The Paying Guests(162)

Here the inspector looked up from his papers to ask a uniformed policeman to bring him the weapon that had been removed from the accused at the time of his arrest. He was handed a brown-paper parcel, from which he produced a stubby dark-leather object with a bulbous head and tapering handle. The court officials regarded the horrible thing without excitement, but Frances’s neighbour in tartan craned for a better view, the newspaper men stopped scribbling to watch, and even the boy, finally, paid proper attention as, sure of his audience, the inspector held the cosh higher, then brought it down with a loud smack on the sill of the witness stand. The head, he explained to the magistrate, was loaded with shot. He and his men had found traces on it of what they believed to be blood. The traces were currently being analysed at the Home Office laboratory.

The cosh was returned to its paper wrapper and handed back to the constable. Leonard’s father, Frances saw, was fishing for his handkerchief; as soon as he got it, he covered his face.

After that, the reading aloud of the final statement – that of Spencer Ward himself – seemed a mere formality. It was the one testimony, Frances thought, that quite possibly contained no lies; the one document to which they should all have given their fullest attention. But the parading of the cosh had blurred the focus of the chamber. People in the pews behind her were openly chatting: she turned around to glare at them; they met the glare and chatted on. And even the inspector’s tone was perfunctory now. Yes, the boy admitted to having assaulted Leonard Barber on the first of July. He might have threatened to knock his head off; he couldn’t recall. But he strenuously denied the other charge. He’d acquired a cosh for killing rats and black-beetles in the building in which he lived. He carried it about for self-protection; he’d never used it in a fight. He’d certainly never used it on Mr Barber on the fifteenth of September. He could remember that evening very clearly, because he’d been suffering from a headache. He had been at home with his mother and had gone early to bed.

And that, incredibly, was it. There was no calling of witnesses, no one to speak for the defence. The inspector closed his folder. The clerk and the newspaper men wrote on for a few seconds more; the magistrate turned to Spencer to inform him that since he was currently without a counsel he was at liberty to cross-examine Inspector Kemp on his own behalf. Did he wish to do so?

It took the boy a moment to understand that he was being addressed. He looked blankly back at the magistrate, who spoke again, with impatience.

‘You are charged with the gravest possible crime, Mr Ward. Do you have anything to say to the court in support of yourself against it?’

Finding all eyes turned his way, the boy began to smirk again. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I never done it. But I’d like to shake hands with the bloke that did!’

His friends in the crowd laughed out loud. Leonard’s father, uncle and brother let out more hisses of outrage. Frances’s heart sank.

The magistrate, unimpressed, turned back to Inspector Kemp. ‘Well, I am satisfied that there is enough evidence against the suspect to justify keeping him on remand for seven days. You’ll have the laboratory findings by the end of that period, I take it? And Mr Ward, I trust, will have secured a counsel by then. For now, you may remove him to Brixton Prison. Mr Wells —’

He called forward some court official. Sergeant Heath led the boy from the dock. People rose to leave the chamber; others shuffled in to take their places. ‘Quickly, please!’ cried the usher, with a shooing gesture. He had to keep the police-court day grinding on, after all.

Frances got to her feet, and made her way across the courtroom, feeling almost dazed. She had expected some sort of resolution. She had supposed that everything would be decided, for better or for worse. She reached the doors to the lobby at the same moment as the Walworth party, and this time they turned to include her; they went out as a single group.

Mrs Viney and Vera were flushed. Lloyd was incandescent.

‘What a bloody little waster. Excuse my language, Miss Wray, but, really. A good flogging’s what he needs. They should take a horse-whip to him! When I think of the mates I lost in France, and all so as little swines like him can – I was just saying, Mr Barber —’ Leonard’s father had appeared, with Douglas and Uncle Ted behind him; they all moved away from the doors, to allow other people to come and go. ‘I was just saying, that boy needs a bloody horse-whip taking to him! Standing there with his hands in his pockets, chewing gum and grinning like that. I could see Sergeant Heath itching to have a go at him, couldn’t you? I wanted to have a go at him myself.’

Mr Barber couldn’t speak; he was still mopping his eyes with his handkerchief. It was Leonard’s brother who answered, in that unnerving voice of his.

‘Oh, he’s not worth bruising your hand on. He’s filth. He’s trash! I’m just glad my mother wasn’t here to see him. You saw his mother, I suppose? A nice job she’s done of bringing him up, hasn’t she? Here she comes, look.’ The poor little woman, apparently more bewildered than ever, had just pushed her way through the swing doors. Seeing the eyes of the family on her, she hesitated; then, realising who they were – or, perhaps, simply recognising their hostility – she ducked her head, turned away, and headed off, all alone.

‘Oh, God love her,’ said Mrs Viney, in her feeling way.

Douglas almost spat. ‘God love her? She’ll get what she deserves from Him, all right. And so will that little thug. But he’ll get what he deserves down here, first. Or he will if I’ve got anything to do with it.’