Smallbone Deceased

“Of course, you only arrived on Monday, so you wouldn’t know. We always keep a skeleton staff here on Saturday mornings. You know—to attend to telephone calls and deal with any important letters.”

For a moment the full import of this did not strike Bohun. “Who has to do it?” he asked.

“We do it in pairs, in turn. I expect you’ll be next on the list, being the new boy.”

“You mean,” said Henry slowly, “that on Saturday mornings there are just two of you in the office—one qualified man and one secretary?”

“That’s the style,” said John. “What’s so madly exciting about it? If you’re looking forward to a long Saturday morning alone with Anne Mildmay, take my tip and lay off. That girl’s ginger.”

“No. It wasn’t that. Tell me, who opens up the office on these occasions?”

“Sergeant Cockerill. He gets here at nine, and opens everything up. Then he comes back after everyone’s gone and locks up again. That’s about twelve-thirty, after the mid-morning post has come in.”

“Excuse me a moment,” said Henry, and fled.

He found Hazlerigg on the point of departure.

“Yes,” said Hazlerigg, when he had told him. “Yes. That certainly does sound promising. I’m afraid we’ve been wasting our time a bit. Thank you very much. Oh, and by the way, you might get me a list showing who was on duty on different weekends for the last three months.”

He took up the phone and dialled a code number, asked for an extension, and found Dr. Bland in his laboratory. “Hazlerigg here. That Smallbone job. Yes. I want a re-autopsy.”

The telephone said something grudging.

“Certainly it’s important,” said Hazlerigg. “I want to know exactly when he died. Anyway, to within a week.”

This time the telephone sounded distinctly rude.

‌Chapter Seven —Saturday and Sunday— Local Searches

I have often been told—I do not know whether it is true—that, in country cases particularly, local searches are often not made (laughter). Well, if that is so, I dare say it is all right, but it will not do in future.

A. F. Topham, K.C.,

to the Solicitors’ Managing Clerks’ Association (1925)

I

Saturday morning in Lincoln’s Inn was generally a restful time. Most of the firms observed the Saturday truce, and such members as turned up were apt to appear, briefly, in loose and disreputable clothes. Contrary to the general rule, however, a good deal of quiet activity seemed to be taking place in the offices of Horniman, Birley and Craine.

True, none of the partners put in an appearance, and the only official representatives of the firm were John Cove and Mrs. Porter. But in other rooms Mr. Hoffman and his industrious assistants were poring over books and papers, only too glad of a free hand for forty-eight hours. In Bob Horniman’s office Mr. Gissel pursued his patient study of the bound volumes of Law Reports. He had disposed of the courts of Queen’s and King’s Bench and was working his way, via Admiralty and Probate, to Divorce.

John Cove was looking unenthusiastically at the morning mail when he was surprised by a visit from Bohun.

“What on earth are you doing here?” he asked. “You needn’t imagine,” he went on uncharitably, “that you’ll get any credit for attention to duty. None of the partners are here.”

“It isn’t that,” said Bohun. “I want your help. You know you were talking about this weekend roster business. Can you tell me who was on duty and when—in the last few months, I mean?”

“It’s all on the notice board,” said John.

“Yes, I know. I’ve got the list here. But did it actually happen as it says or was it fiddled about?”

“The Horniman system is not susceptible to fiddling. Let me look—yes. That’s about right. I was ‘on’ last on March 15th, and it was Tubby the week before, I remember, and Bob before him: then Eric. That would have been February 20th, and that’s right, too, because he wanted me to stand in for him and I couldn’t, because I had a heavy date—not that I would have done it anyway. The week before was Bill Birley, and before that, me again. You could check it with Sergeant Cockerill, of course.”

“Abel Horniman didn’t take a turn with the rest of you?”

“Good heavens, no. Not in my time, anyway. He may have done it in the old days.”

“What about the girls—are they as stated?”

“I’m not sure,” said John. “I think so. I say, what’s it all about? Are we supposed to have murdered the old boy on a Saturday morning?”

“Well—I—”

“Not a bad idea at that,” said John. “The office would be nice and quiet. Supplies a motive too. I mean, any client who comes to see you on a Saturday morning is really asking for trouble, isn’t he?”

II

“That’s far enough,” said Hazlerigg. “Until we get a re-autopsy. Bland said that Smallbone had been dead at least six weeks and he always errs on the side of caution. It gives quite enough scope as it is. In fact, unless Bland can be more definite it doesn’t take us much further than List Two.”

“It lets out John Cove.”

“It would seem to do so,” agreed Hazlerigg cautiously. “Has the list been checked?”