Prisoner at the Bar

by Roderic Jeffries

  “Does he then invariably open the gardener’s shed if at work?”

  “Yes, sir. He keeps all his tools there.”

  “Were you surprised to discover he was not at work?”

  “Not really, sir. I thought he’d merely had one of his ‘turns’.”

  “What exactly do you mean by that?”

  “He often didn’t work for a day or two and when he came back would say he’d had a ‘turn’. I don’t know what it really was.” Rollo spoke with distaste.

  “Thank you.”

  Vallis half rose. “No questions.”

  *

  Whicheck was in the witness box. He was at ease and calmly confident, yet his battered features and general robust appearance made most onlookers certain he would be far more at home in the open, doing something energetic.

  “Exactly where was this footprint?” asked Stimpson, twenty minutes after the examination-in-chief had begun.

  “The next photograph will best show that, sir.” Whicheck turned over one of the photographs in the folder. “You can see it quite plainly in relation to the rhododendron bush, the one that’s marked A on the plan.”

  “That is plan two you’re talking about?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The judge spoke to the jury. “Have you got that photograph, members of the jury, and do you understand whereabouts on the second plan the bush is that the inspector is talking about?”

  A jury member said: “Yes, my Lord.” One of the three women nodded vigorously.

  Stimpson continued when certain the judge had finished. “The body was found immediately beneath this area?”

  “Yes, sir. The edge of the land is just beyond the top of the photo. The footprint was in a small hollow of ground which had remained damp and I gave orders for a cast of it to be made.”

  “Did you later discover who had made this footprint?”

  “Yes, sir. A comparison test was conducted and it was discovered the print had been made by the accused.”

  “Was there anything else of interest in this area?”

  “There was a patch of stained earth and stains on some of the leaves of the rhododendron bush marked A. Tests on both stains showed them to be of human blood. These stains are marked on the second plan.”

  “How far were these from the footprint?”

  Whicheck looked down at his notebook, to which he had already been given permission to refer. “The blood on the ground was eighteen inches from the footprint, sir. Beyond the footprint was a tyre-print. The latter was without any peculiar identifying characteristics, but I had a cast made and measurements taken. These were referred to an expert.”

  “We have heard him say that the tyre was practically new and was of size five-ninety by fourteen. He also told the court that this size of tyre is used by the medium range of B.M.C. cars, and has been for some years, by some Fiats, the Vauxhall Cresta, and the Facel Vega, now out of production. Do you know what kind of car the accused has?”

  “An Austin Countryman, sir. It is two months old and has done just over a thousand miles. It has Dunlop tyres, size five-ninety by fourteen.”

  The judge spoke. “I want to get one thing quite clear, Inspector. Are you claiming this tyre mark was made by the accused’s car?”

  “No, sir, we have no means of identifying the print. We can do no more than say the print was made by one of the cars I have named.”

  “How far from the footprint was the tyre-print?”

  “Four feet three inches, sir. Because of the size of the natural bay between the rhododendrons, the tyre had to be either the front off-side or the rear near-side. If it was the front off-side — in other words, the car had been parked bonnet first — then the bloodstain was approximately level with where the front off-side door would be of a medium sized car.”

  *

  Bladen was in the unique and painful position of being able to appreciate exactly how the prosecution were slowly, and un-dramatically, drawing together all the bits of evidence to prove his guilt. He could accurately assess the relative danger to himself of each separate piece of evidence and how each one fitted neatly into the next to make the picture of his guilt. Even such evidence as that of the tyre, apparently too general to be of any real consequence, built up one more section of the picture. True, there were tens of thousands of cars that used that size, but his was one of them. And when the other evidence proved he had been present, this general piece of evidence became, in the jury’s mind, quite specific.

  *

  It was late afternoon and the lights in the courtroom had been switched on. Many of them hung down from the cupola and as the sky darkened into night the cupola gathered shadows and seemed to stretch higher and higher.

  Tutt rocked back on his heels and leaned against Vallis’ desk. He tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his dress waistcoat. “Inspector, this notebook of the deceased names no names?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Nor does it anywhere state that a couple were seen making love, or kissing, or petting, or doing anything else lovers like to do? There is, in fact, nothing in it that begins to prove it concerns lovers?”

  “There’s nothing that specific, sir.”

  “Yet, Inspector, you told my learned friend that this exercise book contained the records of Thompson’s peeping Tom exploits?”

  “The witness did not say that,” interrupted the judge.

  “My Lord, as I understood it, he did.”

  “Then you misunderstood him. The witness stated that in his judgement this list was a record of the activities of a peeping Tom, that the names referred to places where he saw what he saw, that the initials referred to people he identified, and that the symbols at the end described the things seen, but he quite clearly gave the court to understand that this assessment was his and based on probability, not proof.”

  “Then the worth of such evidence…”

  “Will be judged by the jury,” said the judge.

