‘Well, yer never gonna convince me that Ellie Roffey burned that place down,’ Florrie said, taking out her snuffbox from beneath the folds of her shabby coat. ‘Not in a fousand years yer not.’
Maisie was looking thoughtful. ‘I wish I could fink where I’ve seen that young bloke before,’ she said.
‘What bloke?’ Florrie asked.
‘Why, that one who said about ’em all bein’ fed up wiv Ellie at the market,’ Maisie replied.
‘That whoreson,’ Florrie growled. ‘The likes of ’im wants ’orsewhippin’. It’s the Ellie Roffeys o’ this world what stand up fer people’s rights, an’ what’s their fanks? Gits like ’im stickin’ their oar in an’ blackin’ their name. I tell yer now, if I see the bleeder in the street I’ll smack ’im right roun’ the jaw, see if I don’t.’
Carrie had been sitting quietly, thinking about Ellie Roffey’s plight. They had become friends since Ellie first contacted her about employing Jamie Robins and Carrie could not bring herself to believe that the campaigning woman would go to such lengths to achieve her aims. Ellie had said herself on more than one occasion that she was opposed to any form of violence and that a lasting change for working people would only come about through everyone using their vote in the proper way. She had a wicked tongue sometimes but she never really meant her threats seriously. Ellie was a good, caring person who had inadvertently fallen foul of a scheming businessman, it was obvious to Carrie, and unless the trial took a dramatic turn the poor woman was going to be locked up for a considerable length of time.
William was looking pensive. ‘I wonder what Ellie’s gonna say about that cuttle-bone?’ he remarked. ‘That’s enough ter put ’er away, let alone everyfing else that’s bin said.’
Maisie stood up and buttoned her thin coat. ‘Well, we’ll soon find out,’ she said, helping Florrie struggle up from her seat.
The trial continued into the afternoon and when the defending counsel called Ellie Roffey into the witness box there was complete silence.
‘Could you please tell the court whether or not you were in Page Street on the evening of the fifth of July?’ the defending counsel asked her.
‘Yes, I was.’
‘And what was the purpose of your visit, may I ask?’
‘I went to the rag sorters there.’
‘Mrs Roffey, I ask you to tell the truth. Did you let yourself into the yard via the wicket-gate and with a key?’
‘No.’
‘Did you enter the yard?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then how did you obtain entry to the yard?’
‘The gate was unlocked.’
‘About what time in the evening would this be, Mrs Roffey?’
‘About seven o’ clock.’
‘So it is possible that the witness Mr Talbot could have seen you at that time?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see him?’
‘No.’
The counsel for the defence turned briefly to the jury once more before asking the next question, as though signalling for them to take special note. ‘Mrs Roffey, did you intend to go to the rag sorters’ yard to commit the crime of arson?’
‘No,’ Ellie said in a voice that was loud and clear.
‘Will you tell the jury why you went to the yard that evening?’ the barrister asked her.
Ellie Roffey took a deep breath. ‘At twenty past five that evening there was a note slipped frew the letter box,’ she replied. ‘It said I was to phone the sorters’ yard an’ ask for Mr ’Arrison. By the time I got ter the phone it must ’ave bin about ’alf five. Anyway, Mr ’Arrison answered the phone ’imself.’
‘And what did Mr Harrison say to you over the phone?’ the defending counsel asked.
Ellie looked at the bench and then back to the barrister. ‘Mr ’Arrison told me that ’e’d managed ter find out where the rats were comin’ from an’ if I’d pop round straight away ’e’d show me ’imself, so that I could report ter the women that everyfing ’ad bin taken care of once an’ fer all.’
‘Did you not think that was a strange request?’ the counsel asked.
‘Yes, I did,’ Ellie replied. ‘The last time I was at the yard Mr ’Arrison wasn’t very ’elpful.’
‘And did he abuse you?’
‘Yes, ’e called me a Bolshie cow.’
‘What was your reply, Mrs Roffey?’
‘I was very angry an’ I threatened ter burn the place down.’
‘And was that ever your intention?’
‘Most definitely not,’ Ellie replied. ‘I only said it because I was mad at ’im.’
‘Let us get back to the evening of the fire,’ the counsel said. ‘Tell us exactly, step by step, what you did on reaching the wicket-gate of the rag sorters in Page Street.’
Ellie looked down at her clenched hands for a few moments then she turned her eyes to the jury. ‘I pushed open the gate and stepped into the yard,’ she began. ‘The yard was quiet an’ I suddenly thought about those rats. I felt meself goin’ all shivery and I called out Mr ’Arrison’s name. There was no answer and for a few moments I stood in the yard wonderin’ what was wrong.’
‘Carry on, Mrs Roffey.’
‘Well, I crossed the yard an’ saw that the office door was ajar. I pushed it open an’ looked in the office. There was no one there. I turned back an’ it was then I ’eard a scrapin’ sound.’
‘A scraping sound?’
‘Yes. It frightened me,’ Ellie said, shuddering noticeably. ‘I thought it might be one o’ those rats an’ I run ter the wicket-gate an’ out inter the street as quick as I could.’
