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The Maze
Julian Symons

Philip MacDonald


The ultimate murder mystery - can you find the murderer before the detective?Maxwell Brunton was found dead in his study – murdered beyond doubt. There were ten people in the house on the night of the murder, and at least seven of them had an adequate motive for murdering him. But Anthony Gethryn has only the evidence given at the Coroner’s inquest to work with. In other words YOU, the reader, and HE, the detective, are upon equal footing. HE solves the mystery. Can YOU?The Maze, first published in 1932, is Philip MacDonald’s contribution to the conception of the totally logical puzzle – an exercise in ratiocination, as Poe called it – which so preoccupied detective story writers in the �Golden Age’ of the 1920s and ’30s. Written in the form of a court transcript, it is the ultimate puzzle novel, an absolutely fair test of the reader’s ability as a detective . . . an enthralling story – one of Philip MacDonald’s best.This Detective Story Club classic includes an introduction by Julian Symons, who selected The Maze for the Crime Club’s 1980 Jubilee reprint series, celebrating the best of 50 golden years of crime publishing.







�THE DETECTIVE STORY CLUB is a clearing house for the best detective and mystery stories chosen for you by a select committee of experts. Only the most ingenious crime stories will be published under the THE DETECTIVE STORY CLUB imprint. A special distinguishing stamp appears on the wrapper and title page of every THE DETECTIVE STORY CLUB book—the Man with the Gun. Always look for the Man with the Gun when buying a Crime book.’

Wm. Collins Sons & Co. Ltd., 1929

Now the Man with the Gun is back in this series of COLLINS CRIME CLUB reprints, and with him the chance to experience the classic books that influenced the Golden Age of crime fiction.











Copyright (#ulink_a5ae8a7f-b521-5072-b396-80b4f24e7040)


COLLINS CRIME CLUB

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published for The Crime Club by W. Collins Sons & Co. Ltd 1932

Copyright В© Estate of Philip MacDonald 1932

Introduction В© Estate of Julian Symons 1980

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008216375

Ebook Edition В© December 2016 ISBN: 9780008216382

Version: 2016-11-23


Contents

Cover (#u3d19ea13-1e09-51a2-a0d9-8bcc4041deb6)

Title Page (#u7344a37f-d10b-5702-aa17-084d3744bdba)

Copyright (#u482ed12d-bdf7-578f-82a5-4b92b8d11802)

Introduction (#u2ef01a80-4dfe-56ee-ad40-04357c7ee54a)

Preface (#ubfd3e159-90aa-5713-bffe-60f1fee62d5f)

Part One (#u39bb0b1f-c773-5adc-8d33-3bf171cbcaf7)

Part Two (#uf9fbaa27-4b78-513c-a3d9-3040f45e713c)

Chapter I (#u1770792a-bc9b-594a-8182-6d25f123961c)

Chapter II (#uaebe7c01-f2e4-5878-abbc-01a7b2ef8ef7)

Chapter III (#uf2f9d153-b31a-53bf-963b-6d9e25a9c790)

Chapter IV (#u796725e1-9752-5000-a1de-66d561b7560a)

Chapter V (#ud838ee66-17cd-5df3-8313-abd0c6a650ae)

Chapter VI (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter VII (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter VIII (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter IX (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter X (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XI (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XII (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XIII (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XIV (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XV (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XVI (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter XVII (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Appendix (#litres_trial_promo)

I (#litres_trial_promo)

II (#litres_trial_promo)

III (#litres_trial_promo)

Enclosure (#litres_trial_promo)

The Detective Story Club (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




INTRODUCTION (#ulink_ec3f9ea0-be50-5927-abc2-aa9a5bcb184b)


THE idea of the crime story in which the solution should be the result of perfectly rational deductions from given facts—an exercise in ratiocination, as Poe called it—was one that preoccupied writers in the ’twenties and early ’thirties, when the crime story was coming of age. It was this dream that the early Ellery Queen books tried to fulfil with their �Challenge to the Reader’ three-quarters of the way through; that was at the heart of John Dickson Carr’s locked room mysteries; that was approached at times by writers as various as Anthony Berkeley, Agatha Christie and C. Daly King.

The Maze, which was published in 1932, is Philip MacDonald’s contribution to this conception of the totally logical puzzle. It is, he says, �An Exercise in Detection’, and he claims that you are provided with all the evidence on which his detective, Anthony Gethryn, works, and from which he deduces the truth. He says more than this:

In this book I have striven to be absolutely fair to the reader. There is nothing—nothing at all—for the detective that the reader has not had. More, the reader has had his information in exactly the same form as the detective—that is, the verbatim report of evidence and question.

This is a fair story.

Does Philip MacDonald claim too much? I don’t think so. The facts are clearly laid out, and Gethryn’s deductions are admirably logical, beginning with what he calls oddities, and moving from one of these to another to build a case which—if we had spotted the oddities—we could have formulated ourselves. Upon the basis of logic, Gethryn’s case is not to be denied, although, as he acknowledges, it is a structure that can be demonstrated but not proved. A perfect crime story, then? Why no, for The Maze has the weakness inherent in that desire for a wholly logical crime story, the weakness that we take an interest in the solution to the crime but not in the people who may have committed it. Yet in its time The Maze was a notable and underrated crime story, and it remains one of the truly original experiments of the period.

Today Philip MacDonald is almost forgotten, but he and his detective Anthony Gethryn were celebrated figures in the years between the Wars. The Rasp, the first crime story he published under his own name, was an immediate success, and The Noose (he had a taste for single word titles) was the first Crime Club choice in 1930. The Evening Standard bought the serial rights, MacDonald’s sales quadrupled, and within a year the Crime Club had 200,000 members. MacDonald continued to produce successful books under several pseudonyms and a number of them were experimental in one way or another. Three of the best were Rynox, Murder Gone Mad, and X v Rex, the last of which was written under the pseudonym of Martin Porlock. The construction of these books is sometimes careless, but they all contain extremely ingenious ideas, and the desire to do something new is always apparent. Then, in the early ’thirties, MacDonald was invited to Hollywood by RKO Pictures, became a scriptwriter, and wrote little more except for the screen, although he produced in 1952 a collection of short stories called Fingers of Fear, some of which show his characteristic cleverness. As a crime novelist, however, MacDonald’s career really ended in the ’thirties. It is not surprising that he has been forgotten.

The exuberant and indefatigable American crime buff Dilys Winn recently discovered MacDonald living in the Motion Picture Retirement Home near Malibu, and talked to him about his career. She found him inclined to deprecate the books that had made his name: �They’re all a bit dated, aren’t they?’ The Noose he thought �awfully old-fashioned’, and he would probably have said the same about The Maze. Dilys Winn found conversation difficult, and from her account of the interview one gets the impression that the time when MacDonald wrote crime stories was for him an ocean and a different life away. He belonged even in appearance to that different life. For the interview he sported an ascot, carried a silver-handled cane, and had his hair precisely parted and slicked down with pomade.

