felt earlier and had managed to push away. How much of the truth had John told? Could he be caught out in a positive lie? Could the police ever prove, for instance, that he had really put the genuine jewels into his own strong-room? If it could be proved that he had lied to Rebecca Blest about them, the rest of the case would almost certainly go against him.

Had he lied?

“Of course he didn’t lie,” Lorna told herself savagely. “You’re as bad as Lloyd! I hate all lawyers.” She went into the empty study, stood looking at John’s chair, and choked back a flood of emotion. She went to the chair, sat down, and lifted the telephone; she dialled the Globe, and it was a long time before there was any answer. The ringing sound going on and on, as if in a vacuum, was like this case; they could never get anywhere. She knew what John would feel; she knew that he would sense what Lloyd really thought.

“Daily Globe?”

“Mr. Chittering, please, in the reporters’ room.”

“Hold on.”

Lorna heard the click of the plugs being connected, and then a noise of a telephone being lifted, but there was no immediate answer, just a hum of voices in the background; someone had lifted the receiver and put it on the desk and continued what he was doing. Frustration, frustration, frustration.

“Hallo?” It was Chittering.

“Chitty, are you—”

“Lorna?” Chittering interrupted. “Where are you?”

“At home. Chitty, could you come and—”

“Yes,” said Chittering, interrupting again, and Lorna could not understand why he spoke so tersely. “I was coming soon, anyway. Stay in, won’t you?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll see you,” Chittering said, and rang off; he sounded as brusque as if he had lost the mood of friendliness. Chittering? It was nonsense even to think so. If he turned, as Lloyd had, then it would seem as if some hoodoo was upon them, blighting all hope of getting John free. There couldn’t be anything wrong with Chittering, unless …

Unless he had discovered some reason for thinking that John was guilty.

Lorna poured herself a whisky-and-soda, sipped it, lit a cigarette, and moved about the room; she had never felt so lonely or so frightened. Now there was this new menace hanging over her head – hanging over John’s head. A noose.

She went to the kitchen and got out the coffee things; Chittering always liked coffee. As she stood in the larder, there was a ring at the front door bell. She turned her body and looked towards the door. She was so much on her own, but there were a lot of people whom she did not want to see. Lloyd might have come back, for instance; or the police might be here with more questions.

She wished she was not on her own. When John had last been here by himself and that door bell had rung, he had opened it on to the man reeling against the wall outside.

Hadn’t he?

Then why hadn’t there been bloodstains on the wall? The bell rang again before she reached the door. She heard a man say: “There’s a light, so someone’s in.” It was an innocent kind of remark, and the voice hadn’t the depth of a policeman’s, more of a youth’s.

She opened the door, and saw Rebecca Blest with a young, curlyhaired lad; two young people, side by side and holding hands.

“Why, good evening,” Lorna said. She was surprised but not disappointed, glad that there was no fear of another clash with Lloyd. “Come in.” She stood aside, and they entered, looking round quickly, and obviously impressed; when she thought of their background, that wasn’t surprising. Lorna hadn’t seen McKay before, but she liked the look of him, and now that Rebecca Blest had rested, and was made up a little, she was young and attractive and … honest-looking. It was easy to understand John deciding to help her.

She began: “Mrs. Mannering—”

“Mrs. Mannering—” the youth started at the same moment.

They broke off together.

“I was just making coffee,” Lorna said. “Would you like a cup?”

“Well—”

“Look, Mrs. Mannering,” the youth said, speaking hastily, “I’m Terence McKay, and I happened to meet Becky on the day that she came to Quinns. I dare say you’ve heard of me.”

They were moving towards John’s study.

“I have indeed,” Lorna said.

“Well, no one wants to find the murderer of Becky’s father more than I do, or Becky does,” declared the youth, with the sweeping confidence of the young. “But we’d hate the wrong man to be landed with it.”

Lorna said: “Well, so would I.” It was impossible to say why, but the arrival and the manner of the couple had soothed her; so did the words. They entered the study, and she sat in John’s chair, while the girl stood looking at her from the fireplace, and the youth paced about.

“Well, I don’t even know if we ought to be here,” said McKay, “but we decided to have a go. You know those jewels that Becky took to your husband?”

“I know the ones you mean.”

“Well, the police showed her some jewels today, and asked her to identify them. At the time she said they were the ones which she’d taken to Quinns, but she’s been thinking since then, and remembered one or two things. She says that the settings – you know, the gold in which the jewels are set – aren’t the same. She couldn’t tell a genuine diamond from a piece of glass in a ring, any more than I could, and there was the right number of articles there, if you see what I mean …”

Lorna’s heart was beginning to pound with new hope.

“… bracelets, necklaces, brooches, ear-rings, that kind of thing. There were seventeen, and they looked pretty well the same, but Becky says she’s sure now that they weren’t exactly the same,” McKay announced. “Those she saw today looked much better. We’ve been talking about it, and, well, we thought it was only fair to tell you, so that you can pass it on to your lawyers. Eh, Becky?”

“Yes, of course,” Rebecca Blest said. “I would hate any injustice to be done, Mrs. Mannering, and – well, the trouble is, I did say they were the same ones. What I wonder is ought I to tell the police I think I was wrong? I remembered how worried you were last night, and I thought I’d like to come and see you, anyhow.”

“You couldn’t have done a kinder thing,” Lorna said. She almost choked. “You—you would really stand up in court and say this?”

“Oh, yes,” said Rebecca. “After all, it’s the truth.”

Thank God for her simplicity!

“Wonderful,” Lorna said. “It’s wonderful. It’s the fact that the police found the jewels in my husband’s strong-room which really make them think he—” She broke off, hearing footsteps outside again, and before she finished, there was another ting at the front door bell. This would be Chittering. Immediately she wondered whether it would be wise to tell Chittering about this, because he might want to use it in his newspaper, and she could not be sure whether that would help or not.

She needed legal advice, even if it had to be Lloyd’s.

“That’s a newspaperman from the Globe,” she said. “Don’t say anything about this until I ask you to, will you?”

“Mum’s the word,” promised McKay.

It would have been easy to laugh, but laughter would have had a touch of hysteria. Lorna went out of the room, and hesitated for a moment, unable to realise the full significance of what she now knew, realising only that this could be the beginning of the end of the chain of misfortunes. She recovered herself and opened the door.

It was Chittering.

The moment she saw him, she knew that he had much on his mind, that she had not been mistaken about the oddness of the way he had talked and his brusqueness on the telephone. He said briskly: “Hallo, Lorna,” and stepped inside. “Are you alone? I’ve some news of a kind that could be important. I don’t know just how, yet. It could be a hoax, and—” He broke off sharply, for McKay appeared in the doorway.