Indictment for Murder

by Peter Rawlinson

  Graham, his heart beating fast, looked down at his papers. ‘I must rely on you, Mr Shelbourne,’ he said.

  ‘You may,’ Shelbourne said, smiling slightly. And then, again after a pause, ‘my lord.’

  Graham said to the witness, ‘You must answer.’

  ‘He is,’ she said very quietly.

  Benjamin knew Shelbourne had gambled. As he had gone on to say during the lunch break: ‘She’s very young. She must have had good reason to have slipped out and left Trelawney alone with Playfair. And she looks the type. Look at her mouth.’

  Benjamin scribbled away in his notebook. Behind him a bemused-looking Harold Benson wondered what this had to do with it.

  Shelbourne went on: ‘So, on Saturday June 21st last, you had arranged to meet your lover?’

  ‘I hadn’t arranged it. I telephoned from a call-box when I left the house.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘To where he was working. The White Hart hotel.’

  ‘What does Mr Barnes do at the White Hart hotel?’

  ‘He looks after the bar.’

  ‘Mr Barnes is the barman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Had the barman expected you to call him on that afternoon?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I didn’t know I’d be free.’

  ‘So it was only when the accused said he’d stay with your patient that you were able to leave the house. Were you surprised at this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And pleased?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And excited?’

  The woman paused. ‘I wanted to see him.’

  ‘Why?’ She did not answer. ‘Why did you want to see him? Not, I’m sure, to play billiards or darts or the other games they get up to in Mr Barnes’ bar? But perhaps other games, with Mr Barnes himself?’

  He’s very sarcastic, thought the young jurywoman who had appeared on Friday in pink but had changed to a dark blouse and skirt for today. However two of the younger jurymen smiled.

  The woman did not reply. She looked down at her hand gripping the rail of the witness-box. Shelbourne went on: ‘At any rate, Miss Langley, on the afternoon of the 21st, before you left the house, you were feeling very excited at the prospect of a meeting which had come about so unexpectedly?’

  She had coloured again. ‘Yes,’ she said, so quietly that the jurors could hardly hear her.

  ‘And where did you meet Mr Barnes?’

  Again she paused. Then she said, ‘At the White Hart.’

  ‘In the bar?’

  ‘No, he met me at the door.’

  ‘And after he’d met you at the door, where did you go?’ She did not reply. ‘To his room?’ Still no answer. ‘To his room in the White Hart hotel?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  ‘His bedroom?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And when you got to his bedroom, what did you do?’ Again she did not reply. ‘Well, you hadn’t gone to his room just to talk, had you?’ Again she did not reply. ‘Oh, come, Miss Langley. You went to his bedroom to do what lovers usually do in bedrooms, didn’t you? You went to make love, what you hoped you were going to do from the moment you left the house. Isn’t that what you were doing on the afternoon of June 21st – making love?’ The witness nodded. ‘Please answer,’ Shelbourne said cheerfully. ‘The shorthand writer has to take down your evidence and he can’t record a nod, can he?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes, the shorthand writer can take down a nod, or yes, you did make love on the afternoon of June 21st?’

  The middle-aged jurywoman with blue-rinsed hair shifted uncomfortably in her seat. The youngest of the juryman at the end of the front row put his hand to his mouth to hide a grin.

  ‘We made love,’ the witness said.

  ‘Earlier in your evidence, in answer to my learned friend, you said you were pleased to have the opportunity to get out of the house. He paused. ‘In order to get some fresh air.’ He paused again. ‘Not much fresh air in the barman’s bedroom in the White Hart was there, Miss Langley?’

  She didn’t reply and Shelbourne looked at the jury. Then he changed his tone. ‘Was that why you were so late in getting back to your patient, because of your love-making with your barman?’

  At this she flared up. ‘I was not late back.’

  ‘Weren’t you? Had not the accused said he could stay only until four o’clock?’

  ‘He may have. I got back at four – or soon after.’

  ‘I suggest it was nearer five o’clock when you got back to the house and returned to your duties.’

  ‘No, it was nearer four o’clock.’

