Indictment for Murder

by Peter Rawlinson

  ‘I imagine he would, if he had chosen to make the calculation.’

  ‘Who else had you told that 168 milligrams emptied into him in a single dose would, in his circumstances, have been fatal?’

  ‘There was no-one else there to tell, except of course Nurse Langley,’ said the witness, puzzled. Then, indignantly, ‘You’re not suggesting—’

  ‘No, doctor, I’m not suggesting that Nurse Langley had anything to do with the discharge of the diamorphine.’

  ‘Then I don’t understand.’

  ‘You and I, doctor, have never met, have we?’

  ‘No, of course not. I have never seen you before in my life, except in this court.’

  ‘The deceased knew from what you had told him that the system contained what could amount to a fatal dose of diamorphine. But you never told me that, because we had never met. Isn’t that right.’

  ‘Suicide,’ whispered Bracton to Graves.

  ‘No, I’d never seen you so I couldn’t have told you,’ the doctor replied testily, ‘but any reasonably intelligent person must have appreciated that the sudden infusion of such a massive amount of drug would have had very serious consequences. Obviously such a dose is likely to be fatal.’

  ‘What do you mean by “obviously”?’

  ‘Well, you could have known. Colonel Trelawney could have told you what I had told him.’

  ‘Could have?’

  ‘Yes. And may I say that if you’re suggesting Colonel Trelawney administered that drug himself with the intention of doing away with himself, I can only say that, during the time I was treating him, he never evinced the slightest indication that he contemplated taking his own life.’

  ‘Not to you?’

  ‘Certainly not. And he said to the nurse, in my presence, that she must make sure that the apparatus, as he put it, did not go ape.’

  ‘At any rate we can be certain, can we not, doctor, that on June 21st Colonel Trelawney was well aware that the amount of diamorphine available if administered in a sudden, single dose, could be fatal?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you.’ And Jonathan sat down.

  Bracton rose to re-examine. ‘It is now being suggested, as I understand it, that Colonel Trelawney might have administered the fatal dose himself. Tell me, when you left Colonel Trelawney at 1.00 p.m. on Friday June 20th, what kind of mood was he in?’

  ‘Hearty, cheerful. As he always was with me.’

  ‘Did he appear to you to be in any way depressed?’

  ‘Not in the least. In fact the opposite. He was in excellent form, making jokes, teasing.’

  ‘When you left him on the Friday, was he expecting a visitor on the next day, Saturday?’

  ‘Not that I was aware.’

  ‘Did he say anything about seeing you again?’

  ‘Yes. He said he’d see me on Monday and hoped all was set for him to go into hospital on Thursday June 26th as he was looking forward to getting there and later to St Edward’s, especially as he said that now all the bills would be paid and he had no financial worries.’

  ‘So he never gave you any indication that he was contemplating taking his own life?’

  ‘Never, ever. He was brave and cheerful about his illness, and optimistic about the treatment in hospital and his future.’

  ‘Would he have been capable in his condition of pressing the syringe and administering that dose to himself?’

  The doctor did not immediately answer. Then he said, ‘Yes, he would have been capable of doing that, but I have absolutely no reason to think that he did.’

  ‘It has been pointed out to you that on June 21st, after Miss Langley had gone out, the accused was alone in that house with Colonel Trelawney?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you said that any intelligent person would have known that a sudden injection of a massive dose of diamorphine can be fatal?’

  ‘Certainly. To receive instantly 168 milligrams in a single shot when the normal dose had been 2 milligrams an hour would obviously have the very gravest consequences. No-one could contemplate pumping into another that amount of opiate unless they had in mind inflicting death, or at the least very grave harm.’

  That disposes of manslaughter, thought Graham. For murder the prosecution needed to prove that Playfair had the intent either to cause death or grievous bodily harm. By that answer the doctor had shown that if Playfair had pressed down the head of the syringe he must have had the requisite intent to cause death or sufficient harm. That would warrant a conviction for murder.

  ‘I’d like to repeat, with all the emphasis that I can,’ the doctor added, ‘that I am quite convinced that when I left him at lunchtime on Friday he had not the slightest thought of committing suicide.’

  To Bracton’s irritation the judge now intervened. ‘We have heard from Nurse Langley that she had the impression that, when Colonel Trelawney told her on the Saturday that Sir Jonathan Playfair was going to visit, his mood changed, and he appeared to her to be alarmed at the prospect. Tell me, what kind of tone had he used when he spoke to you about Sir Jonathan and the trust funds?’

  He shouldn’t have asked that, there could be objection to that, Bracton thought. But none came. Jonathan, now sitting in the dock, merely smiled. Virginia noticed the smile.

  ‘I got the impression,’ the doctor said, ‘that he did not like Sir Jonathan Playfair.’

  ‘If,’ said Bracton hastily, lest the judge continue, ‘that syringe was emptied manually on the afternoon of Saturday June 21st during the time the nurse was out of the house, it could only have been done by the deceased himself or…’ And he paused. ‘Or by whom?’

  ‘Or by the only other person who, I understand, was then in that house. The accused,’ the doctor replied emphatically.