  Tutt was far too experienced to be put off his line of attack by anything the judge said. “My Lord, if the jury are to assess the worth, it must be made much clearer to them than hitherto that there is not one shred of proof that this is the record of a peeping Tom. They must be clearly informed that it is entirely up to them to put another construction on the facts if they so wish.”

  “By all means, Mr. Tutt. Would you care to suggest what such construction might be?”

  “My Lord, as you have just pointed out, that is the jury’s task, not mine.”

  The judge smiled sardonically. The smile would never be recorded in the trial report by the shorthand reporter — who, in fact, never even saw it since he sat immediately below the Bench — but the jury were left in no doubts about the judge’s beliefs.

  “Inspector,” said Tutt, “let us get one thing absolutely clear. Have you discovered anything at all to prove that the initials B and C listed in the last entry refer to anyone specific? Remember, I ask for proof?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then the whole of the evidence ceases to be of any significance.” Tutt stared at the jury in a challenging manner. After a while, he said: “We’ll move on. Let us see if the rest of your evidence is as authentic as you would have us believe.”

  Whicheck’s expression remained unworried. It was a long way from being the first time he’d been called a liar by defence counsel: it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

  “When was this footprint made?” asked Tutt.

  “Presumably on the Monday evening, sir.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “That was when the accused admits to being in Lovers’ Lane.”

  “You can’t tell us of your own knowledge?”

  “No, sir. It was obviously made after the previous rain, but that’s all one can say.”

  “Then it could have been made before or after the murder?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So if my client says he must have made it when he ran along the lane,
looking for the peeping Tom he thought he’d seen, you cannot disagree?”

  “I cannot prove he didn’t, sir.”

  Tutt was about to challenge that answer, but checked himself because of the deep waters into which such a challenge might have taken him. He leaned forward and spoke to Coombsley — sitting below him because he was silk — then stood upright. “You have admitted, have you not, that Mr. Bladen came completely of his own volition to you at Paraford Cross police station to say he’d been in Lovers’ Lane the previous night?”

  “That is what happened.”

  “Before he came, did you have the slightest idea that he had been present in the lane?”

  “No, sir.”

  “If he had not come to you, is it likely you would ever have known he’d been there?”

  Whicheck thought for a short time. “I doubt it, sir. Only if I’d questioned Mrs. Curson about the hair…”

  “And would you have suspected just by seeing her that it might have been her hair? And would you, even had you suspected, have had sufficient evidence to feel justified in questioning her?”

  “No, sir, probably not.”

  “Then if Mr. Bladen had not come to you, out of a spirit of public duty and a desire to serve justice, and told you he was in the lane, you would never have known it?”

  “I think that is correct, sir.”

  “Inspector, Mr. Bladen is a barrister. He is trained to assess evidence and to know its value: he is well aware of how the police work. Do you honestly think that it is conceivable that if he were guilty he would ever have come to you and told you he’d been present in Lovers’ Lane that Monday night?”

  “I can only say what happened.”

  “Kindly answer the question.”

  “Mr. Tutt,” interrupted the judge, “you can hardly expect an answer to what was a very thinly disguised address to the jury.”

  Tutt leaned back and spoke to Vallis. “The old bastard’s made up his mind early on.”

  “Are you surprised?” replied Vallis.

  “You’re a great comfort in my distress!” Tutt stood upright and questioned the witness once more. “Inspector, you have told us about the finding of the footprint, the bloodstains, and the tyre-print. You suggested to the jury that these formed the most damaging evidence…”

  Stimpson stood up. “My Lord, with great respect to my learned friend, the witness did nothing of the sort. He very properly gave his evidence on these points without any comment whatsoever.”

  “Quite so, Mr. Stimpson,” replied the judge. “Mr. Tutt, I will not have wrongful attacks made on the witness.” Tutt, certain the jury were watching him, wearily shrugged his shoulders. The whole world was against him. He patiently waited until Stimpson was sitting down. “Inspector,” he said. He began to clean his glasses. “Inspector, what positive proof is there that the bloodstain in the soil was caused by blood from the deceased?”

  “There is no such positive proof, sir.”

  “None.” Tutt looked utterly astonished.

  “The blood group of the earth stain and on the leaves was determined, as was the blood group of the deceased. All three blood samples belonged to the same group, O. This group covers approximately forty-five per cent of the population.”

  “Then what proof is there that the blood on the ground and on the leaves came from the deceased.”

  “I have said, sir, there is no positive proof.”

  “Let us move on. What proof is there that the tyre mark was made by Mr. Bladen’s car?”

  “I hope I made it clear, sir, that there is no such proof.”

  “You hope?” repeated Tutt scornfully. “Are you aware that Mr. Bladen denies his car was ever in this bay and therefore the mark could not possibly have been made by his car?”

  “I know that is what he says, sir.”

  “But you would have us forget it? Can you please tell the court what your proof is that the footprint of Mr. Bladen was made at the time of the murder?”

  “I’ve already said, sir, there is no such proof.”

