by Julian Gloag
“Oh?” said Jordan. They turned a corner. Denver wasn’t bad. He’d go rattling on with the aid of only an occasional interjection. He was entirely without malice and never tried to draw Jordan into conversation—monologue or dialogue, he was happy with either. It was the tall, thin hospital orderly, Samson, that Jordan disliked. He was always wishing to be congratulated upon his banalities: “What’s your opinion, Maddox?” or “Don’t you agree, Maddox?”
“Oh, yes,” said Denver. “It used to be different in the old days. When I was a lad I saw Sir Patrick Hastings in number one court. And Marshall Hall once, too. They were the dramatic school. Always give you a run for your money, they did. It’s changed now—all that’s gone out of style. I wouldn’t have it different though. I’ve seen too much ranting and raving in my lifetime.”
Bartlett was small, neat and round, a well-groomed bird in a morning suit. “I’m Geoffrey Bartlett.”
“How do you do.” Jordan gripped the lawyer’s hand; it was smooth and freshly soaped.
They sat down.
Jordan suddenly felt that he was going to have to make the running. “I’m very glad Tom Short was able to get you,” he forced himself to say.
“Umm.” Bartlett did not look at him directly, but Jordan had the feeling that he was under very close examination. “Short tells me that you have no strong ideas about the way the case should be conducted. Is that so?”
“Yes, I think so. I’m in your hands.”
Bartlett smiled without revealing his teeth. “You want, of course, to be acquitted?”
“Of course,” he answered, but the question made him feel foolish. It recalled the ponderous choices posed to him in the past—“You do want to get a scholarship, don’t you?”; “I’m assuming, of course, you want to come into the business?”; “Do you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife?”—the answers to which did not grow from any preference within himself but were totally, and obviously, dictated by outside circumstances.
“I’ll begin then by giving you a brief outline of what I think should be our general strategy. You just interrupt me as you will. First—”
“There is one thing. Tom suggested that you might try to exclude the second statement I made to the police.”
“Ah—what are your views on that?”
“I’m against it. It would only mean rehashing the whole thing in court.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you. It had crossed my mind to try for an exclusion, but mainly because I am not too happy about the manner in which the statement was obtained.” He looked at Jordan. “I understand the police brought a good deal of pressure to bear upon you.”
“Not really.” What was done was done. “They behaved quite correctly on the whole.”
“I see. But on March the sixteenth you were at Sarah Street for six or seven hours. That seems a rather excessive time to produce a fairly simple statement. I don’t wish to put any words into your mouth, but are you entirely happy with the way in which the—shall I say—interrogation was conducted?”
“I don’t see there’s anything to be gained in fighting it.”
“The value of attacking police evidence is certainly dubious—you’re quite correct—unless one has excellent grounds for doing so and unless there are very definite advantages to be had. We would have to examine the grounds with very great care. As to the advantages, they tend, I believe, to be somewhat negative. The chief point is that the police patently made up their minds at a very early stage that you were the culprit, and therefore they did not make a fully adequate investigation in any other direction. This point—which I intend to bring out in any event—would be considerably reinforced if it could be shown that the police employed browbeating tactics so far as you are concerned. You understand?”
“Yes.” It was almost a sigh. It had been a matter of give and take, and he was not going to repudiate his gift—it would be a repudiation of part of himself. George was a figure in the past now, but Jordan remembered him without rancour. The superintendent had believed in what he was doing, and Jordan was not inclined to dispute that belief. “Let’s give it the go-by.”
“Right. Well now, the general strategy. At the moment—and I say at the moment because there is the possibility that Short and his clerk will turn up evidence that might cast doubt upon the Crown’s version of the case—at the moment, I do not think it would be desirable for us to call any witnesses. We will stand solely on your statements and on the evidence you give on your own behalf. In the prosecution’s case there are two particular points which I shall attack strongly. First, the evidence of the Home Office pathologist. I want to get it quite firmly fixed in the mind of the jury that the time element—the span of time in which June Singer was murdered—was not as narrow as suggested in the preliminary examination. Secondly, Mrs. Ardley’s evidence, which is at the moment quite damaging, will have to be shown as open to doubt.”
