‘I most certainly do, m’lud,’ said Toby, rising from his place. ‘Professor Bamford,’ he said, as if it were their first encounter, ‘before I come to the case in hand, I think it would be fair to say that my learned friend Mr Lennox made great play of establishing your credentials as an expert witness. You will have to forgive me if I revisit that subject, and clear up one or two small details that puzzled me.’
‘Certainly, Sir Toby,’ said Harry.
‘This first degree you took at . . . er, yes, at Leeds University. What subject was it that you studied?’
‘Geography,’ said Harry.
‘How interesting. I wouldn’t have thought that was an obvious preparation for someone who would go on to become an expert in handguns. However,’ he continued, ‘allow me to move on to your Ph.D., which was awarded by an American university. Can I ask if that degree is recognised by English universities?’
‘No, Sir Toby, but . . .’
‘Please confine yourself to answering the questions, Professor Bamford. For example, does Oxford or Cambridge University recognise your Ph.D.?’
‘No, Sir Toby.’
‘I see. And, as Mr Lennox was at pains to point out, this whole case may well rest on your credentials as an expert witness.’
Mr Justice Fairborough looked down at the defence counsel and frowned. ‘It will be up to the jury to make that decision, based on the facts presented to them, Sir Toby.’
‘I agree m’lud. I just wished to establish how much credence the members of the jury should place in the opinions of the Crown’s expert witness.’
The judge frowned again.
‘But if you feel I have made that point, m’lud, I will move on,’ said Sir Toby, turning back to face his old friend.
‘You told the jury, Professor Bamford – as an expert – that in this particular case the victim couldn’t have committed suicide, because the gun was found in his hand.’
‘That is correct, Sir Toby. It’s a common mistake – often made in poorly researched films and television programmes – for victims to be shown still holding onto the gun after they have shot themselves.’
‘Yes, yes, Professor Bamford. We have already been entertained by your great knowledge of television soap operas, when my learned friend was examining you. At least we’ve found something you’re an expert in. But I should like to return to the real world. Can I be clear about one thing, Professor Bamford: you are not suggesting even for a moment, I hope, that your evidence proves that the defendant placed the gun in her husband’s hand. If that were so, you wouldn’t be an expert, Professor Bamford, but a clairvoyant.’
‘I made no such assumption, Sir Toby.’
‘I’m grateful to have your support in that. But tell me, Professor Bamford: in your experience, have you ever come across a case in which the murderer placed the gun in the victim’s hand, in order to try to suggest that the cause of death was suicide?’
Harry hesitated for a moment.
‘Take your time, Professor Bamford. The rest of a woman’s life may depend on your reply.’
‘I have come across such cases in the past’ – he hesitated again – ‘on three occasions.’
‘On three occasions?’ repeated Sir Toby, trying to look surprised, despite the fact that he himself had appeared in all three cases.
‘Yes, Sir Toby,’ said Harry.
‘And, in these three cases, did the jury return a verdict of not guilty?’
‘No,’ said Harry quietly.
‘No?’ repeated Sir Toby, facing the jury. ‘In how many of the cases did the jury find the defendant not guilty?’
‘In two of the cases.’
‘And what happened in the third?’ asked Sir Toby.
‘The man was convicted of murder.’
‘And sentenced . . . ?’ asked Sir Toby.
‘To life imprisonment.’
‘I think I’d like to know a little bit more about that case, Professor Bamford.’
‘Is this leading anywhere, Sir Toby?’ asked Mr Justice Fairborough, staring down at the defence counsel.
‘I suspect we are about to find out, m’lud,’ said Sir Toby, turning back to the jury, whose eyes were now fixed on the expert witness. ‘Professor Bamford, do let the court know the details of that particular case.’
‘In that case, the Queen against Reynolds,’ said Harry, ‘Mr Reynolds served eleven years of his sentence before fresh evidence was produced to show that he couldn’t have committed the crime. He was later pardoned.’
