THE man in the witness-box of Courtroom Number One, Central Criminal Courts, had a large and confident voice. He was in the middle of a sentence when I came creeping in.
“—and so, of course, I thought of the inkpad. Like ‘precautions to take before the doctor comes,’ you know. Only this was a policeman.”
Mr. Randolph Fleming was a large, burly man with a stiff red mustache which forty years ago would have been remarkable even in the Guards. He had a bearing of the same sort, and was not abashed. With the darkening of the day, the concealed lights under the cornices of the oak paneling threw a theatrical glow up over its white dome. But, crawling in some minutes after proceedings had begun, I thought not so much of a theater as a church.
Evelyn glowered at me, and then whispered excitedly: “Sh-h! He’s just confirmed all Dyer said about finding the body, up to the time Answell swore he had taken a drugged drink; and they found none of the whisky or the soda had been tapped. Sh-h! What was the blonde like?”
I shushed her in reply, for heads were turning towards us, and that mention of an inkpad had caught me. Mr. Randolph Fleming took a deep breath, expanding his chest, and looked round the court with interest. His enormous vitality seemed to enliven counsel. Fleming’s large face was somewhat withered, with a pendulous jowl dominated by the stiff red mustache; his eyelids were wrinkled, and the eyes very sharp. You felt that there should be a monocle in one of them, or some sort of helmet on his stiff brown hair. At intervals in the questioning—when there was a cessation of movement like the clogging of a motion-picture film—he would study the judge, study the barristers, and look up to study the people in the gallery. When he spoke, Fleming’s jowl moved in and out like a bullfrog’s.
Huntley Lawton was examining.
“Explain what you mean about the inkpad, Mr. Fleming.”
“Well, it was like this,” answered the witness, drawing in his jowl as though he were trying to smell the flower in the buttonhole of his pepper-and-salt suit. “When we had looked at the sideboard and seen that the decanter and the siphon were both full, I said to the prisoner, I said”—pause, as though for consideration—“‘Why don’t you be a man and admit you did it? Look at that arrow over there,’ I said. ‘You can see there are fingerprints there; and they’ll be yours, won’t they?’”
“What did he say to that?”
“Nothing. Ab-so-lutely nothing! Consequently, I thought of taking his fingerprints. I’m a practical man; always have been; that’s how I came to think of it. I said to Dyer that if we had an inkpad—you know the sort of thing: one of those little pads that you press rubber stamps on—we could get a good clear set. He said that Dr. Hume had just recently bought some rubber stamps and an inkpad, and that they were upstairs in one of the doctor’s suits. He remembered because he had intended to take the stamps out in case they soiled the pocket, so he offered to go upstairs and fetch—”
“We quite understand, Mr. Fleming. Did you get the inkpad and take the prisoner’s fingerprints?”
The witness, who had been thrusting out his neck with earnestness, seemed ruffled at the interruption.
“No, sir, we did not. That is, not that particular inkpad. Dyer couldn’t find the suit, it seems, or it wasn’t there. But he did manage to fish up an old one from the desk, in violet ink, and we got a set of the prisoner’s fingerprints on a piece of paper.”
“This piece of paper? Show it to the witness, please.”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“Did the prisoner make any objections to this?”
“Yes, a bit.”
“What did he do?”
“Nothing much.”
“I repeat, Mr. Fleming: what did he do?”
“Nothing much,” said the witness in a heavy growl. “He caught me off balance. He gave me a sort of shove with his open hand. My feet were off balance, and I went over against the wall and fell down a bit.”
“A sort of shove. I see. What was his manner when he did this: angry?”
“Yes, he was in a devil of a rage all of a sudden. We were trying to hold his arms down so we could get his prints.”
“He gave you a ‘sort of shove’ and you ‘fell down a bit.’ In other words, he struck hard and quickly?”
“He caught me off balance.”
“Just answer the question, please. All of a sudden he struck hard and quickly. Is that so?”
