‘And did they resent it—coming from an Indian, I mean?’
‘Slit his throat tomorrow if they got the chance. All twelve of them. All eleven, I should say. Don’t know about young Ngono. He’s like a kid at his first circus.’
Mr. Drawbridge had passed the port bottle back in Mr. Frith’s direction. He filled up his glass again. It wasn’t really his drink, port. But it would do for now; do, until they got round to the whisky later. Whisky, he knew, was the only thing that would really revive him, put him back on his form again.
‘Think they’ll fall for the idea of the kitchen boy being mixed up in the murder?’ Mr. Drawbridge asked. ‘Clever of Das to bring it up in that way. Bound to leave a doubt in their minds.’
‘Oh, he’s clever all right. Grant you that much.’
Mr. Frith had spilt some of the port down his shirt-front, and had to start mopping at it with his napkin. Mr. Drawbridge sat watching him.
‘Then how d’you think it’s all going?’
‘Difficult to say. Very difficult. Getting it all their own way at the moment.’ He paused. ‘Wish our A.-G. had got a bit more guts in him,’ he added. ‘Taking it all too quietly for my liking. No—whoosh!’
Mr. Frith still had his port glass in his hand as he pronounced the word. It was careless. And too emphatic. Mr. Drawbridge had to begin dabbing at the tablecloth as well.
‘Really? Only seen the transcript, myself,’ he told him. ‘Read all right to me.’
But Mr. Frith had become despondent.
‘Don’t like to think of Lady Anne in the box,’ he said. ‘Not with the other fellow firing the questions. Might say anything, you know.’
Mr. Drawbridge only smiled.
‘I don’t think there’ll be any trouble with her,’ he replied. ‘Never does to go for a woman. He wouldn’t want to put the jury’s backs
His pipe had gone out, and he was at work lighting it again.
‘It’s Stebbs tomorrow, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘He ought to be all right. Seems steady enough to me.’
‘Oh, yes. I’m not worried about him. Damn it all, he saw it.’
Tomorrow had come; and, so far, things in the courtroom were moving quite smoothly.
‘And what did you do, Mr. Stebbs, when you heard Lady Anne scream?’
The Attorney-General asked the question in that quiet, conversational tone of his that Mr. Frith found so unconvincing.
‘I jumped out of bed and ran over.’
‘Immediately?’
‘Immediately.’
‘No hanging about to get some clothes on?’
‘No.’
‘How were you dressed then?’
‘I was in my pyjamas.’
‘And how far was your tent from Sir Gardnor’s?’
‘About twenty yards.’
‘Was it a clear run, or were there any obstructions?’
‘Perfectly clear.’
‘And could you see where you were going?’
‘No difficulty at all.’
‘Then it can’t have taken you very long, can it? How long, in fact, did elapse between hearing the scream and reaching Sir Gardnor’s tent? A minute?’
‘Much less.’
‘Half-a-minute, then?’
‘Less.’
‘Less? A quarter-of-a-minute, perhaps?’
‘Not more. I got there as quickly as I could.’
‘So in a quarter-of-a-minute you had reached the doorway. Was the flap open?’
‘No. It was closed.’
‘How was it closed?’
‘Only loosely. The cords had been looped together on the outside.’
‘You did say on the outside?’
‘I did.’
‘And “looped” you said. Do you mean “looped” or “knotted”?’
‘You could call it a sort of knot, I suppose. But it wasn’t tied tight, or anything like that.’
‘Then you had no difficulty in undoing it?’
‘None whatever. The ends just came apart.’
‘So it didn’t hold you up in any way?’
‘Not at all. I went straight in.’
‘How far did you, in fact, go?’
‘There was a sort of little passage-way inside the tent. I had to get to the end of it before I could see what was going on.’
‘And what was going on?’
‘Sir Gardnor was at his desk, sir. Dead.’
‘Was he alone at the time?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Who was with him?’
Harold shifted his position slightly. Where he was standing he could just see the white corner of the Mimbo blanket over the edge of the dock-rail.
‘Old Moses,’ he said.
‘What exactly was Old Moses doing? Tell the Court in your own words, please.’
It was the same low, almost casual, voice that the Attorney-General was using. But it was not without its effect. The Court was suddenly as silent as it had been when Mr. Das had so dramatically thrown his papers down.
‘He was bent over the back of Sir Gardnor’s chair. He was stabbing him. There was blood everywhere.’
In the quiet of the court room, Harold became uncomfortably aware of the sound of his own voice: he seemed to be listening to himself,
‘Could you see clearly?’
‘Absolutely clearly.’
‘No possibility of your being mistaken?’
‘None whatever.’
‘And where was the wound that was being inflicted?’
‘Right up on the shoulder. Where it joins the neck.’
He raised his hand instinctively and touched the spot with his finger.
‘And could you actually see the weapon?’
‘Only the handle. The blade was inside.’
‘You mean it was just sticking there? Was no one touching it?’
Harold lowered his eyes for a moment: he found this bit distasteful.
‘Old Moses was.’
‘And was his hand merely resting on it?’
‘No, sir. He was grasping it.’
