Prisoner at the Bar

by Roderic Jeffries

  The warder checked all was in order, stared superciliously at Premble, then left, slamming the door shut behind himself.

  “It’s good to see you,” said Bladen.

  “Yes, sir, I… That is…” Premble’s embarrassment was so great he could not continue.

  Bladen sat down on one of the ugly wooden chairs. “Did you see Mrs. Curson?”

  Premble, an expression of misery on his face, shook his head.

  “What happened, then?”

  Premble drew in a deep breath. “She’s… she’s living in Paraford Cross now, sir. One of those flats down by the river. There’s a general woman working there and I gave her your message. When she came back she just said there was no answer.”

  In Katherine’s eyes, Bladen thought, he would have betrayed her, completely, absolutely, and devastatingly. With her sense of loyalty, she would be unable to understand how he could have done such a thing: no conceivable circumstances would ever have made her commit such an act. Had he not betrayed her, she would always have stood by him no matter what the world said or thought: as it was, he had destroyed everything. “Thanks for trying,” he said.

  Premble fidgeted with one of the buttons of his coat. “That’s… that’s not all, sir.”

  “Isn’t it enough?” asked Bladen.

  “I’m afraid…”

  “Spit it out, man. I’m getting inured to shocks.”

  “Mr. Curson is petitioning for divorce. He… he’s even going to sue you for damages.”

  “Say that again.”

  “Mr. Curson is petitioning for divorce.”

  “Are you quite certain?”

  “There just can’t be any doubt, I’m afraid, sir.”

  “You’re afraid!” Bladen’s voice rose. “I was getting more and more afraid he wouldn’t. You miserable old sinner, that’s the best news since I came inside.”

  Premble’s astonishment was ludicrous. “But… Damages, sir, could be… I mean, you haven’t much left and that…”

  “Listen. I took a hell of a gamble. I deliberately destroyed everything left to me that was of real value because only by doing that could I have the chance of building it right up again.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “My gamble was that if I admitted in court to committing adultery with Mrs. Curson, Mr. Curson would sue for divorce because he could no longer shelter behind his wife’s and my denials: I also gambled that Mrs. Curson would defend. Is she?”

  “I believe so, sir.”

  “Thank God! No matter how hopeless, she’ll always fight for the truth.”

  “But how does a divorce case…”

  “In his hungry anger to punish her and drag me a little deeper in the mire, he’s overlooked one thing — in a defended divorce case, he has to go into the witness box, something which could not happen to him in the murder trial.”

  Chapter 18

  Bladen was taken up to London in a police car, the driver of which was a fan of Denbrington Football Club. He insisted on describing, kick by kick, the team’s last home match. The warder, in civilian clothes, who sat in the back with Bladen, was as bored by football as was Bladen.

  The divorce court was one of three that had been built in the past five years to cope with the flood of divorces. A hall ran the length of the courtrooms and here collected the parties to the cases, their lawyers, the witnesses, the private investigators, and the public who never seemed to tire of watching misery, lost hopes, smashed ideals, and bitterness.

  Bladen searched for Katherine. He saw Whicheck, who briefly nodded at him, then caught sight of her, sitting on one of the benches, staring blankly at the floor. He walked across, past a group of arguing people. She didn’t see him until he was almost up to her and then she looked up. She drew in her breath sharply and for a moment seemed to be about to get up and run away.

  “How are you?” he asked.

  She said nothing.

  “Katherine — you’ve got to trust me.”

  “Trust you?” she said wonderingly.

  “I… I had to do what I did.”

  “You can say that?” She seemed bewildered. “You can say that you really had to lie, to betray us, to degrade me? God knows, I made an even more terrible mistake than I thought.”

  He noticed how she was clenching her fists, visible sign of her bitter pain. He went to speak, to promise her it would be all right, but stopped himself, turned, and walked back to the centre of the hall. Promise her that — how the hell could he? It was still nothing but a gamble, a gamble that in cross-examination he could break down Elmer because he understood Elmer’s character. But was he a sufficiently capable cross-examiner, would Elmer’s desire for revenge be too strong so that he, in turn, was ready to gamble with his possessions…

  An usher opened the door of the centre courtroom and pinned up a list on the noticeboard. “Curson and Curson,” he called out. He was pushed to one side by the throng of people who struggled to get into the courtroom. This divorce was news.

  Within minutes, all the public benches were filled and standing people packed the two gangways at the back of the court. There were not enough seats for the press and a harassed usher showed half a dozen men and one woman into the jury box, not in use as this was a non-jury case.

  Curson came into court as the judge entered and crossed the dais to his desk. Curson did momentarily come to a halt, but he pushed forward before the judge was seated as if to show that his respect for the Bench was very limited. He had two counsel and Masters, the Q.C., was the most fashionable divorce silk in practice. Masters’ brief was marked at five hundred guineas: Curson would not have considered he had engaged the best man had it been marked at less.