  Bracton turned to the judge. ‘I have no further questions.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor. You may leave the witness-box,’ Graham said. ‘But please stay in case you are needed further.’

  ‘Detective-Inspector Johnson,’ Bracton said.

  The inspector was a square, heavily-built man in his early forties, with sandy hair and a fresh complexion, rather overweight, and short so that when he stood in the witness-box he appeared truncated. He gave his evidence professionally with an air of bluff and open frankness, beginning with a description of what he had found when first he had been called to Colonel Trelawney’s house. Then, with constant reference to his notebook, he gave details of the investigation and the interviews he had with the accused. Although the accused had admitted being with the deceased before and when Colonel Trelawney died, he said nothing of what had happened while he had been with Colonel Trelawney, except that the deceased had fallen into a deep and heavy sleep and, in the accused’s words, ‘ceased to breathe and passed away.’

  Nor had the accused given any explanation of why he had left the house without informing anyone that Colonel Trelawney had died. When the cause of Colonel Trelawney’s death had been confirmed by the post-mortem, and when he, the witness, had confronted the accused and told him that the post-mortem showed that death was due to diamorphine poisoning as a result of a massive discharge of the drug, the accused had merely nodded. When he told the accused that his fingerprints had been identified on the dial of the regulator on the bedside table, on the apparatus and the syringe as well as on the black tin box which was standing on the dresser in the deceased’s bedroom, the accused again made no reply. Later, on July 7th, as a result of a message from Mr Symes, he took possession of the letter, Exhibit 6, which bore the postmark noon on June 21st. The papers were then passed to the Director of Public Prosecutions, and the decision was reached to charge Jonathan Playfair with the murder of David Trelawney,

  Bracton sat down, and Jonathan rose to cross-examine. To get to his feet he had to pull himself up, using the rail of the dock and his stick to help him.

  ‘We had met before you came to my house to interview me about the death of Colonel Trelawney, had we not?’

  �
��We had not met before, although I’d seen you in the course of your previous official duties.’

  ‘You are right. We had not actually met, but we had seen each other, had we not?’

  ‘I had seen you on the bench, yes.’

  ‘On at least one occasion you were witness in a case in which I was the judge?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Was that the case of Regina v. Joseph Stringer, which was tried at the Crown Court at Iddersley five years ago?’

  The witness put his notebook back into his inside pocket of his smart blue suit and straightened the sides of the jacket. ‘It was,’ he said.

  ‘Were you then a detective-constable?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Was Joseph Stringer accused of murder?’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘The murder of whom?’

  The witness looked at Graham on the bench, and then straight ahead of him, his face firmly turned away from his questioner. ‘A police officer.’

  ‘Was that police officer called Simon, Stanley Simon?’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘Was Police-Constable Simon brutally hacked to death with an axe in the course of attempting to quell a riot on the James Maxton estate in Southampton?’

  ‘That is correct.’ The detective-inspector still had his face turned away from Jonathan.

  ‘Was Joseph Stringer charged with PC Simon’s murder?’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘Was the name of the lawyer from the Crown Prosecution Service in charge of assembling the evidence and preparing the prosecution of Joseph Stringer for the murder of PC Simon, Patrick Trent?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘The same officer from the Crown Prosecution Service who is in charge of this case and who is sitting in front of Mr Bracton?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To return to the case of Joseph Stringer, was the murdered police officer a colleague of yours?’

  ‘He was.’

  ‘An intimate, personal friend?’

  ‘Yes, we joined the Force at the same time. I was the best man at his wedding and godfather to his daughter, who was born three months before he was murdered.’

  ‘And were you gravely distressed by the brutal, vicious murder of your friend?’

  ‘I was. It was a horrible death – and a terrible crime.’

  ‘What is the relevance of all this?’ said Graham abruptly.

  Jonathan did not at first reply. ‘The relevance,’ he said at last, ‘will become clear in a moment – if your lordship will allow me to continue. I am nearly finished with the case of Stringer.’

  ‘I shall certainly not permit you to continue this line of questioning unless you explain to me the relevance of all these questions. So please do so.’

  Graham had spoken very sharply. Behind his hand, Bracton winced. He’ll alienate the jury if he appears to be bullying. But the judge went on. ‘I wish to know to what issue these questions are directed before I allow this line of questioning to continue.’

  Jonathan was silent for a moment. Then for the first time he raised his voice. ‘These questions, as you will learn if you bear with me for a further moment,’ he said, almost in the same tones as those used by the judge, ‘are directed to the issue of this witness’s credit and veracity. There is a conflict between this witness and myself as to what was said during one of his interviews with me. So I am perfectly entitled to ask these questions. It goes to his credit.’ He paused and then said, equally sharply, ‘Now may I go on?’

  Brian Graves, sitting beside Bracton, bit his lip. Bracton stared stolidly to his front. The Stringer trial. He was beginning to remember.

  ‘Very well,’ said Graham after a pause.

  ‘The trial of Joseph Stringer for the murder of your colleague and close friend, PC Simon, did not run its full course, did it?’

