Free The Baker Street Jurors by Michael Robertson Page B

we’re not going to believe you,” said Mrs. Peabody. “Try me. I should be easy.”
    â€œYou married at a young age, remained so for more than forty years, until your husband passed away. He was in the legal profession himself, probably a judge. You miss him.”
    She raised an eyebrow, pondered for a moment, then said, “You got most of that because I moved my wedding ring, along with my ruby anniversary band, to my right hand.”
    â€œYes. Easy, as you said.”
    â€œBut how do you know my late husband was a judge?”
    â€œYou said in court that you’ve done jury duty three times, all in the last six years. Something prevented you from being eligible before that. Until very recently, officers of the court were absolutely prohibited in England from being on jury service, and their spouses typically would not be impaneled, either. So you did not begin to be placed on juries until after he passed away. The expensive design of the clothes you are wearing suggests that he was a judge, as opposed to some lower officer of the court.”
    â€œFair enough,” said Mrs. Peabody. “Now do someone else.”
    â€œHow about him?” said Lucy.
    She was indicating Bankstone, the man with the expensive haircut, and the expensive casual clothes, and the very expensive shoes. A man who was taller than Nigel, in better shape than Nigel, and clearly making much more money.
    Nigel found her apparent interest discouraging.
    â€œDo you mind?” she said to the man, leaning toward him a bit.
    â€œNo, go right ahead,” he said, smiling slightly.
    â€œInvestment broker,” said the tall juror. “Partly from your haircut, but mostly from your shoes. You tried to get excused because of a planned vacation, but you’ve used that excuse once before already this year, so they kept you on over your objection.”
    â€œThat’s close,” said the man, quite enthusiastically. “I was a derivatives day trader, but now I’m in biomedical/pharmaceutical acquisitions.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” said Nigel.
    â€œSurprisingly simple. I buy a small biomed company that isn’t doing well but still has some drugs that are under patent, or even generic drugs for which it is the only manufacturer. Then I cut back on the resources that are dead weight—that is to say, the research division—and then I raise the price on the patented or unique drugs as high as the market will bear—and then, having made all those improvements, I sell the whole thing to the highest bidder and move on to my next project.”
    Lucy took perhaps two seconds to absorb that information—and then she very subtly edged away from him at the table.
    I still have a shot, thought Nigel.
    â€œNow him,” said Lucy, indicating Nigel.
    â€œBarrister,” said the tall man. “They almost threw you out, but they were so desperate to fill the quota that they kept you on.”
    â€œWrong,” said Nigel. “Not a barrister. Only a solicitor.”
    The tall man studied Nigel for a moment. “My error. It was a close call, I should have said simply ‘lawyer,’ to cover both possibilities. It’s a capital mistake to theorize before one has all the facts.”
    Nigel recognized that phrase immediately. He knew where he had read it—many times. But he had never heard anyone say it in real life.
    â€œYou’ve evaluated our occupations,” said Nigel. “What about yours?”
    â€œI’m a musician,” said the tall juror. “You may call me Siger. The longer form is Sigerson, but that’s been overused.”
    Now the steward stepped in at the canteen entrance. “Your attention please. All jurors from court number thirteen, please return to the courtroom immediately.”
    There were murmurs and a commotion of eating utensils, and everyone in the canteen looked questioningly toward the steward. “Again,