He said firmly that he was born in 1900, but this would mean that his first book Ambrotox and Limping Dick, written in collaboration with his father, was published when he was twenty years old. He thought that his best book was Patrol, which is not a crime story, rated his short stories higher than his novels, and expressed his aversion to literary company. �Two writers in one room is too many.’

I think it must be acknowledged that The Maze, like its author, is a period piece, but it is one that must give pleasure to any reader who likes to solve a puzzle and to pit his own wits against those of the author’s detective. And there is another reason why I hope that Philip MacDonald will be pleased to see the book republished. The most wistful thing he said in the course of the interview was that the Home’s library did not contain �one tiny word, not one, of mine.’ At least The Maze can now find its proper place upon the shelves.

JULIAN SYMONS

1980




PREFACE (#ulink_6b1ff2e1-2971-5fa4-b6b2-ac6a85c1dbe7)


I HAVE given this book the subtitle of �An Exercise in Detection’.

I have used the word �exercise’ deliberately; I mean it to be an exercise not only upon my part, but upon the part of any reader who may have the tenacity to get through it. In Parts Two, Three and Four of the book—the actual evidence of the witnesses upon the first time of their calling and the summing up of the Coroner—is contained all the information upon which Gethryn has to work. In other words, you, the reader, and he, the detective, are upon an equal footing. You know just as much as and no more than he knows. He knows just as much as and no more than you. He finds out: could you have found out without his help?

I should like to emphasise that although, for the sake of �balance’ and of avoiding tediousness, part of the evidence (that is, the re-examination and re-examination of the witnesses) has been omitted, none of this evidence was anything except repetitive. Gethryn, in fact, was not supplied with this repetitive evidence, as is shown by the note to him from Lucas. What Gethryn had is what you have. From what you have he made his deductions.

I have frequently been annoyed—as any reader of the analytical type of detective fiction must have been annoyed—by books in which the detective holds an unfair advantage over the reader in that he has opportunities which the reader cannot share. He may, for instance, in Chapter II �dash up to London and spend two hours there.’ And then the reader, not having been allowed to see what the detective did during those two hours in London, is at a disadvantage. Again, in Chapter XVII, the detective may suddenly, in a foully offhand and altogether offensive manner, �pick some small object off the ground’ which he puts in his waistcoat pocket and doesn’t say anything more about until Chapter XXIII, when it forms the basis upon which his whole case is founded. Again the reader has been subjected to the most dastardly unfair play!

In this book I have striven to be absolutely fair to the reader. There is nothing—nothing at all—for the detective that the reader has not had. More, the reader has had his information in exactly the same form as the detective—that is, the verbatim report of evidence and question.

This is a fair story. If you get the right answer—not merely a �guessed’ answer, but an answer for which you are prepared to put forward reasons—then you are as good at this job as A. R. Gethryn. If you don’t, you are not. In either case I think you should be satisfied—unless, of course, you find the whole business too impossibly easy, in which case you ought—if you are not indeed already one—to become a really big noise at Scotland Yard.

PHILIP MACDONALD

1932




PART ONE (#ulink_4b23a42b-fb72-57ca-9b48-c96fa3df33d1)


LETTER DATED 14th JULY, 193– FROM ASSISTANT COMMISSIONER SIR EGBERT LUCAS, C.I.D., TO LIEUT.-COL. ANTHONY RUTHVEN GETHRYN


SCOTLAND YARD,

14th July, 193–

MY DEAR GETHRYN,

It is with a good deal of diffidence that I approach you, remembering our conversation before you left England for this holiday. You said that upon no account were you going to �inaugurate, contemplate or elucidate crime or any minor or major misdemeanours!’ You also said, I believe, that you were not going to read any English newspapers while you were out of England. Be that as it may, I am worrying you. I would like you to understand, however, that the fact that I am worrying you is due only partly to my own inclination. Charters himself, Pike and Jordan—and, this morning, even Bunter—have all brought pressure to bear upon me. I suggested to Charters that if he wanted to worry you he should do it himself. But he wasn’t having any. And so, as usual, I’m left to do the dirty work. It may be very pleasant to be the First Commissioner of Police. It’s certainly very pleasant to be an ordinary Police Constable. But who would be an Assistant Commissioner?

I feel that I’m taking an unconscionably long time to get down to brass tacks. That’s probably due to the fact that I’m dictating this letter and also to the fact that I’m nervous about its reception when I remember my promise to you of a few weeks back. However, here goes:

Since you’ve been away there has happened—near Kensington Gore of all unlikely places!—a case which is the most extraordinary within my fairly long experience and also, I am told, within the thirty-five years’ experience of old Jordan. Certainly in all my knowledge—official and private, actual and literary—there has never been anything quite like it.

In Kensington, on the night of the 11-12th July, a man was killed. He met his death, abiding by all the canons of the best �mystery fiction’ in his study. It is certain beyond all possibility of doubt that he was murdered. It also seems certain beyond all possibility of doubt that he met his death at the hands of a person who was, for the time being at least, resident beneath his roof. There were, besides the murdered man, ten people sleeping in the house on the night of his death. One of them must surely have done it! But it has proved quite impossible for us to fix upon this one person. This doesn’t look good for the police. Moreover, it is intensely annoying to any person of intelligence. Having been with the case since it began a few weeks ago—which seem like ten years—I can most earnestly vouch for this. I felt—and still feel—as I used to feel as a child when I went to Maskelyne and Cook’s. I can still feel the appalling, stifling, impotent irritation of the Irish peasant priest faced with the question: �If God is omnipotent, can He make a stone so heavy that He can’t lift it?’

What we want you to do is to look at the papers we have on the case and just see if you can spot anything which we may have overlooked. I think it is hopeless. But I also think—knowing you as I do—that the chance is worth taking even at the risk of drawing down upon myself a sulphurous rebuke.

I had originally intended to write this letter and ask your permission to send you the papers (verbatim report of inquest, etc.). On maturer thought, however, I have decided to enclose copies of these herewith, for it has struck me that your answer to a request as to whether one might send papers would be useless, whereas your reaction to a bundle of papers might well be one of sufficient curiosity at least to make you read them through. And if you do read them through I am convinced that the sheer complexity of an apparently simple business will decoy you into spending thought upon it—and that, after all, is what we really want.

With all my respects to your wife and admiration to your small son,

Yours very sincerely,

E. LUCAS




PART TWO (#ulink_5889d036-af23-5041-9ced-9b116b6e6583)


VERBATIM REPORT OF EVIDENCE GIVEN AT THE CORONER’S INQUEST HELD UPON THE BODY OF MAXWELL BRUNTON, DECEASED (1st DAY)




I (#ulink_d6b2f9b9-900d-59f2-bfbb-29c2e4bcb229)

L.I. 84833 SERGEANT GEORGE CRAWLEY,

METROPOLITAN POLICE


WHAT is your full name?

