Indictment for Murder

by Peter Rawlinson

  ‘The way the bastard did it – that’s what I can’t get over. Shouting at me in the court. If he wanted to get rid of me he could have asked the judge to adjourn, talked to me in private, and I’d have withdrawn, gladly.’

  ‘I think something snapped. I don’t think he could stop himself.’

  ‘Because I was asking the bloody doctor why he’d buggered off to play golf, leaving his patient in the care of that randy little tart who went off to fuck in a pub?’

  Isles was a lay preacher in Wembley and did not care for that kind of language. He cleared his throat noisily and snapped shut the catches of the suitcase. Shelbourne, knowing he was offended, ignored him. ‘I hope to God they convict the bastard.’

  ‘The Western Gazette man put you on to what the doctor had been doing?’

  ‘Yes. He’d been playing himself on the Saturday and knew Mitchell by sight. I thought it worth getting him to check at the club to see if Mitchell was also there on the Friday afternoon.’

  ‘And you were right.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Shall I collect your things from the hotel and pay the bill?’ Isles asked.

  ‘Yes, and when you get back to chambers send in a fee-note to that bloody solicitor. Make it as heavy as you can, and tell him we want the cheque before Playfair’s in prison.’

  ‘Will you be coming straight back to London?’ Isles asked.

  Shelbourne shook his head. ‘No, I’ll go to the country. I should be back tomorrow or the day after.’

  It depended on Virginia. He would take her home this evening and bring her to London when she needed to be back at her office.

  The cameras and the reporters crowded round them as they went from the court to the hotel, but Shelbourne just shook his head and shrugged his shoulders, as much as to say, ‘What can you expect? The man’s mad.’

  In the foyer they ran into Richard Bracton. ‘I’m sorry, Shelbourne,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not. I’m bloody glad to be out of it. You’ll get him now and it serves the bugger right. You just make sure you pot him.’

  Bracton walked away. Shelbourne had good reason to feel sore, for it had been a very public humiliation, but it was typical of him to talk like that with the place crawling with the press. He joined Brian Graves at tea in the lounge.

  ‘Do you think Playfair will go into the witness-box?’ Graves asked.

  ‘No, my guess is that he’ll make a statement from the dock which can’t be challenged.’

  ‘Then you won’t have to cross-examine him.’

  ‘No, I don’t think I shall. It should be plain sailing for us from now on.’

  At the reception desk Shelbourne was told that Miss Katz was up in their suite. On his way through the foyer he pushed past several journalists. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘No comment now. Plenty later.’ He put as brave a face on it as he could, grinning as he bounded up the stairs, waving to them cheerfully.

  The door of the sitting-room was open. Virginia was standing by the fireplace. ‘Poor old Hugo,’ she said. ‘Has he gone mad?’

  Shelbourne kicked the door shut behind him. ‘No more than he’s ever been. A crazy client, a half-witted solicitor and a judge hardly out of short pants! I’m glad to be shot of the whole bloody case.’ He went to the telephone by the bed. ‘I’ll ring down for a drink while we’re packing. Let’s get going as soon as we can.’

  ‘Get going, Hugo?’

  He was on the telephone, his back to her. ‘A large whisky-and-soda, a double, and’ – he looked over his shoulder – ‘a vodka-and-tonic?’ She shook her head. ‘Just a large whisky-and-soda. No vodka – and send it up immediately.’

  He replaced the receiver, picked it up again and started to dial. ‘I’ll warn Mrs Green at the house to expect us. I told her we wouldn’t be back until Friday evening. We can stop for dinner on the way.’

  She walked to the window and drew the curtains. ‘Hugo darling,’ she said over her shoulder, ‘you know I can’t leave here tonight. There’s a lot I have to do.’

  He turned and faced her, the telephone to his ear. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m covering the case for the magazine, remember? I’ve already been on to New York, and they’re calling me back here.’

  He replaced the receiver, staring at her. ‘I can’t stay here,’ he said.

  ‘Of course you can’t. No, you slip off, darling. You go home and lick your wounds and—’

  ‘Lick my wounds?’

