Indictment for Murder

by Peter Rawlinson

  ‘I shall be out of this tomorrow,’ she said.

  ‘Where are they sending you?’ he asked.

  ‘They are not sending me anywhere,’ she said. ‘I’m just going.’

  He looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m going to grandmama in Shropshire. I’m leaving the Wrens.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘Because I’m going to have a baby.’ Then she drank. She saw him glance down at her finger. ‘No, I’m not married. It began in September – that is, the baby began in September.’

  He could hear the whistle of a stick of bombs and then the doors and windows rattled and shook from the explosion. That was near, he thought.

  ‘In the early days,’ she said, ‘I was more frightened than I am now.’ Still he remained silent. ‘I’m four months gone,’ she went on. ‘It’ll be born in June.’

  Two years, he thought, exactly two years after the May Week ball. ‘And…’ He paused. ‘The father? Where is he?’

  ‘He’s gone away. Gone back to war.’

  ‘Do I know him?’

  She looked at him, and at first did not reply. Then she said quietly, ‘Oh yes. You know him very well.’

  Then he knew. It was David.

  ‘Are you going to marry him?’

  She smiled. ‘He hasn’t asked me,’ she said.

  The raid was dying away by the time they came out into the street and into the cold of the January night. There were no cabs on the streets now – only ambulances and fire engines. She was staying with a friend in Chelsea.

  ‘We’ll have to walk,’ he said.

  ‘Let’s go down to the Embankment,’ she replied.

  On the way he once had to pull her down the steps into the shelter of a basement as a house collapsed into the street. Skirting the burning buildings and the ARP workers struggling with the chaos and the casualties, they made their way down to the river, where the fire engines were drawing water to pump on to the fires. She had her arm through his. At the entrance to the house in Cheyne Walk she turned to him.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before,’ she said. Then she was gone.

  He walked back to Waterloo and sat on a bench waiting for a train. Three hours later he was sitting beside the driver in his three-ton lorry as the battalion left on the long drive to Yorkshire.

  * * *

  Jonathan got up from his chair and went back to his desk. Then he took up the sheet of paper on which he had been making his notes and went back to his chair. He worked on them for a long time. Later he went to his small kitchen and filled the electric kettle to make tea. He dreaded the night. He didn’t want to dream again. He took his tea back to his chair. Before he went back to his work, he thought again of Nicola and David.

  Everything had always been Nicola and David. Even now, it was still David.

  7

  BY Monday the snow had mostly gone and the forecourt to the castle was wet and muddy as the old daimler delivered the judge to the Great Door. There were no trumpeters or police in full dress but there were still marksmen on the roof for the threat to the court and the judge remained.

  Thanks to the interest of the Saturday and Sunday newspapers, the court was even more packed than it had been on Friday. In Counsels’ benches, the prosecution team, Richard Bracton and Brian Graves, were sorting their papers. Virginia had secured a seat to the side but well in the front. She and Shelbourne had driven to the city early that morning, mostly in silence for by then she had become more responsive to his tastes and moods. When Harold Benson had learnt that Shelbourne was not expected back in the hotel on Sunday night, he had spent a sleepless night worrying that Shelbourne would not be there in time on Monday morning. But he sauntered in as cool as ever after the jury had taken their places, and while they waited for the entry of the judge, lounged in his place, talking loudly to Benjamin, indicating that as far as he was concerned everything the Prosecution had said and were going to say was unimportant and absurd.

  ‘All rise,’ the usher called and when the court settled, Richard Bracton rose and in his pleasant voice continued his opening address on behalf of the prosecution. It was well past eleven o’clock when he was approaching the end of his opening statement, that he came to the letter. He had kept it to the end deliberately, and to emphasise its importance, he once again set the scene.

