Eden St. Michel

by F. R. Jameson

  Chapter Thirty

  Eden St. Michel sat down with ladylike poise in the witness box and looked absolutely radiant. I swear there was an audible gasp around the courtroom at the sheer magnificence of her presence. Up close, she was every inch the screen goddess.

  Maybe unsure how to play the scene, she had a little smile on her face as she took the oath. The corners of her lips turned up in amusement. But then, possibly it wasn’t nervousness at all, perhaps it was confidence and assurance that she was soon about to own the Old Bailey.

  She was dressed soberly, and yet still elegantly, in a tasteful black dress with ruffles around her neck and at the end of the wrists. It was a dress which demurely rose right to her throat and hung just over her knees, but still left no doubt as to what a fantastic figure she possessed.

  When she appeared in Court One, I did my best to stare downwards. I’d done all of this for her, but to see her again felt like my heart was being torn in half. She was out in the real world leading the life she was supposed to live, but she was leading it without me. And the way things were going, she was always going to lead it without me. I was never going to kiss her or hold her or even touch her again. How could I not feel a thousand stabs of pain?

  But then the excitement of having her so close again – even over the harsh wooden set of the Old Bailey – meant that eventually I had to look up. My heart was racing as I did. I was so overwhelmed at being within twenty feet of her. But I was also so scared. Worried that she was going to make a mistake under Gilberthorpe’s eye and have this whole thing crash down around us.

  So, trying to summon up some of my lost confidence, I looked over at her, only to find her wearing a wide smile for me. A wide smile for the entire courtroom. Without a doubt she looked poised, she looked in command. But then she had never seen Mr Gilberthorpe in action. She didn’t know what was coming. For now, though, as she settled into the witness box, she seemed exactly like she did in her best film roles. The sexy, impossibly beautiful woman of wits who was in control of any situation she found herself in. No matter how daunting.

  Her hand on the Bible, she swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

  With a glance down at his papers, Gilberthorpe stared up at her with what was, for him, something like admiration. He was always more charming with ladies, and the ladies the prosecution called in particular. But he seemed to stare particularly fondly at Eden. Maybe he was a fan too.

  The courtroom went quiet and she fixed him with a level gaze. Subtly informing him that she wasn’t intimidated by him.

  My hands were clasped in front of me, so that no one could see I had one set of fingers crossed, hoping that she could make it through this unscathed.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Gilberthorpe cleared his throat. “Miss St. Michel, or would you prefer Miss Michaels?”

  She gave him her most charmed grin. “Let’s go for Miss St. Michel, shall we? Michaels may be my given name, but I’m never ever called by it any more and it would seem bizarre to be addressed by it here, on the record.”

  “Your wish is noted, Miss St. Michel. Perhaps you can begin by telling us how long you’ve been in the film business?”

  “It must be coming up for ten years now.” She shook her head. “Gosh! That makes me feel so old.”

  The barrister ignored her aside, and leant down to check his notes. That was one of his theatrical touches, showing off how thorough he was. “Now, in that time, you’ve met numerous people from the top to the bottom of the film industry?”

  “I don’t suppose I’ve ever thought about it, but yes, that would be right.”

  “From film producers down to stuntmen?” He waved his right hand dramatically in the air, as if indicating the whole world, but really pointing out me.

  But Gilberthorpe wasn’t the most gifted performer in the courtroom any more. With her poise and the levelness of her gaze, Eden kept all eyes locked on her. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “A few years ago, it is correct – is it not? – that you were courted by the unfortunate victim in this case, Mr Wachtel?”

  “We had a romance, yes, but one which only lasted for a couple of weeks.”

  Her eyes moved quickly up to the vast space of Court Number One of the Old Bailey, taking in how big it was, how packed it was. I think she made the decision right then to project more, to make sure the punters got a show.

  Gilberthorpe nodded. “Only a few weeks?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “But in that time, was there a lasting bond formed between you? A spark that might have reignited when Mr Wachtel returned to London to make his latest film?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so, no. I don’t think it was one of those lifelong love stories you read about.”

