Paradise Court

by Jenny Oldfield

  Ernie emerged from his lonely, dark wait and ducked his head away from the massive room full of strangers. He stopped dead, until a third officer moved him on from behind. Then he shifted on again into the dock. There was a sea of faces, a babble of voices as he climbed three steps and sat alone and terrified in the seat of the accused.

  A warder jerked him to his feet as a gavel rattled down on a desk and the procession of crimson and fur robes and curled wigs approached the platform from the side.

  The judge sat in the central carved seat, flanked by lesser court officials. As he settled, pulling his robes close around his legs, he glanced at Ernie. Removed by ritual and by long years of administering justice, his cold eyes simply registered the usual; a raw young man spruced up for the occasion, but with a downtrodden look. He flickered a second glance into the body of the court to where the relatives sat, tight-jawed and upright. He was impassive to the point of boredom, hoping for no nonsense and a swift conclusion.

  The family hardly spared a moment to assess their chances with Judge Berry. Ernie claimed every scrap of their attention as he struggled to hold up his head. Once he’d spotted them, he kept his eyes glued to their bench, and as proceedings began, his every move was dictated by his pa’s silent, patient signs. He stood when Duke stood for the judge to enter. He sat at Duke’s firm nod. He swivelled his body towards the men in wigs when they began to talk, but his gaze never stole away from the reassuring sight of his family all lined up to help.

  Robert meanwhile suffered badly from the stares of all his old friends up in the gallery, facing them for the first time since his injury. He knew they were judging the changes in him; the stigma of his wheelchair, his white, drawn look and trembling hands. But all protest was beyond him. Just as in the hospital, you had to submit. Here it was different rules and regulations, but they kept you tied down just the same. They prevented you from speaking out when your family was under attack, and people drove their knives of accusation into the heart of your existence. The very language shanghaied him; the ‘m’luds’, ‘m’learned friends’, ‘aforesaids’ and ‘incriminating evidence’. Their posture spoke of privilege as they hooked their thumbs inside the front bands of their silk gowns and strutted down the centre of the court, wigs perched, pivoting on metal-tipped, polished shoes. He sat there angry and helpless as the prosecution presented their case.

  Hettie took the witness stand first and swore her oath. She stood up high, recalling the night in question; the time, the place, the position in which she’d discovered her friend’s body. In the corner of the gallery, almost hidden, stood Mary and Tommy O’Hagan. Hettie answered with honest simplicity and a touching faith in the truth. Earnest prayers had shown her the way; the blame would shift and rest on the right person if only she told the truth.

  ‘Tell me, Miss Parsons, were you expecting to meet the victim, Daisy O’Hagan, on that particular night?’ Charles Forster, prosecuting counsel, paused by the witness stand. He was a tall man with white hair and shadowy grey features. His voice was deceptively smooth and polite. ‘It was your custom, was it not?’

  Hettie nodded. ‘Daisy never said nothing about going off by herself. That’s why I went back to look for her.’

  ‘Had you already looked?’

  ‘Yes, and I asked around the whole place. One of the girls said she’d seen her go off to meet someone at the stage door, but that was earlier on.’

  ‘She went off to the stage door, you say?’ Forster sounded merely curious.

  ‘That’s what they said. I ain’t seen her.’

  ‘Did they say whom she’d gone to meet at the stage door?’

  ‘I don’t know. Some gentleman, I expect,’ Hettie returned his stare.

  ‘Did they say which gentleman?’

  ‘No, sir. It could’ve been anyone.’

  ‘Hm.’ Forster’s expression was disapproving. ‘So it seems the victim had an assignation at the stage door.’ He raised an eyebrow at the jury-box. ‘Let’s proceed. What did you do next, Miss Parsons, when you failed to find your friend?’

  ‘I seen Mr Mills looking for her, and . . .’

  ‘Mr Mills?’

  ‘The manager. He had her wages. He wanted to get hold of Daisy to hand over her money.’

  Forster nodded. Sewell, sitting beside another bewigged figure, wrote a short note and slid it along the table. ‘But eventually you left the building, Miss Parsons?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Assuming that the victim had met her gentleman friend and gone off. Now tell the court why you returned and made the unfortunate discovery.’

