Prisoner at the Bar

by Roderic Jeffries

“Did you ever have any trouble from him?”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Frankly, we think he was probably one of those people we call peeping Toms. I wondered if you’d ever had the slightest suggestion he might have been peeping around this house?”

  “Certainly not! If we had ever had the slightest suspicion, he’d have been sacked.” She spoke with unusual vehemence.

  He drew on his cigarette. Did he question her about Bladen, Monday night, and Lovers’ Lane? It was one of the truisms of a detective’s life that unless one were a fool one didn’t go about accusing a rich man’s wife of anything quite as quickly as one might a poor man’s wife. One could resent some of the advantages of wealth, but such resentment altered nothing: wealth was power. Yet fear of consequences had never stopped his doing what he knew was his duty.

  He brushed the ash from his cigarette into an attractive brass ashtray. “Do you by any chance know Mr. Robert Bladen?” he asked, in his casual, pleasant voice.

  She started, then blushed. Vainly, she tried to cover up her shocked surprise. “I’ve met him at cocktail parties.”

  “Would you mind telling me whether you were with him at any time during the evening of Wednesday, the eighteenth of last month?”

  “The… the eighteenth?”

  “That’s right.” By asking her about the Wednesday and not the Monday, twelve days later, he had completed the upset of her mental balance.

  “I… I can’t remember,” she said.

  “Then you might have been with him?”

  Too late, she realised how incriminating her answer had been.

  He said nothing more, letting the silence worry her. Mrs. Rollo came into the room, carrying a silver tray on which was a Georgian coffee pot and cream jug that immediately aroused the collector’s greed within him. She put the tray down on the pie-crust table and asked whether she should pour out. On being told not, she left.

  “Do you like your coffee white or black, Inspector Whicheck?”

  “White, please,” he answered.

  She poured out two cups of coffee. He went across and picked up one of the cups, added sugar, then returned to his chair.

  “Might you have been out with Mr. Bladen that night?” he asked.

  She stubbed out her cigarette, although only half smoked. “Yes.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “We had dinner at a restaurant.”

  “And afterwards?”

  “What does that matter?” She turned and faced him. Her voice was sharp. “My private life is my own affair.”

  “Did you by any chance go down a lane in the Wayton Hills, just off the Brayford/Chetsy road?”

  She lit another cigarette. “You’ve got no right to come here poking and prying.”

  “I’m afraid it’s my duty.”

  “You think you’ve found something, but you haven’t. D’you understand, you haven’t found anything.” Her face was flushed and there was an expression of anguish on it.

  “I’m investigating the death of Thompson.”

  “Then what has the other evening to do with that?”

  “I believe it may be connected. If I’m wrong I can promise you there’ll be no further mention of anything I might learn here, now.”

  “You won’t learn anything because there’s nothing to learn. I swear there isn’t.”

  He hated bringing such distress to her. As he was no moralist, he did not consider the fact that it was only because she had gone out with a man not her husband that she was so distressed. “Did you go down the lane that night?” he asked quietly.

  She spoke defiantly. “Bob and I went there in his car, yes. We didn’t know where it led to and when we found out we stayed because of the view. We didn’t do any of the things you’re thinking.”

  “I’m not thinking anything.”

  “I swear we didn’t know what the place was called.”

  “Did you see or hear anything of a peeping Tom?”

  She hesitated, then said: “Mr. Bladen thought he saw someone.”

  “Did he get out of the car and search?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was there anyone there?”

  “No.”

  “Did you return to the same spot on Monday evening with Mr. Bladen?”

  She stubbed out her cigarette, long before it was smoked. She stared blankly through the nearest window.

  “Mr. Bladen came to the police station to tell me he’d been in the lane on Monday night. We’re grateful for his help.”

  She said nothing.

  “Have you any idea what the time was when you arrived?”

  “Somewhere around nine.”

  “I believe Mr. Bladen got out of the car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he thought he saw someone.”

  “How long d’you think he was outside?”

  “Perhaps ten minutes.”

  “Could you see him all the time?”

  “No.”

  “Was he carrying anything?”

  “A torch.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No. What else could he have been carrying?”

  “Nothing in particular, Mrs. Curson, but I have to ask such questions.” He put the empty cup and saucer on the small table and stood up. “Thank you very much for being so frank.” He took a step forward, then came to a halt. “There’s just one last thing. Did Thompson ever come into the house?”

  “I don’t think so, no. Rollo didn’t like his coming inside so someone used to take a cup of tea out to the gardener’s shed.”

  “Did your husband ever give any of his old clothes to Thompson?”

  “No. My husband has a very strong dislike of passing on his clothes.”

  “Thanks again for all your help.”

  She spoke, and her voice shook slightly. “I… We didn’t…” She stopped.

  He left.

  *

  Bladen poured himself out a gin and tonic. He went over to one of the armchairs, sat down, and switched on the television through the remote control. As he waited for the picture to come on, there was a thump from overhead, followed by the dim noise of shouting. The flat above was occupied by a young couple who seemed to spend half their time in euphoric love and the other half in open warfare.

