Blood and Judgement (18 page)

Petrella sat alone in the crypt bar of the Royal Courts of Justice. It was eleven o’clock in the morning and he was drinking a cup of milky coffee.

Somewhere above his head, in that rambling wedding cake of a building, in the court of the Lord Chief Justice of England, the Lord Chief himself, assisted by Mr Justice Penworthy and Mr Justice Meiklejohn, was considering the case
of The Queen against Howton.

Up to a late hour on the previous night – and Petrella’s head still ached at the recollection of that endless conference, of the atmosphere made fouler by the pipe smoked by the director of public prosecutions, of Barstow’s red face getting redder and redder as the hours went past – up, in fact, to the early hours of that morning it had not been decided precisely what action to take.

“The only absolutely cast-iron piece of evidence we’ve got,” said the director, “is the print on the gun. That corresponds, as nearly as a seven-week-old fingerprint can be expected to correspond with anything, with the index finger of Ricketts’ right hand. It’s not a strong identification, but we’d probably get it accepted, if the rest of the case stands up.”

“The rest of the case,” said Barstow, “is that Ricketts was the dead woman’s lover, had been chiselling her, and shot her and her husband when it came to a showdown.”

“Shot her,” said the director, gently, “with a gun which the Crown has recently spent a strenuous two days proving in court to be the property of Howton.”

An uncomfortable silence had ensued.

“If only Ricketts wasn’t so damned cool,” said Barstow. “He hasn’t made a shadow of a mistake since we took him inside.” He added, petulantly, “Most murderers give themselves away as soon as they start opening their mouths.”

The argument had gone round in a circle, and Petrella had slept, and woken with a guilty start, and found himself unnoticed, and slept again.

In the end the director had said, “We could ask for an adjournment. I’m against that. This isn’t a case which is going to look any better in a week’s time. We’ve got all the facts we’re likely to get. It’s simply the view we take of them. I’ll have a word with the attorney general and Younger in the morning, and we’ll abide by what they say. You’d better all stand by in case you’re wanted.”

So Petrella stood by. And ordered another cup of coffee.

The Reservoir Case, in its early stages, had failed to grip the public imagination. The victim was a woman, but not a young nor a glamorous woman. And the prisoner was a professional criminal, and seemed to be quite plainly guilty.

Now, no one quite knew how, at the last minute of the eleventh hour, the word had got through to Fleet Street that the Reservoir Case was news; news on the largest possible scale.

There had been an independent investigation – no one quite knew by whom. New facts had come to life. The reputation of the police was involved. There had been a hasty rereading of the reports of the case at the Old Bailey and a new significance had been seen in Mr Wainwright’s attacks on Superintendent Kellaway. Had they really been so wide of the mark? Might there be something–?

“Get down and see Howton’s solicitors,” said the editor of the
Trumpet.
“We’ll make an offer for Howton’s story.” He mentioned a figure which caused the hard-working and underpaid reporter whom he was addressing to open his eyes very wide indeed. “If the Court of Appeal upholds the verdict, we may have wasted our money, but I think it’s a gamble worth taking.”

“Have our best man cover the appeal,” said the editor of the
Outline. “I
heard in the club on very good authority that there’s going to be a first-class stink. Even if they don’t allow the appeal, there’ll be some good stuff.”

“Howton,” said the editor of the
Basket.
“Never heard of him, but I’m told he’s important – how do you spell it, by the way?” No one seemed to know. “We don’t want to get left behind. Read up all the reports of the earlier hearing – and get cracking.”

It had all happened so quickly that, although everyone knew, on the best authority, that something sensational was going to happen, no one quite knew what the fuss was about. Not that this worried the people concerned. Fleet Street works very happily when it is in a hurry.

Nothing was possible in the morning papers beyond a few guarded preliminary references. But by half past nine there was a queue for the public gallery, and when the three judges took their seats on the stroke of ten o’clock the court was crowded.

The Lord Chief Justice of England, Lord Melford of Drome, a short but unforgettably impressive figure, faced Boot Howton across the well of the highest Court of Criminal Jurisdiction in the land.

“I understand, Mr Younger,” said the Lord Chief, “that in view of certain evidence now in its possession, the Crown has decided not to proceed with the case against this man.”

“That is so, my Lord,” said Mr Younger.

“Very well then, Mr Younger. It only remains–”

“Might I say a word, my Lord?”

“Certainly, Mr Wainwright. I take it you are not going to press the Crown to reconsider its decision?”

“I should only like it to be made plain, my Lord – I understand this to be the case – that this decision has not been reached on any legal technicality but because the Crown is now quite convinced that my client had nothing to do with the crime with which he stood charged.”

The Lord Chief looked at Mr Younger, who rose again, and said, “That is so, my Lord. I would add that proceedings are pending against another accused.”

“In that case,” said the Lord Chief, “it remains only for me to discharge you. Which I do.”

The next moment the dock was empty, and unparalleled confusion had ensued. The team from the
Trumpet,
who had come to watch over their protégé – (Howton had become theirs for a large down payment at nine o’clock that morning) – had barely settled in their places and were separated from the door of the court by a dense crowd. They made the best of their way towards the nearest exit, but unfortunately there were a number of other people with the same idea in mind, to say nothing of the legal advisers in the next case on the list, who were caught equally unprepared and were moving strongly in the opposite direction.

“If there is any further disturbance,” said the Lord Chief, “I will have the court doors locked, and anyone who is in will stay in, and anyone who is out will stay out.”

Petrella had just put down his empty cup and was wondering how he was going to kill the hours until lunchtime when a small, lancet-shaped door with intricate iron hinges a few feet away from him opened, and Howton came out. He was quite alone, and looked a bit lost.

The two men stared at each other speechlessly.

A court official appeared behind Boot, and said to him, “If you want to avoid the crowd, you can slip out into Carey Street.”

“That’s all right,” said Howton. He stood, still staring at Petrella, and Petrella stared, fascinated, back.

A faint sneer ridged Howton’s unlovely face. “So you couldn’t make it stick,” he muttered. Then he hitched himself round, and stumped off, up the tiled passage, and through the swing doors at the end of it, and out of sight.

Petrella sat on for a long time. He was tucked away at the end of the long bar, and no one took any notice of him. He watched the team from the
Trumpet
go past, faint but pursuing; and a group of solicitors’ managing clerks, with nothing much to do but drink Bass and Guinness, and various members of the public who seemed to have lost their way.

A fresh bustle of activity round the bar signalled that the luncheon recess was approaching. He got up stiffly and walked out into the main hall of the courts.

On an impulse he turned left halfway down the hall, climbed a flight of turret stairs straight out of grand opera, and found himself immediately outside the Lord Chief Justice’s court.

He pushed open the door and peered inside. The court was empty, and silent, but it had the signs of its recent use all about it; the heavy chairs on the dais pushed back, just as their judicial occupants had quitted them; the clerk’s table below the dais littered with papers; and books everywhere, some lying singly, some strapped in bundles, and many thousands more cramming the shelves which walled the court. Petrella thought that he had never seen a room more impressive or more apt to its purposes: panelled, cool, a quiet harmony of law-calf and boxwood set against green curtains and walls.

Immediately over the Lord Chief’s seat, carved in hardwood, the Lion and the Unicorn faced each other across the Crown. The Unicorn was gazing up into the ceiling. The Lion, on the other hand, was staring down his nose at the court. He had a sardonic look about him. He had been watching over Justice for so long.

All Series titles can be read in order, or randomly as standalone novels

Inspector Hazlerigg

Patrick Petrella

Luke Pagan

Calder & Behrens

Non-Series

Published by House of Stratus

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