“Yes, or he wouldn’t have caught me off balance.”
“Very well. Now, Mr. Fleming, did you examine the place on the wall of the room, shown in photograph 8, from which the arrow had been taken down?”
“Yes, I went all over it.”
“Did the small staples—the staples that held the arrow to the wall—show signs of having been wrenched out violently, as though the arrow had been suddenly jerked down?”
“Yes, they were all over the floor.”
Counsel consulted his brief. After this little brush, Fleming squared his shoulders, lifted his elbow, and put one fist on the rail of the witness-box. He took a good survey of the court, as though challenging anyone to question his answers; but his forehead was ruffled with small wrinkles. Once, I remember, he happened to look straight into my eyes from across the room. And I wondered, as you always do on these occasions, “What’s that fellow really thinking?”
Or, for that matter, you might wonder what the prisoner was really thinking. He was much more restless this afternoon than he had been this morning. Whenever a man in the dock moves in his chair, you are conscious of it; like a movement on an empty dance-floor such as the dock resembled. A shifting, an unquiet stealing of the hands, seems to come close to you. Often he would glance towards the solicitors’ table—in the direction, it seemed, of the grave and cynically preoccupied Reginald Answell. The prisoner’s eyes looked rather wild and worried; his big shoulders were stooped. Lollypop, H.M.’s secretary, was now at the solicitors’ table, wearing her paper cuffs and poring over a typewritten sheet. Counsel cleared his throat to resume.
“You have told us, Mr. Fleming, that you are a member of several archery societies, and have been an archer for many years?”
“That’s so.”
“So that you could describe yourself as something of an authority on the subject?”
“Yes, I think I could safely say that,” returned the witness, with a grave nod and a bullfrog swell of the throat.
“I want you to look at this arrow and describe it.”
Fleming seemed puzzled. “I don’t know what you want me to say, exactly. It’s the standard type of men’s arrow: red pinewood, twenty-eight inches long, quarter of an inch thick, iron pile or point footed with bullet-tree wood, nock made of horn—” He turned it over in his hands.
“The nock, yes. Will you explain what the nock is?”
“The nock is this little wedge-shaped piece of horn at the end of the arrow. There’s a notch in it—here. That’s how you fit the arrow to the bowstring. Like this.”
He illustrated with a backward gesture, and banged his hand against the post supporting the roof of the witness-box: to his evident surprise and annoyance.
“Could that arrow have been fired?”
“It could not. Out of the question.”
“You would call it definitely impossible?”
“Of course it’s impossible. Besides, the fellow’s fingerprints were the only marks on—”
“I must ask you not to anticipate the evidence, Mr. Fleming. Why is it impossible that the arrow could have been fired?”
“Look at the nock! It’s been bent over and twisted so much that you couldn’t possibly fit it to a string.”
“Was the nock in this condition when you first saw it in the deceased’s body?”
“Yes, it was.”
“Will you just pass that along for the inspection of the jury? Thank you. Having established that the arrow could not have been fired: in the coating of dust you tell us you observed on the arrow, did you observe anywhere—anywhere—any marks except those which you knew to be fingerprints?”
“I did not.”
“That is all.”
He sat down. While the arrow traveled among the jury, a long and rumbling throat-clearing preceded the rise of H.M. There are sounds and sounds; and this one indicated war. It struck several people, for Lollypop made a quietly fiendish sign of warning, and for some reason held up the typewritten sheet over which she had been poring. Trouble blew into that room as palpably as a wind, but H.M.’s opening was mild enough.
“You’ve told us that on that Saturday night you were goin’ next door to play chess with the deceased.”
“That’s right.” (Fleming’s truculent tone added, “And what of it?”)
“When did the deceased make an appointment with you?”
“About three o'clock in the afternoon.”
“Uh-huh. For what time that night?”
“He said to drop in about a quarter to seven, and we’d have a bite of cold dinner together, since everybody else in the house was out.”