George Crawley.

Now, will you please take the oath.

I swear by Almighty God that what I shall say in evidence in this Court shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

You are a sergeant in the Metropolitan Police Force?

Yes. L.I. 84833. Full-Sergeant George Crawley.

Would you please tell the Court, Sergeant, the circumstances under which you were called to 44 Rajah Gardens in the early morning of Thursday last, the twelfth of July.

I was going round the beats. I had just spoken to the constable in charge of the Baroness Gardens—Stukeley Road beat, and was walking on to my next point, going through the northern end of Rajah Gardens, when a man ran out of one of the houses and hailed me. Time 2.40 a.m. He told me he was a servant at Number 44, Mr Maxwell Brunton’s. He was agitated and made a rambling statement which I had some difficulty in following. He was dressed in a dressing gown and slippers. On the doorstep there was a gentleman in evening dress. He said he was Mr Brunton’s secretary, and he himself had just made the discovery that Mr Brunton was dead in his study. I asked to see the room, and this gentleman, Mr Harrison, said he would take me up. There were a number of the other inmates of the house gathered round in the hall. I asked them to stay where they were until sent for. I also sent the manservant, Jennings, to fetch the constable on the beat and told him to let me know when he arrived.

I then mounted the stairs with Mr Harrison, who took me to the deceased’s study. This is a room at the western side of the house. It is a room which has been built out over the area which lies below, beside the passage leading through from the street to the gardens belonging to the block. There is only one door to this study. This door faces you as you go down the corridor after turning left from the landing …

One moment, Sergeant. Have the police any plans of this house? Perhaps the jury might like to see them.

Yes, sir. One was put in with the other Police papers. I think it was marked Number 6 on the docket.

Ah! … Number 6 you said. Yes! Yes! Stupid of me … Gentlemen, you may like to pass this plan round among yourselves.











. . . . . .

Thank you. I hope the plan is clear to you all.

. . . . . .

Excellent! Now, Sergeant, if you’ll continue …

Very good, sir. I entered the study and found the body of the deceased lying on the hearth-rug. With the police papers, sir, there’s a plan of the room showing the exact position of the body. The head was pointing toward the centre of the bay window and the feet toward the door. Deceased was dead. I judged life to have been extinct for quite a while. The only injury I could find on examination was to the right eye. This had been penetrated, the object which effected the injury having pierced apparently right through to the brain. There was a good deal of blood. Lying by the body was a large lump of mineral which I took to be gold quartz. That mineral lump is among your exhibits, sir. I found the long spur which projects from one end of it to be covered with blood. The lump was lying at some distance from the body at the spot marked Q on the plan which you will see is close by the foot of the writing-table. There were no signs of struggle or any disturbance in the room. All the furniture, papers, etc., on the desk were quite tidy.

I made a rapid plan of the room and then went downstairs again with Mr Harrison, locking the door and retaining the key.

One moment, Sergeant. Did you examine the windows of the study?

Yes, sir. They were all open. You will remember it had been a hot night, sir. I examined the windows particularly with a view to ascertaining whether it would have been possible for anyone to leave the room by that means. In my opinion, sir, such a thing was impossible. The room is on the second story of the house, and being built on extra, as it has, there is simply a clean drop down to the back area of the kitchen. There is nothing on the wall for foot or hand-hold. There are no trees near by, and there is nothing near the windows inside the room which could have been used to sling a rope round.

I see. Thank you, Sergeant. You were saying that you went downstairs with Mr Harrison.

Yes, sir. When we got to the foot of the stairs I found that the manservant had returned with a constable. I placed the constable on duty outside the door and then telephoned to my headquarters and reported. I was given instructions to take preliminary statements from the members of the house, and did so. Those statements are, I believe, together with the other statements taken later, in the police papers which you have got, sir.

I see … Now, Sergeant, one or two questions. You were the first outside person to enter this house, and your impressions may be of value. Can you tell us how the different members of the family seemed to be reacting to the discovery of Mr Brunton’s death? In what order did you see them?

Mr Harrison first, sir, then Mrs Brunton, then Mr Adrian Brunton, then Mrs Bayford, the deceased’s sister, then Mr Hargreaves, a visitor. That was all, sir. I couldn’t take any statement from the other visitor, Miss Lamort, because she wasn’t in a fit state. The five persons I’ve just mentioned, sir, they were all very quiet, as you might say. Seemed more stunned than anything else, though all answered the questions I put to them without hesitation.

You say, Sergeant, that Miss Lamort was so much agitated that she could not be questioned. What was she doing? Was she fainting? Or in hysterics? Or in a state of collapse?

I should say a state of collapse, sir. Miss Lamort was not one of those persons in the hall when I first entered the house. She was not in the hall when I came downstairs after examining the study. What happened was this: I looked round and then I asked Mr Harrison—he seemed the most collected of those persons—I asked Mr Harrison whether everyone was there. He then told me that there were three inmates of the house presumably still in their bedrooms—the kitchenmaid Violet Burrage, Mrs Brunton’s maid Jinette Bokay, and Miss Lamort. I left the constable in charge downstairs and went up with Mr Harrison to rouse these three persons. The girl Burrage was fast asleep; we had to enter her room and wake her, and it took us quite a time. The young woman Bokay was already awake—she said the disturbance in the house had roused her. She was beginning to dress when we got there and seemed very scared. Those two rooms were in the top or attic story of the house, as you will see from the plan. It’s up there that all the servants sleep. We then came downstairs, and Mr Harrison took me to Miss Lamort’s room. There was a light shining under the door. The door was locked. Mr Harrison and I both took turns at knocking but could not get any reply for quite a while. At last we heard Miss Lamort’s voice asking, �Who’s there? Who’s there?’ Mr Harrison answered. He explained that there had been an accident and that everybody was wanted. We heard Miss Lamort getting out of bed. She came to the door at once and opened it. When she saw my uniform she seemed to stagger. She nearly fell, only Mr Harrison caught her in time. She said: �What’s happened? What’s happened?’ Mr Harrison told her that there had been an accident and that Mr Brunton was dead and that naturally the police had to make a few inquiries. She then said: �I must get some clothes on. I’ll come down.’ I waited. In a very short time she came to the door again, dressed, and I asked her to accompany me downstairs.

In the hall she rushed to Mrs Brunton and caught hold of her and seemed to break down properly. Mrs Brunton and Mrs Bayford tried to soothe her. I gave them permission to take her into the library, which opens just off the hall, so that she could lie down. I then entered the dining-room and began to call in the persons one by one. When I’d questioned Mr Harrison, Mrs Brunton and Mrs Bayford, Mr Adrian Brunton and Mr Hargreaves, I wanted to question Miss Lamort. I went into the library and found her. She was lying on the sofa. She was very pale and didn’t seem to appreciate what was going on.

Detective Inspector Syme then arrived with the divisional surgeon and took charge.