Harold raised his arm as he was speaking and involuntarily clenched his fist.
The Attorney-General looked at him closely.
‘Would you turn, please, so that his Lordship and the jury can both see.’
Harold turned: the same uncomfortable feeling had come over him. He seemed to be watching himself as well as listening, now.
But already the A.-G. was speaking again: in the same, curiously detached voice, he was ambling on.
‘ “Grasping”, I think you said. Was it a good firm grip?’
‘It was.’
‘Considerable muscular power behind it?’
‘Considerable.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I tried to pull his hand away.’
‘And what did Old Moses do?’
‘He struggled. He wouldn’t let go of it.’
The Attorney-General pursed up his lips and nodded as though he were savouring the reply.
‘He wouldn’t let go of it,’ he repeated slowly. Then, just when Mr. Ngono thought that the Attorney-General had finished, he apparently remembered something.
‘Were you alone all this time?’ he asked.
‘No, sir.’
‘Who else was there?’
‘Lady Anne.’
‘And was Lady Anne anywhere near Sir Gardnor?’
‘No, sir. She was right over on the other side.’
‘On the other side of the desk?’
‘No, sir. On the other side of the marquee. Where the ladies’ quarters joined on.’
The Attorney-General bent down and picked up a large folded sheet.
‘I have here a scale plan of the marquee,’ he said. ‘It shows the position of the desk and of the ladies’ quarters. That would mean that Lady Anne was some thirty feet away, would it not?’
‘About that, sir.’
‘And was Lady Anne simply standing there?’
&nbs
p; ‘Yes, sir.’
‘She didn’t come forward to help you in any way?’
‘She didn’t move, sir. She had her hands up to her face. She was covering up her eyes.’
‘And it was Lady Anne you heard scream?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You are certain about that?’
‘Positive.’
‘Thank you. I have no more questions.’
He looked across at the jury as he said it. Then, with a little shrug, he hitched up his trousers and sat down. Once seated, he closed his eyes as if he had lost all interest in the case.
It was Mr. Das who brought things to life. He was as polite as ever. The whole bowing business started up again.
‘Mr. Stebbs,’ he said, ‘I see that you’ve injured your eye.’
‘That is so.’
‘Is it a recent affliction?’
‘About ten weeks.’
‘And I notice you keep raising your hand to the eye-shade. Does that mean it still troubles you?’
‘At times.’
‘Is it troubling you now?’
‘A little.’
‘Had you hurt it by the time of Sir Gardnor’s death?’
‘Yes. It happened earlier on safari.’
‘And did you receive medical attention?’
‘Captain Webber dressed it.’
‘Was that all he did?’
‘It was all he could do.’
‘But didn’t it hurt?’
‘Naturally.’
‘And did Captain Webber not give you anything to ease the pain?’
‘Yes, he gave me some pills.’
‘Were they sleeping-pills?’
‘Some of them were. There were two sorts.’
‘And you took both of them?’
‘I did.’
‘Did you take any on the night of the death?’
‘Yes.’
‘Including the sleeping-pills?’
‘Including the sleeping-pills.’
‘At what time?’
‘About eleven.’
‘And how long did the effects of the sleeping-pills usually last?’
‘I don’t know. About five or six hours, I suppose. I just went off to sleep. I didn’t time them.’
‘And at what hour did you hear the scream?’
‘About three.’
‘And you had taken the pills around eleven?’
‘I’ve already told you so.’
Mr. Das’s smile became even more polite.
‘I know. I was making sure that I had understood you.’
He broke off for a moment and stood there, still smiling.
‘Were you wearing an eye-shade on the night of the murder?’
‘No. I was wearing a bandage.’
‘A thick bandage?’
‘Thick enough.’
‘And did it cover up one eye completely?’
‘It did.’
‘No vision there at all?’
‘None at all.’
‘Was there a light in Sir Gardnor’s tent?’
‘Yes.’
‘A powerful light, or a dim light?’
‘A powerful light.’
Mr. Das tilted his wig forward again.
‘And you are telling the Court that, having taken two sorts of drugs— one a sleeping-pill of which the effects were only half worn off—and having run, not walked, mark you, all the way from your sleeping tent, you went straight out of the night into a brightly lit room and with one eye covered up by a thick bandage you could still see clearly enough with the other one to condemn a man?’
The Chief Justice picked up his pencil and tapped with it as if it were a conductor’s baton.
‘Surely you do not mean “condemn”, do you, Mr. Das?’ he asked. ‘It is entirely outside the province of a witness to condemn anybody. Do you not mean “identify”?’
‘I stand corrected, m’lud.’
The Chief Justice put the pencil down again.
‘You were enquiring about the witness’s eyesight,’ he said. ‘You may continue.’
‘Thank you, m’lud.’
Mr. Das turned back towards the witness-box.
‘Do you remember my question?’
‘I do.’
‘And what is your answer?’
‘I could see clearly enough to identify him. And I could see exactly what he was doing. I’ve told the Court.’
It was Harold’s round, and Mr. Das let him have it. But he did not appear unduly concerned: the game was not yet over. He was still smiling.
