Excellent Intentions Read online

  Excellent

  Intentions

  Richard Hull

  With an Introduction

  by Martin Edwards

  Poisoned Pen Press

  Copyright

  Originally published in 1938 by Faber & Faber ©Richard Hull 1938

  Introduction Copyright © 2018 by Martin Edwards

  Published by Poisoned Pen Press in association with

  the British Library

  First U.S. Edition 2018

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018940613

  ISBN: 9781464209758 Trade Paperback

  ISBN: 9781464209765 Ebook

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

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  Contents

  Excellent Intentions

  Copyright

  Introduction

  Part I - Prosecution

  Part II - Investigation

  Part III - Analysis

  Part IV - Defence

  Part V - Summing-Up

  Part VI - Verdict

  Part VII - Conclusion

  More from this Author

  Contact Us

  Introduction

  Excellent Intentions, re-titled Beyond Reasonable Doubt on its first appearance in the US, is a courtroom mystery with a difference. On the dust jacket of the first edition, the publishers Faber hailed Richard Hull’s flair for finding new ways to tell a tale about crime, and said that with this book “we are beginning to believe his gifts to be inexhaustible… Even for Richard Hull, this is an unusual murder story.”

  The reader is plunged at once into the trial of a murderer. It is soon evident that the victim—as so often in mysteries written during the Golden Age of Murder between the world wars—was thoroughly deserving of his fate. The suspects are introduced, as is the low-key but capable Inspector Fenby. What is not made clear—and this is a key puzzle to challenge the reader—is the identity of the person in the dock.

  Hull was writing at a time when the notion of the “altruistic crime” held a special fascination for leading crime novelists. Agatha Christie, Anthony Berkeley, and John Dickson Carr were among those who tackled the concept in an entertaining and often thought-provoking way, and Excellent Intentions is an enjoyable example of this sub-genre. Reviewers who admired the novel included, improbably enough, Jorge Luis Borges, who said: “Richard Hull has written an extremely pleasant book. His prose is able, his characters convincing, his irony civilized.” Yet until now, it has long been out of print.

  Richard Hull’s real name was Richard Henry Sampson. He was born in 1896, the youngest of five siblings, and followed his two brothers to Hildersham House, Broadstairs, and Rugby School. He was very delicate as a small boy, and recalled in later life that a bout of colitis “enforced a diet of Plasmon biscuits, Frameford jelly and water and nothing else whatever at any meal for over a year. The necessary self-control gave me a strength of character of a most regrettable rigour.”

  An unassuming man, he said in a letter about the family’s history to his nephew Nic that he “was an indifferent mathematician and knew it so [left Rugby] a year earlier than had been intended. As one result I absurdly got two exhibitions to which nobody else was entitled. I never took them up as I never got to Cambridge, (which was a great loss to me and would have done me a power of good), because… when war broke out I found myself given a commission on Sept. 6th 1914, my eighteenth birthday, in Queen Victoria’s Rifles. Up to then I had not liked my time in the O.T.C. [Officers’ Training Corps]. In some ways I never really liked soldiering—especially drill, dress and discipline—but I liked the administrative side and I also liked being one of a side. I also developed a very strong feeling for that particular battalion which has lasted all my life.

  “After a period of training, (entirely in Hyde Park in London!), I managed to get sent out to France partly by mistake to the 1st Q.V.R. in April 1915. I was convinced that if I did not get out quickly the war would be over before I got out and that would be very disgraceful to me. In fact it was illegal for anyone to go out before he was nineteen, which I was not. I found myself on my first visit to the line accidentally in command of a company, owing to casualties, and told to be ready to support an attack on hill 60. But I did not have to go.”

  After the war, he was articled to a firm of chartered accountants, qualifying in 1922. He claimed that he “never liked accounting and I never was a good accountant… I joined the wrong partner and then tried to set up a practice of my own. 1925 to 1935 were not my most successful or profitable years.” At this point, Hull’s life was transformed. Impressed by Francis Iles’ cynical but superb crime novel Malice Aforethought (1931), he came up with a clever idea for a novel of his own. The Murder of My Aunt (1934) proved to be a critical and commercial triumph. Fourteen more novels followed, together with at least one short story, his last book appearing in 1953.

  He wrote that he “had stayed with the Q.V.R. until December 1929 when, partly because I could not afford it, I retired but I used to keep up with them and go to camp. When war broke out again in 1939 to my surprise they wanted me back. I started the morning of Sept 1st 1939 as a civilian with no idea of being anything else and ended in uniform in command of a company having got rid of my lodging and such accountancy practice as I had. It was distinctly startling.” In May 1940, his troops were ordered overseas at short notice, but it was decided that Hull was too old to go with them: “I was very upset but it was really very lucky for me. They were all taken prisoner at Calais. So I missed five years in a prisoner of war camp. I more or less demobilized myself in order to use my accountancy knowledge as a cost investigating accountant for the admiralty, the idea being to see that no one was overcharging them. There I stayed for 18 years until I decided that I could retire (in 1958). It was interesting to deal with different people in different firms and to try to solve various cost-accountancy problems but I always had an uneasy suspicion that the whole department was a waste of time.”

