The Colour of Murder

by Julian Symons

  What did it all amount to, Mr Lambie wondered afterwards, writing the report in his boarding-house bedroom? He couldn’t be sure. That night he looked at the photograph of his wife for a few seconds before he kissed it. He also said a prayer before getting into bed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “If I can break the hall porter as well,” Magnus Newton said to Charlie Hudnutt, “then perhaps we need not call the wife.” But Charlie Hudnutt didn’t agree with him, thought that his fears about May Wilkins were exaggerated. After all, he had said reasonably enough, if she’d wanted to do her husband dirt she need never have said anything at all about the time he got in. Newton could say what he liked about having discredited Fanum, but you could never be quite sure how much a jury was accepting and rejecting of a witness’ cross-examination. If they called May, that should at least put the finishing touch to Fanum. Granted it didn’t mean that Wilkins was in the clear, or anything like that, but wasn’t it foolish to ignore a witness who could at least cast some doubt on the evidence given by Fanum and the porter. But of course, Charlie Hudnutt added hastily, feeling that he had let exuberance carry him a little far, of course it was up to Newton. Magnus Newton grunted and said that he was aware of it.

  The hall porter was a square, solid man in his sixties named Shaddock, and his story was simple enough. He had been on duty in the hall when Wilkins came in, swaying and obviously drunk. Shaddock was a little worried as to whether Wilkins would press the right button in the self-operating lift, and had asked if he would like to be taken up. Wilkins said he could manage on his own. Shaddock had then glanced up at the clock, and seen that the time was ten minutes to twelve.

  There seemed little room for casting doubt on the story, let alone breaking it, but Newton was armed with one possibly useful piece of information furnished by Mr Likeness, who had gone to the length of visiting the Prince Regent hotel in person. The cross-examination began quietly.

  “You were on duty this Monday evening and you were sitting – now, just where were you sitting in the hall?”

  “In my cubby hole, sir. That’s just round to the left as you go in.” Shaddock’s heavy, moustached face might have been devised for concealing emotion of any kind.

  “Round to the left, yes. Then Wilkins came in and you thought he was drunk. Why?”

  “He was swaying, sir, and his eyes were glassy-like.”

  “Then you asked if he would like to be taken up, and he said no. Was his speech slurred?”

  Shaddock considered. “Wouldn’t say it was, sir. Only spoke a few words, though.”

  “And in fact he got up to his room without trouble.”

  “That’s so, sir. Course, he only had to press the right button.”

  “Quite so. Now, had you moved from your cubby hole during this time?”

  “No, sir, I hadn’t moved.”

  “You saw the clock, and noted the time.”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “But the clock is round to your right. It is concealed from view by the hall doors. How could you possibly see it?”

  Shaddock ruminated, chewing his moustache. “There’s a mirror in front of me. Clock’s reflected in that.”

  “So that what you saw was merely the reflection of the clock, with the hands the wrong way round?”

  “That’s right, sir.”

  “And what time did it show?”

  Shaddock ruminated again, unperturbed. “Why, sir, you might say it showed the time as ten past twelve, that’s the way it might look to someone who didn’t know it. But I knew it was ten to the hour, see?”

  “Mr Shaddock,” Newton said softly, “does it occur to you that this is a very unreliable way of telling the time? To look at a clock-face in reverse – do you really think that is satisfactory?”

  Shaddock considered. “Yes, sir,” he said at last. “Seeing that I’ve done it so often.”

  “Supposing another witness said that Wilkins had come into the hotel at twenty-five minutes to twelve, what would you say then – remembering that you did not see the clock, but merely its reflection in a mirror?”

  This was Shaddock’s longest ruminative period. At the end of it he said, “I should say they were mistaken, sir.”

  Try as he would – and he cast round and made three or four different approaches – Newton could get no farther. Shaddock insisted that the clock was perfectly accurate, checked every day by the wireless, and that he had looked at the mirror reflection so often that he could not possibly be mistaken. At the end of the cross-examination Newton had decided (or almost decided) that he must call May Wilkins as a witness.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The evidence of Ritchie – that is, of Kenneth George Norman Ritchie, head of the South-Eastern Forensic Science Laboratory at Maidstone – was regarded by both prosecution and defence as the most important single feature of the case. If the jury took Ritchie’s evidence at its face value, they were almost certain to convict. If Newton managed to cast some doubt on it, that would be a great stroke in the prisoner’s favour. One of the problems facing the prosecution was, as it always is when expert scientific evidence is involved, that of making Ritchie’s statements about the blood on John Wilkins’ clothing intelligible to the jury.

  There were two small dark patches on the left sleeve of Wilkins’ jacket and two on the left leg of his trousers. These were visible, and had been proved to be blood by standard tests. But in the laboratories Ritchie had performed a further test, known as the benzidine test, on Wilkins’ clothing, and this had revealed the presence of minute traces of blood upon other parts of the jacket, both legs of the trousers, and the shoes. Smoothly Hayley led Ritchie through his preliminary evidence. Not, indeed, that this back-room boy needed much leading. Ritchie was a tall man with rather longish fair hair that occasionally fell over his forehead, a fine aggressive nose, and an immensely self-confident manner. Yes, he agreed, there were two dark patches on the jacket and two on the trousers that had responded to the usual blood tests.

