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Authors: Gavin Scott
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could he have—”
“I don’t think so,” said Forrester. “This was after the murder and I know he was in the Lodge reading an Icelandic saga to the rest of us when Lyall was killed.”
“Hmm. He looked like the sort of chap who’d demolish anybody who got in his way. But what was he doing in Lyall’s rooms?”
“God knows.”
“Do you think whoever bashed him also killed Lyall?”
“Possibly,” said Forrester. “Of course the police might say it was you.”
“How could it have been? For one thing Haraldson’s about a foot taller than I am.”
“You could have been standing on something.”
“Hardly.”
“Nevertheless that’s what the police will probably claim. They seem fairly determined you did it.”
“I’m in a mess, aren’t I?” said Clark.
“Have you called your solicitor?”
“Not yet.”
“I think you should do that.”
“He was my father’s man. He must be about seventy-five.”
“Ask him to recommend someone younger.”
“I shouldn’t need a lawyer! I’m innocent.”
Forrester was about to answer this objection when the doorbell rang. Forrester went to answer it – and found Inspector Barber and a sergeant on the doorstep. Barber gave Forrester a hard look before pushing past him into the house. By the time Forrester had followed him in the detective was already speaking to Gordon.
“Gordon Alistair Clark, I have here a warrant for your arrest for the murder of David Patrick Lyall of Barnard College, Oxford, on the night of January 13th. You are free to remain silent but anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you.”
Clark fought to retain his composure.
“I did not do it,” he said at last. “My wife has told you I was at home with her.”
“Unfortunately,” said Barber, “it seems that alibi is false. We have two witnesses who testify that at the time of the murder your wife was seen in another place entirely. If you want to pack one or two things, sir, we have a police car waiting outside.”
Clark looked at Forrester – but there was nothing either of them could think of to say.
7
A PLAN OF CAMPAIGN
Margaret Clark came home just after the police had gone and when Forrester told her what Barber had said she became wildly hysterical, repeating over and over again that she had been at home with Clark when she said she was. Inwardly furious, knowing she needed someone with her and determined not to be that person, Forrester had taken her address book and practically forced her to give him the name of a woman colleague who could come round; he also called her doctor and asked for him to bring a sedative.
While he was waiting for the doctor he called Clark’s solicitor and arranged to see him, and when Margaret’s friend from the Bodleian arrived he left at once, cycling furiously through the snowy streets, oblivious now to their calm and beauty.
Clark’s solicitor’s offices were in a picturesquely twisted, half-timbered building and Clark’s solicitor seemed to have been designed to match. He was an elderly man who spent most of the time while Forrester was speaking to him nervously twisting a pipe cleaner into the shape of a cat, and at the end of the recital had nothing to say except, “Oh dear, oh dear.” With tact and persistence Forrester requested that a younger member of the practice take over the case, and then sat down with him. But it was still awkward: the proffered candidate, Peter Nestleton, was certainly younger, but also stolid and unimaginative.
On the other hand he seemed competent and concerned. As Forrester listened to him he remembered that competence was all that was required of Clark’s solicitor; the key to saving his friend would be the defence counsel he engaged, and that could wait for later. But as he watched Nestleton set off for the police station Forrester did not feel any lifting of his spirits. He knew the appropriate people would soon be doing all the appropriate things to comply
“I don’t think so,” said Forrester. “This was after the murder and I know he was in the Lodge reading an Icelandic saga to the rest of us when Lyall was killed.”
“Hmm. He looked like the sort of chap who’d demolish anybody who got in his way. But what was he doing in Lyall’s rooms?”
“God knows.”
“Do you think whoever bashed him also killed Lyall?”
“Possibly,” said Forrester. “Of course the police might say it was you.”
“How could it have been? For one thing Haraldson’s about a foot taller than I am.”
“You could have been standing on something.”
“Hardly.”
“Nevertheless that’s what the police will probably claim. They seem fairly determined you did it.”
“I’m in a mess, aren’t I?” said Clark.
“Have you called your solicitor?”
“Not yet.”
“I think you should do that.”
“He was my father’s man. He must be about seventy-five.”
“Ask him to recommend someone younger.”
“I shouldn’t need a lawyer! I’m innocent.”
Forrester was about to answer this objection when the doorbell rang. Forrester went to answer it – and found Inspector Barber and a sergeant on the doorstep. Barber gave Forrester a hard look before pushing past him into the house. By the time Forrester had followed him in the detective was already speaking to Gordon.
“Gordon Alistair Clark, I have here a warrant for your arrest for the murder of David Patrick Lyall of Barnard College, Oxford, on the night of January 13th. You are free to remain silent but anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you.”
Clark fought to retain his composure.
“I did not do it,” he said at last. “My wife has told you I was at home with her.”
“Unfortunately,” said Barber, “it seems that alibi is false. We have two witnesses who testify that at the time of the murder your wife was seen in another place entirely. If you want to pack one or two things, sir, we have a police car waiting outside.”
Clark looked at Forrester – but there was nothing either of them could think of to say.
7
A PLAN OF CAMPAIGN
Margaret Clark came home just after the police had gone and when Forrester told her what Barber had said she became wildly hysterical, repeating over and over again that she had been at home with Clark when she said she was. Inwardly furious, knowing she needed someone with her and determined not to be that person, Forrester had taken her address book and practically forced her to give him the name of a woman colleague who could come round; he also called her doctor and asked for him to bring a sedative.
While he was waiting for the doctor he called Clark’s solicitor and arranged to see him, and when Margaret’s friend from the Bodleian arrived he left at once, cycling furiously through the snowy streets, oblivious now to their calm and beauty.
Clark’s solicitor’s offices were in a picturesquely twisted, half-timbered building and Clark’s solicitor seemed to have been designed to match. He was an elderly man who spent most of the time while Forrester was speaking to him nervously twisting a pipe cleaner into the shape of a cat, and at the end of the recital had nothing to say except, “Oh dear, oh dear.” With tact and persistence Forrester requested that a younger member of the practice take over the case, and then sat down with him. But it was still awkward: the proffered candidate, Peter Nestleton, was certainly younger, but also stolid and unimaginative.
On the other hand he seemed competent and concerned. As Forrester listened to him he remembered that competence was all that was required of Clark’s solicitor; the key to saving his friend would be the defence counsel he engaged, and that could wait for later. But as he watched Nestleton set off for the police station Forrester did not feel any lifting of his spirits. He knew the appropriate people would soon be doing all the appropriate things to comply
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