Death Has Deep Roots by Michael Gilbert Page B

motive of one person. When that is established, whatever may be your feelings, ‘and whatever may or may not happen to the prisoner afterward, your duty is quite clear. You must find the prisoner guilty of murder. Such a verdict may quite easily be distasteful to you. That does not absolve you from the obligation of giving it.”
    “My lord,” said Mr. Macrea. He was on his feet so swiftly that both counsel were standing together. “May I make one matter plain. My learned friend has very freely offered my client his sympathy. I do not doubt for a moment that he is sincere. But on her behalf I must refuse the offer. It is not needed. Our case is not, odd though it may seem, that she committed this murder and is very upset about it. Our case is quite the opposite. It is that she did not commit this murder. I am sorry, but there it is.” He sat down as swiftly as he had got up.
    Mr. Summers resumed his seat more slowly.
    All the crime reporters on the press bench looked up together and then looked down again and started scribbling away at twice the speed, like a bunch of second violins who have suddenly received a flick from the conductor’s baton. It was clear to them, for the first time, that there was going to be a fight.
    The judge said, “I think we have just time for your formal evidence, Mr. Summers. I shall then adjourn the court until two o’clock.”
    A thin young man with an ambitious mustache stepped into the box, told the court that his name was Edward Webb, that he was a qualified architect’s draftsman, and that he had drawn the plan of the hotel which the jury had seen. Somewhat to his disappointment he was not cross-examined.
    The court adjourned for lunch.

 
Chapter Eleven
     
    Mr. Rumbold was one of the first to get clear of the building. He was not attracted by criminal work. He himself was a company lawyer and an expert on the leisurely intricacies of patent rights. So far as he was concerned a murder trial at the Old Bailey meant hurrying to and fro in taxicabs with suitcases full of papers, endless conferences and last-minute telephoning; it meant sandwiches for lunch and lateness for evening meals and working into the small hours of every morning. Unless he was very careful it was going to mean a thundering attack of dyspepsia.
    He trotted into the A.B.C. opposite the court for a cup of coffee, swallowed his drink before it had had time to cool, and hurried out to look for a taxi to take him back to the office. As usual he was unable to find one, and decided, as usual, that it would be just as quick by bus. As usual, as soon as he had got on to the bus four empty taxis went by.
    At the office he found the boy standing by, and sent him out for sandwiches, shouted for his secretary and made his way to the sanctuary of his own room.
    “Any messages,” he said. “Anything from France yet?”
    “Nothing from Mr. Anthony yet,” said Miss Hardiman. She was a plump, cheerful girl, fortified in her not infrequent differences with Mr. Rumbold by the knowledge that she could never be dismissed since she was the only living person who understood his filing systems.
    “What about McCann?”
    “He rang from Winchester just before you came in. He didn’t say much. He might be going on to Salisbury. There was one rather—”
    “What on earth are all those?”
    “Oh, that’s the newspapers.” Miss Hardiman tried not to sound impressed. “They’ve been ringing you up all the morning. I was saying there was—”
    “Carrion,” said Mr. Rumbold. He slit open half a dozen envelopes and consigned their contents to the “out” basket. “What were you saying?”
    “I was telling you,” said Miss Hardiman patiently, “Mrs. McCann has been on the phone.”
    “Mrs. McCann?”
    “Major McCann’s wife. She wants you to go and see her.”
    “Go down to Shepherd Market? Now?”
    “She said it was important. She’s got a witness. She wouldn’t tell me any more over the telephone.”
    “Got a