  ‘Was it?’ Shelbourne consulted a sheet of paper on the desk in front of him. ‘I see that it was at five-forty-five you telephoned the doctor’s office and reported that while you were out your patient had died. What were you doing for the hour and three-quarters from when you returned from –’ he paused, ‘from your tryst … from your tryst with the barman?’

  When she still did not answer he said: ‘You told us this morning you were surprised to find the accused was not in the house when you returned and that you went to the sickroom, which was dark because the curtains were drawn. You turned on the bedside lamp and immediately checked the dial of the apparatus.’

  ‘And I found it was normal, as I had left it,’ she replied, defiantly. Shelbourne stared at her. Then he threw down the paper he was holding. ‘Did you,’ he asked quietly, ‘did you check the apparatus when you returned?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Miss Langley, on that afternoon, quite unexpectedly, you had been presented with the opportunity of seeing Mr Barnes. You were pleased and excited. Are you certain you checked that apparatus before you rushed away to arrange – how shall I put it? – a tryst with your lover?’

  ‘Of course I am. It was my duty to do that. I wouldn’t neglect my duty.’

  ‘But you did, didn’t you? You neglected your duty by going out at all, and by getting back later than you had promised. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘No, it is not. I wasn’t back late.’

  ‘Then what were you doing between the time when you say you got back – soon, you say, after four o’clock – and five-forty-five when you telephoned Doctor Mitchell’s office?’

  ‘I – I was trying to revive my patient. Then I couldn’t get through to the doctor. They couldn’t find him. I was terribly shocked when I found the colonel was dead and I, I sort of panicked and—’

  ‘Panicked? You, a trained nurse, panicked? Is that what you want us to believe, in order to explain away why it took you one hour and three-quarters before you reported that Colonel Trelawney was dead?’

  ‘I told you, I was very shocked when I saw he was dead.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’m sure you were, for Colonel Trelawney died when you were making love to your barman. Was that why you panicked?’

  ‘No, no. I was very upset. He was quite all right when I left and when—’

  ‘I suggest, Miss Langley, you knew perfectly well that under no circumstances should you have left your patient that afternoon?’

  ‘I told you, when I left he was all right and—’

  ‘You left him with a massive dose of diamorphine in that apparatus, and when you got back he was dead. When you saw he was dead, what did you think had caused his death?’

  ‘I knew it was the diamorphine that had killed him, an overdose of diamorphine.’

  ‘And from where had that overdose of diamorphine come?’

  ‘From the syringe. He must have received more of the diamorphine than he should, so when I saw him lying there I rushed to the dial and—’

  ‘Miss Langley,’ Shelbourne interrupted sharply. ‘You told us that the very first thing you did when you returned was to check the apparatus. Why do you now say you rushed to the machine after you had found that your patient was dead?’

  ‘Because – because, when I saw what
had happened to him I rushed back to the machine to see if there’d been any fault. – It was then I saw that the syringe was empty.’

  ‘Miss Langley, you told us that the prescribed dose administered by that machine from that syringe was 2 milligrams per hour, just enough to relieve pain; and that the doctor supervised the amount daily. You also told us that the syringe was normally filled only with 50 milligrams, not enough to cause death even if the whole of the contents were pumped into the patient.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘And you told us that on this weekend, as Dr Mitchell was unable to visit because he was attending an important medical conference in Bristol and would be away for several days, he had loaded the apparatus with 220 milligrams.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which meant that over those few days it was very important that you should remain on duty to check that the machine was working properly and only supplying the appropriate amount of diamorphine?’

  ‘Of course, that was why I checked it.’

  ‘Because you knew that if all the diamorphine in that syringe had been pumped in one dose into your patient’s vein that could have killed him. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘It is, but—’

  ‘And, knowing that the apparatus was loaded with far more of the drug than was usual, and knowing how vital it was to keep checking regularly, nevertheless you abandoned your patient so that you could go to your barman. Isn’t that what you did?’

  By now her eyes were filled with tears. ‘Yes. No, no.’ As she struck the rail of the witness-box with her hand clenched into a small fist, the tears began to run down her cheeks. ‘Before I left the house I checked everything.’

