Flowers For the Judge Read online

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  About the Author

  Also by Margery Allingham

  Dedication

  Title Page

  1. Damp Dynamite

  2. Funeral Arrangements Later

  3. Design for an Accident

  4. Relations

  5. Inquisition

  6. By These Witnesses

  7. The Lying Straws

  8. Presumed Innocent

  9. The Daring Young Man

  10. Twenty Years After

  11. Fuse Cap

  12. Somebody Died

  13. A Craftsman of Camden Town

  14. The Damned

  15. Night Shift

  16. The Fourth Chair

  17. Mr Campion’s Case for the Defence

  18. In Reply to Your Letter

  19. Under the Sword

  20. The Fourth Dimension

  21. The Spangled Frill

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Margery Allingham was born in London in 1904. She attended the Perse School in Cambridge before returning to London to the Regent Street Polytechnic. Her father – author H. J. Allingham – encouraged her to write, and was delighted when she contributed to her aunt’s cinematic magazine, The Picture Show, at the age of eight.

  Her first novel was published when she was seventeen. In 1928 she published her first detective story, The White Cottage Mystery, which had been serialised in the Daily Express. The following year, in The Crime at Black Dudley, she introduced the character who was to become the hallmark of her writing – Albert Campion. Her novels heralded the more sophisticated suspense genre: characterised by her intuitive intelligence, extraordinary energy and accurate observation, they vary from the grave to the openly satirical, whilst never losing sight of the basic rules of the classic detective tale. Famous for her London thrillers, such as Hide My Eyes and The Tiger in the Smoke, she has been compared to Dickens in her evocation of the city’s shady underworld.

  In 1927 she married the artist, journalist and editor Philip Youngman Carter. They divided their time between their Bloomsbury flat and an old house in the village of Tolleshunt D’Arcy in Essex. Margery Allingham died in 1966.

  ALSO BY MARGERY ALLINGHAM

  IN THE ALBERT CAMPION SERIES

  The Crime at Black Dudley

  Mystery Mile

  Look to the Lady

  Police at the Funeral

  Sweet Danger

  Death of a Ghost

  Dancers in Mourning

  The Case of the Late Pig

  The Fashion in Shrouds

  Mr Campion and Others

  Black Plumes

  Traitor’s Purse

  Coroner’s Pidgin

  The Casebook of Mr Campion

  More Work for the Undertaker

  The Tiger in the Smoke

  The Beckoning Lady

  Hide My Eyes

  The China Governess

  The Mind Readers

  A Cargo of Eagles

  To my publishers this book is respectfully dedicated

  MARGERY ALLINGHAM

  Flowers

  for the Judge

  None of the characters in this book are portraits of living people, nor did the incidents here recorded ever take place

  NOTE

  In criminal trials it is not customary for witnesses to remain in court during the part of the hearing which precedes their own testimony, but in Rex v. Wedgwood in 1931 in point of fact they did

  CHAPTER I

  Damp Dynamite

  THE STORY OF the little man, sometimes a stockbroker, sometimes a tea merchant, but always something in the City, who walked out of his suburban house one sunny morning and vanished like a puff of grey smoke in a cloudless sky, can be recalled by nearly everyone who lived in Greater London in the first years of the century.

  The details vary. Sometimes it was the inquisitive lady at Number Ten who saw him go by, and the invalid propped up in the window of Number Twelve who did not; while the letter which he was about to post was found lying pathetically upon the pavement between the two houses. Sometimes the road was bounded by two high walls, with a milkman at one end and the unfortunate gentleman’s wife on her doorstep at the other. In this version the wife was kissed at the garden gate and waved at from half-way down the oddly bordered road, yet the milkman saw neither hide nor hair of his patron then or afterwards.

  All the stories have their own circumstantial evidence. Only the main fact and an uncomfortable impression are common to all. A man did disappear and there were reasons for supposing that he did so in no ordinary fashion. Also, of course, he never returned.