Thank you, Sergeant … Are there any further questions which the jury would wish to put to this witness at this stage? … No? … Very well. Thank you, Sergeant; you may stand down …

Call Inspector Syme.




II (#ulink_934985c1-ace1-57da-8a54-7e0a09161e71)

DETECTIVE INSPECTOR JOHN SYME


WHAT is your full name?

John Syme.

Will you please take the oath?

I swear by Almighty God that what I shall say in evidence in this Court shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

You are a member of the Metropolitan Police Force?

Yes. I am a Detective Inspector of L.I. Division.

Will you please tell the Court, Inspector Syme, the circumstances under which you were called to 44 Rajah Gardens on the morning of Thursday, 12th July?

I was called on the telephone by Sergeant Crawley at 2.55 a.m. on Thursday last. Sergeant Crawley reported that there was a death at 44 Rajah Gardens, the deceased being Maxwell Brunton, the leaseholder of the house. Sergeant Crawley stated that the circumstances of the death were indicative of murder. I immediately called a car and fetched the Divisional Surgeon, Dr Crosby, and I then proceeded at once with him to 44 Rajah Gardens, reaching there at 3.12 a.m.

You heard Sergeant Crawley’s evidence, Inspector Syme?

Yes.

When you entered the house I assume that you went to the study and inspected the body?

Yes. I found everything as described by Sergeant Crawley and as shown on the plan which you have before you.

Were you able, Inspector, to form any theory as to whether death was caused by the deceased himself, by accident, or by some other person or persons?

I came to the definite conclusion that death could not have been caused either accidentally or by the deceased himself.

Will you please tell the Court, in your own words, Inspector Syme, what you did after your inspection of the study?

I followed the usual routine. I took official charge of the premises, put a constable on duty outside the study, sent for the Police photographers and notified the Divisional Chief Inspector, who asked me to notify Scotland Yard, which I did. I then questioned the inmates of the house. The statements made by them, both to Sergeant Crawley and myself, are with the Police papers which you have before you.

One more question, Inspector. I realise that it is unnecessary for us to get you to inform the Court as to the substance of the statements which you obtained from the members of the household since the gentlemen of the Jury have these statements before them, and, further, will hear the persons themselves giving evidence in due course. But I should like you to tell the Court in what state you found the various inmates when you did question them … We must bear in mind, gentlemen, that when Inspector Syme arrived he had his investigations to make of the scene of death and various other official duties to perform before he entered upon his questioning, and that, therefore, some considerable time would have elapsed between the time of the first questioning by Sergeant Crawley and the second questioning by Inspector Syme … How long would you say that time was, Inspector?

I should say roughly three-quarters of an hour.

Thank you. Now, if you would go on to answer my main question?

I saw the witnesses in the following order: Mrs Brunton, Mr Adrian Brunton, Mrs Bayford, Mr Harrison, Mr Hargreaves, Miss Lamort, Arthur Jennings, the butler, Mrs Jennings, his wife, Jeannette Bocquet, Mrs Brunton’s maid, and Violet Burrage, the kitchenmaid. Mrs Brunton, though much distressed, was quite lucid in her answers. Mr Adrian Brunton was lucid enough but in a nervous state which had reacted unfavourably upon his temper. Mr Harrison was nervous and slightly confused and only made himself clear with some difficulty. Mrs Bayford was suffering from severe shock and could only answer questions. She did not seem able to make any voluntary statement. Mr Hargreaves’s behaviour seemed normal. Miss Lamort was in an extreme state of collapse. I could not ask her as many questions as I should have wished, as, shortly after my arrival, I found that her medical adviser, Dr Fothergill, had been summoned. When he came he advised me that it would not be well to continue with any attempt to question Miss Lamort that night. Accordingly I got her full statement, which you have before you, the next day. In regard to the servants, Arthur Jennings and Mrs Jennings were normal. Burrage seemed half stupefied by shock and Jeanette Bocquet highly excited.

Thank you, Inspector. Now, another point, and a very important one. It is, I know, dealt with in the Police papers which we have, but I think should also be discussed in Court. Was there any indication that No. 44 Rajah Gardens had been entered by any person other than the inmates during the night?

No indication whatsoever.

In your opinion, Inspector, would it have been possible for any other person to have entered the house, make their way to the study and then leave the house?

I am satisfied that such an entry would have been impossible; impossible, that is, without the assistance of some person or persons within the house.

Upon what grounds, Inspector, do you base your certainty upon this point?

The front door was bolted by Jennings as early as 10.15 p.m.—a fact to which various witnesses testify. The windows on the ground floor were also locked and shuttered immediately afterwards—a fact also testified to. The basement windows and door were locked and bolted as usual by Mrs Jennings and Violet Burrage at 9.30 p.m. The construction and position of the house make it entirely improbable—in fact, sir, impossible—for anyone to obtain access to them without the use of ladders. Certainly no entrance could be made through any window without traces being left, and there were no traces. In regard to the study windows, as Sergeant Crawley stated in his evidence, the idea of entrance and exit through them need not be entertained.

Thank you, Inspector … I don’t think we need trouble Inspector Syme any further—at this stage, anyhow …

Call Dr Richard Crosby.




III (#ulink_6c916d18-e3f8-5eb6-a14c-debc769f336a)

JAMES RICHARD CROSBY, M.R.C.S., L.R.C.P., PRIVATE PRACTICE AND DIVISIONAL SURGEON L.I. DIVISION, METROPOLITAN POLICE.


WHAT is your full name?

James Richard Crosby.

Now will you take the oath?

I swear by Almighty God that what I shall say in evidence in this Court shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

You act, I believe, in the capacity of Divisional Surgeon to L.I. Division of the Metropolitan Police?

Yes.

Will you please describe to the Court, Dr Crosby, your visit to 44 Rajah Gardens in the early morning of Thursday last?

I was called out at 3.5 a.m. I went with Detective Inspector Syme of the Division to Number 44 Rajah Gardens. I was taken to the study and there found and examined the body of the deceased. I found death to have been caused by a blow which had pierced through the cavity of the right eye into the brain. Internal hæmorrhage had immediately set in; death must have taken place within a very short time after the blow was received. I was then shown a large lump of mineral quartz which had projecting from it at one end a long jagged spur. The end of this spur was caked with blood and tissue. I formed the opinion that it was beyond doubt this lump of quartz which had been the weapon causing death.

It was, I understand, approximately 3.30 a.m. when you examined the body?

That is correct.

In your opinion, how long had life been extinct?

Not more than six hours had elapsed since death had transpired.

Doctor, in your examination of the body, did you form any opinion as to the deceased’s general health?

I should say it was very good. Magnificent development. Obviously kept himself in very good condition. More like, in fact, the body of a man of forty than fifty-five, which I believe is what he was.

Did you form any opinion, Doctor, as to how the wound might have been caused?

Yes. With, as I have said, the quartz. A strong, stabbing blow was probably struck.