“I don’t think you’ll find that easy,” said Jordan.
“Why?”
“She struck me as a strong-minded woman.”
“Ah, but we know that she is lying, don’t we? She says that she would undoubtedly have seen you entering the house if you had rung the bell. You did ring the bell. She did not see you. The stair carpet was loose, yet she asserts that it was not. She is positive that no one else entered the house after you left that morning. But we know that someone did enter—and leave—with or without Mrs. Ardley’s knowledge.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow that.”
“The murderer. The murderer must have entered the house not too long after you left it.”
“Oh, yes.”
“It’s difficult,” said Bartlett, “for a witness to lie convincingly when he knows that counsel knows he is lying. It’s easier for a woman, of course.”
Jordan laughed. “Women are congenitally less truthful?”
“Congenitally? I don’t know,” said Bartlett, unsmiling. “Probably more a matter of social training. But the fact is that a high proportion of miscarriages of justice are due to perjury on the part of women. Perhaps women forgive less easily than men.”
“I’ve not harmed Mrs. Ardley.”
“But she may well think you have—her reputation, the honour of her house, that sort of thing. By the way, when you left Panton Place, how did you proceed to your office?”
“Underground, I think. No, wait a minute, I might have taken a bus.”
“Not a cab?”
“No.”
Bartlett grunted. In disappointment perhaps? A taxi would be traceable and the driver might recall the time. But it was impossible to tell anything from Bartlett’s plump, expressionless face. Jordan wondered if he was always like this—perfect in his morning suit. Did he go to the club and play bridge, or pop round to Pimm’s for lunch or a whiskey and soda between verdicts? Did he mow the lawn on a summer’s day? Jordan tried unsuccessfully to picture the barrister red-faced and sweating. Was he married? Did he ever get into trouble with the … no, that was ridiculous, inconceivable.
Bartlett seemed to be meditating. He brought out a silver cigarette case and offered it to Jordan. He lit Jordan’s cigarette and his own in silence and shut the case with a small silver click. “There’s one thing I feel a little wary of,” he said. “And that’s the matter of the girl’s being pregnant. I have the impression the Crown attaches a good deal of weight to that fact.”
“I find it very hard to believe.”
“Why?”
“It’s so unlikely—so unlike June.” It was so outrageous and—vicious that he had dismissed it from his mind.
“Unlike her? Nevertheless, it might provide an excellent motive, and not an uncommon one. If the prosecution could show you were responsible—or were even privy to the fact—it would fill a gap in motive. A married man, with children—”
“I’ve only got one child.”
“Married with a child. In order to protect that, a man driven to desperate foolishness. It’s happene
d before.”
“But it’s absurd.”
“Yes, quite—unless the Crown can adduce some evidence to suggest there was or might have been a liaison between yourself and the girl. It would immeasurably strengthen their case.”
“You mean the case against me is not very strong now?”
Bartlett tapped the table with one fingernail. “It’s strong, yes. It’s always strong, superficially at least, in a murder case, or no charge would be brought.” The barrister blew a plume of smoke and watched an eddy of draft touch it and draw it higher. “Were you in love with June Singer?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
Bartlett faced him directly across the table. “Doubtful?”
“No.” It was just that June had been, was still being, treated so callously. And he felt himself to be a part of that callousness. “Not doubtful. No.”
“There isn’t anything, is there, which, if they found, might look incriminating? You did not, for instance, write her any letters or anything like that?”
“No.”
“What about that drink you had with the girl? Do you remember anything about it—when, or where, or what was said?”
“I’m really afraid not.” It sounded lame and, to his own ears, oddly false.
“Umm.” Bartlett rolled the cigarette gently between his fingers, then carefully stubbed it out. “Now,” he said briskly, “this business of the scratch on your wrist. It’s the lynchpin of the case against you, of course. I want to be absolutely clear in my mind how it happened. Perhaps you could demonstrate?” He got up and stood on his chair. “I’ll be the girl. Above you, right? Good, now—show me exactly what happened.”
