“Marshal!” said the Judge in a hoarse whisper. It was his Court whisper, something quite different from any tone normally used by him—or indeed by anyone else.
Derek, in his seat on the Judge’s left hand, startedsomewhat guiltily. Despite his enthusiasm for the law, he had found a succession of the small cases taken first on the calendar intolerably dull. Casting about for someoccupation, he had seized on the only literature immediately available—the Testaments provided for witnesses taking the oath. Markshire not being a county much inhabited by Jews, except for those too wealthy to be often encountered in the criminal courts, the Pentateuch was little in demand for this purpose; and Derek was deep in the Book of Exodus when the imperious summons reached him. With an effort he dragged his mind away from the court of Pharaoh to the far less interesting court in which Barber was dispensing justice, and bent his head to catch the great man’s orders.
“Marshal,” the whisper went on, “ask Pettigrew to lunch.”
It was the second day of the assize. The hour was 12.30 p.m. and Pettigrew was just tying the red tape round his second and last brief before leaving the court. Barber, if he had so desired, could have sent his invitation at any time after the sitting of the court that morning. By delaying it to the last moment he must have known that he was combining the pleasures of dispensing hospitality with the maximum of inconvenience to his guest. Such, at least, was Pettigrew’s first reflection when, having bowed himself out of court, he finally received the message in the dank and cheerless cell that served as counsel’s robing-room at the Shire Hall. He had planned to catch the only fast train of the afternoon to London, which left at one o’clock, and lunch on the way. If he accepted he could hardly avoid spending another night in Markhampton. Moreover, the Judge had expressed his intention of dining with the mess. Two meals in Barber’s company was more than enough for one day. On the other hand, there was nothing to make his presence in London necessary. Barber, who was quite alive to the state ofPettigrew’s practice, knew this also and would be certain to take a refusal as an affront. And that, Pettigrew reflected, would mean that he would have his knife into him for the rest of the circuit. He pondered the alternatives, wrinkling his nose in a characteristic fashion, as he tenderly folded his wig into its battered tin box.
“Lunch with his Lordship, eh?” he said at last. “Who else is coming?”
“The High Sheriff and the Chaplain, and Mrs.Habberton.”
“Which is she? The rather pretty, silly-looking woman who sat behind him? She looked as if she might be quite good value…. All right, I’ll come.”
Derek, a little upset at the cavalier treatment of aquasi-royal command, was about to leave, when another member of the Bar, a contemporary of Pettigrew’s, came in.
“I’m just off,” said the newcomer. “Will you share a taxi down to the station?”
“Sorry, I can’t.