  ‘You know what I mean, Hugo. I understand what you’re feeling and I’d love to come with you, but I have a job to do.’

  ‘A job?’

  ‘Of course. I have a story to write.’

  ‘So you won’t come with me?’

  ‘I can’t darling. I have to stay.’

  He put the telephone back on the table and looked at her. She was in a white blouse and dark skirt, very smart. She looked very cool. ‘Of course,’ he said at last. ‘You have to stay here, and to hell with everything else, including the friend who might, just at this moment, need you.’

  ‘Darling, be reasonable—’

  ‘Oh, I am. I’m trying to be very reasonable.’

  He walked over to the writing-table. On it was his brief-case and some of his papers. He threw them into the case. ‘Well, today will have given you some good material. How will it go? Ex-judge sacks Brief in murder trial. Dismissed lawyer slinks off in disgrace.’

  ‘Oh, come off it, Hugo! What happened today will have to be in the story, but it’s only a part. The trial’s not over.’

  He snapped shut the briefcase and turned. She was facing him, both hands in the pockets of her skirt. ‘I’m a journalist, Hugo. I told you, I’m a pro like you, and I’ve a job to do. I can’t leave here tonight. I’ve got to stay around. I’ve got to talk to the others, pick up the buzz—’

  ‘The buzz about me?’

  ‘No, darling, not about you. But about what Playfair will do now. I just can’t run off to—’

  ‘To be with me?’

  ‘Now listen Hugo.’

  ‘That’s what I said to Jonathan Playfair. Listen, I said. Listen to me. But he wouldn’t.’

  He walked past her towards the door, his briefcase in his hand. ‘And I don’t think I’m going to listen to you.’

  ‘Hugo, don’t get mad at me. You must understand I can’t leave now.’

  ‘I’ll send Isles to pick up my things.’ He was at the door. ‘Write a good article, Virginia. Make it as bitchy as I’m sure only you can make it. Make it very bitchy about the sacked barrister. And while you’re writing about him, put in what he was like in the sack. They’ll like that in New York.’

  He slammed the door behind him. A quarter of an hour later he was in his car driving fast for London.

  * * *

  At Pembroke House Jonathan was seated at his desk when Mason showed in Harold Benson. James and Mary were sitting side by side on the sofa.

  ‘Come in, Mr Benson,’ Jonathan said. ‘We’re having a family conference.’

  Mary was looking down at her hands, twisting the rings on her fingers.

  ‘About that bloody awful scene in court,’ said James.

  ‘It had to be done, James.’

  ‘I don’t see why. The fellow came all the way from London and everyone says he’s the best there is. Now you’ve got rid of him. I really don’t understand you, Jonathan. Do you, Mary?’

  ‘What’ll happen now?’ Mary said, still looking down at her hands twisting in her lap.

  ‘As I told you, I shall conduct my own defence.’

  ‘Isn’t there something they say about a damn fool being his own lawyer?’ said James. He shot out his legs and thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets. ‘The whole thing’s hell, and it’s getting worse.’

  ‘I had always planned to conduct my own defence, even after Mr Benson brought in Mr Shelbourne.’

  ‘It was essential to have counsel,’ Harold said.

  ‘It was. You were right.
I needed counsel to get bail. I couldn’t, in person, have applied for the exceptional step of being granted bail on a charge of murder. That would have been too difficult for my former colleagues on the bench. Only counsel of standing could do that. That was why I didn’t veto his coming. And Mr Shelbourne did it very well. But I was never going to keep him and I could not dispense with Mr Shelbourne’s services before the trial because I knew the application for bail had to be renewed at the trial. So I had to choose my time. I suspected that Mr Shelbourne, in order to make a personal show, would not resist attacking the prosecution witnesses, which was quite unnecessary. I might have dismissed him after the nurse’s evidence but I thought he’d probably also attack the doctor. At what I judged was the appropriate time I stopped him.’

  ‘You certainly did. You had everyone jumping out of their skins,’ said James. ‘Basildon nearly fell off his chair. That at least would have made for a laugh.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, James,’ said Mary.

  ‘Well, you certainly made a public ass of Hugo Shelbourne,’ James added.