‘You engaged in a piece of play-acting just now,’ he said. ‘You showed the Court how the knife was being held. Would you show the Court again, please?’
‘Show them again?’
‘Can you not recall what you did before?’
‘I can.’
‘Then do it, please.’
He’s making a fool of me, Harold told himself; he wants me to look ridiculous in front of all those jurors.
‘Face the Court, please,’ Mr. Das was asking. ‘,’ know what it looks like. I want to be quite sure that the jury knows, too.’
Harold turned, and Mr. Das let him stand there. Mr. Ngono, who had never guessed that there would be a second time, was enthralled. Overcome by the drama of it, his pink-palmed hand kept closing round an invisible dagger of his own.
‘Thank you,’ Mr. Das said at length. ‘Now face me again, please.’ He paused. ‘So that was how the knife was held, was it, while you say it was being stabbed downwards into Sir Gardnor’s shoulder?’
‘It was.’
‘And now, without moving your arm, would you please show me how you would have held the knife if you had been trying to draw it out. Draw it out, I said, not thrust it in.’
Harold stood there, not moving. Mr. Das observed him closely, shifting his head from side to side so that he could study every detail.
‘Thank you,’ he said at last. ‘I can see no difference. But turn round once more please and face the Court. Perhaps the jury can see a difference.’
Harold turned. Again Mr. Das was in no hurry.
‘That will do,’ he said finally. ‘You may unclench your fist.’
Mr. Das eased himself back onto his heels.
‘I congratulate you on your powers of observation,’ he said. ‘But I put it to you that you have drawn the entirely wrong conclusion. If Sir Gardnor had already been stabbed when Old Moses came upon him, isn’t the first thing that Old Moses would have done would have been to try to remove the weapon? Wouldn’t it, Mr. Stebbs?’
But the Chief Justice was having none of that.
‘Mr. Das,’ he said. ‘I have spoken to you before about inviting answers that can be no more than mere conjecture. And because they are conjecture they are of no interest to this Court.’ He bent over towards the Clerk. ‘The whole of that last question will be struck out.’
‘I am sorry, m’lud.’
‘You may continue.’
Mt. Das gave his politest bow.
‘Thank you, m’lud. I am not yet finished.’
Chapter 43
Because the bearings had really seized up this time, the fan in the centre of the ceiling had stopped revolving. The temperature inside the courtroom had risen steadily into the nineties, and the Chief Justice had just announced an adjournment of twenty minutes so that everyone could cool down a bit.
Harold returned to the makeshift waiting-room. While he had been in the witness box, the sun had moved round. It now cleared the roof of the Administration block, and fell full on the single window. The slats of the Venetian blind inside were lit up along the top edges as if they were on fire.
There was a knock on the door, and the Attorney-General joined him.
‘Everything all right?’ he asked. ‘Like a cold drink, or something?’
Harold shook his head. There was still an empty carton on the table in front of him. It had contained lemonade—stale, warm and card-boardy-tasting. There was a
dead fly in it.
‘I’m afraid I’m making an awful mess of things,’ he said. ‘He keeps on trying to catch me.’
The Attorney-General looked surprised.
‘You’re doing awfully well,’ he told him. ‘The jury obviously believes you.’
Harold threw the empty carton over his shoulder in the metal bin behind him. Because the bin was already half full of other crumpled cartons, it hardly made a sound as it landed there.
‘They bloody well ought to,’ he said. ‘It’s the truth.’
‘There you are,’ the Attorney-General agreed with him. ‘Just stick to the truth, and he can’t do a thing to you. He’s damn good really. I’ve been admiring him. I think he’d spot it, if you were trying to conceal anything.’
Harold caught his eye.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m not.’
Outside, there was some kind of panic among the messengers. They were all talking at the tops of their voices.
The Court was due to resume in two minutes, it appeared; and one of them had been sent to look for the Attorney-General.
Mr. Das’s smile, when he faced Harold, was a particularly friendly one. It was the sort of smile that friend gives friend after involuntary separation.
‘Mr. Stebbs,’ he said, ‘I want you to cast your mind back again to the night of the tragedy.’
There was a pause.
‘Are you quite sure that there was no one else there when you entered Sir Gardnor’s tent—just you and Lady Anne and Old Moses?’
Harold was grateful for the adjournment: his mind was clearer.
‘Except for Sir Gardnor, of course.’
‘Of course.’
Mr. Das paused.
‘And he may have been dead already, may he not?’
‘He may have been. I’m not an expert on such things.’
‘You don’t have to be an expert, Mr. Stebbs. You are merely an eyewitness. In your opinion, was Sir Gardnor dead when you entered?’
‘He may have been.’
‘And if Sir Gardnor was dead when you entered, he may have been dead some time before you got there. That is so, is it not, Mr. Stebbs? Say five minutes before, for instance.’
‘Possibly.’
‘Quarter-of-an-hour, then?’
So Mr. Das was back to the A.D.C. again. ‘Quarter-of-an-hour, then?’ were the very words that he had used when he was cross-examining him. Harold determined that he wasn’t going to be drawn into that one.
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