  “So for you, the connection wasn’t long-lasting, but is it possible that other people may have believed that there were still the embers of romance between you and Mr Wachtel?”

  She shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible.”

  Maybe she went to say more then, but Gilberthorpe cut her off mid-breath, in case she said something to ruin his argument. “So it is possible that someone – a man, perhaps – could have developed the idea that you and Mr Wachtel might resume your relations?”

  This time she spoke quickly, determined to get out everything she had to say. “Only if that person didn’t know me very well.”

  He nodded once and stared down again at his notes. “Let us turn our attention to your more recent relationship with the accused, Mr Jones.”

  His black-clad arm rose and he pointed a bony finger in my direction, for anyone who might have forgotten that I was the one on trial. With his spare frame and those barrister robes, he was like death personified.

  I could see the argument he was going for. He’d been moulding it around in his hands the last few weeks. It was that I was an impulsive maniac with a jealous streak and an inability to control myself. That when Eden broke up with me, I’d thought it was because she had rekindled her romance with her ex-boyfriend and reacted accordingly.

  “It was a tumultuous relationship you had with the accused, Mr Jones, wasn’t it?”

  There was a flash of a smile on her face. “Well, it wasn’t that tumultuous.”

  Gilberthorpe did his best to pretend that that was the answer he’d been expecting. His tone couldn’t help becoming that little bit sterner, though.

  “My understanding is, Miss St. Michel, that the relationship between the two of you came to abrupt and unfortunate halts on more than one occasion?”

  “Once,” she told him firmly. “Well, maybe because I haven’t actually gone to visit him in prison, he might consider our relationship over with now, but officially it was only the once.”

  My already racing heart started to thud away in my throat. What the hell was she doing?

  “But,” Gilberthorpe pressed on, “you were no longer a couple the night Mr Wachtel met his unfortunate demise?”

  With a touch of nervousness (or maybe the performance of nervousness), she bit her lip. “Well, no, we weren’t physically together, that’s true. I was out having a lovely evening with my friend, Mr Llewelyn. While Mr Jones – Joe – was elsewhere.”

  She let the last word dangle, as if “elsewhere” could mean all kinds of unsavoury locations. As if it could mean I was out killing a man.

  There was an approving nod from Gilberthorpe. After a moment of bumpiness, it seemed like everything was securely back on track. “So you have no idea where Mr Jones was that night? On that evening where – lest we forget – a man using his name had called ahead to make an appointment to see Mr Wachtel. When that man had shamefully used your name, Miss St. Michel, to get his foot in a door. On the night when a car of the same make, model and colour as his was seen racing around the streets near the home Mr Wachtel was then renting. On the night that your former paramour, Mr Boris Wachtel, was found slain. You can, Miss St. Michel, offer no clue as to where Mr Jones was
that night?”

  “Well, actually” – she stared down and simpered a little, like a small girl caught doing something just a bit naughty – “I can.”

  The gasp around the courtroom was echoed by a slightly strangled Gilberthorpe. “You can?”

  She gazed over at me and the two of us locked eyes. To most people her face would have appeared passive, but I could see that there was – in spite of her surroundings, in spite of the utter madness which seemed to have overcome her – such amusement there. Even as I felt my own skin becoming greyer, she was most clearly enjoying herself.

  What the hell was she doing?

  “The fact is that Mr Jones has pretty much told the truth. He had had a lot to drink that day and he was nowhere near Mr Wachtel. In fact, he was pretty comatose elsewhere.” She shook her head once. “I really must apologise for all of this. You see, as an innocent man, Mr Jones thought he would be able to prove that innocence without tarnishing my reputation. He persuaded me that this noble gesture was a sacrifice he needed to make for me. But…” She stared at me apologetically over the courtroom. “I don’t think it’s actually possible, is it, Joe? So, kind gesture that it is, noble gesture that it is, I’m afraid I can’t let you do it any more. Joe Jones is an innocent man and I am here to tell the court exactly where he was when this terrible crime was committed.”