  Hettie gave a small frown. ‘I met up with Robert out on the street.’ She looked down at the barrister and answered his brief prompt. ‘My brother, Robert. He asked me, had I seen Ernie ‘cos he’d lost him. Ernie’s my other brother.’ She glanced towards the dock. ‘I said we’d best go back. Ern was bound to be waiting at the stage door. He never went nowhere without us. So we went back.’

  There was more urgent scribbling at both defence and prosecution benches.

  ‘And was he at the stage door?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘That was most unusual, you say? So where was he, do you know?’

  ‘No, sir. It was after that I went in and found Daisy, like I told you.’ Hettie’s head went down for the first time. Her eyelids pricked with tears.

  ‘And when in fact did you next see your brother, Ernie?’

  ‘Back home, sir.’

  ‘Not where, but when, Miss Parsons. That same night?’

  ‘No, sir. He was already in bed when me and Rob got back. I never saw him till breakfast.’

  ‘I see.’ Forster backed off with raised eyebrows. He sniffed, checked the brief on his desk and finished with his witness with an air of quiet satisfaction. The case had begun nicely.

  The sergeant and the inspector from Union Street cemented it firmly in place, identifying for the jury the time of events, the unusual amount of violence used against the victim, the position of the murder weapon after it had skidded across the floor away from the body.

  ‘Thrown down in haste, would you say?’ Forster suggested.

  The sergeant nodded. ‘I’d say so, yes, sir. Not very clever. Done in a panic before the murderer ran off.’

  ‘What kind of knife, Sergeant Matthews?’

  ‘Kitchen knife, sir. Ordinary type with a bone handle, a six-inch blade.’ The sergeant performed his duty with minimum fuss. ‘Available from any ironmonger’s.’

  ‘Including Powells’ of Duke Street, Sergeant?’ Forster loaded his voice with quiet significance.

  Mayhew, the defence counsel, objected. If the type of knife was commonly available, he argued, the fact that it was on sale at Powells’ could not be considered relevant. The judge agreed. Jess looked along the row at Frances and nodded.

  Forster inclined his head towards the bench. Unfortunately, the police had not been able to pin down the shopkeeper, Powell, over the purchase of that particular knife. He had to let it go, but he turned energetically back to his witness. ‘Did you subject the weapon to forensic scrutiny, Sergeant Matthews?’

  ‘We did, sir, and we found fingerprints on the handle.’ The sergeant rocked on to his heels as a ripple of renewed attention ran through the room.

  ‘Could you identify those fingerprints for the court?’

  ‘Yes, sir. They appear as item number three in evidence for the prosecution. They belong to the accused, Ernest Parsons.’

  There was a gasp. Prosecuting counsel executed a turn and clipped his heels together. Then he dipped his head to the judge and returned to his seat.

  Duke sat looking steadily at Ernie, while the others dropped their gaze under the dual weight of confusion and shock. Ernie had touched the knife. Fingerprints couldn’t lie. Defence cross-questioning continued in a haze, and they were well into the inspector’s testimony before the family could gather their concentration.

  ‘Now, during your interview with the ac
cused at Union Street police station, Inspector, did he give an indication as to why he had waited at the stage door in the first place?’ Forster was in full swing.

  ‘Yes, sir. He expected his brother, Robert, to join him there, to wait for the girls, Hettie Parsons and Daisy O’Hagan.’

  ‘And did he? Did his brother eventually join him?’

  ‘We don’t know, sir. According to him, the last thing he can recall is arriving at the appointed spot.’ The inspector turned a page on his notepad set down on the ledge in the witness-box. He looked up sharply to field the next question.

  ‘But you found fingerprints belonging to the accused on the murder weapon, did you not? Do you have any other evidence to corroborate Ernie Parsons’s presence at the scene?’ Forster led him on, sure of his ground.

  ‘Yes, sir. We found his cap, item number two in evidence for the prosecution, down in one corner of the girls’ dressing room, as if it had fallen off and been kicked about a bit.’

  ‘In a struggle? Is that what you suggest?’

  ‘That’s how it looked to my men, yes, sir.’

  ‘And in his written statement, is it true that the accused admits to having done something he was sorry for on that occasion?’

