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Chapter One
They were alone in the small room where the accused was allowed to be visited by his lawyer.
‘They’ll hang me, won’t they?’ Roman Blackwell’s soft voice was almost steady, but Daniel could see the fear in his eyes. What should he say? He had been dreading this moment all day. The trial was going badly and Daniel was hardly a year qualified to practise at the bar, let alone to defend a man on trial for his life.
But how could he have refused? Daniel’s father, Sir Thomas Pitt, had asked the head of the law firm if he would allow Daniel to take the case. Blackwell was a private enquiry agent and something of an adventurer. Perhaps some of his cases were dubious, his clients not always the obviously innocent.
Blackwell had been a policeman at the time when Pitt was at Bow Street, long before he had joined Special Branch. He had liked Blackwell, understood not only his sense of humour, but his individual morality. Pitt had saved Blackwell more than once from the consequences of his more quixotic and irregular actions. Blackwell had, on occasion, saved Pitt, too. But the time finally came when Pitt begged Blackwell to leave the police before he made a mistake from which he could not escape. Reluctantly, Blackwell had taken his advice.
Pitt had never forgotten their friendship, and now that Blackwell had fallen seriously afoul of the law, the best Pitt could do for him was to ask Daniel to represent him in court.
Daniel could not refuse. He, too, liked Blackwell, probably for all the same reasons that his father did: his wry humour, his optimism and his imagination.
Daniel frankly found the law far more tedious than he had expected to. The study of it had been interesting at university, but the actuality involved mountains of detailed paperwork. There was nothing glamorous in it, none of the crusading activity he had hoped for.
He was a novice, feeling his inexperience with some pain. He was up against Douglas Sefton, who was skilled, articulate and determined at this, his fifth attempt, finally to convict Roman Blackwell for something, this time for murder.
Blackwell was watching Daniel, waiting for him to answer. He would recognise a lie if he heard one. And what was the use of Daniel lying anyway? Blackwell would only resent it.
‘Yes,’ Daniel replied very quietly. ‘Which is why we have to prove you did not kill John Hinton.’
‘Reasonable doubt?’ Blackwell tried to put hope in his voice, but for once the charm and the music in it did not work.
‘We’re beyond reasonable,’ Daniel answered as gently as he could. ‘They’ll need very strong doubt indeed, and someone the jury can believe is guilty, if you aren’t.’
‘I’m not!’ Blackwell’s voice cracked. The desperation was there for only an instant, but it was unmistakable. ‘I never even touched the gun!’
‘Neither did anyone else, according to the fingerprints—’
‘What fingerprints?’ Blackwell heatedly demanded. ‘There were none!’
‘Somebody fired it,’ Daniel pointed out.
‘Gloves on?’ Blackwell asked with sudden light in his face. ‘That means somebody who knew about fingerprints, and that everyone’s are different!’
‘The Chinese have known about them for centuries,’ Daniel told him. It was a piece of information he found particularly interesting. It was just five years ago – actually, in 1905 – that fingerprints had first been used to identify two murderers and convict them in a British court.
‘If you didn’t kill him, someone else did. There’s no question Hinton was shot – deliberately. And unfortunately, there is no doubt that you knew him well, and quarrelled over a debt . . .’
‘Only a few pounds!’ Blackwell said indignantly. ‘I’m not going to kill a man over a few quid!’
‘Park says it was four hundred,’ Daniel pointed out. ‘That’s a lot of money.’
‘So it is,’ Blackwell agreed. ‘And I’m going to lend that much to a chancer like Hinton? I’m not a complete fool!’
Daniel smiled bleakly. ‘You’re generous occasionally, Roman. And—’
‘Not that generous!’ Blackwell said incredulously.
‘—and known to drink a little too freely, and then forget what you’ve done?’ Daniel finished.
‘I never forget money,’ Blackwell said fiercely. ‘Not that much!’
‘Not even when you are . . .’ he hesitated, then went on, ‘. . . thoroughly drunk?’
‘I couldn’t even if I wished to,’ Blackwell shook his head. ‘I haven’t got that much . . . at least I hadn’t then.’
‘Can you prove that?’ Daniel knew he couldn’t. There was no way he could do so.
‘I didn’t kill him,’ Blackwell repeated desperately. His face puckered at the unreasonableness of it. ‘Why would I lend that kind of money to a useless article like Hinton? It makes no sense.’
‘They’ll say you were drunk at the time,’ Daniel replied reasonably. ‘Look, Roman, there’s no point in arguing something we can’t prove.’ He leaned forward a little over the table between them. ‘The only way to change the jury’s minds is to make them seriously consider somebody else. If Hinton were not as useless as the prosecution say, he will have had other enemies. Think carefully. Who were they, and why? Think of people he cheated, lied to, or lied about. People he got into trouble. People he could have been a witness against.’
Blackwell thought hard. He was a big man, not tall, but broad and strong, with a shock of jet-black hair. Only lately, he seemed to have shrunk into himself, as if he would retreat without actually moving from the hard wooden chair.
Daniel searched for something to encourage Blackwell with, not only for kindness’ sake, but because Blackwell was the only source of any information that could implicate anyone else, or at least provide Daniel with another course to follow.
Blackwell looked up hopelessly.
Oscar Park was the main witness against Blackwell, and Daniel had not made a dent in his testimony yet. He felt he was clutching at straws. ‘Well then, what can we find out about Park to make the jury doubt him? Hinton owed you money; he’s no use to you dead.’
‘He’s no use alive, either,’ Blackwell said with a wry smile. ‘Do you think that counts?’