  I grabbed the rail of the dock, petrified.

  As the courtroom gasped and murmured excitedly to itself, suddenly Mr Gilberthorpe found himself asking a question he in no way wanted to ask. You could hear the strain in his voice.

  “Please tell the court, Miss Michaels, where then was Mr Jones?”

  His respect for her instantly gone, he was mangling her name deliberately, to throw her off her stride. But it was a wasted effort. Her composure was unshakable. “Well.” She peered down at her hands as if bashful. “While I was out on the town with Mr Llewelyn, Mr Jones was passed out on my bed and handcuffed to the headboard. And I know he didn’t go anywhere else, as I had the key tucked into my brassiere for safekeeping.”

  And with that she held up a little key on a silver keyring and waved it at the court.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Eden couldn’t have got a louder and more excited response if she’d climbed into the witness box and taken her blouse off. There were sighs, gasps, a snort of horror somewhere towards the back, even some nervous laughter from people confused as to how to react. Later I read one of the more excitable newspaper journalists claiming that an elderly lady had fainted.

  Gilberthorpe clutched the desk next to him and stared at her as if he was going to be sick. Suddenly his pristine white barrister’s wig seemed askew on his head.

  “Miss Michaels!” he practically roared. “Perjury is a very serious offence in the eyes of the law, and what you have just told the court differs considerably from the statement you gave the police.”

  I don’t know how she did it, it must have been something they taught her in stage school, but by simply raising her chin and keeping her gaze level, she managed to make the entire flustered Court One fall silent. Everyone was waiting for what she was going to say next.

  “I’m afraid I lied in my police statement, Mr Gilberthorpe. What I’m telling you today is the truth. I have no fear of any perjury charge. There may be other crimes I’m guilty of, but so be it – the truth needs to out.”

  In the dock she was so upright and correct. The one moral woman facing the world.

  “I apologise for the lies I told,” she continued, “but I’m going to apportion a fair share of the blame here and say that that was Mr Jones’s idea. In trying to preserve my reputation – because actresses these days have become so careful about their reputations – he left himself open to a murder charge. All for me, all to stop the scandals of my life ending up in the newspapers. He persuaded me to say my piece to the officers, and then asked me to sit back as quietly as a silly little mouse and watch it unfold. Only it hasn’t quite unfolded the way he predicted it would. So instead I have watched his grand plan crumble to dust. Well, I’m sorry, Joe” – she looked straight at me with great earnestness – “but it’s time to get the truth out there with no fear for my reputation whatsoever. It’s time to make it absolutely clear to the world that Joseph Jones did not kill anyone.”

  Again bedlam in court. Fresh shock and cries echoing off the walls. The dusty old judge, who – as far as I’d been able to tell – had been asleep for most of the trial, was now banging his gavel like a drummer behind Cliff Richard.

  “I think,” the judge croaked, as the noise settled down (he’d done his best, but had nowhere near the presence of Eden), “that your witness is torpedoing your case, Mr Gilberthorpe. Would you like to take a short break to review what you’ve heard so far, or would you like to press on and try to rectify the situation?”

  To be fair, Gilberthorpe didn’t sound the retreat; he stood his ground. Having consulted his notes once more, he straightened himself up slowly and I could see how hard his glare was. The obsequiousness was gone. He was never going to buy a ticket for an Eden St. Michel film ever again. Right now, his intention was to destroy her.

  “Will you perhaps be so good as to tell me your new story in as much detail as you can, please, Miss Michaels?”

  Translation: tell me what you’ve come here to say and I will tear it apart.

  But even though I was terrified, Eden’s face and posture were still so expertly calm.

  “Joe and I were lovers.” Her voice rang out through the court, provoking a couple of gasps at the final word. “We were passionate and most of the time there was good passion, but there was also bad passion – that was true. We had our ups and downs, but he is the only man I have ever really loved.”

