For, in his will, Captain ‘Beau’ Playfair declared that he had always had great affection for Colonel David Trelawney, and had helped him generously in the past, but was making no immediate provision for him because, if he did, he knew that David Trelawney would inevitably squander it. However, if the trustees at any time were satisfied that, by reason of war wounds or serious illness or by the onset of old age, Colonel Trelawney was in urgent need of major medical treatment or residential care in a home, the costs of which he was unable to bear himself, the trustees were required to discharge all such bills and medical fees as a first charge on the income of the trust and before any of the income was paid to the testator’s son, Jonathan Playfair. In discharging this obligation, the trustees were also empowered to advance capital.
Since 1978, when Mrs Annette Trelawney died, the income of the trust had been paid to Sir Jonathan Playfair, but in April of last year the trustees received notice from Colonel Trelawney that he was seriously ill and in need of urgent medical attention and that he had not himself the means to pay for it. In May and early June the trustees investigated Colonel Trelawney’s financial situation and received medical reports and estimates of future cost of treatment at the King George VI Memorial Hospital and an estimate of the weekly cost of residing in St Edward’s Residential Home in Send, Surrey.
After satisfying themselves that the colonel was virtually destitute, the trustees duly paid his immediate medical bills out of the income of the trust, and set about accumulating monies to meet the further anticipated costs. As a result, from May of last year, all income from the trust which had hitherto been paid to Sir Jonathan Playfair ceased.
On June 18th last year I visited Colonel Trelawney at his home and interviewed his doctor, Dr Oliver Mitchell. On June 19th I saw Sir Jonathan in London and explained to him that he could not now expect to receive any more income from the trust. I was apologetic, because he told me he had sustained very serious losses as a result of his membership of a particular syndicate at Lloyd’s, as had other members of his family. Sir Jonathan told me that he had received an account from his members’ agent and that in this very month, July, he had been called upon to pay £500,000. To raise this, he told me, he would have to mortgage all he had, including his judicial pension, and that he would be almost destitute. Thus, he said, the loss of income from the trust arising from Colonel Trelawney’s illness would be a severe blow. While I expressed regret, I had to warn him that, having regard to the estimates, substantial inroads might have to be made into the capital of the trust and that, were Colonel Trelawney to survive for long, I feared that there would be very little of the capital of the trust remaining.
On June 23rd I was informed of the death of David Trelawney. As I have said, the consequence of this would have been that the Playfair trust would have been wound up, and the capital would have reverted to Sir Jonathan, but before this had been completed Major Francis Lightwood came to see me on July 7th and handed to me the letter (Exhibit 6). I had read in the newspapers about a police enquiry into the death of Colonel David Trelawney, and when I had received the letter I considered it my duty to inform the police about its existence. Accordingly, on July 8th I handed it to Detective-Inspector Johnson. Signed, George Symes, Solicitor of the Supreme Court.’
Brian Graves resumed his seat. Bracton said, ‘Call Miss Sylvia Langley.’ And, amid a rustle of expectancy and interest as the spectators turned to look towards the entrance, the first witness in the case was led by the usher into the court.
9
A DUMPY figure, with fair hair and a pleasant, open face, she climbed the half-dozen steps to the witness-box unsteadily, not because she was old or infirm, for she was in her early twenties, but because she was nervous and very conscious that every eye was upon her. In the box she gripped the rail with both hands to stop them trembling, holding it so fiercely that the whites of her knuckles showed.
‘Take the Testament in your right hand and repeat after me…’ The voice came from slightly below her and she stared uncomprehendingly at the man in the wig who had spoken. From behind her the usher came forward and handed her the book. She took it. ‘No,’ he whispered, ‘the right hand.’ She transferred the book from her left hand and read from the card: ‘I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’ Her voice was shaking, hardly carrying across the court. The usher took the book from her and she waited, her knees tensed, her hands back on the rail.
She had been told by the detective outside the court that the judge would be on her left, and now she looked towards the wigged head bent over the documents in front of him. When he looked up she was surprised by the young face. She had expected someone older, fiercer. She did not look to her right, for there she knew would be the man she had not seen since the day her patient had died. Facing her, across the well of the court, was the jury-box and the twelve jurors. The five women and seven men.
Starting on Friday afternoon and during most of this morning they had been listening to Richard Bracton, and now, at last, a person had appeared who would give substance to a name and put flesh on the bare bones of the story Bracton had told them. They eyed her expectantly as they waited to hear from her lips what had happened on Midsummer Day over eight months ago.
‘Is your name Sylvia Langley?’ Richard Bracton began.
‘Yes,’ the witness answered, her voice hardly audible.
‘Where do you live?’
No-one could hear her reply. Bracton smiled at her encouragingly. ‘Miss Langley, you must speak up. The ladies and gentlemen here’ – he waved a hand towards the jury-box – ‘must be able to hear what you say, as well as my lord on the bench – not to mention defence counsel sitting beside me. So please raise your voice. We all want to hear what you have to say.’
‘I’m sorry,’ the girl said, louder, but her voice shaking.