  Most people know of someone who lived in the next street to the hero or victim of the tale, but the ancient firm of Barnabas and Company, publishers since 1810 at the Sign of the Golden Quiver, never referred to the story because the little man had been their junior partner on that morning in May, nineteen hundred and eleven, when he bade a polite ‘Good morning’ to his housekeeper at his front door in the Streatham crescent, turned out into a broad suburban road and never passed the tobacconist on the corner, but vanished as neatly and unobtrusively as a raindrop in a pool.

  At the time there was a certain excitement in the grand Queen Anne house in the cul-de-sac at the Holborn end of Jockey’s Fields which bore the sign of the Golden Quiver, but, when it was discovered that the ledgers were still truthful and that Mr John Widdowson, the other partner, was quite prepared to carry on while his cousin remained disintegrated or in the fourth dimension, the natural conservatism of the firm reasserted itself and the whole disturbing affair was decently forgotten.

  However, although a wonder may degenerate into a funny thing after the proverbial nine days and may well become nothing but an uneasy memory after twenty years, the odd disappearance of Tom Barnabas in nineteen-eleven created a sort of precedent in the firm, so that in the curious paradoxical way in which the mind works no one thought very much of it when in nineteen thirty-one Paul R. Brande, one of the directors, did not show up for a couple of days.

  Gina Brande sat on the couch before the fire in her big sitting-room in the top flat on the Sunday evening after Paul went. ‘Shop tea’ was in progress. This function was part of the Barnabas tradition. On Sunday evenings all through the winter it was the custom of the cousins and Miss Curley to meet together to take tea and hold an inquest on the Sunday papers. Sometimes outsiders were present; perhaps a privileged author or a visiting American, or, on rare occasions, old Caldecott, that patriarch of agents who had known the Old Man.

  When Paul had brought Gina back from New York and the firm had recovered from the shock of having a woman and a foreigner on the doorstep, she had taken over the responsibility of providing the fire and the meal for the gatherings from John’s aged housekeeper and the meetings had moved up from the flat below. It was typical of the two principal directors of the firm that they should have snapped up the lease of the house next door to the office, converted its unsuitability into three flats at considerable expense, and settled down to live in the Holborn backwater, each convinced that he should or could desire no more.

  John Widdowson, managing director, senior cousin, and son of the Old Man’s eldest sister, took the centre flat as befitted his position, although in size it would have better suited Paul and Gina, who were quartered above.

  The ground-floor and basement had been more or less wished upon Mike Wedgwood, the youngest cousin and junior director. Barnabas Limited did things like that in the holy conviction that through minor discomforts their dignity and prestige were upheld.

  The tea-party was almost at an end, and as yet no one had referred to Paul. The general feelings se
emed to be that the gathering was very peaceful without his crimson-faced didacticism.

  Gina had folded herself on the big white sofa with its deeply buttoned back and exaggerated curves. As usual, she looked odd and lovely and unexpected amid that sober gathering.

  When Pavlov, the décor man, spoke of her as ‘the young Bernhardt’, he did her a little less than justice. Her small-boned figure, tiny hands and feet, and long modern neck would have disappeared into nothingness in the corsets and furbelows of the ’eighties. Her head was modern, too, with its wide mouth, slanting grey eyes and the small straight nose whose severity was belied by the new coxcomb coiffure which Lallé had created for her and which brought her dark chestnut hair forward into a curl faintly and charmingly reminiscent of the ‘bang’ of the last century.

  She was wearing one of her own dresses. The firm, or rather John Widdowson in the person of the firm, had not countenanced his cousin’s wife continuing her career in England, and she now designed only for herself, and sometimes for Pavlov, in a strictly dignified and semi-amateur way.

  The narrow gown, in a heavy dark green and black silk, accentuated her foreignness and her chic, which was so extraordinarily individual. At the moment she looked a little weary, John’s weekly diatribe against the firm of Cheshunt, who flooded the book market with third-, fourth- and fifth-rate novels and advertised the figure of their mighty output with bland self-satisfaction, had seemed even a little longer and heavier than usual.

