The Mitford Trial

by Jessica Fellowes

  Although Guy had every intention of walking straight to the cabin and lying down to wait for Louisa, he wasn’t feeling tired at all, and when he remembered that there would be a bar on the ship that served good whisky …

  Ten minutes later, Guy was at the back of the smoking room, lined with rows of leather books on dark wooden shelves and with a blue cloud of cigar smoke that hung below the ceiling. There seemed to be only men in the room, guests and stewards. There was a quiet hum of chatter and soon Guy, his single malt whisky in hand, felt soothed. Now that he was here on the ocean liner, a spectacular vessel in itself, and had found Louisa, he could enjoy these few days as a well-earned holiday. Tomorrow they would still be sailing – they weren’t due to dock in Rome until the day after – and he planned to stand on the deck with Louisa in the full blast of hot sunshine, gazing out at the wide blue sea, where they could talk about their future. He hoped that once this cruise was over and she was back home with him, they could start to live as a family, maybe even move out of his parents’ house if he found someone to help his mother. He knew Louisa needed to work, too. Seeing her on the ship, hearing her astute observations, watching her react to the demands of the Mitfords and deal with them skilfully, had reminded him that Louisa was a modern woman. She needed the challenge and stimulus of a career. He would support her from now on.

  Lost in this thought and with his whisky almost finished, at first Guy paid no attention to raised voices from the opposite corner of the room. After a few minutes, however, when it had turned to shouts, his policeman’s instinct kicked in.

  The room was not large, yet it was tricky to decipher what was happening when the walls were dark and the candles on the tables were throwing flickering shadows. Heads turned in the direction of the noise before all at once there was an almighty bang and several men jumped up as a body fell onto the floor, pulling a table and glasses down with it.

  Guy ran over, slightly hampered by the edges of chairs that were in the way like thick branches on a forest path. By the time he got there, only seconds later, the body – a man, thankfully alive – was being hauled upright by the other guests in the bar. None of them were, it had to be said, the most athletic of guests, though one could only admire their derring-do. With red faces and a great deal of puffing below their handlebar moustaches, the men were holding onto a figure that was startlingly familiar: Guy had pulled him away from a fight only two hours before.

  ‘Mr Fowler?’ asked Guy.

  ‘What of it?’ Joseph slurred. His head lolled slightly as his arms were held fast.

  Guy considered pulling out his detective sergeant’s badge but felt, in the circumstances, it might be too much. What he was dealing with were overzealous, mildly drunk guests and an embarrassed man. Guy saw there was a second entrance into the bar, through which Joseph had fallen. Even in the low light, it wasn’t hard to see that Joseph had been in a fight – his second of the evening. One would hope that was out of the ordinary, even for him.

  Guy raced to the door, but whoever the other man was, he had already made a hasty retreat into the shadows. Joseph, his arms released, was still trying to catch his breath, and gave himself a helping hand by knocking back the remains of a glass of what looked like water but was almost certainly neat gin.

  With silent permission from Guy, the other guests drifted back to their chairs. The drama, such as it had been, was over, and they had important discussions to finish about plummeting shares and rising demands of their mistresses.

  ‘Mr Fowler,’ Guy repeated. ‘Would you like to sit with me for a while?’

  Joseph regarded Guy and gave him a cursory look from head to foot. ‘Whatever would I talk to you for?’

  ‘It seems to me that things must be on your mind.’

  There wasn’t much more than a grunt in reply to this. Yet Guy sensed, in the absence of another answer, that there was a tacit admission to the suggestion. Guy sat down and gestured to the seat opposite him, at the same time summoning a steward.

  ‘Could you bring a pot of coffee, please?’ he asked.

  Joseph started to say that he didn’t want any, but his voice trailed off. Reluctantly, he sat down heavily in the chair. There was a light thrown onto his face and Guy saw that he had deep grooves running along his forehead and thin papery skin stretched over his cheekbones, though his hair was dark with only a few silvered streaks. He must have been approaching seventy years old and though he’d kept a slim figure, there was a weariness to the way he moved his limbs that was more than the weight of the alcohol running through his veins.