  Hull’s interests often found their way into his books, and a cost investigating accountant takes a leading role in The Unfortunate Murderer (1941). He was keen on philately and fine wine, and both play a part in Until She Was Dead (1950). He spent a great deal of his time at the United Universities Club in Suffolk Street, just off Trafalgar Square, and told Nic: “I have many friends there and a satisfactory supply of enemies.” Keep it Quiet (1935), set in a fictional gentleman’s club, no doubt offered him the chance to pay off a few scores.

  In 1946, he was elected to membership of the Detection Club (which had been founded by Anthony Berkeley, also known as Francis Iles), along with Christianna Brand, the barrister Cyril Hare, and the American Alice Campbell. Later, Hull became the Club Secretary, and—in common with Berkeley, Dorothy L. Sayers and others—he retained his enthusiasm for the Club’s activities long after his zest for actually writing crime fiction had faded. He took a leading role in making the arrangements for the initiation of Agatha Christie as President of the Club after Sayers’ death, and continued to assist Christie with her duties for several years. He died in 1973, by which time most of his books had been unavailable for many years. The British Library’s
decision to reissue this book and The Murder of My Aunt gives present day readers an opportunity to acquaint themselves with one of the most innovative of crime writers.

  Martin Edwards

  www.martinedwardsbooks.com

  Part I

  Prosecution

  “May it please your lordship—members of the jury,” Anstruther Blayton rose to his feet and, as was his habit, moved some papers that were near him in an unnecessary and fussy manner. At the age of fifty-two he was, he knew, comparatively young to have been selected by the Attorney-General to act as leader in a trial which was arousing a certain amount of public interest. Even though he had been known for some time as a leading K.C. on the circuit, it was his chance and he meant to make the most of it.

  Fairly, of course—indeed to be anything other than scrupulously fair would not be to make the best of the opportunity—but with real efficiency and success.

  He very definitely intended to show the world at large that though he was not exactly a new star in the legal firmament, for he was already quite well known at any rate to the Bench and Bar, he was a very bright constellation indeed. And, if the result must necessarily be the hanging of the prisoner, that was not his fault. After all a verdict of “guilty” would to his mind be right, and it was for the person who committed the murder to consider the consequences, before acting; they were no business of his.

  He turned and faced squarely towards the Judge. Mr. Justice Smith had a considerable reputation as one who made up his mind and usually managed to induce the jury, whatever the case might be, to agree with him. It was rumoured that he was thinking of retiring which, in Blayton’s opinion, would be a pity, for he understood that Sir Trefusis Smith was a competent Judge and competent Judges were not easy to get—naturally enough considering how much a really successful K.C., such as Blayton intended to be, could earn.

  Perhaps Anstruther Blayton’s reflections were too condescending and his expectations too sweeping. Certainly he was a long way so far from anything of the sort. Indeed the movements and the whole attitude of counsel for the Crown did not please his lordship. Blayton had seldom, during Sir Trefusis Smith’s long service on the Bench, happened to appear before him—and never when it had been essential for him to consider what type of man counsel was. Now that he had to do so, he rather took a dislike to the fresh, almost ruddy-complexioned man of medium height who was visibly trying to impress him, for Sir Trefusis was quite capable of discerning at once the intentions of those who came into his Court. Besides the whole case annoyed him. It was, he had privately decided, to be his last case and he wanted, like Falstaff, to make a good end, but definitely without the traditional “babbling”.

  But the case before him, he suspected, was not going to provide such a curtain. It was, he had heard, likely to prove quite simple. There was very little doubt of the guilt of the prisoner, and he would much have preferred something more complicated in which his peculiar talents would have been displayed to advantage. However, if he was going to take a prejudice to counsel for the Crown, it might make things more interesting. Then he pulled himself together. He had no right to take prejudices and still less right to hear anything or form any opinion about the case before it came into Court. No one knew that elementary platitude that was invariably recited to juries better than himself, and usually he took the greatest care to turn the precept into practice. It was just bad luck that he had happened to hear rumours, portions of the Coroner’s inquest, gossip—just the things he had always before avoided. With trained ability, he turned his mind into an impartial blank. He would know nothing except what was told to him in Court and he settled himself to listen, sphinx-like.