Poor child, Jonathan thought. It is always an ordeal giving evidence. He had not looked at her when she had been sworn, but he remembered what she looked like. Now he raised his eyes as, for the second time and more loudly, she gave her address. She is plumper than I remember, he thought, and dropped his eyes again.
Virginia made a note on her pad: hardly out of her ’teens, round face, fair hair – dyed.
Shelbourne studied her, brooding over her, noting her figure and the soft mouth. I wonder, he thought. It would be a risk but it might come off.
She was, she said, her voice gradually increasing in strength and confidence, a state-registered nurse of five years’ experience and in June of last year had been engaged by Dr Oliver Mitchell to nurse an elderly man, Colonel David Trelawney, who was bedridden from a broken ankle and was awaiting admission to the King George VI Memorial Hospital for Officers at Windleshot for treatment for cancer.
‘Would you please look at this?’ said Bracton.
The usher handed her the syringe driver, a flat rectangular object, about six inches long and two or three inches deep, with a syringe laid along its top.
‘What is that?’ Bracton asked.
‘It is the syringe and barrel holder of a powered syringe driver which automatically injects a drug, in this case diamorphine. The doctor had fitted this up for Colonel Trelawney, with a cannula strapped to his chest beneath the skin below the right breast. It was to keep him free from pain, from his ankle as well as his cancer, while he was awaiting admission to hospital.’ She pointed to the pencil-like object. ‘That is the syringe. From this the drug, in this case diamorphine, flows down the tube and beneath the skin. The amount is controlled by a dial which was set to allow only 2 milligrams an hour to enter the patient’s body.’ The gadget was handed to the jury. The middle-aged woman next to the youngest of the men who sat on the end of the front row looked at it with distaste and quickly handed it on.
The doctor, the witness was saying, filled the apparatus daily with 50 milligrams of diamorphine. As 2 milligrams entered the patient each hour, that lasted for just over twenty-four hours, but becaus
e the doctor was to be away for a few days attending a conference in Bristol, and so unable to pay his daily visit, on Friday June 20th he had filled the apparatus with 220 milligrams, enough to last for the four days he expected to be away. She was in charge of monitoring it and ensuring that only the prescribed 2 milligrams an hour passed into the patient from the syringe to the cannula taped to his chest. This was, she added, until he got to hospital.
‘Did Colonel Trelawney ever say anything about his admission to hospital in the presence of the accused?’ Bracton asked. Jonathan looked up at the witness and smiled. For the first time she looked at him, but she did not return his smile.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘When he came to visit on the afternoon of June 21st. I heard the colonel explain about the apparatus and say he wouldn’t have it for long because soon he was going to hospital for proper treatment, to which he was much looking forward.’ She stopped, and then said in a rush: ‘The colonel was alway saying how much he was looking forward to getting to hospital. He said he wasn’t ready to die yet and—’
‘We can’t have that,’ Bracton interrupted. ‘We can only have what was said when the accused was present.’
Shelbourne, seated beside Bracton, sighed heavily and shook his head. ‘We can’t have it,’ he whispered, loud enough for the jury to hear him, ‘but of course we have.’
Bracton paused, and looked at him. Then went on: ‘On Friday June 21st, did you bring him breakfast at eight-thirty?’
‘I did.’
‘And was he at that time quite cheerful, his usual cheery self?’
‘That’s a leading question.’
It was the voice of Shelbourne, very sharp, loud enough for everyone in the court to hear him. ‘Please do not lead the witness,’ he said.
The heads of the jury swung round and twelve pairs of eyes stared at him. He had decided it was time to make his presence felt and Bracton had given him the chance. Graham raised his eyes from his papers.
‘Is my friend really suggesting,’ exclaimed Bracton, ‘that this is important?’
Were they going to start squabbling already, Graham thought nervously. Shelbourne was on his feet.
‘Mr Bracton,’ he said, ‘must not put words into the mouth of his witness, not at this time nor at any time. If he does it once without correction, he’ll do it again. We’ve already had from the witness alleged remarks by the deceased not made in the presence of the accused.’
‘I did not understand,’ Bracton replied, slightly flustered, ‘that there was any conflict over whether Colonel Trelawney was looking forward to being admitted to hospital or not, nor what his mood when he was brought breakfast that morning. But since my learned friend appears to attach importance to it, I shall of course re-phrase the question.’
‘Please do, Mr Bracton,’ Graham muttered.
‘Tell us, Miss Langley,’ Bracton resumed, ‘how did your patient seem when you brought him his breakfast that morning?’
‘Quite cheerful, his usual cheery self,’ she replied, repeating Bracton’s words.
‘Was there at this time a telephone –’ Bracton stopped. He turned to look down at Shelbourne. ‘But perhaps my friend considers that a leading question?’
Shelbourne waved his hand dismissively. Bracton turned back to the witness. ‘Was there anything, apart from the apparatus and his medicines, on the table by his bed?’
‘Yes. A telephone.’
‘At any time that morning, did your patient in your presence use that telephone?’
‘When I came into the room at about ten o’clock I saw him replacing it, as though he had just been speaking.’
‘Just answer this ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Did he then say something to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘When Colonel Trelawney spoke to you after you saw him replacing the telephone receiver, did he seem the same as he had been, what you described as ‘his usual cheery self’?’