  The case was called and Masters stood up. “My Lord, this is a petition for divorce on the grounds of adultery. I appear for the petitioner, with my learned friend Mr. Jesse, Mr. Homewood appears for the respondent. The correspondent is unrepresented.”

  The judge spoke. “Is Mr. Bladen here?”

  Bladen, sitting in the same row of benches as Curson and Katherine, stood up. “Yes, my Lord.”

  “Have you had the opportunity to be represented by counsel if you so wished?”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “Very well.”

  Bladen sat down.

  Masters opened his case. It was not yet law that evidence in a criminal case was evidence in a civil case and therefore cognisance could not be taken of what had happened in another court. Proof of adultery was as strict as that required in a criminal proceeding, but it was not necessary to produce direct proof. The fact of adultery was usually inferred from surrounding circumstances and… Bladen stared down at his opened notebook. Normally, he wrote down the broad outlines a proposed line of cross-examination would take, yet now the pages were empty. On the face of things he was a fool to choose to be unrepresented since tension was gripping him and might badly warp his judgement, yet no counsel would have agreed to step so far beyond the bounds of what was permitted.

  He looked along the bench. Katherine sat there with her eyes shut, as if in physical pain. Perhaps she was suffering an actual pain, brought on by a distraught mind. Elmer, near the end, appeared to be totally unmoved.

  Masters finished his opening speech and called Curson, who stepped into the gangway and went along to the witness box. He took the oath in a firm voice and answered the questions with an easy confidence. He testified that the marriage had originally been a very happy one, but that after a time it had become obvious that something was wrong. He had done all he could to mend things, to no effect. At one time, he’d briefly wondered if the friendship between his wife and the co-respondent was more intimate than it should have been, but his absolute trust in her made him spurn the possibility until certain events occurred, then even he was forced to acknowledge the truth.

  Katherine’s counsel only briefly cross-examined. Had Curson ever seen a single act of familiarity between his client and the co-respondent? Had he of hi
s own knowledge any proof whatsoever of any degree of intimacy between the respondent and the co-respondent?

  Katherine’s counsel sat down. There was a pause. The judge looked at Bladen and he slowly stood up. There was a hammering in his throat and just for a second he felt as nervous as when he had conducted his first case. “Mr. Curson, at what time was your business appointment on Tuesday, the first of October of last year?”

  Curson showed his amazement. “What’s that?”

  “What was the time of your appointment?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “I think you have a very good idea.”

  “I tell you, I don’t know.”

  “Perhaps, then, I can remind you.”

  Masters stood up. “My Lord, although the co-respondent is unrepresented, it should be unnecessary to have to remind him of the more elementary rules of evidence. The question of my client’s business appointment is quite outside the scope of this hearing.”

  The judge addressed Bladen. “I am always reluctant to interrupt a line of questioning, especially at its start. Were you counsel appearing on behalf of a client, however, I should have no hesitation in stopping the present line of questioning. As a person who has been a member of the Bar, you know the rules of evidence yet here you appear not as counsel but as an unrepresented co-respondent and it is usual to allow an unrepresented party some latitude in his questioning. Is your present line material?”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  The judge hesitated. “Very well,” he said finally.

  Masters sat down.

  “Mr. Curson.” said Bladen, “was not your appointment for after lunch?”

  “It may have been.”

  “If it was not until then, why did you leave your country home and go up to your London flat after lunch on the Monday?”

  “Because I wanted to,” said Curson impatiently.

  “Quite so. But why did you want to? Is it not a fact that usually you never spend a night alone in your London flat unless circumstances force you to?”

  “What the devil’s the point of all this?”

  The judge spoke again. “Mr. Bladen, I accepted your assurance that your questions were material. I must confess that in so doing I was to some extent relying on the strict sense of duty that counsel owes a court, even whilst allowing you a special latitude as you are an unrepresented party.”

  “My Lord, I hope to show that I am fully alive to counsel’s obligations and duties.”

  The judge looked puzzled, but said nothing more. Bladen resumed the questioning. “It was quite unnecessary from a business point of view, was it not, for you to go up to London on the Monday?”

  “What if it was?” snapped Curson.

  “Did your chauffeur drive up North that afternoon to visit his parents?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which car did he use?”

  “I can’t possibly remember.”

  “Let me assure you it was the Rolls-Royce. You keep a second car in London, do you not — a small Morris saloon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t he use that?”

  “Because I told him to use the Rolls.”

  “In the past, when your chauffeur has been allowed to borrow a car, has he ever been allowed to borrow the Rolls?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “I will tell you, then. As one would expect, he had never before been allowed to use the Rolls-Royce. Why did you allow him to borrow the Rolls?”

  “Obviously, because he’d got such a long journey ahead of him.”

  “Or because you needed a car and one that wouldn’t be so conspicuous as the Rolls?”

  Curson’s attitude suddenly ceased to be supercilious or coldly contemptuous. “Certainly not.”

  “Did you go out in the Morris on that Monday night?”

  “No.”

  “Are you quite certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are on oath.”

  “I am perfectly well aware of that.”

