Deacon?”
“That’s right, sir. Sir Laurie Deacon.”
Laurie Deacon ! Richardson felt laughter—God! It was almost hysteria—rising up where anger had been seconds earlier. No wonder they were wetting their pants out there in the hall! No wonder Stocker had dragged him all the way from Dublin, expense no object, and was quite prepared to twist the law into knots—and no wonder the Superintendent was only too happy to crawl away into a place of safety!
Deacon—Sir Laurie Deacon, baronet—was not only a barrister of vast experience and a Tory MP of even vaster influence and notorious independence of mind, but also a veteran campaigner on behalf of underdogs all the way from Crichel Down to Cublington.
So they’d leaned on this poor old countrywoman without a penny in her purse, and if she’d summoned up the Archangel Gabriel and all the hosts of Heaven she couldn’t have frightened ‘em more with the name she’d given ‘em back.
“Clarkie—how on earth do you come to know Sir Laurie Deacon?” He couldn’t keep the admiration out of his voice and he didn’t try to. “You really do know him?”
“I do, sir. But I’m not saying more than that.”
Richardson stared at her for a moment, then rose from his chair and began carefully and ostentatiously to examine the room. First the flower vases, then under the table and chairs, behind the ornaments, in the fireplace. When Mrs. Clark stared at him in surprise he put a finger to his lips and continued the search wordlessly until he was satisfied that there was nothing to be found. Then he listened silently at the door, bending even to peer through the keyhole, and as a final obvious precaution craned his neck quickly through the open window.
“I think we’re clear,” he murmured conspiratorially, pulling up one of the chairs from under the table until it was directly opposite where she was sitting.
“Clarkie, you’re bloody marvellous… Now, you don’t need to say anything if you don’t want to. You’ve got ‘em all beaten anyway, I tell you—but I just want you to listen to what I’ve got to say, and listen carefully.”
She watched him intently.
“You’re worried about Charlie, aren’t you? About what it’d do to him—all the police and the newspapermen and so on, never mind what might be said in court. I know that and I understand it.”
Mrs. Clark’s lower lip trembled and Richardson reached out and patted her knee.
“Well, don’t you worry about that, Clarkie. I can fix that—I give you my word I can fix that, even without calling up Sir Laurie Deacon. He’s your second line—I’m your front line. Because I can fix it so Charlie never has to go to court. If you’ll trust me—and if you’ll both promise never to talk about what happened last night—then they’re willing to tell everyone it was an accident. Charlie needn’t come into it at all. You just heard the shot and went and called Constable— what’s his name—Yates.”
She was frowning at him now, but frowning in evident disbelief. But why should she disbelieve him?
“Don’t you believe me, Clarkie?”
That frown had deepened at the mention of Yates, the Constable— the village copper. Richardson tried to project himself into her mind to pinpoint the line in it where trust ended and distrust began.
The village copper … could it be as simple as that? Could it be that in a world of fallen idols she still believed that some still stood, neither to be bribed nor bullied? That the law really was the law, though the heavens fell?
Or was it even more simply that his word was not enough and she needed to know why he was able to make a mockery of law and truth so easily?
“I’ll tell you why you’ve got to believe me, Clarkie. You see this— business—is a lot more complicated than it seems. It doesn’t involve just you and Charlie. It involves Dr. Audley.”
“I don’t see as how it can do that, sir.”
So David and Charlie ranked equally, each to
“That’s right, sir. Sir Laurie Deacon.”
Laurie Deacon ! Richardson felt laughter—God! It was almost hysteria—rising up where anger had been seconds earlier. No wonder they were wetting their pants out there in the hall! No wonder Stocker had dragged him all the way from Dublin, expense no object, and was quite prepared to twist the law into knots—and no wonder the Superintendent was only too happy to crawl away into a place of safety!
Deacon—Sir Laurie Deacon, baronet—was not only a barrister of vast experience and a Tory MP of even vaster influence and notorious independence of mind, but also a veteran campaigner on behalf of underdogs all the way from Crichel Down to Cublington.
So they’d leaned on this poor old countrywoman without a penny in her purse, and if she’d summoned up the Archangel Gabriel and all the hosts of Heaven she couldn’t have frightened ‘em more with the name she’d given ‘em back.
“Clarkie—how on earth do you come to know Sir Laurie Deacon?” He couldn’t keep the admiration out of his voice and he didn’t try to. “You really do know him?”
“I do, sir. But I’m not saying more than that.”
Richardson stared at her for a moment, then rose from his chair and began carefully and ostentatiously to examine the room. First the flower vases, then under the table and chairs, behind the ornaments, in the fireplace. When Mrs. Clark stared at him in surprise he put a finger to his lips and continued the search wordlessly until he was satisfied that there was nothing to be found. Then he listened silently at the door, bending even to peer through the keyhole, and as a final obvious precaution craned his neck quickly through the open window.
“I think we’re clear,” he murmured conspiratorially, pulling up one of the chairs from under the table until it was directly opposite where she was sitting.
“Clarkie, you’re bloody marvellous… Now, you don’t need to say anything if you don’t want to. You’ve got ‘em all beaten anyway, I tell you—but I just want you to listen to what I’ve got to say, and listen carefully.”
She watched him intently.
“You’re worried about Charlie, aren’t you? About what it’d do to him—all the police and the newspapermen and so on, never mind what might be said in court. I know that and I understand it.”
Mrs. Clark’s lower lip trembled and Richardson reached out and patted her knee.
“Well, don’t you worry about that, Clarkie. I can fix that—I give you my word I can fix that, even without calling up Sir Laurie Deacon. He’s your second line—I’m your front line. Because I can fix it so Charlie never has to go to court. If you’ll trust me—and if you’ll both promise never to talk about what happened last night—then they’re willing to tell everyone it was an accident. Charlie needn’t come into it at all. You just heard the shot and went and called Constable— what’s his name—Yates.”
She was frowning at him now, but frowning in evident disbelief. But why should she disbelieve him?
“Don’t you believe me, Clarkie?”
That frown had deepened at the mention of Yates, the Constable— the village copper. Richardson tried to project himself into her mind to pinpoint the line in it where trust ended and distrust began.
The village copper … could it be as simple as that? Could it be that in a world of fallen idols she still believed that some still stood, neither to be bribed nor bullied? That the law really was the law, though the heavens fell?
Or was it even more simply that his word was not enough and she needed to know why he was able to make a mockery of law and truth so easily?
“I’ll tell you why you’ve got to believe me, Clarkie. You see this— business—is a lot more complicated than it seems. It doesn’t involve just you and Charlie. It involves Dr. Audley.”
“I don’t see as how it can do that, sir.”
So David and Charlie ranked equally, each to
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