Revolver. Jackson makes a rambling statement as to how he got the revolver which cannot be relied upon, but as he is mad this does not count for much.
Sinclair lifted his eyebrows. “That’s rather amusing,” he said. “Where they find corroboration, they accept his statements; where they don’t, they say he is mad.”
Boyce looked at him severely. “This is only a confidential memo,” he said, “for the information of the office only.”
“I see,” said Sinclair, with contempt.
Boyce went on reading.
Motive. Although motive is not essential in the case of a lunatic, it is helpful with a certain type of criminal’s mental derangement. There is abundant evidence that Jackson had a fancied grievance against the late Home Secretary, who had turned down all his petitions for release from the asylum at Broadmoor. He had also sent threatening letters to Sir James.
The Actual Crime. Jackson states that he followed Sir James in, after he had been to the Pillar Box in the Square to post a letter. Mrs. Simmons declared on oath that he did not, but on further examination, when asked to swear that no one came in after that, said she could not do so, and showed great signs of confusion.
Sinclair pricked up his ears. “I wonder,” he said.
“What’s that?” said Boyce.
“Well, sir, Collins always said that she was not telling the whole truth to us, and that she was hiding something.”
“There you are,” said Boyce. “Of course if it was a matter of a trial, and of life and death, we should turn the old woman inside out, and she would probably confess; though why she should try and screen him, is more than I can tell; we may have it out of her in any case. Well, that’s the case. What do you think of it?”
“I don’t think any jury would convict,” said Sinclair doggedly.
“Really, Sinclair, you are very obstinate; I suppose because you had no hand in catching the man.”
“I see in all the accounts,” said Sinclair, “it is made out that the police caught the man, and nothing is said of him giving himself up.” Boyce looked uncomfortable.
“It doesn’t do any harm, and does the police good,” he said; “and in any case I am sure they would have got him,” he ended, lamely.
Sinclair remained silent.
Boyce was annoyed.
“Here’s my idea of what occurred,” said he, rather peevishly.
“Jackson comes out from the asylum, we will assume, partially cured. He has nothing to do, and gradually the old madness comes over him. He nurses his grievance against Sir James until it becomes an obsession. He comes to you about it. Then he sees the official paper on your desk, and with a madman’s cunning he takes some pieces.
“Perhaps he thinks he will write to Sir James on it, who can say? He hangs about waiting for a chance, possibly only to speak to him. He had obtained a revolver, goodness knows where, and then the plan matures. With the cunning and vanity of insanity, he writes to the Central News—which by the way no one but a madman would do, and calls you and Collins up for the same reason. Perhaps he was watching you all the time when you were at the house.
“He sees Sir James come out with a letter, and as he states, he nearly killed him then, but thinks he will do so inside.
“He follows him in, and shoots him and escapes.
“He is watching you, and when you go to Collins’ flat, he follows and leaves that stupid message which also is the work of a madman which you told me about. How’s that for a case?”
Sinclair remained silent for a minute.
“A good counsel could smash it to pieces. I am certain that he never took anything from my room, but of course it is one of those things one cannot swear to. If he followed Sir James in, why did not Mrs. Simmons see him; and if she did, why should she screen him? Why did she hear no shot? And if she did, why did she not raise the alarm? How did he get out again, and close and lock the door behind him? Then who was the man who called on Sir James in the afternoon? Jackson makes no claim to be that man, probably because no mention was made of it in the papers?
“What I think happened is as Collins suggested. This man read all the accounts and so got them into his head that he is quite certain he did the murder. It is not an uncommon phase.”
Boyce interrupted. “I have no patience with all this. Of course there are difficulties. Whoever heard of a case where there were not, but the evidence in my opinion is overwhelming. Anyway, I am satisfied.”
“Very good, sir, if you are convinced, that is sufficient. What does the Public Prosecutor think of it?”
“My dear Sinclair, have you been so long in the service as not to know that the Public Prosecutor is not concerned with opinions, but to make out a case on the evidence.”
“And so you think that the case is ended?”
“I think,” said Boyce unctuously, “that this poor fellow will go back to Broadmoor, from which he ought never to have been released, and that our Department will have scored a triumph.”
“By the way,” he said, as if anxious to change the conversation. “What has happened to our friend Collins, he seems to have disappeared?”
“Oh, he’s gone down to Devonshire to Sir James’ place.”
“What, is he still on some wild goose chase?”
Sinclair smiled. “I rather fancy it’s a different sort of chase from what I saw in London. Eric Sanders will have to