Is it at all possible, Doctor, that the wound was self-inflicted?

In my opinion, absolutely impossible.

I do not think there are any other questions, gentlemen? … No? … Thank you, Doctor. That is all.

Call Sidney Harrison.




IV (#ulink_5c74ecc8-3360-5199-8cbd-c7f8e2014131)

SIDNEY FOLJAMBE HARRISON, PRIVATE SECRETARY TO THE DECEASED


WHAT is your full name?

Sidney Foljambe Harrison.

Will you please take the oath?

I swear by Almighty God that what I shall say in evidence in this Court shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

You were, I believe, private secretary to the deceased?

Private and confidential secretary. I was secretary to Mr Brunton for a considerable period, over which he and I got to know each other, if I may say so, extremely well. I was fully conversant with Mr Brunton’s—

One moment, Mr Harrison. I should be glad if, at this stage of your evidence, you would confine yourself to answering my questions.

Certainly, certainly. I have no wish to be of anything but assistance.

Quite! … Perhaps you would tell me, Mr Harrison, how long you held the position of secretary to the deceased?

I was private and confidential secretary to Mr Maxwell Brunton for eleven months. That is, to be precise, Mr Coroner, I should have completed my year upon the fifth of next month. If I may say so, the eleven months were—

Thank you. Will you please inform the Court of the time at which you last saw your employer alive?

Certainly I will. Let me see … I was with the rest of the household—excepting, of course, the servants—in the drawing-room after dinner. We had all been in the room for the whole of the time since dinner … There had been bridge—

One moment.—Do I understand you to say, Mr Harrison, that everyone in the house was in the drawing-room after dinner, excepting the servants?

No, no, no! Everyone with the exception of Mr Maxwell Brunton himself.

Thank you. Please continue.

At 11 p.m. exactly—I happened to just have looked at my watch—Mr Maxwell Brunton, who had retired to his study (to work, he said) immediately after dinner, came down and joined the party. He chatted a few moments and then bade everyone good-night, saying that he would be working late and telling me, incidentally, that he would not require my services. When he left the drawing-room—the last time I saw him alive—the time would be, I should say, about five minutes past eleven; perhaps a little more.

Now, Mr Harrison, will you please describe to the Court your discovery of Mr Brunton’s body?

Yes. At 2.30 a.m. on Friday morning it suddenly occurred to me that there was an important engagement which I had omitted to note on Mr Brunton’s desk pad. I was at that time, of course, in my bedroom, but I was not in bed. I was studying, as I commonly do, until the very early hours. I do not believe in putting things off, and so I decided to go along to the study and remedy my error without delay.

My bedroom is on the same floor: that is, the second. I accordingly walked softly along the passage, being very careful to make no noise at so late an hour. I did not switch on the passage light, as I know my way so well. I was therefore in the dark, and I saw, as I approached, a light beneath the study door. I assumed that Mr Brunton might be engaged and so knocked upon the door before entering. No reply came to my first knock or to my second. Not wishing to disturb the house, I did not knock again but softly turned the handle. I then made the shocking discovery.

The body, as the sergeant described, was lying on the hearth-rug. The head was pointing toward the window, and the feet toward the door. I was, as you may imagine, horrified and aghast, but I flatter myself that I wasted no time. It needed no expert eye to see that Mr Brunton was dead. I went quietly out of the study, shutting the door behind me; ran as fast as my legs would carry me back to the stairs and up to the top floor and waked Jennings the butler. In a few words I told him what had happened and sent him out for a policeman. The disturbance had apparently wakened Mrs Brunton, for as I came downstairs after Jennings she was on the landing. I had to break the news to her, and she insisted that I should rouse—er—bring to her her son and daughter, Mr Adrian Brunton and Mrs Bayford. I called Mr Adrian Brunton. Mrs Bayford, taking matters into her own hands, called Mr Hargreaves, who was staying in the house. Sarah Jennings, wakened when I called her husband, came downstairs. Mr Adrian Brunton and Mrs Brunton wished to go at once to the study, but I managed to dissuade them from taking this step until after the police had arrived. I was seconded in this by Mr Hargreaves.

We all went downstairs to the hall. All the members of the household, that is to say with the exception of the kitchenmaid, Mrs Brunton’s maid and Miss Lamort, the third visitor. We had not been downstairs more than a moment when Jennings came back with the sergeant. After that events transpired as he told you in his evidence.

I trust, Mr Coroner, that I have been clear in my statement. I try always to make a habit of orderly and incisive thinking.

Yes, yes, quite. Now, Mr Harrison, one or two questions …

At your service, Mr Coroner.

When you were describing just now how at Mrs Brunton’s request you fetched her son and daughter, you started to use the word �rouse’ and then apparently changed your mind.

Exactly, Mr Coroner. I felt, as I said it, that perhaps �rouse’ was not the correct word. It might imply that Mrs Bayford and Mr Adrian Brunton were asleep, whereas in fact they were not.

Did you enter their rooms?

Mr Brunton’s, yes. I gave one tap at the door and entered rather unceremoniously. Mr Brunton was kneeling upon the window seat looking out of the window. He had a dressing-gown on but had only substituted this, I saw, for his dinner jacket.

What did he do when you came in? Can you tell the Court his reaction to your entry and your bad news?

Certainly. When I went in—as I have said, rather unceremoniously, I fear—Mr Brunton got up and turned round to face me. Before I could speak he said: �What the hell do you want?’ I should perhaps explain that Mr Brunton has always seemed—for what reason I am sure I cannot think—to dislike me.

Did he seem excited when he said this?

A difficult question, Mr Coroner. Mr Adrian Brunton is a young man of—er—mercurial temperament. He is normally excitable. It certainly did not strike me that there was anything unusual—for him—in his reception of me, though naturally I resented his incivility.

You say Mr Brunton was looking out of his window? If my recollection of the plan is correct, this would mean that he was looking out over the gardens to Rajah Square—

That is correct. Mr Adrian Brunton’s room is at the back of the house; that is, the northern side—

Please let me conclude my question before answering, Mr Harrison. I was about to ask you if you gathered from Mr Adrian Brunton’s position as you entered the room any indication of whether he was merely idly looking out into the gardens or looking out for, or at, any particular object?

I am afraid it is impossible for me to say. No sooner had I entered the room than he was off the window seat and had turned to face me.

Thank you. Please proceed. You were about to tell the Court in answer to my question what Mr Brunton’s reaction was to your bad news?

He seemed dazed. In fact, for a moment I wondered whether he had heard me. I said �Don’t you understand, Mr Brunton? Your father is dead—has been killed! …’

Yes, Mr Harrison? Please don’t hesitate. What then?