‘Not after the telephone call. He’d changed.’
‘In what way had he changed?’
‘He was not at all jokey. He seemed –’ She paused and then added, ‘He seemed worried.’
‘Did you have a visitor that afternoon?’
‘Yes, him.’ She nodded her head towards the dock. ‘He came at about two o’clock. I took him to Colonel Trelawney’s bedroom.’
‘What did Colonel Trelawney say?’
‘He said hello and explained about the syringe and the diamorphine and his broken ankle. It was after that that the colonel said how keen he would be to get rid of the apparatus and get into hospital. But he seemed very nervous and unhappy, very different, as if –’ She paused again.
‘Go on,’ said Bracton quietly, ‘as if what?’
‘As if he was scared,’ she said.
‘Of what?’
‘Of the accused.’
After a pause Bracton went on briskly: ‘Had you had any conversation with the accused before this?’
‘Yes, when I let him in. He seemed very interested in how Colonel Trelawney was and enquired about the treatment and said he’d be happy to stay the afternoon with the colonel as the two of them had much to talk about, and that if I liked I could go out for a few hours.’
‘Were you pleased at this?’
‘Well, I was quite pleased at the chance of getting some fresh air, but not with him for suggesting it. I wasn’t going to take it from him, knowing that the colonel was so worried about seeing him.’
‘Did he say anything about how long he’d remain with Colonel Trelawney?’
‘He said until I got back.’
‘And did he?’
‘No. He was gone when I got back at four o’clock.’
‘Did that surprise you?’
‘It did, very much. The colonel said I could go out, but he was prompted by the accused.’
‘Before you left the house, did you—’
‘Please do not lead the witness.’ It was Shelbourne again, very loud. Bracton cursed himself silently for his slip, cleared his throat and corrected himself. ‘What did you do?’ he asked.
‘I checked the apparatus and the dial which regulated the flow of the drug and also the syringe and saw it was all normal and in proper working order. Then I left and returned at four o’clock, as I had promised.’
‘Was the accused still there?’
‘No. When I let myself in there was no one downstairs and I thought he must be upstairs, but when I went to the room he wasn’t there. He’d told me he’d stay until I got back, but he hadn’t.’
‘What did you find when you went into Colonel Trelawney’s room?’
‘The curtains had been drawn – to keep out the sunlight, I supposed.’
‘What was the first thing you did?’
‘I went to the table on which the dial stood and turned on the bedside light to check it. It was as I had left it. Normal. I didn’t then notice the syringe was empty.’
Bracton looked down at his papers and paused. Then asked, very quietly, ‘But your patient, what of your patient?’
She raised her hand to her throat. ‘I could see he was very still, lying on his side. I thought he was sleeping, but when I took a closer look I saw he wasn’t breathing. He was dead.’
There was silence in the courtroom. Bracton looked up at the clock on the wall to his left, and then at the judge. Priestly, sitting beside the judge on his left, leaned over and touched Graham’s arm, indicating the clock. It was ten past one.
‘We’ll adjourn now,’ Graham said. ‘Ten past two.’
He rose and, followed by the High Sheriff and Priestly, left the bench.
* * *
It was mid-afternoon by the time the examination-in-chief of Nurse Langley was concluded. ‘Wait there, please, Miss Langley,’ Bracton said and sat down.
Shelbourne rose to his feet. Virginia could see his face under the grey wig. It was very dark and grim. For a time he remained looking down at the papers on the desk in front of him; then he hitched up his gown
around his shoulders, raised his head and looked across the court at the woman in the witness-box. Still he said nothing. No note had come to him from the dock during her evidence so he had no instructions from Playfair to challenge anything she had said, but she was the first witness in the case and he was not going to let her leave the witness-box without some questions.
‘I’m going to chance my arm’, he had said to Benjamin at the lunch adjournment. If it didn’t come off, he’d said, they’d be no worse off.
Suddenly he began. ‘Whom did you meet on the afternoon of June 21st?’
She did not answer immediately, and because she hesitated Shelbourne knew instinctively that he was all right. He waited, standing very still, looking at her. Then she said: ‘A friend.’
‘A man friend?’ he asked.
More hesitation. ‘Yes,’ she replied.
‘His name?’ The girl looked at the judge. ‘His name?’ Shelbourne repeated, still very quietly.
‘Do I have to –’ She looked at Graham, who in turn looked at Shelbourne, but he was standing, rigid, his face turned away from the judge, facing the witness. Graham saw Shelbourne was not going to give way.
‘Yes,’ he said to the witness. ‘You must answer counsel’s question.’
‘His name?’ Shelbourne repeated, this time even more sharply.
‘Matthew Barnes.’
Shelbourne decided to risk it further. ‘Is Mr Barnes your boyfriend?’
‘Yes.’
‘By that, do you mean he’s your lover?’
She coloured slightly and again turned towards the judge. Graham said to Shelbourne, ‘Is this relevant, Mr Shelbourne?’
‘It is,’ Shelbourne replied shortly, still not looking at the judge. Only after a pause did he add, ‘my lord.’
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