  The telephone rang. He put down the drink and went out into the hall. The call was from Katherine. Her distress was immediately obvious. “Bob, a policeman’s been here. He knows it was I who was with you.”

  “How could he possibly have known it was you?”

  “He suddenly asked me where I was on Wednesday, the eighteenth. I just wasn’t expecting that question and… and fell into a bit of a trap.”

  “He asked about the eighteenth?”

  “At first, yes. Bob, I…”

  “Why was he asking about that night? How did he have the slightest idea we were there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He couldn’t have picked the date by pure chance.”

  “What’s it matter how he picked it out? He also wanted to know if we’d seen a peeping Tom and whether you’d got out of the car.”

  “So what did you say?”

  “I told him you had. Bob, he made me admit I was also with you on Monday.”

  He silently cursed. “Did he want to know anything else?”

  “He asked if Thompson ever came into the house and what Elmer did with his old clothes.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know why. Bob, it makes me feel so… so unclean. I told him nothing happened between us, but I’m sure he didn’t believe me. Didn’t I say no one would ever believe us? Why did you have to tell the police?”

  “Look, meet me in town and…”

  “I can’t.” She rang off.

  He returned to the sitting room, sat down, and drank. The police couldn’t possibly have picked by chance the only other date that he and Katherine had been to Lovers’ Lane. Somehow, th
ey’d learned about that visit. But in the name of God, how?

  Why had they asked the questions they had… Unless they were crazy enough to be beginning to think that the lovers who had been interrupted by the peeping Tom had been Katherine and he?

  Chapter 8

  Bladen arrived in chambers at nine-fifteen. Premble was entering the receipt of fees in a fee book. “I’m appearing in Chetsy magistrates’ court this morning,” said Bladen.

  “That is correct, sir.” Premble looked up at the clock. “There isn’t all that much time…”

  “Is Alan in?”

  “Mr. Cousins is in, yes, sir.”

  “Ask him to do the case for me, will you? It’s a straight-forward dangerous driving, so he’s time to swallow the facts.”

  “But, sir, instructing solicitors…”

  “Can go to hell.”

  Premble was both shocked and perturbed. “Is something seriously wrong, sir?”

  “That’s what I’m on my way to find out.”

  Cousins, a man of thirty-five who had a reasonably good practice that would never become very much better, came into the clerk’s room at the moment to speak to Premble. Bladen asked him to do the case at Chetsy. They went into Bladen’s room and he handed Cousins the brief, then returned to the clerk’s room. “That’s all fixed up. I’m going out. I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

  “Very good, sir.” Premble spoke stiffly. “I feel I should point out, sir, that instructing solicitors will not take kindly to Mr. Cousins appearing in court instead of you.”

  “They’ll get used to the idea.”

  “They are a firm who might well send us a great deal of work in the future.”

  “Then tell ’em I’ve got double pneumonia and am spending the day in bed.” Bladen left. He walked along the crowded pavements — it was market day and the town was filled with farmers and their families, dealers, corn merchants, and stallholders — to the police station. He spoke to a constable and asked to see the detective inspector. The constable said Whicheck was out, but was expected back in about an hour.

  Bladen went down Market Road to the market, a sprawling conglomeration of cattle, sheep, and pig pens, many tiered rows of chicken and rabbit coops, piles of second-hand goods for auction, cheapjack stalls selling bankrupt stock, and the stands of gun makers, corn dealers, agricultural merchants, agricultural machinery dealers, W.V.S. tea stalls, and produce auctions. He watched some potatoes, in hundredweight sacks, being sold at half the price potatoes were in the shops, listened to the nearly incomprehensible gabble of the fat-stock auctioneer, and then returned to the police station. Whicheck was now in.

  “Good morning, Mr. Bladen.” Whicheck shook hands. “Have a seat. If you find you’re in a draught give a shout and I’ll shut the window.”

  Whicheck had an air of calm about him, thought Bladen, yet it was the calmness of strength. There could be little doubt that he would buck any odds if required to do so in the line of duty.

  “You’ve been questioning Mrs. Curson,” said Bladen abruptly.

  Whicheck sat down. “I saw her yesterday afternoon.” He leaned back in his chair, which creaked.

  “Why did you? You’ve no right to harass her.”

  “I’ve a duty to carry out.”

  “How does your duty extend to a meeting that took place twelve days before the murder?”

  “All the facts have to be looked into.”

  “You don’t have to deal with facts that are totally outside the case.”

  “At this stage it’s quite impossible to say what facts lie totally outside the case.”

  “Mrs. Curson’s presence in the car on both occasions has nothing to do with the killing. And to save your mind jumping to the wrong conclusions, we didn’t commit adultery or even have fun.” Bladen stared challengingly at the detective inspector.

  Whicheck merely nodded.

  Bladen leaned forward. “Are you thinking that if I’d seen a peeping Tom on the Wednesday, I might have armed myself with something solid on the Monday to teach the bloke a lesson?”

  “That must obviously be one of the possibilities.”