  “You can positively say that these are blood stains.”

  “Quite positively.”

  “And that they are recent?”

  “They had been made very recently when I examined them.”

  “It has been suggested that the stains came from the prisoner’s own thumb, which he had cut. Would you say that was possible?”

  “They were certainly of his blood group. I should say, however, having regard to the comparatively small cut and the nature and position of the stains, that it is most unlikely.”

  Jacket and trousers were now taken out of the brown-paper parcels in which important evidence is traditionally kept, and handed round to the jury, who saw for themselves the stains that might help to keep a man in prison for years.

  “You then made an examination for further bloodstains by means of the benzidine test. Will you explain just what the benzidine test is?”

  Ritchie pushed back his lock of hair and looked first at the judge, a midget in scarlet, then at the jury stolidly awaiting light on their darkness, finally at red-faced countryman Hayley expectantly awaiting his performance. This was Ritchie’s moment, and he gave every indication of enjoying it.

  “The benzidine test is a simple and effective colour test for the presence of blood. It depends on the fact that there is a substance in the blood-colouring matter which in the presence of hydrogen peroxide causes a rapid oxidation of these various bases to coloured salts.”

  “And how is the test carried out?”

  “We take a section of the material to be tested, press a piece of white filter paper slightly moistened with water on to it, and add a drop of the benzidine reagent. The presence of blood is indicated by the immediate production of a blue colour which radiates out into the filter paper.”

  “Thank you,” said Hayley. Had the jury really understood the explanation, he wondered, looking at their anxious faces. Was it, even, desirable that they should completely understand it? “And when you applied th
e test what did you find?”

  “I obtained many positive reactions on the front of the jacket, at various places down the fronts of the trousers and on the uppers of the shoes.”

  “That is, on very extensive areas of these articles. And by positive reactions you mean blood reactions – showing the presence of blood?”

  “I do.”

  “Were these such traces as you would expect to find in the case of a crime committed in the open air?”

  Ritchie had a long, strokable chin, and now he stroked it. “In the open air, yes. Or in any case where blood was spattered about and diffused in the atmosphere. In these cases it is quite normal for minute particles to be found in clothing by the benzidine test, although they are invisible to the naked eye.”

  Hayley easily leapt his most difficult hurdle. “These particles – I am not talking now about the four distinct bloodstains – are invisible to the naked eye?”

  “They are.”

  “You can identify them quite positively, however, by the benzidine test?”

  Ritchie radiated certainty. “Quite positively.”

  “Mr Ritchie, how often have you carried out the benzidine test?”

  “That’s difficult to say.” Ritchie stroked his chin, tossed back his lock of hair. “If I said five thousand times that would be a conservative estimate.”

  “And you have always found it an accurate test for blood?”

  “In my experience it is an accurate test for blood.”

  Watching the jury through half-closed eyes, Magnus Newton thought that they were impressed, even deeply impressed. This is an age of specialists, and it is difficult for an ordinary man not to be impressed by their certainties, their appearance of absolute omniscience in their own field. Ritchie’s evidence was damning because of the impression it gave that Wilkins’ clothing was really covered with blood, jacket, trousers and shoes, an invisible shower of gore. Such is the suggestive power of the expert.

  Yet this power is accompanied by a strange fallibility. The common man is ruled by the expert, certainly. He obeys the persuasive power of the propagandist in his eating, drinking, sanitary and even sexual habits, in the clothes he wears and the entertainments he attends, in his attitude towards his fellow-men and towards God. But at the heart of obedience there is the desire for revolt. There are few things the common man – represented here by these eleven very common-looking jurymen and women – desires more than to see the expert utterly discomfited. The rules that govern the conduct of modern counsel in relation to witnesses do not apply to experts. When an expert is in the box counsel may be as ruthless and destructive as he likes. The jury are on his side, they applaud the expert’s occasional collapse as they are delighted when a top-hatted man slips on a banana skin. Victory over Ritchie would by no means assure John Wilkins’ acquittal, but defeat by him – defeat in the sense that his arrogant certainty was left untouched – meant almost the certainty of conviction. When Newton rose to cross-examine he knew that he had reached one of the crucial points of the case.

  “Mr Ritchie, you are an accredited scientific expert, are you not?”

  “The description is yours, sir. I am a scientist.”

  “And you have carried out the benzidine test, say five thousand times, and you regard it as an accurate test for blood.”

  “That is so.”

  “Blood produces a” – Newton, common man, searched for the right words – “a positive reaction, is that so?”

  “That is correct.”

  “But there are other substances which produce a positive reaction to the benzidine test, are there not? Sputum produces a positive reaction.”

  “A reaction, yes. But not like blood.”

  “Pus produces a positive reaction. Some plant juices produce a positive reaction. Some metals produce a positive reaction. Do you agree?”

  “Yes. But not so rapidly as blood.”

