Murder in Grub Street by Bruce Alexander Page B

doing so, he made the mistake of referring to him as “the murderer.”
    Sir John slammed down his hand sharply on the table before him. “That will do, Mr. Burnley.”
    “Sir?”
    “You will leave the judging to the judges. The man in question has not been tried, has not even been properly charged. His guilt in this matter has yet to be determined.”
    “But he was standin’ right there with his axe in his hand!”
    “That will do!”
    A great hubbub followed this exchange. The riffraff seemed to side with Burnley, for no better reason but that he seemed to be one of them. It took far too long to bring them back to order. Yet at last this was accomplished when Mr. Bailey grabbed up a loud individual sitting nearby and marched him to the door and out of it. The ease with which he accomplished this quietened them all.
    At last Sir John resumed, diverting Burnley from further discussion of what he might or might not have seen in that upper room and directing him to account for the disobedience of Constable Cowley’s orders.
    “Orders, sir?”
    “Indeed. His orders that you and the others in your party remain without the premises.”
    “Well, as it happened, sir, we got to talking, us fellows did, and we thought we might be of service to you and the constables if we was to go in and look about the place for evidence, as you might say.”
    “And whose idea was this?”
    “I couldn’t rightly say, sir.”
    “Was it yours?”
    “Oh no, sir. I’m sure it was not mine.”
    “Just a follower, are you? A tool in the hands of your fellows?”
    “As you say, sir.”
    “Mr. Burnley, were you and the others not searching tor the cashbox? Did you consider that material evidence?”
    “Uh … yes, sir, we did. We reckoned that such a considerable crime as this could only be done for a great sum of money. And it we could find where this … uh … ‘said person’ had hid it, we would have helped you establish the reason for the crime. Is that clear, sir?”
    “Go on.”
    “So we looked right hard for it, sir.”
    “And you found it. Tell us where.”
    “Well, it was in poor Mr. Crabb’s office, it was — in his desk.
    “Under lock and key?”
    “Well, it was necessary to force the drawer to get it open.”
    Some snickers were heard from the crowd. Burnley turned and looked indignantly right and left in search of their source. But he was soon called back to his duty by the magistrate.
    “And what,” asked Sir John, “was used to force the drawer?”
    “Uh … well … an axe, sir.”
    “Was it the same axe that Constable Cowley took from the individual he has identified for us?”
    “It might have been at that, sir.”
    “And if it was, then one of your number went up to the attic to get it from where it had been left.”
    “True, sir. Aye, it must have been so.”
    “Who was that man? Who was it disappeared with what appears to have been the murder weapon the moment that the constable returned and surprised you as you carried away the cashbox?”
    “We did no such thing! We handed it to the constable the moment we spied him. We was being helpful.”
    “Albert Burnley, let me tell you something. All in the world that will prevent me from charging you with hindering the investigation of a crime — and attempted robbery, as well — is to hear from you the name of him who disappeared with that axe.”
    “But I-”
    “And I must hear it this moment without further palaver or equivocation.”
    Burnley was for a long moment struck dumb. His position was indeed not one he relished: to snitch was one thing — all of his class had done it one time or more — but to snitch in open court before a crowd of his fellows was quite another. He looked around him in a distinct state of unease. What was he to say?
    “Might I ask something first, Sir John?” he asked at last, quite hopefully.
    “You may ask. I cannot give guaranty of my answer.”
    “What will happen to this hustler who napped the axe?”
    The