Madame Juror.

Chapter 3

I got more strange and confused looks as I entered the courtroom with the other eleven. Again, determined not to let anyone get to me, I ignored them and sat confidently, chin up, and even stared a few solidly in the eye when their persistent staring got on my nerves.

It was only then when I realized I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.

I'd never been in a court before. Truth be told, I barely knew what one was. I'd read about the occasional one or two in Sedgefield Carburry, but this was the first time I'd actually been anywhere near one. I allowed myself a wry smile. This should be interesting, then.

My seat was near the middle of the back row, and I had Mr. Brenkley on my left, and to my disgust, Mr. Vendradaire on my right. Still, I sighed. I could always sit angled away from him.

There was a low buzz of talk in the room, and I leaned over to Mr. Brenkley as the buzz increased to a hum.

"Do you have a notepad and pen?" I asked politely. I had decided that, this time, I was going to try a different method of keeping my facts in order, since I couldn't exactly ask again if I forgot something. With an almost knowing smile, Mr. Brenkley handed over the items I had requested. I reckoned this old man wasn't as stupid as most of the men in this jury. Namely the idiot on my right.

"No thank you, Mr. Vendradaire" I said curtly, as another pen and notepad was thrust under my nose. I didn't let him comment further, and as the judge entered the room we all stood up, leaving any conversation we might have had decidedly terminated. I was watching out of the corner of my eye to see when we were supposed to sit down again, but all the same, I was still nearly too slow. I was going to have to get better at that.

I flipped open the notepad as the whole room seemed to settle itself. The judge, an elderly man, seeming to almost sink into the seat he sat in, glowered at everyone whilst the barristers prepared thenselves. I peered over Mr. Abernarthy's head (he was sitting in front of me) as a door opened, and a beautiful Spanish lady with black hair tied up in a smart bun was ushered in, with a lot of angry whispers and discussion. I had a feeling that she was supposed to have come in before the judge, as there were a lot of people looking decidedly unimpressed. She had a policeman behind her, and was shepherded into a raised box, near the centre of the room. I allowed my features to crease into a small frown. She couldn't be the accused, could she?

A tiny, buck-toothed, wiry little pocket-rocket of a man with a toothbrush-shaped moustache and a barrister's wig clamped firmly to his skull sprang up at once and cleared his throat, shuffling papers and generally, I noticed with an amused smile, trying to make himself look as big and imposing as possible.

"The accused" he squeaked, and I very nearly lost the plot there and then. His voice reminded me of a parrot I had once seen with Isabel when I was a little girl, except with less ad lib squawking and a little higher in pitch.

"This woman, Marta Harrison, previously Felle, has been accused of, on the 18th of September of the current year, the wilful murder of her husband, Gerard Harrison" the squeaky man continued. I was suddenly far more interested. This was a murder case? Hmmm.

Marta Harrison didn't even look up, just stared pointedly at her hands, clasped in front of her. I studied her carefully. She didn't seem to have much of a fight in her, but I was determined not to jump to conclusions. Who knew what had really gone on. I shuffled myself to a more comfortable position, pen in hand, scribbling a few notes and observations down quickly to set the scene. The squeaky man sorted his papers again and took another deep breath, puffing himself up like a balloon.

"The Detective Inspector on the case, D. I. Edgar Markham, arrived on the scene almost two hours after the event took place, due to the fact that the police were only called when the maidservant, having returned early from her day off, entered the study and found the body, instantly picking up the telephone. It appears that the family, consisting of the accused, the deceased, and their son Marcus Harrison, were the only people in the house on that day, since it was the servants' day off. This narrows the field considerably."

"Can we speak to D.I. Markham?" the judge rumbled. He had an interestingly low voice in comparison to his height and stature, but I shrugged it off. I wasn't too interested in the judge at this point.

A fairly average man-about-town with a large overcoat on got up and began to make his way to the witness box. I assumed this was the D.I, and as he swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, I picked up on something rather random and entirely odd. The large overcoat seemed extremely popular with Scotland Yard men. This D.I had one, Barnes had one, Smart too had worn one, and even though Fisher always stuck to the more fitted, slimmed down coats that didn't flap around anywhere near his ankles, I still passed off my observations as correct. This mention of Smart began again to bring back the memories of what had happened on Brighton Pier, so I subtrusively stabbed my finger with the pen to bring myself back up to speed.

D.I. Markham was now standing in the witness box, looking like a man who had done this far too many times, each with the same boring conclusion.

"Are you Detective Inspector Edgar Markham?" the squeaky man squeaked.

"Of Scotland Yard, yes, I am" Markham replied.

"And on the 18th of September, you were summoned to the house of Marta Harrison by the maidservant, as she had found her master murdered in his study?"

"Yes, that's true" Markham confirmed. I sagged in my chair. This was ridiculously boring.

"Can you describe to us the results of the medical report your man carried out on the body when you arrived on the scene?" was the squeaky man's next question.

"Yes" Markham sighed, looking tired. "Victim had numerous broken bones including right collarbone and two ribs, a fractured skull, and also a sizeable envelope knife through the chest, just above the heart."

At the same time, a man wearing gloves lifted up an envelope knife, the blade lightly tinged with red, to show the room. I frowned, and began scribbling in the notebook while the squeaky man continued to squeak.

"Implying that, when beatings failed to do the job, the perpetrator of this hideous crime used whatever methods came to hand in the study, do you agree, D.I. Markham?"

I reckoned, still scribbling away, that D.I. Markham was one of those people who would say anything to get themselves out of the spotlight, so there was no way he was going to disagree. He didn't, and, with the judge apparently satisfied, he got to go and sit back down.

I bit my lip, looking carefully down at my page. Two sentences stood clearly out from the rest, as I had underlined and circled them numerous times.

What was Mr. Harrison beaten with?

Where is the blood?

The little sketch here is of Newham and Dr. Scott. I'm not too keen on how Newham turned out. I may have to draw him again...