  ‘It had to be done in the way I did it in order to mark, as I hope it later will, the difference between the advocate and’ – he looked at Harold – ‘myself. I hope that will help me with the jury.’

  Harold shook his head. ‘So it was quite deliberate?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Benson, it was quite deliberate. I know that Mr Shelbourne will suffer, but I couldn’t help that. For me the stakes are very high.’

  ‘They are for all of us,’ said James. ‘And what was all that in Symes’ statement about us all being ruined because of Lloyd’s? First I’ve heard of it.’

  Jonathan stood up. ‘Later, James, later. It’s not important now.’

  ‘It’s bloody important, if it’s true,’ said James.

  ‘I shall explain, I promise you. But later. Now, Mr Benson and I have some technical matters to discuss. I’ll see you, both at dinner.’

  ‘Well, you seem to have got back your appetite,’ James grumbled. ‘I hope you can make some sense of what he’s up to,’ he said to Harold as he and Mary went to the door. ‘I can’t.’

  Jonathan led Harold to his desk, ‘I want you to take care of these and bring them to court tomorrow.’ He handed Harold a bundle of documents and a small square box. They talked for some time, and then Harold returned to his office.

  At half past eight he entered the dining-room of the hotel and walked across the room to where Richard Bracton and Brian Graves were still at their dinner.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Benson,’ said Bracton, half-rising. ‘Will you have a glass of wine with us?’

  ‘I will, thank you.’ Benson sat. ‘I can confirm that Sir Jonathan will be defending himself from now on, and I shall be helping him.’

  ‘I expected that.’

  ‘He asked me to tell you that there’ll be some more cross-examination of the doctor, but none of Mr Fraser, the technician who examined the apparatus on the day after Colonel Trelawney died.’

  Bracton looked at Graves. ‘So he doesn’t challenge the evidence that the apparatus was working properly?’

  ‘No, there’s no challenge to that.’

  ‘That means,’ added Graves, ‘that he accepts that the apparatus had a mechanism which made it impossible for more than 2 milligrams an hour of diamorphine to pass through the syringe?’

  ‘That is so.’

  Bracton and Graves again exchanged glances. ‘Which means…’ Bracton began. Harold Benson completed his unfinished sentence. ‘Sir Jonathan accepts that the drug could only have entered Colonel Trelawney’s body by someone manually pressing and emptying the syringe.’

  Bracton drank some of his wine. ‘He understands criminal law and procedure well enough, so I don’t need to spell out the implications of that admission.’

  ‘No. He understands. He also told me to say that he would like Nurse Langley recalled for further cross-examination.’

  Bracton nodded. ‘Very well.’

  ‘There’s no challenge to the evidence of the cause of death nor to the fingerprint evidence.’

  ‘Then we shall be galloping along.’ said Bracton. ‘All that remains of the prosecution case is the police evidence.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Benson. Bracton and Graves waited but Harold said no more. Bracton asked, ‘Is that everything?’

  ‘He would like Mr Symes, the solicitor, to attend for cross-examination because he has, after all, one or two questions he would like to put to Mr Symes.’

  ‘I believe Mr Symes is abroad on a business trip, in Japan I seem to remember. He arranged the trip when he was told he was not required to give evidence.’

  ‘Sir Jonathan said that if you can’t get hold of Mr Symes immediately he would be quite content for Mr Symes to be interposed during the evidence for the defence.’

  ‘We’ll get him here as soon as possible. From what you say, it sounds as if the defence may take some time?’

  ‘It may, yes. He has some witnesses.’

  Bracton again exchanged glances with Graves. ‘You look tired, Mr Benson,’ he said.

  ‘I am. I’m not used to all this. I shall be very glad when it is over.’

  No-one spoke. Harold seemed to be lingering, looking over his shoulder, waiting for something. They heard voices, and Virginia with a party of three men came into the dining-room. Talking noisily, they went to a table in the corner. Harold turned to look at them. ‘I have one more task before I go home,’ he said. Then he rose from the table and bowed. ‘Thank you, for the wine. It was very welcome.’