“When Miss Jordan ran over and brought you, you’ve told us you were already on your way to keep that appointment?”
“Yes. I was a bit early. Better early than late.”
“Uh-huh. Now take a dekko—hurrum—just glance at that arrow again. Look at those three feathers. I think I’m right in statin’ that they’re fixed edgeways to the arrow about an inch from the nock-end, and they’re about two and a half inches long?”
“Yes. The size of the feathers varies, but Hume preferred the biggest ones.”
“You notice that the middle feather is torn off pretty sharply about halfway down. Was it like that when you found the body?”
Fleming looked at him suspiciously, on guard behind his red mustache.
“Yes, that’s how it was.”
“You’ve heard the witness Dyer testify that all the feathers were intact and whole at the time the accused went into that study at 6:10?”
“I’ve heard it.”
“Sure. We all did. Consequently, the feather must ‘a’ been broken off between then and the discovery of the body?”
“Yes.”
“If the accused grabbed that arrow down off the wall and struck at Hume, holdin’ the arrow halfway down the shaft, how do you think the feather got torn off?”
“I don’t know. In the struggle, probably. Hume made a grab at the arrow when he saw it coming—”
“He made a grab at the end of the arrow opposite the end that was threatenin’ him?”
“He might have. Or it might have been torn off when the arrow was pulled off the wall, from those little staples.”
“That’s another theory. The piece of feather was broken off either (1) in a struggle; or (2) when the arrow was pulled down. Uh-huh. In either case, where is it? Did you find it when you searched the room?”
“No, I did not; but a little piece of feather—”
“I’m suggestin’ to you that this ‘little piece of feather’ was an inch and a quarter long by an inch broad. A whole lot bigger than half-a-crown. You’d have noticed half-a-crown on the floor, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, but this didn’t happen to be half-a-crown.”
“I’ve said it was a lot bigger. And it was painted bright blue, wasn’t it?”
“I suppose so.”
“What was the color of the carpet?”
“I can’t say I can swear to that.”
“Then I’ll tell you: it was light brown. You accept that? Yes. And you agree that there was very little furniture? Uh-huh. But you made an intensive search of that room, and you still didn’t find the missin’ piece?”
Hitherto the witness had seemed rather pleased at his own wit, set to shine, and at intervals tickling up the corners of his mustache. Now he was impatient.
“How should I know? Maybe it got lodged somewhere; maybe it’s still there. Why don’t you ask the police-inspector?”
“I’m going to—Now let’s draw on your fund of information about archery. Take those three feathers at the end of the arrow. Have they got any kind o' useful purpose, or are they only decorative?”
Fleming seemed surprised. “Certainly they have a purpose. They’re set at equal intervals, parallel to the line of flight; you can see that. The natural curve of the feathers gives the arrow a rotary motion in the air—zzz!—like that. Like a rifle bullet.”
“Is one feather always a different color from the rest, like this?”
“Yes, the guide feather; it shows you where to fit the arrow on the string.”
“When you buy these arrows,” pursued H.M., in a rumbling and dreamy tone, while the other stared at him, “are the feathers already attached, or do you fasten on your own?”
“As a rule they’re already attached. Naturally. But some people prefer to put on their own type of feathers.”
“Am I right in thinkin’ that the deceased did?”
“Yes. I don’t know how you know it; but he used a different type. Most arrows have turkey-feathers. Hume preferred goose-feathers, and put them on himself: I suppose he liked the old gray-goose-feather tradition. These are goose-feathers. Shanks, the odd-jobs’ man, usually fastened them on for him.”
“And this little joker here: the guide feather, you call it. Am I rightly instructed when I say he used a special type of dye, of his own invention, to color the guide feather?”
“Yes, he did. In his workshop—”
“His workshop!” said H.M., coming to life. “His workshop. Just where was this workshop? Get the plan of the house and show us.”