  This was another question guaranteed to raise the tension in the court. There was an intake of breath. Robert gripped the arms of his wheelchair until his knuckles turned white. Hettie, unnerved by her own time on the stand, stared down at her lap.

  The inspector cleared his throat and picked up the notepad. He read in a loud, clear voice. ‘Yes, sir. He said, “I never meant to do it. Tell Rob I never meant to!”’ He said it twice, sir. There was no doubt.’

  Forster nodded and pursed his lips. ‘“I never meant to do it.”’ He repeated the phrase deliberately and looked accusingly at Ernie. ‘“I never meant to do it.” We all do many things we never mean to do, on the spur of the moment, and often they give cause for regret. Our temper snaps, we lose control, isn’t that so, Inspector?’

  ‘In crimes of this type, that’s true in my experience, yes, sir.’

  ‘And would you say that the accused has a temper like anyone else? That he might be prey to jealousy if the girl he wants is seen taking up with another man, for instance? That he might very well lose control and snap, as we say? What would be your opinion on that, Inspector?’

  ‘Like you say, sir, he ain’t no different. Same as the next man, if provoked. Only not too bright and not open to reason, in my judgement. I can see a case of him choosing the wrong girl and having to stand by and watch her chuck him over for someone else. Well, it’s obvious what might happen then.’ The inspector gave a worldly shrug.

  If his family could stand up and shout, right then and there, ‘You don’t know Ernie. He ain’t the same. He’s gentle as a lamb, there ain’t no harm in him!’ they would bring the trial to a shambling halt. But you had to live with him to know him; poor, gentle Ernie, just bright enough to realize his own shortcomings, ever anxious to make himself acceptable in spite of them. He never ‘wanted’ anything in his life and just took it; least of all Daisy, least of all a life. Yet he sat with a puzzled frown, shaking his head at his pa, seeing through a daze that things were not going well now.

  Fred Mills came next, suave and sneering about Daisy. Yes, it was possible she was seeing more than one man at once. Yes, he’d seen her walk home with Ernie Parsons on more than one occasion, but that wouldn’t stop her from going with other men. She liked the ones who gave her presents and she knew how to lead them on. Mills painted the picture of a cheap flirt who might provoke a man to violence. He seemed not to care that her mother stood in the gallery, and he cast a cold look at Hettie, sitting subdued and strained alongside her sisters.

  Mayhew cross-examined him. Had he managed to find Daisy and give her the wages owed?

  ‘No, sir. The other girls told me she must have gone off early, so I left it.’

  ‘Was that normal, Mr Mills?’

  ‘Not really, no.’ The manager’s mouth twitched sideways. He looked disgruntled.

  ‘And weren’t you suspicious? That a girl should go off home without her wages?’

  ‘I’m not her keeper,’ came the flippant answer.

  ‘Yes or no will do, Mr Mills,’ Judge Berry interposed wearily. ‘And we keep a civil tongue here.’

  Mills breathed loudly through his nose. ‘No, I wasn’t suspicious. I didn’t think it was my business.’

  ‘Weren’t you worried?’ Mayhew pressed the point. He was dogged; a dark-haired, olive-skinned man, much younger than his opponent, Forster. ‘Forget suspicion. Weren’t you perhaps alarmed that a girl in your employ, not yet twenty years of age, seemed to have simply disappeared into the maze of London streets, late at night, in the dark?’

  ‘No,’ Mills insisted through gritted teeth.

  ‘So you stayed inside the building and forgot all about her?’

  ‘Yes, I went back to my office.’

  ‘To count the takings, no doubt. Did anyone see you during that time?’

  The witness stared him out as he answered with a note of triumph. ‘In my office, you mean? As a matter of fact, yes. I was with Archie Small.’

  The gallery gave a deflated sigh. ‘Just when he was getting his claws into the oily bleeder, he comes up with an alibi!’ Florrie scowled her disbelief.

  Annie grunted. ‘Them two’s thick as thieves,’ she grumbled. ‘Mills and Small. I wonder what they’ve got to bleeding hide!’

  Mayhew, dashed but not defeated, came at his witness once more. ‘Would you please describe your relationship with the victim, Mr Mills,’ he said coolly.