  ‘Let me remind you of what I told you when I first began to address you on Friday. David Trelawney was lying on his bed suffering from a broken ankle caused by a fall, and from cancer of the prostate with traces of bone cancer. To alleviate the pain he was from time to time experiencing, he had been fitted with an apparatus called a syringe driver. This consisted of a syringe with a plunger resting horizontally on a rectangular syringe barrel holder placed on the bedside table to his right. From the syringe a thin tube led to what is called a ‘cannula’ or small tube inserted beneath the skin of Colonel Trelawney’s right breast and taped to his breast. The syringe was loaded with an analgesic, an opiate called diamorphine, and a small and strictly regulated dose of this drug flowed hourly through the tube and the cannula into his body. The syringe, held in position by a thin strap, sits on a shallow v-shaped recess on top of the syringe driver which prevents the barrel being accidentally pushed back over the plunger and the syringe contents emptied, while the plunger has also a clamp assembly which prevents the plunger from being accidentally advanced. Recessed dials set the rate of the supply of the drug – which in this case was set at 2 milligrams each hour. But, members of the jury, were the plunger assembly to be lifted, the syringe raised and the plunger determinedly pressed and held against the head of the syringe and held there until all the contents in that syringe emptied, a massive, indeed fatal, dose would be discharged into the patient.’

  Bracton paused, then he picked up from the desk beside him the syringe driver, an object no more than six inches long with the syringe lying along its top.

  ‘You will have the chance a little later in examining this for yourselves,’ he said. He put it back on the desk beside his papers. Next he told the jury that it was the duty of Colonel Trelawney’s young nurse, Miss Sylvia Langley whom they would shortly see and hear, to supervise the dose of diamorphine which the apparatus caused to flow automatically from the syringe into her patient. On June 21st, he said, she had been with the Colonel for several days and by then she and her patient were on very friendly terms, the Colonel ragging her and teasing her with great good humour.

  ‘On this, the morning of June 21st,’ Bracton went on, ‘David Trelawney was in particularly good spirits. But the good humour of the early morning did not last. At about half past ten he received a telephone call, and thereafter his mood changed. He became depressed and anxious, for now he was expecting a visitor, a visitor whom he did not wish to receive; a visitor who had forced himself on him; a visitor of whom the nurse will tell you, David Trelawney was scared.’ Here Bracton paused. ‘The telephone call came from the accused. The visitor was the accused, who came at about two o’clock and at once engineered that the nurse should leave him alone with her patient. When the accused left that house between the hours of four and five on that afternoon, David Trelawney was dead.’

  Bracton paused again. ‘But before the visit of the accused, David Trelawney had written a letter which was posted by Mrs Jackson, his daily cleaner on her way home. It bears the postmark of this city, 12 noon on June 21st, some four hours before Colonel Trelawney’s death.’

  He held up a letter in his hand. ‘It was written,’ he continued, ‘to an old friend, a Major Lightwood who, however only read it several days after David Trelawney was dead. Major Lightwood was so concerned with what that letter contained that he took it to a solicitor, a Mr Symes who in turn gave it to the police. In a moment I shall read that letter to you.’

  Bracton laid down the letter as he went on, speaking now gravely and slowly.

  ‘The case for the Crown is that at some time on that afternoon when the two men wer
e alone together, perhaps when David Trelawney was dozing as the drug at that time often caused him to do, the accused went to the syringe driver on that bedside table, raised the plunger assembly and the syringe from the syringe driver and pressed that plunger so that the whole of its contents were emptied into the body of David Trelawney. He did that, the Crown say, with the deliberate intention of murdering David Spencer Trelawney. That at some time he handled that apparatus, there can be no doubt, because his fingerprints were on that syringe driver and on that syringe. So you will ask yourselves, why should his fingerprints be on that apparatus? Why should the accused, Colonel Trelawney’s unwelcome visitor, have tampered with that syringe which fed the drug that was flowing in strictly limited and regulated doses, if it wasn’t as the Crown contend, to accomplish the murder of David Trelawney?’

  Bracton paused again. ‘The next question you may ask yourselves is why? Why should the accused want to murder David Trelawney? What was his motive for wanting to kill?’

  Bracton bent forward and picked up the letter again. ‘This letter, members of the jury, written by David Trelawney only a few hours before his death, may supply you with the answer. In short the answer is that Trelawney alive stood between the accused and the accused’s family money, money the accused needed. To get that money, he needed Trelawney dead.’