  ‘No, it did not.’

  ‘It never went beyond the conclusion of the evidence for the prosecution?’

  ‘No, it did not.’

  ‘The defence was not even called upon because the judge ruled at the end of the prosecution’s case that there was no case to answer and directed the jury to bring in a verdict of Not Guilty. Is that not correct?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘The judge decided that the prosecution had not established by their evidence – their admissible evidence – that Stringer had been the person who struck the blows which killed Simon nor that Stringer was present when PC Simon was murdered. Isn’t that what happened?’

  ‘Stringer had confessed he was there and that he had done it,’ said the witness stolidly, still not looking at his questioner. ‘He confessed. He made a statement.’

  ‘I did not ask you whether Stringer did or did not make a statement. Did the judge at the trial, in effect, direct there should be an acquittal?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Graham was about to interrupt again, but he thought better of it. I should keep quiet, he said to himself. It’s better if I keep quiet.

  ‘You say Stringer confessed to the police?’ Jonathan continued.

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Was that in the course of a series of interviews with police officers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But the judge excluded that evidence, ruling it inadmissible, because the interviewing by police officers had been oppressive and irregular?’

  ‘He did, but it wasn’t. It was perfectly proper.’

  ‘That is your opinion. But the fact remains that the statement, or confession, did not become part of the evidence.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And Stringer, on the direction of the judge, was acquitted?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you one of the team of police officers engaged in the investigation and the questioning which the judge held was oppressive?’

  The witness paused. ‘I was,’ he said at last.

  ‘Were you very angry at the result of that trial and at that ruling by that judge?’

  Again the witness did not immediately reply but remained staring straight ahead of him. ‘Please answer.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘And that case, in which Mr Trent was in charge on behalf of the Crown Prosecution Service, and in which you were one of the police officers involved, ended with Joseph Stringer walking free. Isn’t that right?’

  Still the witness remained silent. ‘And I,’ Jonathan went on, again raising his voice, ‘I was the judge at that trial who was responsible for those rulings which led to Joseph Stringer being freed and acquitted of murdering your friend?’

  ‘You were.’

  ‘You were bitterly resentful of my conduct?’

  ‘I thought you were wrong. I knew you were wrong. Stringer should never have gone free.’

  ‘You held me responsible for letting go free the man you thought had brutally hacked to death your colleague and personal friend?’

  ‘I did.’

  Jonathan paused. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘I come to July of last year, when you were in charge of the police enquiry into the death of Colonel Trelawney. During the course of that investigation did you have several consultations with Mr Trent?’

  ‘I did. That was quite normal.’

  ‘And eventually it was decided that an arrest was to be made?’

  ‘Yes, after the papers in the case had been sent by Mr Trent to the Director of Public Prosecutions.’

  ‘Did those papers include a recommendation by you and Mr Trent that a prosecution should be launched and an arrest made?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who made the arrest?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Was the arrest made at dawn on the morning of July 25th last, when you and your officers came to my home and woke the household by thundering on the front door?’

  ‘We arrested you in the early morning, yes.’

  ‘Why did you choose to come to my house at dawn to arrest me? Did you think that I would evade arrest?’

  ‘I had my duty to do.’<
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  ‘Did you?’ Jonathan peered over the rail of the dock to the bench below him. ‘Mr Benson,’ he called out, ‘will you please stand?’

  Benson stood, facing the detective-inspector in the witness-box.

  ‘You know this gentleman, do you not?’

  ‘Yes. He’s your solicitor.’

  ‘At dawn on the morning of July 25th, when you and your officers hammered on my front door, you knew, did you not, that your superintendent, your superior officer, had arranged with my solicitor, Mr Benson, that Mr Benson and I would attend at ten o’clock at the police station when I would be arrested and formally charged? So why did you think it necessary to come five or six hours earlier and make the arrest which had been arranged for later that day?’

  ‘There was a misunderstanding between me and the superintendent.’

  ‘Was there? Or was it because you wanted to have the glory of making the arrest yourself and of making it as humiliating and as public as possible?’

  ‘I know nothing about glory or humiliation. When a person is suspected of a crime, it doesn’t make any difference who they are or what they once were. An arrest has to be made. That’s all.’

  ‘Why at dawn?’

  ‘That is a time when I was certain we would find you.’

  ‘You knew perfectly well where I was. There was no question of your having to find me. The arrangement for my arrest and charging had been made by your superior with my solicitor, who was to bring me to the police station at 10 o’clock that morning. Why did you interfere with those arrangements and take the matter into your own hands?’

  ‘I’ve explained. There was a misunderstanding. I had not been informed.’

  ‘Why were the press and the television crews at my home at dawn on that morning?’

  ‘I have no responsibility for the media.’

  ‘Weren’t you responsible for the arrival of television crews and photographers at my house at dawn on that morning to witness and record my arrest by you?’

  The witness did not reply but stared stolidly ahead of him.

  ‘I repeat my question. Were not you responsible for the presence of the media at my home at dawn?’

  ‘I am not responsible for the media.’