  ‘What are you getting at?’ Mills was visibly rattled. His suave exterior gave way.

  ‘Answer the question,’ the judge commanded.

  ‘I gave her the work. I paid her wages.’

  ‘So you never took what might be called a romantic interest in Daisy O’Hagan, Mr Mills?’

  The manager’s laugh struck a dry, hollow note. ‘Not me, mister. Strictly professional, that’s me.’

  Mayhew continued with his sceptical tone. ‘And what about your friend and alibi, Mr Small? To your knowledge, was he in any way other than professionally involved with Miss O’Hagan?’

  Mills turned to the judge. ‘He’s a married man, Your Honour!’

  This time, some spectators responded with a laugh. Moral outrage sat absurdly on the cynical manager’s shoulders. Berry’s hooded eyes closed for a moment in exasperation. Mayhew, seeing that the judge’s tolerance had reached its limit, backed off. But Mills was exposed as a nasty character. Set alongside Hettie, with defence evidence yet to come, Mills had come off badly. Archie Small would back up his alibi, no doubt, but first the court must deal with a witness whom no one in the gallery had expected.

  Syd Swan came on to the stand to open disapproval. No one liked the blunt-featured, crude individual who took a sly interest in all the girls and had fingers in many of Chalky White’s shady deals.

  In the gallery, Dolly frowned at Amy for having taken up with such an unpopular figure. ‘You can certainly pick them, girl,’ she growled. Swan had never completely emerged from the pimply stage; there was something grubby and unappealing about him. His head hung slightly forward off hunched shoulders. He looked furtive even when trying to impress, as now.

  ‘Hush, Ma!’ Amy squirmed.

  Down in the middle aisle, Robert’s grip on his wheelchair tightened. His skin felt lousy, as in the trenches. Just looking at Swan made his flesh creep. But yes, he had been there that night, hanging around under a dark archway, giving chase when he spotted Robert. Now no doubt he’d have more ‘incriminating evidence’ for the jury to consider. Robert’s throat constricted with rage and helplessness.

  New spectators entered the public gallery as Swan swore the oath. Maurice Leigh and Walter Davidson had met up by chance outside the courtroom and made their way in together, discussing Ernie’s case as they went, Maurice had come as early as he coul
d, to lend Jess moral support. ‘I only hope it goes the right way,’ he said to Walter. ‘It’ll break Jess’s heart if they go and hang him.’

  The phrase stunned good-hearted Walter. It seemed out of the question until you heard it spoken. ‘They wouldn’t,’ he said quietly.

  ‘They hung a flower seller in Shoreditch that time. Margaret Murphy, the one what done her kid in.’ Maurice peered through the door to seize their time to enter. The court usher was handing the Bible to the witness. ‘And they hung that farm boy last year. Eighteen years old. Then they found out he hadn’t done the murder, too bleeding late.’

  ‘Not this time, they won’t.’ Walter strode past Maurice into the mass of spectators. He spotted Chalky White coming in through an entrance opposite, then lost him in the crowd.

  Forster’s questions for Swan were brief and simple. He established his witness’s rivalry with the older Parsons brother, Robert, which had come to a head after the performance at the Palace. He pictured for the court the chase that took place between them just at the crucial time when the accused had come out of the theatre in search of that brother. Robert listened, a bitter taste in his mouth, unable to look at either Ernie or Duke.

  ‘Now then, Mr Swan, what did you do after Mr Parsons had given you the slip?’ Forster could feel the initiative returning to him.

  ‘We walked back to the Palace.’ Syd stood gripping the ledge of the witness stand. He leaned forward, eager to lay the blame.

  ‘How many of you?’

  ‘Three or four.’

  ‘For what purpose?’

  Syd shrugged. ‘I dunno. We was having a lark, that’s all.’

  ‘Looking for girls, Mr Swan?’

  He leered. ‘Could be.’

  ‘But you didn’t find any?’ Forster pretended to condone the rough code of picking up fair game in the street.

  ‘We left it too late, see.’

  The judge sat back in his seat. Forster rolled his eyes at his witness’s informality. ‘Whom did you see outside the Palace after your return?’