‘I hope you’ll forgive my next question, Professor Bamford, but a woman’s reputation, not to mention her freedom, is at stake in this courtroom.’ He paused, looked gravely at his old friend and said, ‘Did you appear on behalf of the prosecution in that particular case?’
‘I did, Sir Toby.’
‘As an expert witness for the Crown?’
Harry nodded. ‘Yes, Sir Toby.’
‘And an innocent man was convicted for a crime that he did not commit, and ended up serving eleven years in prison?’
Harry nodded again. ‘Yes, Sir Toby.’
‘No “buts” in that particular case?’ asked Sir Toby. He waited for a reply, but Harry didn’t speak. He knew he no longer had any credibility as an expert witness in this particular case.
‘One final question, Professor Bamford: in the other two cases, to be fair, did the juries’ verdicts support your interpretation of the evidence?’
‘They did, Sir Toby.’
‘You will recall, Professor Bamford, that the Crown made great play of the fact that in the past your evidence has been crucial in cases such as these, in fact – to quote Mr Lennox verbatim – “the decisive factor in proving the Crown’s case”. However, we now learn that in the three cases in which a gun was found in the victim’s hand, you have a 33 per cent failure rate as an expert witness.’
Harry didn’t comment, as Sir Toby knew he wouldn’t.
‘And as a result, an innocent man spent eleven years in jail.’ Sir Toby switched his attention to the jury and said quietly, ‘Professor Bamford, let us hope that an innocent woman isn’t about to spend the rest of her life in jail because of the opinion of an “expert witness” who manages to get it wrong 33 per cent of the time.’
Mr Lennox rose to his feet to protest at the treatment the witness was being made to endure, and Mr Justice Fairborough wagged an admonishing finger. ‘That was an improper comment, Sir Toby,’ he warned.
But Sir Toby’s eyes remained on the jury, who no longer hung on the expert witness’s every word, but were now whispering among themselves.
Sir Toby slowly resumed his seat. ‘No more questions, m’lud.’
‘Damn good shot,’ said Toby, as Harry’s ball disappeared into the cup on the eighteenth hole. ‘Lunch on me again, I fear. You know, I haven’t beaten you for weeks, Harry.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that, Toby,’ said his golfing partner, as they headed back to the clubhouse. ‘How would you describe what you did to me in court on Thursday?’
‘Yes, I must apologise for that, old chap,’ said Toby. ‘Nothing personal, as you well know. Mind you, it was damn stupid of Lennox to select you as his expert witness in the first place.’
‘I agree,’ said Harry. ‘I did warn them that no one knew me better than you, but Lennox wasn’t interested in what happened on the North-Eastern Circuit.’
‘I wouldn’t have minded so much,’ said Toby, as he took his place for lunch, ‘if it hadn’t been for the fact . . .’
‘Hadn’t been for the fact . . . ?’ Harry repeated.
‘That in both cases, the one in Leeds and the one at the Bailey, any jury should have been able to see that my clients were as guilty as sin.’
THE ENDGAME
CORNELIUS BARRINGTON hesitated before he made his next move. He continued to study the board with great interest. The game had been going on for over two hours, and Cornelius was confident that he was only seven moves away from checkmate. He sus
pected that his opponent was also aware of the fact.
Cornelius looked up and smiled across at Frank Vintcent, who was not only his oldest friend but had over the years, as the family solicitor, proved to be his wisest adviser. The two men had many things in common: their age, both over sixty; their background, both middle-class sons of professionals; they had been educated at the same school and at the same university. But there the similarities ended. For Cornelius was by nature an entrepreneur, a risk-taker, who had made his fortune mining in South Africa and Brazil. Frank was a solicitor by profession, cautious, slow to decision, fascinated by detail.
Cornelius and Frank also differed in their physical appearance. Cornelius was tall, heavily built, with a head of silver hair many men half his age would have envied. Frank was slight, of medium stature, and apart from a semicircle of grey tufts, was almost completely bald.