There was a general ruffling and unrolling of plans among the jury. Several of us stirred in our seats, wondering what the old man might have up the sleeve of that disreputable gown. Randolph Fleming, with a hairy red finger on the plan, looked up and frowned.
“It’s here. It’s a little detached building in the back garden, about twenty yards from the house. I think it was intended to be a greenhouse once; but Hume didn’t care for that sort of thing. It’s partly glass.”
H.M. nodded. “What did the deceased keep there?”
“His archery equipment. Bows, strings, arrows, drawing-gloves; things like that. Old Shanks dyed the arrows there, too, with Hume’s own stuff.”
“What else?”
“If you want the whole catalogue,” retorted the witness, “I’ll give it to you. Arm-guards, waist-belts for the arrows, worsted tassels to clean the points with, a grease-pot or two for the drawing-fingers of the glove—and a few tools, of course. Hume was a good man with his hands.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing that I remember.”
“You’re sure of that, now?”
The witness snorted.
“So. Now, you’ve testified that that arrow couldn’t ‘a’ been fired. I suggest to you that that statement wasn’t what you meant at all. You’ll agree that the arrow could have been projected?”
“I don’t see what you mean. What’s the difference?”
“What’s the difference? Looky here! You see this inkwell? Well, if I threw it at you right now, it wouldn’t be fired from a bow; but you’ll thoroughly agree that it would be projected. Wouldn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Yes. And you could take that arrow and project it at me?”
“I could!” said the witness.
His tone implied, “And, by God, I’d like to.” Both of them had powerful voices, which were growing steadily more audible. At this point Sir Walter Storm, the Attorney-General, rose with a clearing of the throat.
“My lord,” said Sir Walter, in tones whose richness and calm would have rebuked a bishop, “I do not like to interrupt my learned friend. But I should only like to inquire whether my learned friend is suggesting that this arrow, which weighs perhaps three ounces, could have been thrown so as to penetrate eight inches into a human body?—I can only suggest that my learned friend appears to be confusing an arrow with an assegai, not to say a harpoon.”
The back of H.M.’s wig began to bristle.
Lollypop made a fierce wig-wagging gesture.
“Me lord,” replied H.M., with a curious choking noise, “what I meant will sort of emerge in my next question to the witness.”
“Proceed, Sir Henry.”
H.M. got his breath. “What I mean is this,” he said to Fleming. “Could this arrow have been fired from a crossbow?”
There was a silence. The judge put down his pen carefully. He turned his round face with the effect of a curious moon.
“I still do not understand, Sir Henry,” interposed Mr. Justice Bodkin. “What exactly is a crossbow?”
“I got one right here,” said H.M.
From under his desk he dragged out a great cardboard box such as those which are used to pack suits. From this he took a heavy, deadly looking mechanism whose wood and steel shone with some degree of polish. It was not long in the stock, which was shaped like that of a dwarf rifle: sixteen inches at most. But at the head was a broad semicircle of flexible steel, to each end of which was attached a cord running back to a notched windlass, with an ivory handle, on the stock. A trigger connected with this windlass. Down the center of the flat barrel ran a groove. The crossbow, whose stock was inlaid with mother-of-pearl, should have seemed incongruous in H.M.’s hands under all those peering eyes. It was not. It suddenly looked more like a weapon of the future than a weapon of the past.
“This one,” pursued H.M., completely unselfconscious like a child with a toy, “is the short ‘stump’ crossbow. Sixteenth-century French cavalry. Principle’s this, y’see. It’s wound up—like this.” He began to turn the handle. To the accompaniment of an ugly clicking noise, the cords began to move and pull back the corners of the steel horns. “Down that groove goes a steel bolt called a quarrel. The trigger’s pressed, and releases it like a catapult. Out goes the bolt with all the weight of Toledo steel released behind it....The bolt’s shorter than an arrow. But it could fire an arrow.”
He snapped the trigger, with some effect. Sir Walter Storm rose. The Attorney-General’s voice quieted an incipient buzz.