I suppose that in this Court I must repeat the exact words which were used. After I had told him a second time Mr Brunton caught me by the shoulder and shook me violently. He said: �You bloody little bastard! That’s a lie!’ I managed not to allow my very natural resentment to overcome my good sense. I managed to make Mr Brunton understand that I was in deadly earnest. He then put out his arm and brushed me aside. I followed him out into the corridor. He had opened the study door, which of course was just at his right as he came out of his own room, and was standing on the threshold, staring. I said: �Mr Brunton! Mr Brunton! We must leave things as they are until the Police come.’ He muttered some oath or other which I did not catch and I think was going into the study, but at that moment he heard Mrs Brunton’s voice calling him from the other end of the corridor. She was just outside Mrs Bayford’s room. He turned and ran back. I followed.

As I passed the stairhead Mrs Bayford came out of her room. I think she was following her mother. She was fully dressed, but not in the gown which she had worn at dinner. I remember she had in her hand a fountain pen, because I offered to take it from her and put it down. She had obviously already heard the news. She stared at me as though I were not there. I repeated my offer, but she turned away without a word and began speaking with her brother.

So you are not in a position, Mr Harrison, to tell us Mrs Bayford’s immediate reaction to her father’s death?

No, sir. As I was breaking the dreadful news to Mr Adrian Brunton, Mrs Brunton must have been with her daughter.

I see. Now, you say that when you did see Mrs Bayford—when she came out of her room—and you and Mr Brunton and Mrs Brunton were standing in the corridor, she seemed dazed when you spoke to her?

I did not use the word �dazed,’ Mr Coroner. Mrs Bayford certainly was not in a normal state, for, as a rule, she is a lady of most charming manner, and, as I have explained, she did not seem to hear my offer of assistance. But although she was not herself, I do not think it would be right for me to use the word �dazed.’ She seemed in a way peculiarly alert. It was she, for instance, who called Mr Hargreaves, outside whose room we all were standing at the moment. She rapped on the door, and it was immediately opened. Mr Hargreaves was in pyjamas and a dressing-gown. From his appearance I should say that he had been in bed. The terrible situation was explained to him, and it was after that that we—

One moment, Mr Harrison, one moment! Please tell the Court who it was who conveyed the news to Mr Hargreaves.

Mrs Bayford. I can remember her exact words, I think, Mr Coroner. She laid her hand on Mr Hargreaves’s arm, and she said: �Oh, Jack dear! A frightful thing has happened … Father—Father—’ and then she seemed to break down for a moment. Mr Hargreaves caught her hands, and he said: �Claire! Claire! What’s this?’ or some words like that. And then Mrs Bayford seemed to take command of herself again. She said, �Father’s dead. He’s been … he’s been killed.’ And it was after that that we all—

One moment, Mr Harrison! It’s very important that the Court should appreciate the relationship in which the persons staying at the house stood to each other. It is also very important that you should tell us, as much as you can, of each person’s reaction on their hearing the news. Will you please tell us, first, of Mr Hargreaves’s demeanour when Mrs Bayford had explained the tragedy to him, and secondly, what you know of the relationship between these two. I understood you to say that Mrs Bayford called Mr Hargreaves �Jack dear,’ and that he in return used her Christian name.

To take your first question, Mr Coroner, Mr Hargreaves, on hearing the dreadful news, seemed—and quite naturally—utterly astonished. He made some ejaculation—�Good God!’ I think it was—but when this astonishment had passed he seemed mostly concerned with the effect of the tragedy upon Mrs Bayford.

In answer to your second question, Mr Coroner, I can only say that, not being a member of the family, and, as Mr Brunton’s secretary, naturally not being in the confidence of any of the rest of the family, I can only give you my own, as it were, casual impressions. I have always understood that Mr Hargreaves is an old friend of Mrs Bayford; and this visit was the first time I had ever come into personal contact with Mr Hargreaves, but I had frequently heard mention of him. I have always understood that Mr Hargreaves and Mrs Bayford knew each other from childhood right up to the time when Mrs Bayford married, two years ago, but that after that Mr Hargreaves went abroad. I believe he only returned a little while ago.

I see. You cannot tell us, I suppose, whether there had ever been any talk of a marriage between Mrs Bayford and Mr Hargreaves?

I have no information upon that point, Mr Coroner. Such matters are not any business of mine, and I am afraid that I make a strict rule of never prying into matters which do not concern me.

Most commendable, I’m sure! Can you tell the Court anything of the relations between Mr Hargreaves and the rest of the family?

There, sir, I may be of a little more use. Three days before his death Mr Maxwell Brunton referred in my presence to the forthcoming visit of Mr Hargreaves. He came into the study where I was working on his letters and asked me to cancel an appointment he had made for dinner on the Thursday night. From the way in which he worded his directions I gathered that he was not looking forward with any degree of pleasure to Mr Hargreaves’s visit. So far as the other members of the family are—

Just one moment, Mr Harrison! Can you remember the exact words used by Mr Maxwell Brunton in regard to Mr Hargreaves on this occasion you have just told us of?

Mr Brunton made no direct reference to Mr Hargreaves personally, but he said—I’m afraid I cannot remember the exact words—something like this: �That’ll be young Hargreaves’s first night here. Blast it!’ And then later, discussing some appointment for the Saturday he said again: �Hargreaves will still be here. Damn it!’ or some words like that … What I am trying to show, Mr Coroner, is that while Mr Brunton did not make any ill-natured reference to Mr Hargreaves personally, he did seem to find the forthcoming visit of Mr Hargreaves far from—how shall I put it?—far more awkward than he would have a visit of any other person. He was not a man who was given to being put out merely by the presence of an extra person in the house.

I see … Have you any further questions, gentlemen, that you would like me to put to this witness at this stage? … I beg your pardon? … Perhaps, sir, if you would get the foreman to put the question formally …

Mr Coroner, a member of the jury wishes me to ask whether the witness has any comment to offer on the evidence of the police sergeant or any addition to that evidence in regard to the other guest, Miss Lamort, and her collapse on hearing the news of deceased’s death.

I see. Mr Harrison, you heard the foreman, I think. Perhaps you would give a reply to that question.

I have nothing to add, sir, to the police sergeant’s remarks. I went, as described by the police sergeant, with him to wake Miss Lamort. As he stated, when we told her the news she seemed extremely agitated. During the very few moments she took to attire herself I kept hearing her mutter—we had not quite closed the door—�My God! My God!’ This was said in a kind of moaning voice, very distressing to hear. When Miss Lamort came downstairs and rushed to Mrs Brunton for comfort, she seemed to collapse completely. She seemed terribly upset. She seemed not to take the news of the calamity nearly so stoically as the members of Mr Brunton’s family. I should perhaps add that throughout the whole of the following day she was confined to her room, during which time she was, so the servants inform me, unable to take any food. I went once or twice myself past her room on that day, and each time I could hear her moaning and muttering words which I could not catch, as I was, of course, merely passing her door about my business … There is no doubt that the tragedy affected her very, very deeply.

