Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 40, No. 4, April 1977

An Innocent Man by Herbert Harris

Brent’s sole mistake was falling in love with Marian Carnaby. It all but cost him his life.

Should all killers be hanged? Should only some be hanged? Ex-Superintendent Foster, of Scotland Yard, and I were arguing on this topic in the lounge of a West End club when Foster suddenly pressed my arm with his fingers, silencing me.

I followed the direction of his keen eyes, as he sat there, saying nothing. He was looking at a tall grey-haired man of about fifty-five or so.

The latter had entered the lounge, glanced casually at the occupants as if looking for someone, and gone out again.

When the man disappeared from sight, the Yard man asked: “Did you notice who that was?”

I said: “Well, I know him by sight, but I forget his name.”

“His name is Michael Brent. He’s a solicitor,” Foster reminded me.

He sat for a moment studying the bowl of his pipe thoughtfully, then went on: “We were talking about capital punishment. Well, sometimes I think it’s a good thing, and other times I don’t. Brent, you see, happens to be a case in point...”

“I rather fancied he had something to do with the law,” I prompted.

“So you don’t remember the case in which Brent figured?” Foster asked.

“As counsel?” I said.

The Yard man shook his head. “No — as defendant. And I don’t mind admitting that we came as near as dammit to sending that chap for ‘the drop’. But luckily nobody was certain that it was murder ‘beyond all reasonable doubt’, so the verdict was manslaughter.”

Foster sucked at his pipe. “Brent was given five or seven years, I forget which. This was before the last war. I daresay you would be at school at the time...”

I nodded.

“A fellow named George Carnaby was found shot in his house out Hendon way. In many ways Carnaby was a bit of a ‘nut case’. He had started life in the gutter, but had made a mint of money out of scrap metal deals. Everyone just hated the bloke on sight — and he knew it.

“He was a crude man with a cunning brain. He thought he could ride rough-shod over everybody just because he had made a lot of money. When he couldn’t get his own way, he would fly into blind rages. His poor little wife, Marian, had often threatened to walk out on him — and she did in fact seek advice on the possibility of getting a divorce.”

“I suppose the solicitor she went to was Michael Brent?” I suggested.

Foster nodded. “Yes, and it was a bad day really when she went to him. You see, Brent was recovering from an unsuccessful love affair. He was just about ripe for the well-known ‘rebound’.

“Marian Carnaby was an attractive redhead, and a great deal younger than her husband. George Carnaby was about forty-five, and his wife was around thirty, which made her roughly the same age as Michael Brent.

“She was warm and emotional and very feminine — the sort of woman who wants a sympathetic man she can cling to. It was only natural, I suppose, that Brent saw himself as that man. Whatever you might think about a solicitor who embarks on an illicit affair with a married woman client, the fact remains that he and Marian fell head over heels in love.

“And though this love affair was supposed to be a closely guarded secret, there were plenty of people who seemed to know all about it when George Carnaby was found dead. He had been shot through the heart at close range, and was found lying before the fireplace in the lounge of his house at Hendon.

“We ruled out suicide right away, because there was no gun anywhere near the body. Whoever had killed him had taken the gun away.

“On the other hand, the fact that he had been shot from a distance of no more than twelve to eighteen inches, while face to face with his killer, suggested that there might have been a violent struggle for possession of the gun and that it had gone off accidentally.

“We pounced at once on two very important clues. One was a note which Carnaby had scribbled on a notepad on his desk. Dated the day of the killing, it said: ‘Expect M.B. at 4 p.m.’

“The time of Carnaby’s death had been fixed at about four in the afternoon. Very significant, you see.

“The other clue was a grey button from the cuff of a lounge suit, which we found on the floor under Carnaby’s body.

“Our next moves were clear, then. First we had to find who ‘M.B.’ might be. Secondly, had. ‘M.B.’ a motive for killing Carnaby? Thirdly, had ‘M.B.’ a jacket with a button missing from the cuff?