  “Then we have this extraordinary situation, do we not? There is no proof the bloodstains were caused by blood from the deceased, that the tyre mark was made by my client’s car, that my client’s footprint was made at the time of the murder, or that there is any connection whatsoever between these facts? Has any murder case been built up on such flimsy foundations?”

  “The jury might like to remember,” said the judge, “that it has been proved, even to defence counsel’s satisfaction, that the deceased fell to his death from the point of land under discussion.”

  “Your lordship’s interventions are most helpful,” said Tutt.

  *

  It was night. Some time ago, the town clock had struck one. The sky was stormy, with a rising wind that sent the unseen clouds scudding from horizon to horizon. The air was damp, presaging rain.

  Bladen lay on his bunk and stared up at the ceiling. The cell was not in darkness because of the low-wattage bulb, protected by thick iron bars, that burned throughout the long night. Shadows on the wall suddenly seemed to clump together to form the outline of France. He and Gwyneth had gone to Paris for their honeymoon — they couldn’t afford to go any further. He’d wanted to stay in a cheap hotel to spin out the time, she had insisted on an expensive hotel no matter how short that cut their stay… Oh, God! he silently cried, why was man given a memory, why the intelligence to foresee the probable future, when both could crucify him? He was innocent, yet he was going to be found guilty.

  Chapter 16

  Katherine faced the court with a courage none could miss and none decry.

  “Where did you go on the evening of the eighteenth of September?” asked Stimpson.

  She gripped the edge of the dock with her gloved hands. She was as carefully dressed and as cared for as ever, but her face had changed: there were new lines on it, harsh, sad lines, lines of suffering. “I went with Bob to a restaurant called The Salamander.”

  “And afterwards?”

  “We went for a drive.”

  “Where did you drive to?”

  “We went…” She stopped, then raised her head fractionally. “We went up into the Wayton Hills.”

  “Did you park anywhere?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  She looked at the dock for the first time. She shivered and momentarily closed her eyes. “I didn’t know what it was called: neither of us did.”

  “What exactly happened?”

  “Bob saw a lane and suggested we found out where it went to. I said it might be somebody’s garden. Bob said we could tell them we’d come to supper… It was all so gay.” She stared at Stimpson with misery-filled eyes. “We went down the lane and parked.”

  “What did you do there?”

  “Enjoyed the view.”

  “But surely it was dark?”

  “There were the lights of the towns and the ships at sea…”

  “How long were you there, Mrs. Curson?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you do anything other than enjoy the scenery?”

  “We didn’t make love. I swear we didn’t make love.” She stared at him with a pathetic defiance that made some of the watchers feel like key-hole snoopers. “We kissed, but that was all. I wouldn’t do anything more. I was married.”

  There was a silence. She bit her lower lip to try to stop its trembling. She was married: but not to the man she had been in the car with. The sea of faces frightened her sick and in them she saw a vision of their lascivious certainty that her clothes had been in disarray, that his hands had been caressing her soft flesh and stroking up the fires of passion.

  “Did anything unusual happen while you were parked there?”

  When she next spoke, her voice was so low that the shorthand reporter could only just understand her. “Bob thought he saw someone watching us.”

  “Because there was something to watch?”

  “Not like that.
”

  “What did the accused do?”

  “Bob got out of the car and went to find out if there was anyone.”

  “Did he say on his return if he found anyone?”

  “There wasn’t anybody.”

  Stimpson read the proof. His instructing solicitor pulled the back of his gown and he turned, listened to what was said, and shook his head. He addressed the witness again. “Mrs. Curson, where was your husband on this evening?”

  She flinched.

  In the dock, Bladen was tortured by the sight of her terrible misery. “Leave her alone,” he shouted, as he jumped to his feet.

  The warder grabbed hold of Bladen’s arm and tried to drag him down.

  “Stop it,” shouted Bladen.

  The judge spoke. “Be quiet. You do yourself no good by such outbursts.”

  Slowly, Bladen sat down.

  “You stupid nit,” whispered the warder angrily, as he released his grip.

  Stimpson resumed the questioning. “Where was your husband on the night of the eighteenth?”

  “In… in London,” she said.

  “Mrs. Curson, did you go out on the evening of Monday, the thirtieth of September?”

  “Yes.”

  “With whom?”

  “With Bob.” Her voice rose. “Elmer was in London and I went out with Bob. But we didn’t do what you’re thinking, we didn’t make love. Can’t you understand, we didn’t make love.”

  The judge spoke sympathetically. “Mrs. Curson, would you like a short adjournment?”

  She stared beseechingly at him. “That won’t change anything, will it?”

  “No,” he answered.

  “We didn’t do anything wrong,” she said, and tears welled out of her eyes.

  Bladen suffered an even wilder burst of impotent misery. To suffer on the rack of innocence was terrible enough, but to see her being broken by the questioning was infinitely worse.

  To what end was her misery? he wondered wildly. No one in court believed her denials. Some of the women present might be sympathetic, but even they would be sanctimoniously condemning her for the betrayal of her husband: all the men would be wondering how well she wriggled. He balled his fists as a wild desire to attack her persecutors swept his mind.