The Baker Street Jurors (12 page)

“Yes. I live on the island and work for Mr. McSweeney.”

“Where, exactly? Mr. McSweeney owns two properties on the island, does he not?”

“Yes, he has his main holiday estate, and there's also an abandoned Boy Scout camp that he bought a year or so ago, but it's not habitable. They've barely started work on it.”

“So you live at the main estate?”

“Yes. I'm the caretaker there. I have my own apartment on the second floor of the main building. I live there year 'round and look after the place, because Mr. McSweeney is generally there only in the warmer months.”

“Were you living there in August of last year?”

“Yes.”

“Was Mr. McSweeney staying there at that time?”

“Yes. He and Mrs. McSweeney both came out in the middle of the month for a few days holiday.”

“On the seventeenth of August, is that right?

“Yes.”

“How long did they both stay?”

“She went back on the twentieth. He stayed on for the entire week. I mean, until—until he learned what had happened to her.”

“On these holidays, was it typical for Mrs. McSweeney to return to their home in Hampstead before Mr. McSweeney did?”

“Oh yes. Always. They would both come out for a few days to enjoy the weather and red squirrels and such together, and then she would go back and he would always stay on longer to check on his property.”

“So Mr. McSweeney was still on the island on the night of the twenty-first before Mrs. McSweeney was killed in the early morning at their home in Hampstead on the following day?”

“Yes. He was at the hotel bar until shortly after nine in the evening, when Mr. Farnsworth from the hotel brought him back to the estate. I saw them pull up in Mr. Farnsworth's car. There are no private vehicles allowed on the island, you see, not even for Mr. McSweeney—so the only transportation is what is provided by the hotel.”

“I see. That's true for cars on the island, and it's also true for access by boat, correct? That is, when the tide is high—as it was during that night and early morning—the only way to get to or from the island is by using the one passenger ferry?”

“Yes. Mr. McSweeney is negotiating to be allowed to use his own dock for a boat, but the hotel hasn't allowed it yet. He does have a sea tractor of his own, but you wouldn't want to be on one of those in more than a foot or two of water. The only way that Mr. McSweeney can get to the island at high tide is the passenger ferry from the mainland pub, just like everyone else. And if he tried to cheat and bring a boat of his own across anyway—which he would never do, because Liam McSweeney does not cheat—well, in August it's still high season, and everyone would have seen him do it.”

“So you're saying that to get to the mainland that night, he would have had to swim?”

The witness laughed. “Yes, but it's not something I'd want to try.”

“So you saw Mr. McSweeney returning to his home at nine p.m. the night before the murder. Did you also have occasion to see him in the morning of August twenty-second—the morning that Mrs. McSweeney was killed at their home in Hampstead?”

“Yes. I saw Mr. McSweeney at seven a.m.
Give or take five minutes or so.”

“Tell us, please, where it was that you saw him.”

“Well, I was taking a walk, you see, along the cliffs, and then I stopped and looked down.”

“And?”

“And what, sir?”

“What did you see when you looked down?”

“Well, sir, I saw the water, and I saw the beach, and I saw Mr. McSweeney.”

“You saw Mr. McSweeney on the beach below the cliffs, at about seven that morning?”

“Yes.”

“What was he doing?”

“He was doing a bit of surfing, sir.”

“Surfing? You mean he was surf-riding—as on a board?”

“I mean surfing, sir. Just like the Beach Boys. It's quite the thing on the Devon coast now. The town of Westbury's got a school for it. McSweeney took it up himself this past year.”

“So you saw him surfing there, down below the cliffs?”

“Yes.”

“Did he see you?”

“Yes, sir. I waved to him, and he waved back.”

“He was in the water at the time?”

“Yes, surfing, just as I said—standing on his board, riding the wave, waving back—just like people do.”

“Did you go down to the beach to say hello to him?”

“No. It's a bit of a walk.”

“Have you ever done that hike yourself?”

“Yes.”

“How long does it take?”

“About twenty minutes going down the path; half an hour coming back up.”

“So at seven a.m
.
on August twenty-second, the defendant, Liam McSweeney, was on the beach below the cliffs in a nearly inaccessible part of the island, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell us any way that it could conceivably be possible for Mr. McSweeney to be there at that time and also be at his Hampstead residence in London just a few hours earlier when his wife was killed, when we all know that the trip from Hampstead to Westbury-on-Sea by itself takes at least—”

“Objection, my lord,” said Slattery, quickly. “Calls for speculation on the part of the witness.”

“Sustained.”

“I'll rephrase,” said Langdon. “We will have later witnesses for that. All we need right now is this: at seven a.m. on August twenty-second, did you see the defendant on the beach below the cliffs, in the surf, riding a wave on his board?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing further.”

Slattery stood for the prosecution's cross-examination.

Nigel knew what should be asked; he could barely keep his seat, he was so anxious to hear the question put forward.

“The prosecution has no questions at this time, my lord,” said Slattery.

“Very well,” said the judge. “The witness may—”

Nigel raised his hand.

“Is there a question from the jury?” said the judge.

All the other jurors looked at each other and shook their heads.

“Yes,” said Nigel.

“Write it down and pass it to Mr. Walker, please.”

Nigel had already written it, and he passed the note to the bailiff. The bailiff showed the note to the judge. The judge motioned the two barristers to come forward. They looked at the note, and they both looked puzzled. But finally Slattery nodded, and Langdon just shrugged.

“Proceed, Mr. Slattery,” said the judge.

The prosecutor approached the witness. “Mr. Pemberton, was the tide in or out when you saw Mr. McSweeney surfing below the cliffs?”

“Well, that's … that's sort of relative, isn't it? I mean, it was in enough for there to be water there, that's for certain. Otherwise he'd have been standing in the sand. And you can't ride a board in the sand.”

