The Judas Window

holding it out in front of him as though he had burnt it.

At that moment, he says, there came into his mind some faint notion of what might really have been meant by that telephone-call: of Mary's white face, and certain conversations in Sussex, and a hasty letter written overnight. But it was only a cloud or a ghost, a name that went by his ears. He lost it in Avory Hume's study, standing over Avory Hume's body, for there were other things to claim his attention.

No, it was not the sound of the blood beating in his own head.

It was the sound of someone knocking at the door.

AT THE CENTRAL CRIMINAL COURT March 4, 1936

REX

V.

JAMES

CAPLON

ANSWELL

The Charge: Wilful murder of Avory Hume.

The Judge: Mr Justice Rankin.

The Counsel: For the Crown: Sir Walter Storm, K.C. (Attorney-General). Mr Huntley Lawton. Mr John Spragg.

For the Defence: Sir Henry Merrivale, K.C.

INSPECTOR MOTTRAM'S DRAWING, with notes:

1. X, position of body. Answell sat in chair y.

3. Two remaining arrows fastened to wall above fireplace; flat

against wall.

4. Side door in passage, leading to steps into brick-paved passage-

way between houses, found dosed but not locked. Probably nothing in this; back door unlocked as well.

5. Doors of sideboard in study locked, and keys in deceased's

pocket; but sideboard empty. (?)

'And True Deliverance Make -

'All persons who have anything to do before my Lords the King's Justices of Oyer and Terminer and general gaol delivery for the jurisdiction of the Central Criminal Court, draw near and give your evidence.

'God save the King, and my Lords the King's Justices.'

In Court-room Number One, the 'red' judge was taking his seat. Mr Justice Rankin was a very short plump man whose robe of scarlet slashed with black made him look even shorter and stouter. But he carried it with a swing of briskness. Under a grey tie-wig, fitting him as well as his own hair, his face was round and fresh- complexioned. His little narrow eyes, which should have been sleepy, had an alertness which gave him the air of a headmaster before a form.

To Evelyn and myself, sitting in the reserved seats behind counsel, the place had a look less of a court than of a schoolroom. Even the desks were arranged like forms. Over the court a big white-painted dome ended in a flat roof of glass, blurred with the light of a raw March morning. The walls were panelled to some, height in oak. Concealed electric lights under the cornices of the panelling threw a yellow glow up over the white dome; they made the oak look light, and turned the woodwork of the rest of the court to a yellowish colour. This resemblance to a schoolroom may have been caused by the brushed, business-like neatness of the place. Or it may have been the complete lack of haste or flurry, like the pendulum of a grandfather clock.

From where we sat - behind counsel - we could see of the barristers only the backs of their gowns and wigs: a few descending tiers of white wigs, with little ridges of curls like hair buttons. A school, bending towards each other and whispering. Towards our left was the big raised dock, now empty. Immediately across from us -. beyond the long solicitors' table in the well of the court - was the jury-box, with the witness-box beside it. Towards our right, the judge's bench showed behind it a line of massive tall chairs: the Sword of State suspended vertically over the chair in the centre.

Mr Justice Rankin bowed to the Bar, to the officers of the court, and to the jury. His bow was from the waist, like a salaam. The two clerks of the court, at the desk immediately below him, turned round and bowed in unison. Both were very tall men in wig and gown, and their deep bend together was in such sharp timing with the judge's as to give it the effect of a movement in a Punch-and-Judy show. Then the court settled down, and the coughing began. Mr Justice Rankin arranged himself in the chair immediately to the left of the Sword of State: never in the centre one, which is reserved for the Lord Mayor or one of the aldermen. Fitting on a pair of shell-rimmed glasses, Mr Justice Rankin took up a pen and smoothed flat the pages of a large notebook. Over the glass roof of the court, March daylight strengthened and then dulled. They brought in the prisoner at the bar.

You cannot look long at the prisoner, standing in that enormous dock with a policeman on either side of him. Or at least I can't. You feel like a ghoul. It was the first time either Evelyn or I had seen Answell. He was a decent- looking young fellow - almost anybody in court might have looked into a mirror and seen his counterpart. Despite the fact that he was well-dressed and freshly shaven, there was a certain air about him which gave the impression that he did not now particularly care a curse what happened. But he stood stiffly at attention. There were a few ghouls from the society columns sitting behind us; he did not glance in our direction. When the indictment was read over to him, he answered not guilty in a voice suddenly edged with defiance. Not an unnecessary word was spoken in the court. The judge seemed to conduct matters mostly by signs.

'I swear by Almighty God'-they were administering the oath to the jury - 'that I will well and truly try, and true deliverance make, between our Sovereign Lord the King and the prisoner at the Bar, whom I have in charge, and a true verdict give according to the evidence.'

It was a schoolroom with a rope at the end of it when you left the headmaster's study. Evelyn, who was troubled, spoke behind her hand. She had been looking down over the blank rows of black-silk backs in front of us.

'Ken, I can't understand it. Why ever does H.M. want to go into court? I mean, I know he's always at loggerheads with people in the government; and he and the Home Secretary practically come to blows every time they meet; but he's hand in glove with the police. That chief inspector - what's his name -?'

'Masters?'

'Masters, yes. He'd take H.M.'s advice before he'd take his own superiors'. Well, if H.M. can prove this chap Answell is innocent, why didn't he just prove it to the police, and then they'd have dropped the case?'

I did not know. It was the one point on which H.M. had preserved a belligerent silence. Though the barristers in front had their backs to us now, it was easy to pick out H.M. He was sitting alone on the left of the front bench: his elbows out-thrust on the desk, so that his ancient gown made him look still broader, and his wig sitting strangely on him. Towards his right on the same bench, counsel for the Crown - Sir Walter Storm, Mr Huntley Lawton, and Mr John Spragg - conferred together. Their whispers were inaudible. Though the desk in front of H.M. was comparatively clear, the space before counsel for the prosecution was piled with books, with the neatly printed briefs, with the yellow booklets in which official photographs are bound, and with fresh pink blotting-paper. Every back was grave. Yet under the mask of studied courtesy which marks the Old Bailey, I felt (or thought I could feel) a certain ironical amusement under those wigs whenever an eye happened to stray towards H.M.

Evelyn felt it too, and was furious.

'But-he shouldn't have come into court,' she insisted: 'He took silk before the war, but Lollypop told me herself he hasn't accepted a brief in fifteen years, and they'll eat him. Look at him down there, sitting like a boiled owl! And if they begin to get under his skin he won't behave himself; you know he won't'

I had to admit he was not the most polished counsel who might have been selected. 'It would appear that there was some commotion the last time he did appear in court. Also, I think myself it was indiscreet to begin an address to the jury with: 'Well, my fat-heads.' But for some curious reason he won the case.'

A creaking and a muttering drone filled the court as the jury continued to be sworn. Evelyn glanced down past counsel at the long solicitors' table in the well of the court. Every seat was filled, and the table was piled with exhibits bound into neat envelopes or packages. Two other and more curious exhibits were propped beyond, near the little cubicle where the court shorthand-reporter sat. Then Evelyn looked up at Mr Justice Rankin, sitting as detached as a Yogi.