  ‘Did you? Do you swear to that?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I checked it before I left and the flow was quite normal. It was working perfectly, as it had been all week, injecting 2 milligrams an hour. But someone must have interfered with it and pumped the whole of the diamorphine into him. That must have been done by hand. You know that was what happened, and you know your client’s fingerprints are on the—’

  ‘Miss Langley, we are at present dealing with your evidence, not that of anyone else—’

  ‘But you know that your client must have touched it because his fingerprints are—’

  ‘Miss Langley, others will give their evidence all in good time. At the moment we are listening to your evidence and that of no-one else. Now please answer my questions. Do you swear you checked that apparatus before you ran off to your lover’s bedroom at the White Hart and checked it when you came back, almost an hour late?’

  ‘I tell you, I did. When I left and when I came back. I knew it was quite safe to go out for a few hours and I was entitled to—’

  ‘Entitled? Are you saying you were entitled to leave a patient like that and go off to your lover! Is that what you are telling the jury?’

  ‘There was no danger and—’

  ‘Wasn’t there, Miss Langley? How can you possibly say there was no danger? Your patient died when you were with Matthew Barnes. Wasn’t it a wicked thing to have done, to leave that man lying there with that potentially lethal dose in the syringe and the tube strapped to his chest? Wasn’t that a wicked and irresponsible thing to have done? Wasn’t it, Miss Langley, wasn’t it?’

  Without giving her a chance to answer his final barrage of questions, Shelbourne flung down his papers on the desk in front of him and sat down.

  The woman was now leaning over the witness-box, sobbing. ‘No, no, no. It was that man who did it while I was away. He touched the syringe. It was him who pumped in the diamorphine. You know it was him who did it.’ She was pointing now at Jonathan. ‘He pumped in that overdose. He killed him.’

  She stopped, and the court was very silent. Graham looked at the clock. It was past four o’clock. ‘We’ll rise now,’ he said, relieved. ‘Tomorrow morning, half past ten.’ And he left the court.

  Shelbourne, accompanied by Benjamin and followed by a bewildered Harold Benson, sauntered casually over to the side of the dock. James and Mary Playfair were already there. Jonathan was just leaving. He looked at Shelbourne. ‘I told you there was no challenge to the evidence of the nurse. Why did you treat her like that?’ he said coldly. ‘It was contrary to my instruction, and it was unnecessarily brutal.’

  He walked away, followed by James and Mary. Shelbourne stared after him; then, with a growl, he swung away. Virginia came through the crowd. ‘Hugo,’ she began, putting a hand on his arm. ‘That was—’ He brushed off her hand. ‘Not now, Virginia, not now.’ He pushed past her and disappeared.

  In the car, on the journey back to Pembroke House, Jonathan said nothing until they had entered the drive. ‘Shelbourne had no need to do that to her,’ he said at last. ‘All he wanted was to make some kind of a show. And he did – at her expense.’ He disappeared into his rooms. James and Mary stood in the hall. ‘What was he on about?’ said James. ‘What was so wrong with what Shelbourne did? I thought he made the girl look pretty irresponsible. She could have been wrong about checking the dial and so on. Why’s he so bloody angry?’

  Mary shook her head. ‘I don’t understand him,’ James went on. ‘I never have and I never will.’

  And the two of them went into their own part of the house.

  10

  IN the robing-room Shelbourne tore off his wig and almost flung it at his clerk. Isles caught it and helped Shelbourne off with his gown and court coat. Not a word was said. Benjamin watched the grim expression on Shelbourne’s face – he had heard a lot about Shelbourne’s temper. For once Shelbourne brushed aside the photographers when he emerged from the building and crossed the courtyard to the wicket gate leading to the path down the hill to the city which was reserved for the use of court officials and lawyers. Benjamin trotted along beside him.

  ‘What the devil did he expect?’ Shelbourne said at last. The cold of the late afternoon had not cooled his temper. ‘His only chance is for me to throw some doubt on the evidence, and that’s what I was doing – had the girl really checked the apparatus before she ran off to her barman? When I do, the bastard ticks me off!’

