Kill All the Judges by William Deverell Read Free Book Online Page A

She saw the deed in the dark, from across an inlet? Identification issues can be very tricky in court–this case was not the duck shoot Pomeroy boasted it would be. But if there was ever an expert on the identification defence it was Pomeroy, who famously defended a hothead charged with assassinating the visiting president of one of those gang-ridden Asian republics of the former U.S.S.R.
    Arthur found it hard to see Cud Brown doing this. A ruffian, yes, and a scoundrel, true, but a murderer, doubtful. What motive could he have had? He’d been sitting pretty, enjoying his small fame, enjoying the literary life, library readings, CBC interviews, the circuit of writers’ festivals.
    Arthur had no firm idea why he so disliked the local literary luminary. It wasn’t because he smoked cigars, or drank too much, or seduced countless women with his weary beatnik shtick. Maybe it was his undeserved success. His new collection, Karmageddon , was, impossibly, shortlisted for the Governor General’s Award. The fellow was a sham, a poetaster, his verses self-indulgent and profane.
    But was there a darker, hidden reason for his antipathy? I hope it’s not because I spent two weeks up a tree with your lady. That comment rankled, and was the more hurtful for its taint of truth. Two years ago, in an anti-logging campaign, Cuddles and Margaret were chosen by lot to share a high platform on a fir tree. Cud lasted only thirteen days, but they were miserable days for Arthur. He embarrassed himself by being suspicious, flagellated himself with sordid, excessive, unworthy imaginings. He suspected he was neurotic that way, conditioned by his first wife, unfaithful Annabelle.
    He had to smother his ire when Margaret joined the chorus urging him to take Cud’s case. “Arthur, darling, I spent two weeks enduring his foul tongue and smelly cigars and smellier feet, and even I think you should defend him. Everyone on theisland expects you to. Otherwise, it’ll look like you’re punishing him for some reason.”
    A reason she was too polite to define, or didn’t understand. He didn’t understand it himself, his pathetic jealousy. Call it a phobia, he was phobic about Cudworth Brown.

    The leftovers from last week’s court docket–Hamish McCoy, inter alia , were being heard today in the legion hall. Because the sky was clear, the sun warm, and the hall reached as easily by sea as by land, Arthur had persuaded Nick to enjoy a trip on the Blunderer , his canopy-topped outboard.
    He put Nick behind the wheel for a while, and they kept to a leisurely ten knots while dolphins followed. “This is brilliant,” said Nick. He’d recovered from the disappointment of his father’s cancelled visit, and, even better, was starting to tune in to country living. If all went well, maybe they could lollygag back, do a little fishing.
    Nearing North Point, they could make out the charred stumps of posts on Breadloaf Hill, the remains of the community hall. Margaret had volunteered Arthur for a committee raising money for rebuilding. “It’s not asking much, Arthur, it’s something I’d normally do.” Too busy seeking a nomination for a by-election soon to be called, in Cowichan and the Islands. Her clunky vehicle of ambition, the Green Party–aptly named for its unripe adherents–had never elected anyone to anything. Arthur had given up trying to persuade Margaret that hers was a quixotic quest.
    He took over the controls, swung around the North Point beacon into the crooked-finger bay where sat the mildewed legion hall. Cuddles must have seen him coming, because he was on the small-craft dock, motioning for Arthur to toss him a line. Nick asked to stay on board with his laptop, so Arthur put on his jacketand tie, then went up the ramp, with Cud at his elbow, pestering him. “How can this Leich woman claim to see someone who wasn’t there?”
    â€œCud, spare me