Cornelius had been widowed after four decades of happy married life. Frank was a confirmed bachelor.
Among the things that had kept them close friends was their enduring love of chess. Frank joined Cornelius at The Willows for a game every Thursday evening, and the result usually remained in the balance, often ending in stalemate.
The evening always began with a light supper, but only one glass of wine each would be poured – the two men took their chess seriously – and after the game was over they would return to the drawing room to enjoy a glass of brandy and a cigar; but tonight Cornelius was about to shatter that routine.
‘Congratulations,’ said Frank, looking up from the board. ‘I think you’ve got me beaten this time. I’m fairly sure there’s no escape.’ He smiled, placed the red king flat on the board, rose from his place and shook hands with his closest friend.
‘Let’s go through to the drawing room and have a brandy and a cigar,’ suggested Cornelius, as if it were a novel idea.
‘Thank you,’ said Frank as they left the study and strolled towards the drawing room. As Cornelius passed the portrait of his son Daniel, his heart missed a beat – something that hadn’t changed for the past twenty-three years. If his only child had lived, he would never have sold the company.
As they entered the spacious drawing room the two men were greeted by a cheerful fire blazing in the grate, which had been laid by Cornelius’s housekeeper Pauline only moments after she had finished clearing up their supper. Pauline also believed in the virtues of routine, but her life too was about to be shattered.
‘I should have trapped you several moves earlier,’ said Cornelius, ‘but I was taken by surprise when you captured my queen’s knight. I should have seen that coming,’ he added, as he strolled over to the sideboard. Two large cognacs and two Monte Cristo cigars had been laid out on a silver tray. Cornelius picked up the cigar-clipper and passed it across to his friend, then struck a match, leaned over and watched Frank puff away until he was convinced his cigar was alight. He then completed the same routine himself before sinking into his favourite seat by the fire.
Frank raised his glass. ‘Well played, Cornelius,’ he said, offering a slight bow, although his host would have been the first to acknowledge that over the years his guest was probably just ahead on points.
Cornelius allowed Frank to take a few more puffs before shattering his evening. Why hurry? After all, he had been preparing for this moment for several weeks, and was unwilling to share the secret with his oldest friend until everything was in place.
They both remained silent for some time, relaxed in each other’s company. Finally Cornelius placed his brandy on a side table and said, ‘Frank, we have been friends for over fifty years. Equally importantly, as my legal adviser you have proved to be a shrewd advocate. In fact, since the untimely death of Millicent there has been no one I rely on more.’
Frank continued to puff away at his cigar without interrupting his friend. From the expression on his face, he was aware that the compliment was nothing more than an opening gambit. He suspected he would have to wait some time before Cornelius revealed his next move.
‘When I first set up the company some thirty years ago, it was you who was responsible for executing the original deeds; and I don’t believe I’ve signed a legal document since that day which has not crossed your desk – something that was unquestionably a major factor in my success.’
‘It’s generous of you to say so,’ said Frank, before taking another sip of brandy, ‘but the truth is that it was always your originality and enterprise that made it possible for the company to go from strength to strength – gifts that the gods decided not to bestow on me, leaving me with little choice but to be a mere functionary.’
‘You have always underestimated your contribution to the company’s success, Frank, but I am in no doubt of the role you played over the years.’
‘Where is this all leading?’ asked Frank with a smile.
‘Patience, my friend,’ said Cornelius. ‘I still have a few moves to make before I reveal the stratagem I have in mind.’ He leaned back and took another long puff of his cigar. ‘As you know, when I sold the company some four years ago, it had been my intention to slow down for the first time in years. I had promised to take Millie on an extended holiday to India and the Far East – ’ he paused ‘ – but that was not to be.’
Frank nodded his head in understanding.
‘Her death served to remind me that I am also mortal, and may myself not have much longer to live.’
‘No, no, my friend,’ protested Frank. ‘You still have a good many years to go yet.’