  Bracton and Graves watched as he crossed the room to Virginia’s table. As he approached she was throwing back her head, laughing. They saw Harold stop at her table, but they were too far away to hear what was said. ‘Shelbourne’s lady friend,’ said Bracton, ‘hasn’t lost much time in finding consolation.’

  ‘Excuse me interrupting.’ Virginia and her companions looked up at the untidy figure in the shabby duffel coat and college scarf. He took his spectacles from his pocket and put them on. ‘Could you tell me,’ he asked, ‘where I might find Mr Leslie Bramley, the crime correspondent of the Globe newspaper?’

  ‘That’s me,’ said Bramley cheerfully. They had just come from several hours in the bar. ‘What can I do for you, old son?’

  ‘I am to give you this,’ said Harold, handing Bramley a paper. ‘Goodnight,’ he added as he shambled out of the dining-room.

  Bramley was studying the document. ‘What is it, Leslie?’ Virginia asked.

  ‘Christ!’ he said. ‘Playfair requires me to give evidence! It’s a subpoena.’

  14

  NEXT morning Virginia took her place early. She watched Bracton and Graves standing in the front row of counsels’ benches talking. Today there would be no sauntering entry by Hugo Shelbourne acting his part for the jury; no Isles laying out his principal’s papers on the desk; no neat and tidy Andrew Benjamin trying to keep the peace. Without Shelbourne the court seemed empty.

  When the judge had taken his place he looked at Jonathan in the dock. ‘I understand you have decided to defend yourself,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘I have, my lord.’

  ‘And you wish your solicitor to assist you?’

  ‘I do. He is a Mr Benson.’

  ‘Then Mr Benson may take a place in counsel’s bench immediately below the dock.’

  Harold, briefcase in hand, left the solicitors’ table where he had been sitting next to Patrick Trent, the Crown Prosecution Service solicitor for the prosecution. He slid past Bracton and Graves to the place the judge had indicated. To hand anything to Jonathan, or take anything from him, Benson would have to stretch up and Jonathan to lean over the edge of the dock. He placed his papers and the box Jonathan had given him on the desk in front of him.

  The judge went on: ‘And you want Miss Langley recalled for further cross-examination?’

  ‘I do.’

  Bracton stood. ‘My lord, Miss Langley cannot be here until after the luncheon adjo
urnment. After the doctor, I propose to call the police evidence, Inspector Johnson, if that is aceptable.’

  ‘Well?’ Graham said to Jonathan.

  ‘Yes,’ Jonathan replied.

  ‘But first you have some questions for the doctor?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Very well, you may proceed.’

  Dr Mitchell was already in the witness-box, leaning against one side, his file on the ledge in front of him. He looked with hostility at Jonathan, who turned towards him. Virginia leaned forward, her chin upon her hand.

  ‘May I say at the outset, doctor, that I am sorry you were questioned as you were yesterday?’

  ‘You must ask questions and not, at this stage, make statements,’ Graham said sharply, not looking up from his notebook.

  Graves whispered, ‘It was a question.’ Bracton shrugged.

  ‘Will you take it from me, doctor, that to question you, as you were yesterday afternoon was not in accordance with my instructions?’

  The doctor nodded briefly.

  ‘You said yesterday that the apparatus itself could not have discharged the amount of drug which led to the death of the deceased?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘So the discharge must have been by a human hand deliberately pressing the head of the syringe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And on Friday June 20th you informed the deceased that if all the drug in the system was pumped into his body he would be, as you called it, a goner?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Did you tell him the amount of drug which would make him a goner?’

  The doctor thought for a moment. ‘Yes, we were talking, laughing almost, about the amount of drug that was in the system. I think I said that if all of three or even two days’ supply of drug was pumped into him that would make him, as I said jocularly, a goner. Colonel Trelawney had only been receiving 2 milligrams an hour, so I was sure that a single sudden dose of, say, 168 milligrams would have killed him, as indeed it did.’

  ‘He knew, did he not, that the apparatus of itself was only capable of discharging 2 milligrams an hour into him?’

  ‘He did. I told him so.’

  ‘At noon on Friday 20th you filled the system with 220 grams, so by two o’clock on the afternoon of Saturday June 21st he would know that 168 milligrams remained.’