  ‘Who are you anyway?’ Joseph said.

  ‘Guy Sullivan. I’m Louisa’s husband.’ Joseph looked blank at this so Guy continued, ‘She’s the lady’s maid to Lady Redesdale.’ This prompted a gesture of recognition. ‘I decided to join the ship for a few days.’ Guy knew that if he wanted to prompt a confession he’d need to lead the way with one of his own. ‘I missed her. We’re fairly newly married.’

  ‘You’re not young,’ said Joseph, bluntly.

  ‘No, not so young. It … well, it took a long time to persuade her that she wanted to be with me.’

  The steward came over and set down the coffee pot with two cups, a small jug of cream and a bowl of dark brown sugar crystals. He poured out the coffee, then left. Joseph stared at the cup before him but didn’t pick it up.

  ‘Mr Fowler,’ carried on Guy, ‘I know you don’t know me, but I’d like to help you avoid any further aggravation on this ship.’

  Joseph let out a bark at this. ‘You’d have to push my wife overboard in that case.’ He practically threw the coffee down his throat and the sobering effect seemed to give him a jolt. ‘I don’t know why you’re sitting here with me. There’s nothing to be done. I’ve lost everything. I’ve been humiliated and kicked in the teeth when I’m down.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘I’m not even going to be able to pay the bill on this bloody boat when I leave, now Sir Clive’ – the title was pronounced with heavy sarcasm – ‘has refused my offer.’ He looked at Guy earnestly. ‘My wife is a beauty. He’s a fool.’

  Guy was uncertain as to how these statements connected at first, then he realised that in Joseph’s mind, one plus one equalled three. At least the pugnaciousness seemed to have gone out of him.

  ‘My mother always said not to make any big decisions when tired,’ said Guy. ‘I think it’s time you went back to your room, Mr Fowler. If there is anything I can do for you, I’d be happy to talk to you tomorrow.’

  Joseph shrugged at this, but there was no light in his eyes. ‘Fine, fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll go. But I can tell you: it’s not going to look any better for me in the morning.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Louisa and Ella stumbled up the crew stairway together, the occasional footing lost on a step by Ella, with Louisa holding grimly on. Both had their heads down, watching the way in the low light, which is why they didn’t notice a man standing quietly by the door that led out to deck B.

  As they were halfway up the stairs, slowly but steadily making their way up, Ella finally seeming to sober up, they heard a cough. Not the cough of a sore throat but that of a signal. There was an immediate shuffle from further up the stairwell before Louisa heard a voice that she recognised calling out: ‘What? What is it, Müller?’, followed by a stamping about of heavy boots.

  Unity.

  Ella quickly recovered herself and looked at Louisa. They shared an expression of wide-eyed surprise.

  Louisa hurried up more stairs and saw Herr Müller standing there, avoiding her approach. His face was as implacable as usual, if lacking even the shred of friendly neutrality she had seen before. Louisa had left Ella a few steps down, clinging onto the banister rail that was screwed into the wall. Unity’s head appeared from around the corner. Her lipstick was smudged, her hair disarrayed and she was pulling at her skirt. It didn’t require detective skills to guess what she had been doing – but with whom?

  ‘Miss Unity?’ Louisa said.

/>   Unity stared at her and chose the tack of fury. ‘What are you doing here? And is that Mrs Fowler with you?’

  Louisa was taken aback by this. She looked at Müller, hoping for – what? Reassurance that she was not the one at fault here? But this was not the conversation that was going to break his habit of a lifetime: he would not be getting involved.

  ‘Yes, this is Mrs Fowler. Miss Unity, who are you with?’

  Unity had shaken herself back into composure, albeit with smudged lipstick, and a redness on her chin that was starting to glow. ‘That’s none of your business,’ she said, crossly.

  ‘Lady Redesdale—’

  ‘Please don’t tell Muv.’ Unity pushed past Müller and ran to Louisa, gripping her arm. She whispered into her ear, ‘Please, don’t say anything. I’ll go back to my room now and won’t leave it again. I promise.’