I see. Thank you, Mr Harrison. I was going to ask you to stand down just before the jury put that last question to you. Looking down my notes, however, I find there is one further question which I myself wish to put. I’m sorry to keep you so long.

Not at all! Not at all! I am here to do my duty.

Quite! Quite! The last question is this: Was it your habit, as confidential private secretary to Mr Brunton, always to knock at the study door if you thought he was inside the study?

Certainly not, sir! The study was my place of work, and anyhow, if I may say so, it is only household servants who are required to knock at such doors before entering.

And yet, Mr Harrison, during your evidence you made the following statement: you had just said that on your way to the study on Thursday night, or, rather, Friday morning, you saw a light beneath the study door, and then you added, �I assumed that Mr Brunton was engaged and so knocked at the door before entering.’ Will you please explain this seeming contradiction to what you have just told the Court?

You put me in a truly embarrassing position, Mr Coroner. I come up here and strive to the best of my ability to give my evidence simply, concisely and above all, truthfully—

Quite, quite! Will you please answer the question? Is the Court to take it that you assume that your employer would not like you to go in at such a time as that without knocking?

If you insist upon my answering that question, Mr Coroner, yes.

You are here to answer questions, Mr Harrison. Will you please now tell the Court the reason for supposing that Mr Brunton would like warning of your entry?

I must answer that question?

Of course. May I suggest, Mr Harrison, that you do not waste our time and your own? So far you have shown no disinclination either to answer questions or to add your own quota to your answers. May I suggest that you continue in this manner?

Very well, sir. Since you insist—since you insist, I say—upon an answer to this question of yours, I am in duty bound to give you an answer. I knocked upon Mr Brunton’s study door because I thought Mr Brunton might not be alone.

And yet, although your errand to the study was only a question of making a diary entry which you had forgotten, you did not, when you saw the light and thought that Mr Brunton might be engaged, go away again without making your presence known?

Really, Mr Coroner, I must take leave to know my own business best! I gave every satisfaction to Mr Brunton—the length of my sojourn with him is enough guarantee of that. I trust that I know my position and what, in that position, I may or may not do. I thought Mr Brunton might be engaged, but, equally, it was possible that he was only, as he very often was until very early hours, reading or writing.

Quite! Quite! Who, Mr Harrison, did you think might be engaged with Mr Brunton? His son? His wife? His daughter?

I am afraid, Mr Coroner, that such conjectures did not enter my head. I am a man who makes a practice of never concerning himself unduly with the private affairs of others, especially those of the employer to whom he owes loyalty.

You had no idea, then, Mr Harrison, of who might be with Mr Brunton? You did not, for instance, listen a moment to see … Please do not misunderstand me. I am not making a suggestion of eavesdropping. You did not, I suppose, listen for a moment to hear if there were voices, or whether you could distinguish those voices?

Most emphatically not, sir!

Thank you.

I would like to say at this juncture—

Please do not trouble, Mr Harrison. I think I can now ask you to stand down—that is, of course, unless any member of the jury has any further questions which he wishes to put to you … I beg your pardon? … Please speak up …

Mr Harrison, I’m not sure whether you heard the question of the jury. They wish to know whether, when you knocked, you expected the person who might be engaged with Mr Brunton to be a man or a woman?

Really, Mr Coroner! I am afraid I am not familiar with this kind of procedure, but I cannot think that it is customary or permissible to—

Mr Harrison, I wish you would get it into your head that this is a court of inquiry. The object of the inquiry is to ascertain how Mr Maxwell Brunton met his death. Petty private feelings and even the ordinary social shibboleths are out of place. When, as a witness, you are asked a question, it is your duty to answer that question as succinctly as you can. I will repeat it in another form: When you knocked on the study door because you thought Mr Maxwell Brunton was �engaged,’ did any thought cross your mind as to the sex of his possible companion? Now, please, Mr Harrison, we don’t want your opinion; we want your answer.

Yes, Mr Coroner. I thought that Mr Brunton might have—might have—er—a lady with him.

What lady? Mrs Brunton? Please confine yourself solely to answering my question.

No, not Mrs Brunton. Mrs Brunton is—er—Mrs Brunton hardly ever went into the study.

Who then?

I cannot say, Mr Coroner.

Do you mean �can not’ or �will not’?

I am not in the habit, Mr Coroner, of using a word in its wrong place. If I say �cannot,’ I mean I am unable.

So you intend to inform the Court, first, that you did not think this possible visitor of Mr Brunton’s could be Mrs Brunton, and, second, that it might be any other person of the female sex?

. . . . . .

Come, come, Mr Harrison! Please give us your answer!

As you insist, Mr Coroner, yes.

Do you mean to tell the Court that you thought it possible that a woman other than one of those in the house could be with Mr Brunton?

Good heavens, no! What are you suggesting?

Please spare us your indignation, Mr Harrison. If you did not think, then, that this possible visitor could be a woman from outside, and yet you thought that it was a woman, will you please tell the Court which female member of the household you thought most likely—

Really, Mr Coroner, I cannot—

Please, Mr Harrison! You must remember, sir, if you are at all uncomfortable, that, really, you have brought this upon yourself. Please give an answer to my question. I gather from the general trend of your evidence that the possible woman was not Mrs Brunton nor Mrs Bayford. That leaves us, I think, with Miss Lamort and the servants, Mrs Jennings, Jeannette Bokay, and Violet Burrage—

Really, Mr Coroner! I must emphatically state at this point that any conjectures I may have had on the subject did not go so far as the identity of the possible person.

You are certain of that, Mr Harrison?

Positive, sir! Positive!

Very well, Mr Harrison. We will now cease, I hope, to embarrass you. You were Mr Brunton’s confidential secretary. You must therefore have had manifold opportunities for observing Mr Brunton’s temperament, character, and ways. That is so?

Obviously, sir.

Very well, then! Perhaps you would tell the Court whether you had noticed anything unusual in Mr Maxwell Brunton’s demeanour at any time, say, within the month preceding his death.

Emphatically, no, Mr Coroner. Mr Brunton was always a volatile personality. He was, if you take my meaning, gay one moment and dour the next. But I knew him very well, and a more generous, more understanding or more considerate employer one could not wish for. I was with Mr Brunton for a considerable period …

Yes, yes! Please will you confine yourself to answering the question? Are we to understand that you had noticed nothing unusual in Mr Brunton’s behaviour at any time immediately prior to his death?

You are, sir.

There was no depression, then? No fear, no private or public trouble which Mr Brunton told you about or which you got to know of in any way?

Until the day of his death, no, sir. And, I suppose, really nothing outstanding upon that day. You have cautioned me, Mr Coroner, because you appear to think that I give unduly long and inapposite answers, and therefore I had better perhaps confine myself to stating that—

Come, come! Please! Are we to gather that there was some unusual depression on the part of Mr Brunton on the day of his death, or some unusual and unpleasant happening?