  Newton put thumbs in button-holes, stuck head back, chest out, gave a short barking laugh. “Urine produces a positive reaction, did you know that? So do a number of bacteria. Why, even milk produces a positive reaction. These stains, these deadly stains invisible to the naked eye, that you have discovered – why, they may be drops of milk.”

  “No, sir.” Ritchie was polite but firm. “All these substances can produce a positive reaction, but a laboratory expert can distinguish them from the reaction of blood.”

  Newton glanced at the jury. They were with him, he saw, they wanted him to win. “How are they distinguishable?”

  “Their reaction is less rapid than that of blood.”

  A false question. What was the exact time difference? Newton, whose information had been mugged up for him, did not know. Rocking backwards and forwards he decided to move to his second line of attack.

  “Mr Ritchie, we have been talking about positive reactions, but that is rather misleading, don’t you think? I mean, the benzidine test is really a negative test. Do you agree?”

  “It is generally regarded so, but I have found it produced very positive results.”

  “Mr Newton.” The judge intervened, as Newton had known that he must. “This is becoming a little too much for me, and perhaps for the jury too. Can you explain simply what you mean by a negative test?”

  “ I will try, my lord.” Newton folded his arms and enunciated slowly and clearly. “I mean that all the textbook authorities agree that the benzidine test is valuable in a negative sense. Stains which do not produce a reaction can be ruled out, as not being blood. But there is not a single medical authority” – Newton tapped lightly a pile of books beneath his hand – “who would accept a positive reaction on a benzidine test as proof of blood.”

  The judge considered. “What have you to say to that, Mr Ritchie?”

  Ritchie smiled, perhaps a little too confidently. “I don’t want to become involved in an argument with the textbooks, my lord. But in my experience, which has been a very wide one, it is always possible to recognise a positive blood reaction on a benzidine test.”

  Mr Justice Morland hesitated, looked at the jury, and then merely nodded. Newton opened the first of the books on the table. “I am afraid we shall have to refer to the textbooks. Is Taylor’s Medical Jurisprudence known to you?”

  “Of course.”

  “It is regarded as the standard work in this field, is it not?”

  “Certainly it is a standard work.”

  “Here is what Taylor says. ‘The value of the test lies in the fact that if it is negative, the stain is not due to blood. If the test is positive the stained area is marked out for further tests which definitely prove the presence of haemoglobin.’ Do you agree with that?”

  “So far as it goes, yes. These are general remarks, you understand. I am offering you the result of direct laboratory investigation.”

  “Which improves on Taylor?” Newton asked sweetly. “Have you published the result of your – ah – revolutionary investigations in any journal?”

  “No. I am a practical scientist, not a theoretician.”

  “‘If the test is positive the stained area is marked out for further tests.’ Did you carry out further tests?”

  “No. In these particular conditions it was not possible.”

  “Very well. We will move on to Gault…’

  An hour later Newton paused and surveyed the heavily-battered but still impenitent expert before him, who was certainly much removed in manner from the confident Kenneth George Norman Ritchie who had entered the box. Then he closed the books and said gently, “We have established, it seems, your disagreement with all six of these textbooks. Now, Mr Ritchie, I should like to consider your evidence in its most favourable light – favourable to the prosecution – and see the very most that it can mean. You say that these invisible stains are blood. Can you tell me how old they are?”

  “Not with any certainty, no.”

  Newton permitted himself a slight raising of the hands in surprise. “Let us see, then. You mean they might be
a year old?”

  “That is unlikely. But I suppose it is possible.”

  “Certainly they might be six months old?”

  “Yes.”

  “Or one month old – one as easily as the other?”

  “Yes.”

  “You could not possibly say that they were made on June the fourth rather than, say, May the fourth?”

  “No,” said this new, subdued Ritchie.

  “Nor could you say whose blood made the stains? It might have been Wilkins’ own blood?”

  “It might have been.”

  “You cannot possibly connect these stains in any way with this crime?”

  Ritchie was stung again into a moment of aggressiveness. He said, with his large nose pushed forward, “It was no part of my examination to connect these bloodstains with any crime.”

  Gently, menacingly, Newton tapped the books beneath his hand. “Do you persist in calling them bloodstains after what I have read from these books? Are you prepared to swear upon oath that none of them was caused by pus or milk or urine or any other of the twenty different possible causes?”

  Ritchie was obstinate. “I can only repeat that in my experience what I have told you about the benzidine test is accurate.”

  Mr Justice Morland had been for some time moving uncomfortably on his chair, in a manner which is said to be a sure sign of irritation in a judge. Now he spoke.

  “I am not quite sure what you are telling us, Mr Ritchie. Am I to understand that, in despite of all the authorities Mr Newton has cited, you still assert that the benzidine test is a positive one for blood?”

  Ritchie said carefully, “In my experience, my lord, it produces positive results.”

  The judge tapped his desk. “But you are not prepared to contradict all the textbooks outright, are you?” There was no reply. “Are you, Mr Ritchie?”

  In a voice now defiant Ritchie said, “I can only speak according to my experience, my lord.”

  “But then, if these stains are blood, you cannot say whose blood it was or when it came there, can you? It may have come there one or six months ago, as Mr Newton said?”