  “May it please your lordship—members of the jury, on Friday, July 13th—a combination of unlucky days—Launcelot Henry Cuthbert Cargate died in a railway train between Larkingfield and Great Barwick stations on the borders of Essex and Suffolk at approximately eleven-fifty-seven in the morning. On Thursday, August 9th the accused”—with a melodramatic gesture which threatened to arouse anew Mr. Justice Smith’s latent prejudice, counsel pointed to the dock and rolled out unctuously the full name of its occupant—“was arrested and charged with wilfully murdering him by administering poison to him, and it is on that charge that the accused now stands before you. It will be my duty, in conjunction with my learned friend, Mr. Knight, to present the case for the Crown, while the defence is in the hands of my learned friends, Mr. Vernon and Mr. Oliver.”

  Anstruther Blayton hitched his gown up on to his shoulders. He considered that he had now found what pitch of his full, mellow voice was best suited to the Court, and he thought the moment had come for a few words of wisdom to impress the jury, combined of course with a little flattery.

  “Members of the jury, you will I know give your closest and most prolonged attention to this case, not only because it is of unusual complexity, not only because murder is the gravest charge known to the law, but because of the nature of the evidence on which you will be asked to decide this case.”

  Blayton paused, feeling that he was doing excellently. That should put the jury at their ease and let them settle down in comfort, but in his more exalted position Sir Trefusis shuffled uneasily. He had during his life listened to a good many platitudes but on the whole he considered that those which Blayton was enunciating were about as bad as any that he had ever heard. Did he really think that any of the jury would consider murder to be a trivial charge? But, the “young” man was inexperienced at this particular work. Perhaps, he thought charitably, he was nervous, although he didn’t look it. He supposed that he must go on listening quietly and not run the risk of worrying him by fidgeting unduly. He let his small, aquiline nose twitch imperceptibly. It was a relief and allowed him to go on listening.

  Not that Blayton was, for the moment, taking any notice of him. He was continuing to concentrate almost entirely upon the jury.

  “The crime of administering poison is not one which is carried out upon the house-tops before the public gaze of all men. It is almost invariably committed in secret and the evidence with regard to it must almost of necessity be indirect, circumstantial evidence, not that of an eye-witness.

  “So it is in this case. For when Launcelot Henry Cuthbert Cargate—”

  “I have no wish to interrupt you, Mr. Blayton, but might we in future refer to the unfortunate gentleman who is deceased a little less accurately but more concisely? I am sure that the jury will not misunderstand you.”

  “Certainly, my lord. I believe that he was usually known as Henry Cargate.”

  “Very well, then. The jury will understand that by Henry Cargate you mean Launcelot Henry Cuthbert Cargate. Perhaps even, in practice, ‘the deceased’ will be a sufficient description. Go on, please, Mr. Blayton.”

  For a moment counsel for the prosecution did not seem to know quite what point he had reached. Then he recollected and continued, trying to forgive and forget the fact that one of his best periods had been ruined.

  “For when Henry Cargate died in, as I have told you, a railway train, the accused was not even present. Indeed it was unusual for Mr. Cargate to take a train at all. Such journeys as he had occasion to take, he usually performed by car, and for all that the accused knew or cared he might have met his death while actually at the wheel of a motor vehicle, and possibly in circumstances which might have endangered the lives of others utterly unconnected with the deceased or those about him.”

  In the dock the accused moved angrily. Whatever else might or might not be true, that was a lie. A reckless and criminal disregard of innocent, third parties—certainly not! Cargate was one thing. Almost anybody might reasonably have killed him. But this red-faced, fussy, blathering man had no right to stir up prejudice in that way.

  “Members of the jury, for that reason and for others, I am going to suggest to you that this was a very wicked crime and I will return to that subject again when we consider the
question of motive. But for the moment let us return to the crime itself. As chance would however have it, there was a witness present when Henry Cargate died and your attention will later on be directed to the events that then occurred. For indeed had it not happened that a certain Mr. Hardy was looking into the window of the corridor of the train at the critical moment, coupled with, let me add, his presence of mind and the courtesy and public-spirited action, combined with acumen, of the London and North Eastern Railway, this crime might never have been detected.

  “Mr. Hardy will tell you…”

  Mr. Hardy indeed was burning to tell them. In fact he wanted to retail this quite exciting incident in a great deal more detail than he was likely to be permitted to do in Court. His friends, of course, would hear it in ever-growing form for years to come.

  Not that he was so foolish as to regard it as the most important event in his life. On the whole that must be reserved for the building of the new oven in which for ten years past he had supplied bread to all the village of Scotney End after old Smee had decided that he was too old—at ninety-two—to bake any more. It was a very fine oven and it had added very nicely to the profits of the general shop and post-office which Hardy had already been running.

  But Friday, July 13th had been an important day to him weeks before it had arrived, for on it he was to visit for the first time for many years his sister who had married and gone to live in foreign parts beyond Great Barwick. It was an expedition of considerable importance for it had been decided that it involved a journey not only to Larkingfield, itself nearly five miles away, but from there by railway. True it was only for one station, but when you are able to count on the fingers of your hands the number of times that you have done anything so adventurous as travelling by a train, it becomes a matter not to be embarked upon lightly.