  “You’re being a fool,” said Bladen roughly.

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised.” Whicheck seemed slightly amused.

  Bladen realised it was he who was in danger of becoming the fool. In court, he could always hold his temper — as any successful counsel had to learn to do — but now he was letting anger make him wild. He forced himself to speak calmly. “There was no one in the lane on either occasion.”

  “Very well.”

  “Do you imagine it was I who smashed the bloke up?”

  “At the moment, I’ve no idea who it was.”

  “If I were the killer, d’you imagine for one second I’d have come here to tell you that I had been in the lane on Monday?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “It would be madness.”

  “Not necessarily. As the killer, you might have come from a sense of bravado, because you were afraid someone might have seen your car and so you wanted to cover yourself, or because of your conscience.”

  “Conscience?”

  “It makes men do very strange things, Mr. Bladen. It sends a man back to the scene of his crime, it fills him with so much remorse that until he’s confessed and so got rid of some of the guilt he’s…”

  “I’m trained to study evidence and if I’d done the killing I’d know two things. Somewhere, I’d almost certainly have left some traces of my murder so that, once I was identified as having been present, those traces would convict me: secondly, as no one else was around at the time, the odds against my having been seen and sufficiently identified would be too great to worry about.”

  “Such odds are never too great because a criminal always worries.”

  Bladen brought out a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. “You really do think I might have been the man?” he said, managing to speak casually.

  Whicheck did not answer.

  Bladen suffered a quick stab of fear. Whicheck was level-headed and competent, but he was suspicious so that he must have reasonable grounds for such suspicion. Yet how could he have such grounds? “If I’d killed that man I’d have been risking a hell of a prison sentence, not to mention my career. The penalties would have been far too severe.”

  “When a man is out with another’s wife and he’s spied on, I doubt he remains sufficiently level-headed to worry about the penalties of any action he takes. In any case, does any intending criminal ever really believe he may be caught and punished? If a man thinks that, then his crime is not committed.”

  “You’ve plenty of theories about criminals.”

  “I’ve met a great number of them and they interest me.”

  “Suppose I’d killed him. Wouldn’t Mrs. Curson have been horrified?”

  “It’s impossible to say. In any case, if a woman is of a very passionate nature she can get so carried away for a time that she’s not really aware of the outside world.”

  “I told you we weren’t making love. You’ve no right…”

  “I’m sorry. I thought we were discussing a hypothetical situation.”

  “We are.”

  “Well then, can we go on to say that from inside the car it may not even have been exactly apparent what the murderer had done or was doing? Or the woman’s loyalty to the man may be so great that she believes all his denials, even though from a rational point of view she must know he’s lying.”

  Bladen suddenly realised he was still holding the packet of cigarettes in his hand. He offered it. They both smoked.

  “Has anyone told you that Mr. Curson is well aware I sometimes take his wife out for a drive?” said Bladen.

  “Does he know you go to Lovers’ Lane?”

  Bladen felt his face flush. “We didn’t go there to poke. Why the hell can’t you understand that? A dozen peeping Toms couldn’t have seen a thing.”

  They were silent. From the courtyard c
ame the sound of a car engine revving fiercely. The noise died away. “I’ve told you the truth,” said Bladen.

  “It’s always the best thing.”

  Bladen stood up.

  “Mr. Bladen,” said Whicheck, “I was going to call on you, but this will save troubling you. Would it be convenient for me to go to your home now?”

  “Why?” he asked sharply.

  “There’s something I have to check.”

  “Are you now looking for blood on my clothes?”

  “We have to make certain of the negative, just as much as of the positive. Wasn’t that why you came and told me you’d been in the lane on Monday?”

  Whicheck was so goddamn smooth, thought Bladen. He’d come determined to force the detective inspector to stop worrying Katherine, but he had the uncomfortable impression that he had mishandled the interview right from the beginning. “I must get back to my work.”

  “It won’t take a moment. I could drive you there and then back to your chambers.”

  Was it a suggestion or in the nature of a polite command? Didn’t an innocent person always go out of his way to help the police? “All right.”

  When they left the police station Furnival, a detective constable, accompanied them. Furnival, lanky, angular, morose, seemed to view the world through very dark glasses.

  The drive took five minutes. They found a parking space almost in front of the house.

  Once inside the flat, Whicheck said: “Can we look at your shoes first, please.”

  “Which ones?”

  “All of them.”

  “You’ll find no blood.”

  Whicheck merely smiled. Bladen led the way into his bedroom and showed them the large cupboard. His shoes were on metal racks on the right-hand side of the cupboard.

  Whicheck examined each pair, starting with the black ones to the right of the back row. The fourth pair he picked up were brown brogues with rubber soles that had a very distinctive pattern. “Are these yours?”

  “Of course.”

  “Would you mind if I took them away for a short while?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why, Mr. Bladen?”

  “Because it’s all too obvious the line you’re taking. If your mind’s so conditioned that…”

  “There were a number of footprints in the lane. We’ve got to try and sort them out and see if any are of special significance. These shoes may help us to identify some of them.”