‘Did you, or did you not, speak with or see anyone during your time in the yard that evening?’ the counsel asked.
‘I didn’t see anybody an’ I didn’t speak to anybody at all while I was in the yard. There was nobody there,’ Ellie replied in a firm voice.
‘What did you think when you stepped out into the street again, Mrs Roffey?’
‘I didn’t know what ter fink. I couldn’t understand it,’ Ellie answered.
The counsel leaned on the rail of the witness box, his face turned to the jury. ‘Did you use a key to let yourself into the yard?’ he asked slowly and deliberately.
‘No. The gate was open, like I said.’
‘Mrs Roffey, can you account for the cuttle-bone that the police found in your flat?’
‘No, I can’t.’
‘Have you any ideas as to how the cuttle-bone got there?’
‘All I can say is that somebody must ’ave planted it there so the police would find it,’ she replied hesitantly.
‘Would it be easy for someone to enter your flat, Mrs Roffey?’
‘Yes. I live on the groun’ floor an’ the winder catch doesn’t fasten prop’ly.’
The defending counsel had finished his questioning and Florrie turned to Carrie as the prosecutor got up on his feet. ‘I don’t like that whoreson,’ she said in a loud voice. ‘’E’s a shifty git.’
‘Mrs Roffey, let us recapitulate,’ the counsel said in a quiet voice. ‘You say on oath that you did threaten to burn the sorters’ yard down when you visited there with the women from Page Street. Correct?’
‘Yes, but it was . . .’
‘Yes will be sufficient,’ the prosecutor said quickly. ‘Mrs Roffey, have you ever owned a caged bird?’
‘No.’
‘You also stated on oath that you did not know how the cuttle-bone came to be in your flat and that it must have been planted there. Correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let us turn our thoughts to the evening of the fire, Mrs Roffey. You say that you were asked to go to the yard at seven o’clock to meet with Mr Harrison and that the wicket-gate was left open, presumably for you to enter.’
‘Yes.’
‘Yet Mr Harrison states that he left the yard earlier and after locking the wicket-gate he went to the Horseshoe public house where he stayed until seven-thirty that evening. What are your thoughts on that?’
‘Objection!’ the defence counsel shouted, rising to his feet in anger. ‘The onus on my learned friend is proof, not supposition, Your Honour.’
‘Sustained,’ the judge said in a tired voice, leaning forward. ‘Kindly stick to a direct line of questioning, if you please.’
The prosecutor seemed unperturbed as he glanced down at the papers in his hand and removed a sheet, approaching the bench with it. ‘I have here a deposition, Your Honour, taken on oath from a Mr Terris, landlord of the Horseshoe public house in Jamaica Road. Mr Terris is at present in Guy’s Hospital where he is recovering from an appendectomy. You will note that Mr Terris states that Mr Harrison was a customer in his establishment between the times Mr Harrison indicated earlier.’
Ellie bowed her head and gripped the brass rail of the dock until her knuckles showed white. Above her in the public gallery Florrie shook her head sadly, feeling that the tragic figure was surely going to be found guilty. ‘I need a pinch,’ she whispered to Maisie.
The prosecutor walked back to the witness stand. ‘I’m almost finished,’ he said, glancing back to the bench. ‘Mrs Roffey, are you a member of the Communist Party of Great Britain?’
‘Objection, Your Honour!’ the defence counsel shouted, jumping to his feet angrily. ‘Mrs Roffey’s political persuasion is of no interest to this court.’
‘Oh but it is, in this case,’ the prosecutor insisted.
The judge turned to the accused. ‘You do not need to answer the last question, Mrs Roffey,’ he said in a quiet voice.
‘It’s all right, Yer Honour,’ Ellie said, turning her head and fixing the prosecutor with a hard stare. ‘I am a member of the Communist Party and I’m committed to working for a socialist government peaceably and through the ballot box.’
The prosecutor nodded briefly and then studied his notes again. Suddenly he swung around to face Ellie. ‘It is my contention, Mrs Roffey, that you went to the sorters’ yard in Page Street, not as an invited guest of the owner, but to commit arson. I submit that you obtained a key by criminal means and used it to enter the premises of Mr Harrison with the express purpose of burning the place down. Am I or am I not right, Mrs Roffey?’
For the first time that day Ellie looked confused as she faced the sudden attack. ‘I, I . . .’
‘Answer the question, Mrs Roffey. Answer the question!’
‘Objection! The prosecution is attempting to browbeat my client,’ the defence counsel shouted, banging the desk with his clenched fist.
‘Sustained,’ the judge decreed. ‘Will the learned gentleman please allow the accused time to answer the question?’
As the prosecutor turned to face Ellie once more she swayed slightly in the dock, her hands sliding along the polished rail. Her eyes shut tightly as though she was fighting to regain control of herself, then she slipped down in a dead faint. The public gallery was in an uproar as court ushers went to the accused’s assistance, and two young women had jumped to their feet and were screaming obscenities down into the well of the court. Policemen hurried over to them and with a struggle they were escorted out.
‘They’re Ellie’s two daughters,’ Florrie said, nudging Maisie.