  Then in more matter-of-fact tones, he told the usher to give to the jury type-written copies of the letter so that they could follow it as he read it to them, and in complete silence, the usher distributed the documents. Graham Harris took his copy from among his papers.

  Shelbourne looked more bored than ever. Virginia studied the impassive figure in the dock. What was he feeling, she wondered. All she could see of him was his profile, the head bent, his face a mask.

  When the jury were ready, Bracton began to read. ‘Letter addressed to Major Francis Lightwood, 12 Belvedere Mansions, Kensington, SW8, dated Friday June 21st, inside a plain white envelope postmarked twelve noon June 21st:

  My dear Frankie,

  I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch before but I’ve been rather poorly lately. I’m still not too good – but the quack has promised I’ll soon improve. At the moment I’m in bed because like a fool I tripped and broke my ankle – a damn nuisance, as I’m waiting to go into hospital, the Georgie 6th, for treatment. They’ve fitted me out with a confounded contraption strapped to my chest which pumps some bloody drug into me to keep down the pain – which I must say had been getting pretty bad, particularly the ankle. All very Heath Robinson, but it seems to be helping – and it’s only for a week until there’s a room in hospital where they’ll give me the works, which should do the trick and buy me some extra time. Anyhow I’m looking forward to getting there and starting it. Afterwards they’re packing me off to a Home, as they say I oughtn’t to live on my own. I said I’d be damned if I’d be shoved into some suburban villa stinking of stewed cabbage, so I came up with St Edward’s at Send – pretty grand and bloody expensive. So my number’s not yet up, Frankie, altho’ I know you’ll say it’s about time it was! Meanwhile I’m guarded here by a plump little nurse – quite pretty. You’d fancy her – not that you’re capable at your advanced old age!

  But if you’re ever near Send in a few weeks time, pop in to St Edward’s so that we can have a gossip. I haven’t encouraged visitors here with this confounded thing on my chest, but this morning I heard from Beau’s son, Jonathan Playfair. He’s just telephoned and bloody well insists on coming this afternoon, damn him.

  Indirectly, he’s paying the bills, which is rather a joke, because the money comes from Beau’s trust through a solicitor, Symes in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Under old Beau’s will, if ever I got really ill the trust has to pay the bills. Beau knew I’d never have the cash to pay for it myself. He was very fond of me and I of him. The net of it is that a hefty chunk gets switched from JP to me, much to his lordship’s annoyance, particularly as I’ve heard he’s lost a packet at Lloyd’s. Half a million, I’m told! So now he’s broke and through me being ill he’s losing the trust money, which is going on my quack’s bills and will cover my costs at St Edward’s. He’s bloody sore and I expect he’s coming to check on how much longer I can last and how long the trust will have to go on paying. He’ll be in for a shock when I tell him I’m good for some time yet. So he’ll probably stuff a pillow over my face to hurry me off!’

  Bracton paused in his reading and looked at the jury. Some of them raised their heads from the copies of the letter which they were following and looked up at the dock. Then Bracton went on with his reading:

  ‘If you hear I’ve snuffed it while he’s here today, you’ll know what to do! It’s funny to think that he and I grew up together, and we became sort of connected when Beau and Ma lived together. But if he tries to get funny about the money because he’s broke or tries to overturn the will or something, I’ve a bundle of letters here which will stop his nonsense. Some are from his lady-love and are about him. Some about the war, also about him. I’ve held on to them for years, as a kind of insurance. I want to keep them safe, so before I go to hospital next week, could I send them to you at Belvedere Mansions until I’ve moved into St Edward’s? Give me a call here if that’s all right and I’ll have them sent. I just don’t trust JP not trying to get his hands on them – or doing me some harm, and I feel pretty vulnerable with this contraption wired to me. He’s a malevolent old bastard under that smooth, respectable appearance, and it would suit him bloody well to have me out of the way.

  When you read this, I can hear you say old Trelawney’s gone paranoiac in his old age! I probably have, but all I know is I’m scared of what JP might get up to and I feel pretty helpless. Once, in the war, I saved his precious skin – and more than that. But that’s half a century ago! God, we’re old, Frankie. Remember our first show, the raid on that radio station in 1941? The war wasn’t such a bad time, was it? We did our bit all right, and we had some good times. It seems another world now, a long way from all this politically correct balls!