  Curley sat in the corner by the fire. Her plump hands were folded on her knee and her very pale blue eyes were quiet and contemplative behind her spectacles.

  Miss Florence Curley was easily the least distinguished-looking person in the room. Her iron-grey hair was not even tidy and her black velvet dress was of that variety of ill-cut, over-decorated and disgracefully expensive garments which are made in millions for the undiscerning. Her shoes were smart but looked uncomfortable, and she wore three rings which had obviously been her mother’s. But Curley was the firm. Even John, glancing at her from time to time, hoped devoutly that she would outlast him.

  Long ago she had been the Old Man’s secretary, in the days when a lady typist was still a daring innovation, and, with the tradition of female service and unswerving loyalty to the dominant male still unshattered behind her, she had wedded herself to the firm of Barnabas Limited as to a lover.

  Thirty years later she loved the business as a son and a master. She knew more about its affairs than a roomful of ledgers, and understood its difficulties and cherished its triumphs with the insight of a first nurse.

  In the office she was accepted as a benevolent and omniscient intelligence which was one of the firm’s more important assets. Outside the firm she was feared, respected and faintly resented. Yet she looked a rather stupid, plain old woman sitting there by the fire.

  It was very warm in the room, and John rose to his feet.

  ‘I shall go back to it, I think, Gina,’ he said. ‘Tooth’s new one is an odd sort of jumble, but I want to finish it. I’m having him up to-morrow.’

  John always spoke of ‘having authors up’ when he meant that he had invited them to an interview. It was a traditional phrase of the Old Man’s.

  Miss Curley stirred. ‘Mr Tooth is a very self-opinionated young man, Mr Widdowson,’ she ventured, and added, with apparent irrelevance: ‘I saw him lunching with Phillips of Denver’s last week. They were at school together, I think.’

  John, who followed her line of thought, turned round.

  ‘It’s not as good as his first book,’ he said defensively.

  ‘Oh no. It’s not,’ Miss Curley agreed. ‘Second books never are, are they? Still, I think he’s got something in him. I shouldn’t like to see him leave us. I don’t like Denver’s.’

  ‘Quite,’ said John, dry to the point of curtness. ‘I’ll finish it,’ he added. ‘It may be just possible.’

  He moved over to the door, an impressive, interesting-looking person with his tall, slender figure, little dried-up yellow face and close-cropped white hair.

  On the threshold he paused and looked back.

  ‘Where is Paul? Do you know, Gina? Haven’t seen him since Thursday. Off to Paris again, I suppose.’

  There was a moment’s awkward pause, during which Curley smiled involuntarily. Paul, with his hustle methods, his bombast and his energy, while infuriating his cousin contrived to amuse her. John’s remark was his first direct reference to the Tourlette biography affair, and everyone in the room recalled Paul’s excited, unconvincing voice rising above the din at the September cocktail-party.

  ‘I tell you, my dear fellow, I was so thrilled, so absolutely annihilated, that I just rushed off down to Croydon and got a plane – didn’t even remember to snatch a bag or tell Gina here – simply fled over there and bought it!’

  The fact that the Tourlette biography had proved of about the same interest to the British and American publics as the average first book of free verse, and that Barnabas Limited had dropped a matter of five hundred pounds on the transaction, lent point to the comment.

  Gina stirred. All her movements were very slow, and she turned her head with graceful deliberation before speaking.

  ‘I don’t know where he is. He hasn’t been home since Thursday.’

  The quiet voice with the unexpected New England accent betrayed no embarrassment or resentment at either the question or the fact.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ John also did not seem surprised. ‘If he comes in to-night you might tell him to drop in and see me. I shall be reading all the evening. I’ve had a most extraordinary letter from Mrs Carter. I wish Paul would learn not to enthuse to authors. It goes to their heads and then they get spiteful if a book doesn’t sell.’

  His voice died on a plaintive note and the door closed softly behind him.