“My lord,” he said gravely, “all this is very interesting—whether or not it is evidence. Does my learned friend put forward as an alternative theory that this crime was committed with the singular apparatus he has there?”
He was a trifle amused. The judge was not.
“Yes; I was about to ask you that, Sir Henry.”
H.M. put down the crossbow on his desk. “No, my lord. This bow comes from the Tower of London. I was illustratin’.” He turned towards the witness again. “Did Avory Hume ever own any crossbows?”
“As a matter of fact, he did,” replied Fleming.
From the press box just under the jury, two men who had to make early afternoon editions got up and tiptoed out on eggshells. The witness looked irritated but interested.
“Long time ago,” he added with a growl, “the Woodmen of Kent experimented with crossbows one year. They weren’t any good. They were cumbersome, and they hadn’t got any range compared to arrows.”
“Uh-huh. How many crossbows did the deceased own?”
“Two or three, I think.”
“Was any of ‘em like this?”
“I believe so. That was three years ago, and—”
“Where did he keep the bows?”
“In that shed in the back garden.”
“But you forgot that a minute ago, didn’t you?”
“It slipped my mind, yes. Naturally.”
They were both bristling again. Fleming’s heavy nose and jaw seemed to come together like Punch’s.
“Now let’s have your opinion as an expert: could that arrow have been fired from a bow like this?”
“Not with any accuracy. It’s too long, and it would fit too loosely. You’d send the shot wild at twenty yards.”
“Could it have been fired, I’m asking you?”
“I suppose it could.”
“You suppose it could? You know smackin’ well it could, don’t you?—Here, gimme that arrow and I’ll show you.”
Sir Walter Storm was on his feet, suavely. “A demonstration will not be necessary, my lord. We accept my learned friend’s statement. We also appreciate that the witness is merely attempting to express an honest opinion under somewhat trying circumstances.”
(“This is what I meant,” Evelyn whispered to me. “You see? They’ll bait the old bear until he can’t see the ring for blood.”)
It was certainly the general impression that H.M. had badly mismanaged things, in addition to proving nothing. His last two questions were asked in an almost plaintive tone.
“Never mind its accuracy at twenty yards. Would it be accurate at a very short distance—a few feet?”
“Probably.”
“In fact, you couldn’t miss?”
“Not at two or three feet, no.”
“That’s all.”
The Attorney-General’s brief reexamination disposed of this suggestion and cut it off at the root.
“In order to kill the deceased in the way my learned friend has suggested, the person using the crossbow must have been within two or three feet of the victim?”
“Yes,” returned Fleming, thawing a little.
“In other words, actually in the room?”
“Yes.”
“Exactly. Mr. Fleming, when you entered this locked and sealed room—”
“Now, we’ll object to that,” said H.M., suddenly rearing up again with a wheeze and a flutter of papers.
For the first time Sir Walter was a trifle at a loss. He turned towards H.M., and we got a look at his face. It was long and strong, dark-browed despite its slight ruddiness: a powerful face. But both he and H.M. addressed the judge as though speaking to each other through an interpreter. “My lord, what is it to which my learned friend takes exception?”
“‘Sealed.’”
The judge was looking at H.M. with bright and steady eyes of interest; but he spoke dryly. “The term was perhaps a little fanciful, Sir Walter.”
“I readily withdraw it, my lord. Mr. Fleming: when you entered this unsealed room to which every possible entrance or exit was barred on the inside—”
“Object again,” said H.M.
“Ahem. When you entered,” said the other, his voice beginning to sound with far-off thunder in spite of himself, “this room whose door was firmly bolted on the inside, and its windows closed with locked shutters, did you find any such singular apparatus as that?”
He pointed to the crossbow.
“No, I did not.”
“It is not a thing that could be readily overlooked, is it?”
“It certainly is not,” replied the witness, with jocularity.
“Thank you.”
“Call Dr. Spencer Hume.”