‘You may be right,’ said Cornelius, ‘although funnily enough it was you who made me start to think seriously about the future . . .’
‘Me?’ said Frank, looking puzzled.
‘Yes. Don’t you remember some weeks ago, sitting in that chair and advising me that the time had come for me to consider rewriting my will?’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Frank, ‘but that was only because in your present will virtually everything is left to Millie.’
‘I’m aware of that,’ said Cornelius, ‘but it nevertheless served to concentrate the mind. You see, I still rise at six o’clock every morning, but as I no longer have an office to go to, I spend many self-indulgent hours considering how to distribute my wealth now that Millie can no longer be the main beneficiary.’
Cornelius took another long puff of his cigar before continuing. ‘For the past month I have been considering those around me – my relatives, friends, acquaintances and employees – and I began to think about the way they have always treated me, which caused me to wonder which of them would show the same amount of devotion, attention and loyalty if I were not worth millions, but was in fact a penniless old man.’
‘I have a feeling I’m in check,’ said Frank, with a laugh.
‘No, no, my dear friend,’ said Cornelius. ‘You are absolved from any such doubts. Otherwise I would not be sharing these confidences with you.’
‘But are such thoughts not a little unfair on your immediate family, not to mention . . .’
‘You may be right, but I don’t wish to leave that to chance. I have therefore decided to find out the truth for myself, as I consider mere speculation to be unsatisfactory.’ Once again, Cornelius paused to take a puff of his cigar before continuing. ‘So indulge me for a moment while I tell you what I have in mind, for I confess that without your cooperation it will be impossible for me to carry out my little subterfuge. But first allow me to refill your glass.’ Cornelius rose from his chair, picked up his friend’s empty goblet and walked to the sideboard.
‘As I was saying,’ continued Cornelius, passing the refilled glass back to Frank, ‘I have recently been wondering how those around me would behave if I were penniless, and I have come to the conclusion that there is only one way to find out.’
Frank took a long gulp before enquiring, ‘What do you have in mind? A fake suicide perhaps?’
‘Not quite as dramatic as that,’ replied Cornelius. ‘But almost, because – ’ he paused again ‘ – I intend
to declare myself bankrupt.’ He stared through the haze of smoke, hoping to observe his friend’s immediate reaction. But, as so often in the past, the old solicitor remained inscrutable, not least because, although his friend had just made a bold move, he knew the game was far from over.
He pushed a pawn tentatively forward. ‘How do you intend to go about that?’ he asked.
‘Tomorrow morning,’ replied Cornelius, ‘I want you to write to the five people who have the greatest claim on my estate: my brother Hugh, his wife Elizabeth, their son Timothy, my sister Margaret, and finally my housekeeper Pauline.’
‘And what will be the import of this letter?’ asked Frank, trying not to sound too incredulous.
‘You will explain to all of them that, due to an unwise investment I made soon after my wife’s death, I now find myself in debt. In fact, without their help I may well be facing bankruptcy.’
‘But . . .’ protested Frank.
Cornelius raised a hand. ‘Hear me out,’ he pleaded, ‘because your role in this real-life game could prove crucial. Once you have convinced them that they can no longer expect anything from me, I intend to put the second phase of my plan into operation, which should prove conclusively whether they really care for me, or simply for the prospect of my wealth.’
‘I can’t wait to learn what you have in mind,’ said Frank.
Cornelius swirled the brandy round in his glass while he collected his thoughts.
‘As you are well aware, each of the five people I have named has at some time in the past asked me for a loan. I have never required anything in writing, as I have always considered the repayment of these debts to be a matter of trust. These loans range from £100,000 to my brother Hugh to purchase the lease for his shop – which I understand is doing quite well – to my housekeeper Pauline, who borrowed £500 for a deposit on a secondhand car. Even young Timothy needed £1,000 to pay off his university loan, and as he seems to be progressing well in his chosen profession, it should not be too much to ask him – like all of the others – to repay his debt.’
The New Collected Short Stories Page 2