  She stared at me over the court. “I am so sorry that I didn’t come to see you in prison, my love. I will regret that for the rest of my days. But I told myself that it wasn’t the done thing, gave myself a thousand reasons why it wouldn’t be right, and I regret all of them now. I’ve missed you so much, and I’ve been hurt every day I’ve spent without you.”

  “Miss Michaels.” Gilberthorpe’s voice actually snapped. “You are supposedly going to pass on some nuggets of alleged new information that you claim are pertinent to this case. I suggest you do that and stop stalling.”

  She stared at him for a good ten seconds.

  “Of course,” Eden said finally, and with utmost politeness. “First of all, Joe did not make that phone call. He didn’t really harbour any silly stuntman-turned-movie-star fantasies. His isn’t a face made for camera. Unless it’s being knocked off a horse. But there was another stuntman of my acquaintance who did harbour those fantasies. Even though he’d have made a less good leading man even than Joe. He made that phone call. And because Joe was working on the producer’s film, I think he took Joe’s name to get himself through the door. That man was Archie Sandibanks.”

  Despite the scowl which had settled, quite possibly forever, on his face, Gilberthorpe suddenly appeared lost. Possibly he should have called a halt to proceedings right then, but his arrogance refused to allow it. He rolled the name around his mouth as if it were toxic: “And who, pray tell, is Archie Sandibanks?”

  I gripped the rail even tighter. What did Eden know of Archie? What did he have to do with any of this? What was happening?

  Eden glanced down as if ashamed and then, after a beat, stared back up to the courtroom and said in a clear voice, “He was another of my lovers.”

  More gasps from all around. If there had been a man who sold smelling salts in the courtroom, he’d have made a fortune by now. The noise settled down quickly, though, everyone wanting to know what the next twist would be. Myself included.

  “Slut!” a man yelled from somewhere near the back.

  “Whore!” called a female voice.

  Again the judge bashed his gavel, but it was Eden’s presence which actually commanded the quiet.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” Eden continued,
a force of nature that no one in the court could now stop. “But when the details of my personal life come out, I am going to be the subject of all kinds of derogatory terms. That’s fine, though, I’ve made my peace with that. Recently a man named Carlisle Collins, who works at the film studios” – that was another unfamiliar name, which had Gilberthorpe’s juniors scurrying through their files – “tried to blackmail me. He discovered, through some unknown means, that Joe was actually passed out drunk in handcuffs on my bed on the night in question. That he was nowhere near the house in Richmond at the time. Obviously I knew this information and was covering it up. Carlisle Collins wanted a thousand pounds from me to keep my secret. Well, I’m not going to pay him and I’m not going to keep it a secret any more. I am not going to let my darling Joe face the gallows for something he didn’t do.”

  The entire courtroom was leaning forward as one. Some in the balcony looked like they were going to topple over the edge. Such was her star power and command of the space that even Mr Gilberthorpe Q.C. was helpless to stop her performance. Helpless to stop his whole case falling apart.

  “You see, Joe was always the man I loved, but I have always been a woman with broad tastes and have kept a stable of lovers.” Another gasp, maybe once again at that word, or maybe this time it was the whole phrase. “Before the murder, there was Mr Jones, Mr Llewelyn and even the actor, Raymond Wilder – that’s when he wasn’t too pickled to perform. Which, I’m afraid, these days is rare. But none of these were terribly jealous types, none of them scared me with how unbalanced they were. None of them apart from one.

  “No, the lover I had who was the jealous type, who considered my romantic history a particular affront, was the same lover who disappeared from my life the day the murder took place. The one who’d pretended to be Joe when he made that phone call, who was seething that it was Joe in my bed that day rather than him, and who – I believe – was rebuffed in his attempts to be an actor by my former beau out in Richmond and snapped into a mad terrible rage. The kind of rage I always knew he was capable of.