‘Lawrence John Wargrave, that upon the 10th day of June, 1930, you were guilty of the murder of Edward Seton.
‘Prisoners at the bar, have you anything to say in your defence?’
II
The voice had stopped.
There was a moment’s petrified silence and then a resounding crash! Rogers had dropped the coffee tray!
At the same moment, from somewhere outside the room there came a scream and the sound of a thud.
Lombard was the first to move. He leapt to the door and flung it open. Outside, lying in a huddled mass, was Mrs Rogers.
Lombard called:
‘Marston.’
Anthony sprang to help him. Between them, they lifted up the woman and carried her into the drawing-room.
Dr Armstrong came across quickly. He helped them to lift her on to the sofa and bent over her. He said quickly:
‘It’s nothing. She’s fainted, that’s all. She’ll be round in a minute.’
Lombard said to Rogers:
‘Get some brandy.’
Rogers, his face white, his hands shaking, murmured:
‘Yes, sir,’ and slipped quickly out of the room.
Vera cried out:
‘Who was that speaking? Where was he? It sounded—it sounded—’
General Macarthur spluttered out:
‘What’s going on here? What kind of a practical joke was that?’
His hand was shaking. His shoulders sagged. He looked suddenly ten years older.
Blore was mopping his face with a handkerchief.
Only Mr Justice Wargrave and Miss Brent seemed comparatively unmoved. Emily Brent sat upright, her head held high. In both cheeks was a spot of hard colour. The judge sat in his habitual pose, his head sunk down into his neck. With one hand he gently scratched his ear. Only his eyes were active, darting round and round the room, puzzled, alert with intelligence.
Again it was Lombard who acted. Armstrong being busy with the collapsed woman, Lombard was free once more to take the initiative.
He said:
‘That voice? It sounded as though it were in the room.’
Vera cried:
‘Who was it? Who was it? It wasn’t one of us.’
Like the judge, Lombard’s eyes wandered slowly round the room. They rested a minute on the open window, then he shook his head decisively. Suddenly his eyes lighted up. He moved forward swiftly to where a door near the fireplace led into an adjoining room.
With a swift gesture, he caught the handle and flung the door open. He passed through and immediately uttered an exclamation of satisfaction.
He said:
‘Ah, here we are.’
The others crowded after him. Only Miss Brent remained alone sitting erect in her chair.
Inside the second room a table had been brought up close to the wall which adjoined the drawing-room. On the table was a gramophone—an old-fashioned type with a large trumpet attached. The mouth of the trumpet was against the wall, and Lombard, pushing it aside indicated where two or three small holes had been unobtrusively bored through the wall.
Adjusting the gramophone he replaced the needle on the record and immediately they heard again ‘You are charged with the following indictments—’
Vera cried:
‘Turn it off! Turn it off! It’s horrible!’
Lombard obeyed.
Dr Armstrong said, with a sigh of relief:
‘A disgraceful and heartless practical joke, I suppose.’
The small clear voice of Mr Justice Wargrave murmured:
‘So you think it’s a joke, do you?’
The doctor stared at him.
‘What else could it be?’
The hand of the judge gently stroked his upper lip. He said:
‘At the moment I’m not prepared to give an opinion.’
Anthony Marston broke in. He said:
‘Look here, there’s one thing you’ve forgotten. Who the devil turned the thing on and set it going?’
Wargrave murmured:
‘Yes, I think we must inquire into that.’
He led the way back into the drawing-room. The others followed.
Rogers had just come in with a glass of brandy. Miss Brent was bending over the moaning form of Mrs Rogers.
Adroitly Rogers slipped between the two women.
‘Allow me, Madam, I’ll speak to her. Ethel—Ethel—it’s all right. All right, do you hear? Pull yourself together.’
Mrs Rogers’ breath came in quick gasps. Her eyes, staring frightened eyes, went round and round the ring of faces. There was urgency in Rogers’ tone.
‘Pull yourself together, Ethel.’
Dr Armstrong spoke to her soothingly:
‘You’ll be all right now, Mrs Rogers. Just a nasty turn.’ She said:
‘Did I faint, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was the voice—that awful voice—like a judgment—’
Her face turned green again, her eyelids fluttered.
Dr Armstrong said sharply:
‘Where’s that brandy?’
Rogers had put it down on a little table. Someone handed it to the doctor and he bent over the gasping woman with it.
‘Drink this, Mrs Rogers.’
She drank, choking a little and gasping. The spirit did her good. The colour returned to her face. She said:
‘I’m all right now. It just—gave me a turn.’
Rogers said quickly:
‘Of course it did. It gave me a turn, too. Fair made me drop that tray. Wicked lies, it was! I’d like to know—’
He was interrupted. It was only a cough—a dry little cough but it had the effect of stopping him in full cry. He stared at Mr Justice Wargrave and the latter coughed again. Then he said:
‘Who put on that record on the gramophone. Was it you, Rogers?’
Rogers cried:
‘I didn’t know what it was. Before God, I didn’t know what it was, sir. If I had I’d never have done it.’
The judge said dryly:
‘That is probably true. But I think you’d better explain, Rogers.’
The butler wiped his face with a handkerchief. He said earnestly:
‘I was just obeying orders, sir, that’s all.’
‘Whose orders?’
‘Mr Owen’s.’
Mr Justice Wargrave said:
‘Let me get this quite clear. Mr Owen’s orders were—what exactly?’
Rogers said:
‘I