  “How do you account for the fact that between your chauffeur’s driving away from your flat on the Monday and his return on the Tuesday, a mileage of one hundred and twenty-four miles was recorded on the Morris’ odometer?”

  “That’s nonsense.”

  “On the contrary, it’s fact.”

  “I know nothing about it.”

  “Then what’s your explanation? That the car was stolen for the night and the thief drove it for exactly one hundred and twenty-four miles?”

  Masters stood up. “My Lord, in view of the somewhat unusual circumstances of this case I have so far refrained from objecting a second time, but I feel I must now do so. My client is being subjected to an endless stream of questions that are totally immaterial and which, surely, are aimed merely at creating prejudice.”

  “My Lord,” said Bladen, “the questions are intended merely to prove I did not commit adultery with the respondent.”

  “I find that very difficult to believe,” replied the judge.

  There was a note of desperation in Bladen’s voice as he said: “I assure you, my Lord, it is the truth.”

  “I am not now certain to what extent I am justified in accepting your assurance.”

  There was a short silence. Bladen, seizing the last opportunity he might be given, said to Curson: “Do you realise that the distance by the most direct route from your flat in London to the Wayton Hills and back again is one hundred and twenty-four miles?”

  Curson did not answer.

  “My Lord,” said Masters, “I really must object.”

  “One moment,” said the judge. He studied the witness. “You will answer that question.”

  “I’ve no idea what the distance is,” said Curson, “nor do I care.”

  “Is it, then,” said Bladen, “pure coincidence that the Morris between Monday afternoon and Tuesday lunchtime should have been driven over a distance exactly equal to the return journey to the Wayton Hills?”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Did you drive the Morris from your flat to the Wayton Hills and back again?”

  “No.”

  “Where did you drive to that night?”

  “I’ve told you, I didn’t go out.”

  “You’re quite certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t leave the flat at all?”

  “No. How many more times do I have to say the same thing?”

  “Would it interest you to know I shall be calling a witness, Mrs. Burns, who will say she saw you come out of your flat, go round to the garage, back the Morris out, close the garage doors, and then drive away?”

  Curson stared at Bladen with obvious hatred. He struggled to maintain his self-control, but was almost shouting when he said: “It’s a lie.”

  “Mrs. Burns will be lying?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yet she knows you only by sight and has never spoken to you, or had any dealings with you or with anyone else in your household. Why should she lie?”

  “Because she’s been paid to.”

  “Isn’t that a very wild allegation to make about a person you’ve never met? If two people tell diametrically opposite stories a court of law will, in the absence of other proof and in order to discover who is the liar, logically look to the question of which of the two has a motive for lying.”

  Curson said nothing.

  “Mrs. Burns has not been bribed. In the witness box it will be quite obvious she is not the kind of person who could be bribed. It is only with reluctance she is coming to court today as she is a very busy housewife with a young family. So why should she lie?”

  “She’s lying.”

  “You have a very strong motive for lying, haven’t you?”

  “No.”

  “On the contrary — you don’t want anyone to know you made a car journey that night.”

  “I never left the flat.”

  “Let us see. Do you know Mrs. Ratello?”

  “No.”<
br />
  “She lives in Tenlington, in one of the bungalows just past the public house. Her daughter lives in Wayton Lees and last September her daughter was eight months’ pregnant. On Monday, the thirtieth of September, she drove in her husband’s old car from Tenlington to Wayton Lees. She was at a T junction when a small red car went by and something about the driver, seen in the headlights of her own car, seemed familiar. She happened to be going in the same direction and was not far behind when the first car slowed right down at a fork in the road. She couldn’t recognise who it was from the back of the man’s head, in shadow, so she read the number plate KR three three three three. She couldn’t identify the number, but it stuck in her mind because her initials are KR. Is that number familiar to you?”

  “No.”

  “It should be. It is the number of your Morris.”

  “She’s lying.”

  “Just as you say Mrs. Burns is lying?”

  “Yes.”

  “And once again without the slightest reason for lying?”

  “I tell you, she’s lying.”

  “Mr. Curson, our law has its anomalies and one of these is that if a man does not owe a duty to someone he sees in danger from which he could extricate him but does not wish to do so, and does not extricate him, he commits no offence. A man can watch another drown in a foot of water and be guilty of no criminal offence, although on moral grounds he must be condemned. In the absence of any legal duty to do so, it is no legal offence not to come forward to give evidence that would free another person from a criminal charge on which he has falsely been convicted.”

  “What’s all that got to do with me?”

  “You did not come forward to give evidence at the trial in which I was found guilty of murdering Thompson because to have done so would have been to clear me of complicity in the murder.”

  “I know nothing.”

  “Aren’t you aware that it is now obvious to everyone in this court that you went up to London on the Monday, although this was totally unnecessary and out of habit, because you wanted to be on your own and you wanted your wife to be on her own: that you let your chauffeur take the Rolls because the Rolls would be too conspicuous: that you then drove down in the Morris to the Wayton Hills and Lovers’ Lane?”