“In which direction was the wave breaking?”

“Ah … I'm not sure I understand the question.”

“When you saw Mr. McSweeney standing on his board in the water, waving to you, in which direction were he and his board moving?”

The witness sat back and thought about it. He put his hands up in front of him as though visualizing it, and moved them back and forth. Then he pointed to his left. “That way,” said the witness.

“To your left, as you were looking down from the cliffs?”

“Yes.”

“So he would have been on a wave breaking to the north.”

“Ah … yes.”

“Mr. Pemberton, do you know what the weather reports were for the island on the date in question?”

The witness laughed. “Do I know what the weather report was on that specific date?”

“Yes. Do you?”

“No, sir. I'm not in the habit of committing daily weather reports to memory. Are you?”

“No,” said Slattery, looking down at the note that he had received from Nigel. “I myself am not. However, if it were the case that a moist front moved in over the island that night, would it not be likely that dense fog would have formed immediately below the cliffs, making it impossible for you to see anything at all on the beach below?”

The defense barrister leapt to his feet so quickly that he almost got dizzy.

“Objection, my lord! The witness is neither a meteorologist nor an oceanographer, nor is the Crown's barrister, nor is the juror who submitted this question!”

“No,” said Slattery, “of course we are not. But these things can be determined.”

“My lord,” said Langdon, “even the most precise report from the National Weather Service will not tell us exactly what the view was from that precise location on the cliffs at exactly that moment!”

“Enough! I will see all attorneys in my chambers. The jury is excused for a ten-minute recess. Please do not go any farther away than the loo.”

Mr. Walker told everyone to rise. The judge and the attorneys snuck away to chambers, and the jury stood and stretched.

As they began to file out, Nigel noticed that more than one of the other jurors glanced up at the wall clock. It was almost noon—and taking a short break now meant they would have to come back and do another full hour, and then be late going to lunch—again.

“I hope we don't end up missing the canteen because of this,” said Bankstone.

Nigel ignored that. He watched Lucy walking down the corridor, past the loo, to the exit. Perhaps she was just heading for the vending machines on the next floor.

Nigel did so, too.

But when he turned the corner, she was gone from sight. She should have gone down the stairs, immediately in front of him, which led to the floor with the vending machines.

But Nigel didn't hear any sounds of footsteps on the stairs. He could, however, see that the door at the far end of the corridor was just now closing. He went in that direction. Probably it led to a fire escape.

He would need an excuse to be going out there himself; but that was easy, he'd just say he'd come out for some fresh air.

Unless, of course, she was a smoker and had gone outside to light up.

Well, the hell with it; he'd think of something when he got there.

He pushed the door open and, mercifully, was not immediately hit by the scent of tobacco smoke. That was the good news.

The bad news was that Lucy wasn't there. The person who had snuck out onto the fire escape was Siger. He was standing at the railing, facing the other way, looking downward and across the street. He half-turned at the sound of the door opening. He saw Nigel, and didn't look happy at the interruption.

He took a pipe out of his pocket, with a reddish-brown briar wood bowl . He turned to face Nigel as he prepared to light it.

“Damn chilly air, in my opinion, but when you've got a habit like mine, you take what you get. Anyway, it helps me think. Hope you don't mind.”

“Not at all,” said Nigel. “I'm not greedy. I just came out for the one breath of air. Time to head back soon anyway.”

Siger nodded, and then he put a match to his pipe and turned to face the other direction again. He seemed to be looking down at something in the street, and Nigel stepped up to the railing next to him to have a look as well.

“Something going on down there?” said Nigel.

“What? No, no,” Siger said, and Nigel saw no reason to disagree. At least Newgate Street was not full of news vans at the moment. In front of the Viaduct Tavern, a man in a black wool overcoat, having a smoke, turned around and went back into the pub. A clerkish-looking man farther up the street was walking quickly, carrying a document folder. And a man and a woman were walking together in the opposite direction with takeaway lunch bags.

Siger got one puff of smoke out of his pipe, and then said, “I'll be right along.”

Nigel went back inside and quickly walked down the corridor. When he reached the stairs, he paused. Maybe Lucy had found an alternate route to the vending machines. If so, she might still be there. He turned and went quickly down the stairs, his footsteps echoing loudly as he went. He reached the bottom of the stairs, just a few steps from the vending machines—and there was no one. No one there at all.

It reminded Nigel of a dream he used to have—that he was in university again, and everyone else was in class, but not him, because he couldn't find the bloody room.

Well, that wasn't a good sign. He hadn't had that dream in a long time, and he had never liked it.

Nigel checked his watch. It was one minute past the hour.

He was late. But not by much. And he was pretty sure there was a shortcut if he took the door at the other end of the corridor.

He ran, not full-on but just a confident jog, to that door, and—locked!

Now it was two minutes past the hour. Nigel turned and ran full-on back the other way. When he reached the stairs he took them three steps at a time; he emerged on his home floor gasping for air, and hoping to see all the jurors still gathered in the corridor waiting to go in.

But no. The corridor was empty, and the door to the courtroom was closed.

Nigel walked to the closed courtroom, paused to try to get his breath under control—it was too late to do anything about the sweat—and opened the door.

The judge was at his bench. The jury gallery was full of Nigel's peers. The lawyers were all at their tables.

The public gallery was, oddly, completely empty. No family, no spectators, no press.

Which meant something was up.

And all eyes were on Nigel.

“Good of you to join us, alternate juror number five,” said the judge.

Nigel walked between the lawyers' tables, entered the jury section—with the little gate creaking loudly—and took his seat.

The judge ignored him now and made a conspicuous pretense of looking at some notes. Lucy, seated at the end of the permanent section nearest Nigel, was finishing off a Mars bar—the type from the vending machine. She leaned forward and whispered to him.