  Louisa knew it was a ridiculous situation. Unity was old enough to drive a car. But her parents did not like her to walk a hundred yards along the street alone, take a train by herself, or even walk without a chaperone along the corridors of the Princess Alice when it was close to midnight. But Unity had broken so many rules tonight, one more couldn’t make much difference.

  ‘You had better get back to your room fast,’ was all Louisa would say, deliberately withholding reassurance that she would be a keeper of secrets. She didn’t agree with the tight reins the parents put on their daughters – from her experience, it only led to them kicking with ever more violent force at the walls that closed in on them – but it was not her place to say so.

  Unity went back up the few steps and exited through the door. Müller did not follow her but instead went around the corner and up another flight of stairs, following whoever had been causing Unity’s dishevelled appearance. Louisa could make a good guess as to who that was and it made her nervous.

  Pulling back into focus, Louisa took Ella’s arm again. This time they made better progress and within a few minutes were at her cabin door. Ella fumbled in her clutch bag and brought out the key, handing it to Louisa, a slight tremor passing through her fingers. Swiftly, Louisa opened it, and it was only once they were on the other side of the heavy door that they realised there were raised voices coming from the drawing room.

  The Fowlers’ cabin was smaller than Lady Redesdale’s or Diana’s but laid out in a similar fashion. There was a short entrance that led into a drawing room with French windows leading out, presumably, to a balcony – the long curtains had been closed. Ella rushed through into the drawing room, Louisa close behind her, and this time they saw Jim and Blythe, frozen and silent, winners in a game of musical statues.

  Though stilled, they had not managed entirely to cool the heat of their argument. Blythe’s face was flushed and Jim’s jaw was pulsing with tension. Whatever they had been arguing about, it was more than a professional disagreement about how to polish the glass.

  Ella spoke in a low voice, controlled yet threatening to tip into hysteria. ‘Get out of here.’

  Jim started to move, but she gripped his arm. ‘Not you. Her.’

  Blythe started to say something but stopped herself. Avoiding Louisa’s glance, she ran out. The door banged shut.

  Ella, still holding Jim’s arm, turned to Louisa. ‘What are you still doing here?’

  Startled by the menace in her tone, Louisa chose not to ask her why but left quickly, too.

  Outside the cabin, Louisa looked along the passage. It was lit by low electrical lights in the ceiling, more than enough to show the way in an emergency. It was completely silent – the carpets and thick metal doors that hung in every entrance and exit made sure of that. She had been distracted for too long and it was possible that Diana would have been telephoning for her, wondering whether Louisa would turn up to help her undress and ready for bed. It was surely too late now, she’d weather a ticking off in the morning. Lady Redesdale, she hoped, would be in deep sleep thanks to her migraine, and Unity … well, she’d cross her fingers for now that Unity had done as she was told. Louisa had no desire to knock on Unity’s door and prompt either a waspish denial or a confession. It could wait until the morning when she would have calmed down.

  But when she turned the corner she ran smack into Blythe. The young woman must have been waiting for her. Before Louisa could ask what Blythe wanted, she started to talk as if her lid had come off.

  ‘It’s not what you think. He loves me, I know he does. She won’t let him go, and he’s tried, I know he’s tried.’

  ‘Who?’ Louisa shook her head. ‘No, don’t tell me. I don’t think I want to know. I think you should go to bed. Things always look better in the morning.’

  ‘Jim,’ said Blythe impatiently, answering the first question and ignoring the rest. ‘Jim loves me. We’re going to get married and open a hotel by the sea.’

  ‘Good for you.’ Louisa tried to push past Blythe, but her arm was held.

  ‘He’s weak, that’s all. And she’s got money, she keeps spending it on him. He feels sorry for her. Says her husband is a bully. But I don’t believe it, I think she likes twisting my Jim around her little finger. She’s got something coming, thinking that.’

  ‘Blythe,’ said Louisa firmly. ‘None of this is any of my business. I don’t want to hear it. I strongly advise you get some sleep.’