  Ritchie began to laugh, a dry little cackle of which nobody took the least notice. He was out of the circle, leaning back in a chair in the shadows, a quiet, slightly melancholy, or, if one felt sentimental, pathetic figure.

  Ritchie Barnabas, brother of the transported Tom, was the only cousin who had received no share of the business under the Old Man’s will. He had been younger in nineteen hundred and eight, of course, but not so young as Mike, who had been a baby, nor so young as Paul, who was still at school, nor even so very much younger than John himself. His own explanation of this mystery was never sought, but a clause in the will which charged the beneficiary cousins to ‘look after’ Richard Barnabas threw some light on the Old Man’s opinion of this nephew.

  It was characteristic of the firm, and perhaps of publishing generally, that they fulfilled this charge by supplying Ritchie with a small room at the top of the building, a reasonable salary and the title of ‘The Reader’. He shared the work with some twenty or thirty clergymen, maiden ladies and indigent schoolmasters scattered all over the country, but his was the official post and he lived in a world of battered manuscripts on which he made long and scholarly reports.

  Like some thin and dusty ghost he was often seen on the stairs of the office, in the hall, or tramping home with long flapping strides through the network of gusty streets between the sacred cul-de-sac and his lodgings in Red Lion Square.

  No one considered him and yet everyone liked him in the half-tolerant, half-condescending way with which one regards someone else’s inoffensive pet.

  Every year he was granted three weeks’ holiday, and on these occasions he was never missed. Only the increasing height of the piles of manuscript in his dusty room bore witness to the genuineness of his absence.

  There was a vague notion among the junior members of the staff that he spent these holidays reading in his lodgings, but no one was interested enough to find out. The cousins simply said and thought ‘Where’s Ritchie? Oh, on holiday, of course …’ and dismissed him for the more important matter that was always on hand.

  There had been from time to time sentimental young women, although these were not encouraged in the firm,
who saw in Ritchie a romantic and mysterious figure with some secret inner life too delicate or possibly too poetic for general expression, but always in time they gave up their investigations. Ritchie, they discovered, had the emotional outlook of a child and the mind of a schoolboy. He was also not even particularly unhappy.

  Now, when he had finished laughing, he rose and walked over to Gina.

  ‘I shall go, too, now, my dear,’ he said smiling down at her with the mildest of blue eyes.

  There was a minute pause, and he added charmingly:

  ‘A delicious tea.’

  Gina’s grey eyes narrowed as she smiled back at him.

  ‘Sweet person, Ritchie,’ she said, and gave him her hand.

  He took it for a moment, and then, after nodding to Curley, grinned broadly at Mike, whom he had always liked, and wandered off to find the door.

  The three who were left smiled after he went out, but in a most kindly way. The warm silence remained unbroken for some time. Outside the first waves of the fog were creeping down from the park, but as yet its chill dirtiness had not penetrated into the gracious room.

  Miss Curley sat in her corner, placid and apparently lost in thought. Those who knew her were used to Curley ‘staring through them’ and her habit was a time-honoured joke in the office. She found it very useful. Her faded blue eyes were difficult to see behind the gold-rimmed spectacles, and it was, therefore, never easy to be sure whether they were focussed upon one or not.

  At the moment she was looking at Mike with steady inquisitiveness.

  Michael Wedgwood was the son of the Old Man’s youngest and favourite sister. His place in the firm had been assured to him since his childhood. He had been barely seven years old at the time of his uncle’s death.

  As she watched him Miss Curley reflected that his early training might easily have spoilt him altogether. A little boy brought up in cold blood to be a fitting member of any old-established publishing firm, let alone Barnabas Limited, might have turned out to be a prig or a crank or worse. But there had been mitigating circumstances. The firm had suffered during the war and the Old Man’s fortune had been very much divided, so that although the young Michael had been to the right schools he had never had quite enough money, and, in Miss Curley’s opinion, there was a sobering quality in poverty greatly to be prized.