‘Bloody shame the way that nasty git shouted at ’er,’ Maisie replied. ‘It must be a terrible ordeal.’
Ellie Roffey had recovered somewhat and as she sipped a glass of water which had been provided for her the judge announced that the court would adjourn until the following day.
The fog had persisted throughout the day and as the court emptied it was thickening. A cold, damp feeling made Florrie shiver as she took Carrie’s and Maisie’s arms and walked slowly between them. Will Tanner walked behind, his coat collar turned up against the chill and his laboured breath clouding out in front of him as he tried to get his cramped legs working properly. Traffic was still running and the sounds of unseen trams rattling along reached their ears as the party walked slowly into the Borough Road. Will glanced at the placard by the newspaper stand and read, ‘Mussolini gasses Ethiopians’. Another placard displayed the words, ‘League of Nations fails’, and as he saw it he suddenly felt sick to his stomach. It was all moving towards another war, he thought. All the signs were there, just as they had been a little more than twenty years ago. What horrors and destruction were destined to happen? he wondered fearfully. How many young lives would a world war claim next time?
The fog spread its sulphurous fumes through the Bermondsey backstreets and along the river. All night it hung like a thick, poisonous blanket, and when folk rose from their beds to face another day it was still there, though thinning gradually as a blood-red sun climbed up over the rooftops. The morning traffic moved at a crawl, and when the Bermondsey Crown Court went into session at ten o’ clock the air was still laden with fog.
Ellie Roffey looked composed as she stepped into the dock. There was an air of expectancy in the large courtroom as the trial got under way, and in the public gallery the number of police had been increased. Florrie Axford looked around at the blank faces surrounding her. Carrie sat to her left and on her right Maisie sat impassive, her arms folded. William Tanner was not present, however. He had felt ill when he arrived home the previous night and was confined to bed with a bout of bronchitis. Carrie had left Jamie Robins in charge of the yard and had given the ever-present Sharkey instructions to keep his eye on things. The old man was still sprightly and could be relied upon in case of an emergency.
The last of the witnesses had been heard and the prosecuting counsel rose to his feet to address the jury. The huge man, looking even more gross as he puffed out his silks, began by making the jury aware of the longstanding trading record and integrity of the owner, then he suddenly raised his voice for effect.
‘We have here a threat,’ he began, ‘a dire threat of which this heinous crime perpetuated against Mr Harrison is but one manifestation. Mr Harrison’s thriving business has now been destroyed, even though he was doing his best to solve the problem of the rats, and even after he had willingly met with the women of Page Street to try to reassure them. The defending counsel would have us believe that Mr Harrison is a devious person who has schemed to bring an innocent party to trial. An innocent party? The accused threatened openly to burn down Mr Harrison’s business. You heard the witness state on oath that he saw the accused using a key to enter the yard, and minutes after she was seen hurrying away the fire broke out. Further, the defence wishes you to believe that the piece of cuttle-bone found at the home of the accused was planted there. What else could they say? I ask you, members of the jury, is this trial to become a sinister precedent, casting aside the standards of moderate decency and good sense so that the forces of chaos may enter in, wreaking havoc and destruction where they will? Or shall it be a vindication of the sane and democratic British judicial system? You have to decide, and I submit to you that the only possible verdict you can return in this case is one of guilty.’
Murmuring and muttering in the public gallery died away as the defending counsel rose. ‘You have to remember that Ellie Roffey did not attempt to deny her presence at the yard on the evening of the fire,’ he explained, addressing the jury. ‘In fact she went there in answer to a request. Now you have seen the note, which my client assumed to have come from the owner of the rag sorters. Mr Harrison stated that he did not send the note, but someone did. Someone sent that note. I submit to you, members of the jury, that whoever originated that note wanted Mrs Roffey to be seen at the yard immediately before the fire started. I also submit that the same person was hiding in that yard at the time, and as soon as my client left he started the blaze which destroyed the premises. Mrs Roffey, because of her campaigning on behalf of the women of Page Street, had become a nuisance.
‘Are we to believe, as the prosecution would have us, that when my client first went to the yard to confront the owner about the problem with the rats, she suddenly took advantage of Mr Harrison’s absence from the office by making an impression of the key which would open t
he wicket-gate, using a piece of cuttle-bone which she happened to have in her pocket? I say categorically that this is supposition, pure supposition based on the discovery of a piece of the aforesaid cuttle-bone in my client’s home. You have heard my client deny all knowledge of it. Well, it was found there, so how did it get there? I submit to you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that it was put there, in the knowledge that a subsequent search of the house would uncover it. I say here and now that it was part of the monstrous, meticulously worked-out plan to bring my client here before you today. Well, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, are we to believe that this melodramatic concoction of barefaced lies and shameless collusion, this callous victimisation of my client, constitutes the truth of the matter? Were the consequences for my client not so grave it would be laughable, the stuff of fantasy one finds between the dog-eared covers of a penny dreadful. I therefore ask you to ensure that justice is upheld by bringing in the only just verdict, one of not guilty.’
Tanner Trilogy 02 - The Girl from Cotton Lane Page 50