  Well, I’m scribbling much too much, but it will be good to hear from you. Let me know if I can park my ‘insurance’ with you – and look after yourself, Frankie boy. See you at Send.

  Yours, David’

  Bracton waited until the heads of all the jury had lifted as they finished reading. Then he again held up the letter. ‘As I said, Francis Lightwood received this letter after David Trelawney was dead. Because of what it contained, Major Lightwood took it to Mr George Symes, the solicitor. Mr Symes in turn handed it to the police.’ Bracton placed the letter back among his papers.

  ‘The defence have informed the prosecution that they do not require the attendance at this court to give oral evidence before you of either Major Lightwood or Mr Symes. They are content that their formal statements be read to you. As a result, these statements will then become as much evidence as if Major Lightwood and Mr Symes had attended and given evidence here before you this morning.’ He paused again. ‘With those final observations, members of the jury, I conclude all I wish to say to you at this stage. It is time now for the evidence, starting with the formal statements of Major Lightwood and Mr Symes, which will be read to you by Mr Graves, who appears with me for the prosecution.’

  He sat and Brian Graves rose. ‘Statement,’ Graves began, ‘of Major Francis Mulleneux Lightwood, holder of the Military Cross, Major retired, company director, of 12 Belvedere Mansions, Kensington, London, SW8, who says:

  I have known the deceased, David Spencer Trelawney, since we served together in the Special Forces in 1940 in World War Two. We were friends for fifty years.

  After I left the army in 1955 I went into business and had many interests in Sydney, New South Wales, Australia, where I visit regularly.

  David Trelawney was at one time living in Paris, but he used to come and stay at my flat in Belvedere Mansions. Later, when he moved back to the UK, we used to meet and kept in touch by telephone or letter.

  I had not seen so much
of him over the last eighteen months and then in May I heard he was ill. I wrote to him, but I had no reply before I left for a trip to Sydney on June 8th. I returned to London on July 6th. At my home, among my unopened mail, I found a letter from David Trelawney.’

  Graves here held up the letter which Bracton had just read and then continued:

  ‘I look now at a manuscript letter dated June 21st. I recognise the handwriting as that of my friend, David Trelawney. I first saw it on July 7th when I opened my post after my return from Sydney. On that day, and before I had a chance to reply, I went to the Special Forces Club for lunch. While waiting for my guest, I saw a notice pinned to the notice board of the club which announced the death at his home in Hampshire on June 21st of Colonel David Trelawney DSO, MC and Bar. I had the letter in my pocket and I saw at once that David Trelawney had died on the very day on which he had written to me about the visit to him of Jonathan Playfair.

  That afternoon I took the letter (Exhibit 6) and handed it to Mr George Symes of 29 Lincolns Inn Fields.

  Signed, Francis Lightwood.

  ‘That,’ said Graves, ‘is the statement of Francis Lightwood.’ He put down the document, took up another and again began to read. ‘The statement of George Walters Symes Esquire, Solicitor to the Supreme Court, senior partner of Symes and Lester, Solicitors, of 29 Lincolns Inn Fields, London, WC2, who says:

  I am a trustee of a trust established under the will of Captain Merryworth ‘Beau’ Playfair, Villa des Pins, Antibes, France, who died in 1965. Under the terms of that trust, the income was to be paid to Mrs Annette Trelawney during her life, and on her death to Captain Playfair’s son, Jonathan Playfair (now Sir Jonathan), his heirs and successors. However there was a feature in the provisions in the will establishing this trust, namely that the trust should remain in existence until the death of Mrs Annette Trelawney’s son, Colonel David Trelawney, and only then would the capital pass to Sir Jonathan Playfair; or, if Jonathan Playfair had predeceased David Trelawney, to Jonathan Playfair’s heirs and successors. This was because the will provided that, in certain circumstances, the income of the trust which Jonathan Playfair was to receive after Mrs Trelawney’s death was to be switched from Jonathan Playfair to David Trelawney.