  Benjamin kept quiet. At the hotel they pushed through the swing door and came face to face with Harold Benson, obviously waiting for them, in the foyer. Behind him was a group of journalists.

  ‘Keep that buffoon out of my way,’ Shelbourne said as the rumpled figure, looking even more like a shabby schoolmaster than usual, advanced toward them. But there was no way they could avoid him.

  ‘Mr Shelbourne, I’m glad I’ve caught you,’ Harold began. ‘I wanted—’

  Hugo Shelbourne stopped, glared at him, then raised his right arm and shook a finger almost under Harold’s nose. ‘I don’t care a damn what you want. It’s what I want that matters.’

  ‘But, Mr Shelbourne—’

  ‘No buts, Mr Benson. Just listen to me – and then do what I tell you. What I want is for you to go out of that door, get into your car, drive to Pembroke House and—’

  ‘I expected to have—’ Harold began again.

  Shelbourne shouted at him: ‘Don’t interrupt me. Listen to me. You’re to go to Playfair and tell him from me that if he wants to see himself hanged, I don’t.’ He paused, and then went on sarcastically, ‘I’m speaking metaphorically, Mr Benson, in case you haven’t heard they abolished hanging thirty years ago.’

  ‘Well, really, Mr Shelbourne—’

  ‘Yes, really, Mr Benson. And you can tell him from me that the case aginst him could not be stronger and his bloody-mindedness is making it stronger still. For some reason, known only to him and the Almighty, that appears to be what he wants. Well, I don’t. Tell him that.’

  ‘I don’t think—’

  Shelbourne advanced even closer. ‘What you think doesn’t matter a damn. You are to do what I tell you. Playfair refused – God knows why – to allow Lightwood and Symes to come and give evidence. As a result I had no chance of trying to reduce the effect of what they had to say – which, le
t me tell you, could be fatal. But oh no, he didn’t want Lightwood or Symes called! There’s no conflict over their evidence, he said! They were telling the truth, he said, and there was nothing to get out of them, he said! Do you remember that?’

  ‘Yes, I do but—’

  ‘Well, you tell him that the jury have got the picture all right, and a pretty ugly picture it is, of a ruined and malevolent old man with every possible motive for knocking off his old friend. So you go to him and make him understand the danger he’s in. And do it now.’

  Richard Bracton and Brian Graves came through the swing-door. Shelbourne and Benjamin, facing Harold Benson, were blocking their way into the hotel. Bracton tried to brush past them. Shelbourne, seeing who it was, turned on him. ‘What are you trying to do? Eavesdrop?’

  Bracton, without a word, slipped past into the foyer. Benjamin took Shelbourne’s arm. ‘Let’s go to your room,’ he said. Shelbourne shook off his hand. ‘Not until I’m sure’ – he pointed at Harold – ‘that he understands what he’s to say to our stubborn and stupid client.’

  Harold had taken off his glasses and began miserably to polish them. ‘Have you understood what I’ve told you to do?’ Shelbourne added.

  ‘I understand perfectly that—’

  ‘Then go and do it. And remind him he’s briefed me to defend him and I intend to defend him in my own way and in his best interests, and if I believe it’s right to attack a witness and challenge the evidence, I shall. Tell him that.’

  He stalked past Harold to the staircase and mounted the stairs. Benjamin followed, resting his hand as if in apology on Harold’s arm as he passed, shrugging slightly. Harold turned, looked back towards Shelbourne, and shook his head in disbelief.

  Virginia was standing at the head of the staircase. ‘What was all that about, Hugo?’ she asked.

  ‘I can’t talk just at the moment.’ He smiled at her. After Friday night she had sensed what he had been feeling and the weekend had improved. She was, as she had said, a pro, like him; and as a pro she had reminded herself that the purpose of her coming that weekend had not been just for pleasure – it had been to make sure that when he returned to the trial on Monday she would be with him. So she had made sure he enjoyed Saturday and Sunday nights as much as he had disliked the one before.