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By Root 492 0

If it’s old Carberry he’ll be down on them all through. He’s always very righteous about illicit love. I suppose they’ll have Eagles or Humphrey Kerr for the defence—Humphrey is magnificent in these cases—but he likes a gallant war record or something of that kind to help him do his stuff. A conscientious objector is going to cramp his style. The question is going to be will the jury like them? You can never tell with juries. You know, Charles, those two are not really sympathetic characters. She’s a good-looking woman who married a very old man for his money, and Brown is a neurotic conscientious objector. The crime is so familiar—so according to pattern that you really believe they didn’t do it. Of course, they may decide that he did it and she knew nothing about it—or alternately that she did it, and he didn’t know about it—or they may decide that they were both in it together.”

“And what do you yourself think?” I asked.

He looked at me with a wooden expressionless face.

“I don’t think anything. I’ve turned in the facts and they went to the DPP and it was decided that there was a case. That’s all. I’ve done my duty and I’m out of it. So now you know, Charles.”

But I didn’t know. I saw that for some reason Taverner was unhappy.

It was not until three days later that I unburdened myself to my father. He himself had never mentioned the case to me. There had been a kind of restraint between us—and I thought I knew the reason for it. But I had to break down that barrier.

“We’ve got to have this out,” I said. “Taverner’s not satisfied that those two did it—and you’re not satisfied either.”

My father shook his head. He said what Taverner had said: “It’s out of our hands. There is a case to answer. No question about that.”

“But you don’t—Taverner doesn’t—think that they’re guilty?”

“That’s for a jury to decide.”

“For God’s sake,” I said, “don’t put me off with technical terms. What do you think—both of you—personally?”

“My personal opinion is no better than yours, Charles.”

“Yes, it is. You’ve more experience.”

“Then I’ll be honest with you. I just—don’t know!”

“They could be guilty?”

“Oh, yes.”

“But you don’t feel sure that they are?”

My father shrugged his shoulders.

“How can one be sure?”

“Don’t fence with me, Dad. You’ve been sure other times, haven’t you? Dead sure? No doubt in your mind at all?”

“Sometimes, yes. Not always.”

“I wish to God you were sure this time.”

“So do I.”

We were silent. I was thinking of those two figures drifting in from the garden in the dusk. Lonely and haunted and afraid. They had been afraid from the start. Didn’t that show a guilty conscience?

But I answered myself: “Not necessarily.” Both Brenda and Laurence were afraid of life—they had no confidence in themselves, in their ability to avoid danger and defeat, and they could see, only too clearly, the pattern of illicit love leading to murder which might involve them at any moment.

My father spoke, and his voice was grave and kind:

“Come, Charles,” he said, “let’s face it. You’ve still got it in your mind, haven’t you, that one of the Leonides family is the real culprit?”

“Not really. I only wonder—”

“You do think so. You may be wrong, but you do think so.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because”—I thought about it, trying to see clearly—to bring my wits to bear—“because” (yes, that was it), “because they think so themselves.”

“They think so themselves? That’s interesting. That’s very interesting. Do you mean that they all suspect each other, or that they know, actually, who did do it?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “It’s all very nebulous and confused. I think—on the whole—that they try to cover up the knowledge from themselves.”

My father nodded.

“Not Roger,” I said. “Roger wholeheartedly believes it was Brenda and he wholeheartedly wants her hanged. It’s—it’s a relief to be with Roger, because he’s simple and positive, and hasn’t any reservations in the back of his mind.

“But the others are apologetic, they’re uneasy—they urge me to be sure that Brenda has the best defence—that every possible advantage is given her—why?