The Land of Mist Chapter 7 - In Which the Notorious Criminal Gets What the British Law Considers to Be His Deserts

**Leslie Langston** (0:12)
CHAPTER VII. OF THE LAND OF MIST. Read by Leslie Langston.
THE LAND OF MIST. By Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
CHAPTER VII. In which the notorious criminal gets what the British law considers to be his desserts.
Before we pursue further the psychic adventures of our hero and heroine, it would be well to see how the British law dealt with that wicked man, Mr. Tom Linden.
The two policewomen returned in triumph to Bardsley Square Station where Inspector Murphy, who had sent them, was waiting for their report. Murphy was a jolly-looking, red-faced, black-moustached man who had a cheerful, fatherly way with women, which was by no means justified by his age or virility. He sat behind his official table, his papers strewn in front of him. Well, girls, he said as the two women entered. What luck! I think it's a go, Mr. Murphy, said the elder policewoman. We have the evidence you want. The inspector took up a written list of questions from his desk. You ran it on the general lines that I suggested? He asked. Yes, I said my husband was killed at Ypres. What did he do? Well, he seemed sorry for me. That of course is part of the game. He'll be sorry for himself before he is through with it. He didn't say, You are a single woman and never had a husband. No. Well, that's one up against his spirits, is it not? That should impress the court. What more? He felt round for names. They were all wrong. Good. He believed me when I said that Miss Bellinger here was my daughter. Good again.
Did you try the Pedro stunt? Yes. He considered the name, but I got nothing. Ah, that's a pity. But anyhow, he did not know that Pedro was your Alsatian dog. He considered the name. That's good enough. Make the jury laugh and you have your verdict. Now about fortune telling. Did you do what I suggested?
Yes. I asked about Amy's young man. He did not give much that was definite. Conan Doyle. He knows his business.
But he did say that she would be unhappy if she married him. Oh, he did, did he?
Well, if we spread that a little, we have got all we want. Now sit down and dictate your report while you have it fresh. Then we can go over it together and see how we can put it best. Amy must write one also.
Very good, Mr. Murphy. Then we shall apply for the warrant. You see, it all depends upon which magistrate it comes before. There was Mr. Dallorette who let a medium off last month. He is no use to us. And Mr. Lansing has been mixed up with these people. Mr. Melrose is a stiff materialist. We could depend on him and have timed the arrest accordingly. It would never do to fail to get our conviction. Couldn't you get some of the public to corroborate? The inspector laughed. We are supposed to be protecting the public, but between you and me, none of the public have ever yet asked to be protected. There are no complaints. Therefore, it is left to us to uphold the law as best we can. As long as it is there, we have got to enforce it. Well, good-bye, girls. Let me have the report by four o'clock. Nothing for us, I suppose.
Said the elder woman, with a smile. You wait, my dear. If we get twenty-five pounds fine, it has got to go somewhere. Police fund, of course, but there may be something left over. Anyhow, you go and cough it up, and then we shall see.
Next morning a scared maid broke into Lyndon's modest study. Please, sir, it's an officer.
The man in blue followed hard at her heels. Name of Lyndon? said he, and handing a folded sheet of fool's cap, he departed. The stricken couple who spent their lives in bringing comfort to others were sadly in need of comfort themselves. She put her arm round his neck while they read the cheerless document. To Thomas Lyndon, of Forty Tullis Street, Northwest. Information has been laid this day by Patrick Murphy, Inspector of Police, that you, the said Thomas Lyndon, on the tenth day of November, at the above dwelling, did profess to Henrietta Dresser and to Amy Bellinger to tell fortunes to deceive and impose uncertain of his Majesty's subjects to wit those above mentioned. You are therefore summoned to appear before the Magistrate of the Police Court in Bardsley Square on Wednesday next, the seventeenth, at the hour of eleven, in the forenoon, to answer to the said information. Dated the tenth of November, signed, BJ. Withers.
On the same afternoon, Maylie called upon Malone and they sat in consultation over this document. Then they went together to see Summerway Jones, an acute solicitor and an earnest student of psychic affairs. Incidentally, he was a hard rider to hounds, a good boxer, and a man who carried a fresh air flavor into the mustiest law chambers. He arched his eyebrows over the summons. The poor devil has not an earthly, said he. He's lucky to have a summons. Usually they act on a warrant. Then the man is carted right off, kept in the cells all night, and tried next morning with no one to defend him. The police are cute enough, of course, to choose either a Roman Catholic or a materialist as the magistrate. Then, by the beautiful judgment of Chief Justice Lawrence, the first judgment, I believe, that he delivered in that high capacity. The profession of mediumship or wonderworking is in itself a legal crime, whether it be genuine or no, so that no defense founded upon good results has a look in. It's a mixture of religious persecution and police blackmail. As to the public, they don't care a damn. Why should they? If they don't want their fortune told, they don't go. The whole thing is the most absolute bilge and a disgrace to our legislature. I'll write it up, said Malone, glowing with Celtic fire.