I was striving, Mr Coroner, to answer your question to the best of my ability. I do not want to exaggerate any of the matters or to minimise them. I simply seek to do my duty. On the day of his death Mr Brunton was worried. I am afraid that I am cognisant of the cause of this worry—perhaps I should use the plural because it was worries and not worry. On that day it came to my knowledge that Mr Brunton had various—er—how shall I put it?—disagreements with members of his family. Nothing serious, of course, and really, if you had not asked such specific questions, I should not have thought these things worth mentioning.

With whom were these disagreements, Mr Harrison?

Perhaps, Mr Coroner, �disagreements’ was too strong a word, and really, you know, I cannot see that mere family breezes, shall I say, can have—

Mr Harrison! What you can or cannot see is no doubt interesting. The Court, however, merely wishes for facts. With whom, to your knowledge, did Mr Brunton, upon the day preceding the morning of his death, have these disagreements?

There was one small disagreement, Mr Coroner, with Mrs Brunton, and another with Mr Adrian Brunton.

When did the disagreement with Mrs Brunton take place?

It was hardly a disagreement—I beg your pardon, Mr Coroner—I will confine myself to facts. At about eleven o’clock in the morning Mrs Brunton—a most unusual thing for her—came to the study. She stated that she wished to speak to Mr Brunton privately, and of course I immediately left the room. As I did so Mr Brunton called after me, �We must get that McGuinness affair settled, Harrison. Come back in ten minutes.’ I returned after ten minutes. Mrs Brunton, as I got to the door, was just coming out of it. I noticed that she had—that she had been shedding a few tears. Mr Brunton was walking up and down with his hands behind his back. He was—a trick of his when disturbed—muttering indistinguishably to himself. However, immediately he caught sight of me he became his old self, and we proceeded with our work.

That was the first little affair. The second—Mr Adrian Brunton’s—took place in the afternoon. I had been out for my constitutional, and I came back as usual about three-thirty. I had understood that Mr Brunton was not to be at home that afternoon, and naturally I went, after I had put up my hat and stick, straight to the study. As I drew near the door I became aware that Mr Brunton had not gone out after all. I heard his voice raised, apparently in anger. I hesitated a moment, not quite knowing whether I should go forward or tactfully retire. As I was, in fact, retiring, I heard another voice which I knew for Mr Adrian Brunton’s. That, too, was raised. It was even louder than Mr Brunton’s. It was uttering violent remarks of some description. Of course, I beat a very hasty retreat in order that I should not even inadvertently overhear anything not intended for my ears.

I see. Then you can give the Court no idea, Mr Harrison, of what either of the disputants were saying?

No idea whatever, Mr Coroner. As I came to the door and heard Mr Maxwell Brunton speaking, I did catch the words �not if you and your mother and that little—er, ahem!—bitch came to me on your bended knees,’ and then, as I was hastily retiring, I caught one or two words of Mr Adrian Brunton. He seemed to be—he is, I fear, as excitable or even more so than his father—using many violent epithets. The only remark of his which I clearly caught—you must remember, sir, that I was endeavouring not to hear, rather than to hear—the only remark which I clearly caught was something like �Bloody nice sort of father! You can have all your little bits, but when it comes to your son wanting to settle down …’ After that, Mr Coroner, I heard nothing. I was, you must understand—

Yes. Yes. Quite! You’re sure of these speeches, Mr Harrison?

Certainly, sir. I never say anything of which I am not sure.

I see. I asked you because they seemed rather lengthy to have been heard during this very brief sojourn of yours outside the study door. Nevertheless, I take it that you would swear to them?

Most emphatically, sir—and I must say that I fail to—

Shall we leave it at that, Mr Harrison? I would now like to ask you whether such family disturbances were usual in the Brunton household?

I find that a very difficult question to answer, sir. You must understand that not being a member of the family and being one who makes a point of never, shall we say, prying into other people’s affairs, and especially his employer’s—

I was asking you, Mr Harrison, whether such quarrels were usual in the Brunton household, to your knowledge.

So far as I am concerned, Mr Coroner, they were neither more usual nor more unusual than in any other household with which I have ever been associated. Mr Adrian Brunton, of course, has inherited his father’s volatile temperament, and they certainly were quite frequently at loggerheads about this and that. Mrs Brunton and Mr Maxwell Brunton were, however, an ideal pair. I think this occasion was the only one upon which I have noticed that there had been even any slight trouble between them. Mr Brunton, of course, was a man of very great energy, both mentally and physically, and he was always so busy with both his City work and his writing work and his numerous—er—hobbies, that he really seemed to see very little of Mrs Brunton, but I must say, however, that his manner toward her always showed respect and affection.

Very well. Gentlemen, if you have no further questions to ask this witness at the present stage …? Personally, I recommend that we should proceed to take the evidence of the other witnesses. Mr Harrison will be available if we need him later. Is that agreed? … Thank you, Mr Harrison. You may stand down. We may want you later.

Call Arthur Waterloo Jennings.




V (#ulink_c6564070-bff5-505a-a730-43c9f520f699)

ARTHUR WATERLOO JENNINGS, BUTLER AND PARLOURMAN TO MAXWELL BRUNTON, DECEASED


WHAT is your full name?

Arthur Waterloo Jennings.

Please keep silence in the Court! … Now, Jennings, will you please take the oath.

With all me ’eart, sir! I swear by Almighty God that what I shall say in this Court—

One moment, Jennings, one moment! Will you please hold the Book? … Give him the Book.

Sorry, sir! Sorry, I’m sure! … I swear by Almighty God that what I shall say in evidence in this Court shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

You were, I believe, butler and parlourman to Mr Maxwell Brunton, deceased?

Yes, sir.

And how long, Jennings, have you been in service at 44 Rajah Gardens?

Two years, sir, and six months.

At what time, Jennings, did you see your master for the last time alive?

Can’t swear exactly to the minute, sir, but somewhere around 9 p.m.

Where was this?

At dinner, sir. After I brought in the port for the master and the other two gentlemen he said, as he always said: �There’s nothing more, Jennings!’ and I says: �Thank you, sir.’ And that was the last time I ever saw ’im alive, sir.

Now, Jennings, you have heard the evidence of the previous witnesses, particularly that of Mr Harrison?

Yes, sir.

Do you agree with Mr Harrison’s statement as regards the sequence of events, so far as you know them?

Yes, sir.

Will you please tell the Court, then, as briefly as you can, what happened after Mr Harrison waked you up at approximately half-past two.

Mr ’Arrison, sir, ’e come up and shook me awake like—well, really it was the missus what woke me, ’cause she woke first, an’ she sez: �Jennings! ’Ere’s Mr ’Arrison and oh, Gawd, wot’s ’appened?’ an’ I gets up and I sees it’s Mr ’Arrison and Mr ’Arrison ’e sez to me ’e sez: �Your master’s been killed,’ and I sez, �Wot?’ and he sez, �Your master’s been killed,’ and I sez, �Oh, my Gawd!’ …




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