  Blythe’s face crumpled. ‘I’ve got no one to talk to on this blasted boat,’ she said. ‘Not when she’s here. I thought you were one of us. I thought you’d understand.’

  Louisa took pity on her then, but she was tired and she wanted to lie down, with Guy. Knowing he was there and waiting for her was beginning to cause a physical ache in her chest.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Louisa said. ‘I’m sure it must be hard, but I can’t help you. I’ve got to get on. Please, go to bed and get some rest.’

  Louisa gave Blythe’s arm a tap and walked away. She only hoped the maid would take her advice, but otherwise decided she wouldn’t give her a further thought. In any case, it was unlikely that she’d ever have anything to do with her again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  21 May 1935

  Old Bailey, Court Number One

  Guy had sat in several courtrooms in his years as a policeman. Most notably when he worked as a constable for the railway police at the start of his career and been a witness at the inquest into the death of Florence Nightingale Shore. Later, as constable for the London Metropolitan Police, Guy was instrumental in finding the murderer of Adrian Curtis and had had to withstand intense interrogation by the defence lawyers at the trial. Alongside DCI Stiles, his boss in the CID, Guy attended numerous proceedings, whether as witness or simply to observe, with satisfaction, the sentencing of a criminal they had caught.

  This was different.

  For a start, it was Court Number One. In spite of its cramped size, it was the most notorious and intimidating of all the courts at the Old Bailey. If it was a theatre, it would be the London Palladium, the place where the most famous and infamous of criminals were tried. In the dock that Guy could see in front of him now, dominating the room, had stood George ‘Brides in the Bath’ Smith, Frederick Seddon and Dr Crippen. Who, of the Princess Alice murder case that he had helped bring to trial today, would find their own place in the grisly annals of criminal history?

  Guy stopped himself from this train of thought, too similar to the tabloid articles on the case. There had been a disturbing amount of press attention, dissecting every stage of his investigation, hauling his name into an uncomfortable spotlight. People he’d been to school with and forgotten about for years had read Guy’s name as the arresting officer and wrote to ask him for seats at the trial. He’d been appalled at the prurient nature of those he’d otherwise thought of as nice, unassuming characters.

  The witnesses had yet to step into the courtroom and they’d already been judged and convicted by the public, not for any crime but for the slightest detail of their past deemed morally dubious or shady. Guy prided himself on sticking to the letter of the la
w, to facts and evidence. He felt, in this instance, alone.

  Nevertheless, he had to put his faith in the law. Right now, the law looked impressive. On the front bench, off-centre, sat Mr Justice Hogan, his red face and bulbous nose framed by the long white wig of stiff curls. Beside him was the London mayor in full regalia, asserting his right to be present at the opening proceedings, a privilege he had rarely taken advantage of in the past. To the left of the judge was the witness box, currently empty, and behind that the twelve members of the jury. These ten men and two women had finally been arrived at after an arduous procedure where various chosen members of the public had had to be dismissed for having been too close to the crime, knowing too much in advance, too influenced by the newspaper reports or even, in one case, suspected of blackmailing a witness. Thankfully, the jury member had been flushed out before trial could begin, but it had meant another delay. It was one of the reasons the case was being held in London and not Winchester Crown Court. If not the only one. Guy suspected something of a West End transfer behind the move.

  Directly in front of the judge sat the stenographers, and to their right, the counsel’s rows. These were, for once, jam-packed, not only with the barristers leading the prosecution and defence, but also with their serried ranks of juniors, pupils and colleagues, not to mention close friends who had doubtless begged for a seat. It was, therefore, of no surprise to Guy to see Miss Unity Mitford there. Her brother, Tom, was one of the junior barrister team working for Mr Terence Manners, K.C., the leading defence lawyer. Guy had met him only briefly in the past, not enough to form an opinion on his character, but he had seemed quieter and calmer than his sisters. At the bench now he looked young, shuffling and reshuffling the papers before him, alongside a pile of three or four thick books.