“Well, we learned about Michael Brent in no time at all. We established also that he had lost a button from the sleeve of his jacket, and that it matched the others on the jacket exactly.

“And the motive? All too obvious. We didn’t have to work very hard to loosen the tongue of the emotional Marian Carnaby.

“Her life as George Carnaby’s wife had been a hideous nightmare. The man had been crazy to the point of being certifiable — there was ample evidence of that. She was deeply in love with Michael Brent and had wanted to go and live with him.

“Carnaby had told her he was determined not to free her. He had even threatened to have Brent struck off the solicitors’ roll for scandalous misconduct.

“Bit by bit we pieced the picture together, and it made us feel more sorry for Brent than for the late Mr. Carnaby. We would have been delighted if Brent could have trotted out a sound alibi. But he couldn’t. He hadn’t appeared at his office. He hadn’t been, seen by Marian.

“Marian, of course, also had a motive for killing Carnaby, but her alibi was cast-iron — definite proof that she had been visiting friends out of town.

“Where had Brent been on the afternoon of Carnaby’s death?

“Brent’s answer was: ‘I went to keep an appointment with a man named Jackson, who wanted to consult me about a property deal. He phoned me on somebody’s recommendation, asking me to meet him outside Golders Green station at 4 o’clock, and said he would be waiting for me in a red Jaguar. I waited, but he didn’t turn up, so I went home to my flat about five.’

“Our boys went to work on that one, but after all kinds of enquiries and appeals, it was obvious that nobody named Jackson with a red Jaguar existed. It looked as if Brent had, cooked up a phoney alibi for the period when he had actually gone to see Carnaby — perhaps to have a showdown about Marian. Despite the note on Carnaby’s desk-pad, he denied making any appointment to see him at 4 o’clock.

“When Brent finally stood trial, several factors weighed heavily in his favour. His gentle manner, his many kindnesses towards Marian, were in striking contrast to the character of the dead man, who was a ruthless, violent man, insanely possessive where his wife was concerned.

“The very close range of the shooting, and the loss of the sleeve button, indicated that there might have been a struggle. Lastly, there was no evidence that Brent had ever owned a gun or acquired one. No gun had been traced, either, although, of course, this was not unusual.

“The jury argued for more than an hour, and at length they decided on a verdict of manslaughter.”

Ex-Superintendent Foster was frowning, and I said: “Did he actually serve the full sentence?”

Foster shook his head. “No. Fortunately he only served a very small part of it. You see, as it later turned out — and it was only by the merest stroke of luck that it did — George Carnaby had actually committed suicide.”

I stared blankly at Foster. “But there was no gun!” I exclaimed.

“No, there was no gun,” Foster said. “Carnaby was a crazy man — I told you that. He wanted revenge. When he killed himself, he wanted to be sure Brent would be charged with his murder.

“He had found the button from Brent’s cuff after Brent had been to the house. This he had put under his body deliberately before shooting himself.

“He had also put the accusing finger on Brent by scribbling that fake note on his desk-pad about the 4 p.m. appointment.

“Then he had impersonated a fictitious man named Jackson on the phone, and sent Brent on a wild-goose chase, in order to create what would look, later on, like a phoney alibi.”

Foster drew on his pipe and went on: “But the most diabolically cunning part was the gun... only it didn’t quite work out as he had planned.”

The Yard man was enjoying the puzzled look on my face.

“Carnaby didn’t count on the fact that the people who took over the Hendon house from the widowed Marian would start off by having the chimney swept.

“Some way up the chimney of the fireplace before which Carnaby’s body was found, a wooden bar had been firmly wedged. Dangling from this wooden bar was a gun — the gun which had killed Carnaby — on a length of strong elastic.

“George Carnaby had so held the gun when he shot himself that it was drawn up the chimney he let it go.”

Foster slowly relit his pipe.

“You see,” he said, “you can never be too cocksure about the guilt of those you send to the gallows.”