Jordan stood up. “I turned, you see, like this. In my left arm were the typewriter and the manuscript. I slipped and put out my right hand—” he flung it wide—“and June tried to grab me.”
“Like this?” Bartlett shot out his right hand and gripped Jordan’s wrist firmly.
“She wasn’t as quick as you.”
“Ah. Again then.”
This time Bartlett’s fingers slipped over the skin below Jordan’s hand.
“That’s it,” Jordan said.
Bartlett dismounted. He was frowning. “I didn’t succeed in grazing you, though.”
“But June had long nails.”
“A typist with long nails?”
“Yes. She was very proud of them. She typed with the balls of her fingers.” He had quite forgotten. But he recalled now the familiar click-click as June’s nails hit the keys in the row above.
Bartlett had his head on one side—his momentary ruffle of feathers had passed. “Did she paint her nails, by any chance?”
“Yes.”
“Red?”
“No, a kind of silvery colour, I think.”
Bartlett nodded as though he had secured a valuable tip. “I don’t think I need take up any more of your time.” The close-lipped smile. “I think probably I should like to see you again before the trial. And if you remember anything that might be of help, of course, let me know at once. I am particularly concerned with Singer—I don’t have a clear impression of her at the moment. But Short’s researches may throw a little light on that, if they do nothing else.”
They shook hands. Jordan was very conscious of the lawyer’s clean, impersonal touch.
Back in his room, he realised that the ordeal had not been as bad as he’d envisaged. He was grateful for Bartlett’s abstract, matter-of-fact inquisitiveness. It was less wearing than Tom’s fussy and sometimes brutal heartiness or Willy’s relentless patience.
13
Most of the prisoners whispered. And their visitors too.
But Willy was undaunted by the churchlike atmosphere of the large visitors’ room with its long row of open-backed cubicles. Her clean, silvery elocution carried to every ear with all the insouciance of a drunk in the hush of a public lavatory.
“How are you, darling? You’re looking a bit peaky,” she said.
“Am I? I can’t think why. I’m really very fit. I get more exercise than I’ve had for years.” Jordan kept his voice low and tried to make his answers long. “I’m really extremely comfortable. My room is very nice and warm. Washbasin in the corner. All mod cons. For all one knows, it might be a nursing home. Except, of course, they don’t allow flowers.”
“You sure it’s not damp? You know how bad the damp is for you. It feels rather damp in here.”
“No no. It’s very warm where I am. Hot, even. Sometimes I have to take my jacket off, it gets so hot. I feel almost embarrassed at the treatment I get.”
“Is the food alright? I expect it’s terrible, you poor—”
“It’s all sent in, you know. From a place called Ben’s. First-rate cooking.” He could hardly tell her how superior it was to her own dry shepherd’s pies and overdone roasts and thin stews.
“I brought some apples for you from Sibley. I’m sure you don’t get enough fruit.”
“Apples?”
“A dozen James Grieve. Aunt Mary sent them with her love. I had to leave them outside, of course.”
Jordan smiled. He leaned forward so that his face was close to the grille. “That reminds me of the time I had chicken pox in the Easter holidays once. Colin sent me a box of—Cox’s Orange Pippins, I think. Aunt Mary brought them up and watched me open them. You know what she said? ‘Rather sending coals to Newcastle, isn’t it?’ Typical Aunt Mary.”
Willy smiled very faintly. Neither of them ever mentioned the wire separation between them—it was taboo, like the details of the murder and the prospects of the trial and … so many things.
“I remember the smell of them even now. Woody—from the box—and a bit damp. The cool appley fragrance. And the crisp flesh that was suddenly moist when you bit into it.” He was foolishly voluble in the memory—perhaps it was a reaction to Willy’s controlled patience. He pulled himself up. “Did you manage any cigarettes?”
“Yes. I brought you a hundred Players.”
“That should keep me going for the next couple days.” He watched her say nothing. “What Wilcox doesn’t know won’t hurt him. There isn’t much to do in here. I regard smoking as a form of exercise.”
Willy said stiffly, “I brought you some more puzzles.”
“From Sibley? Which ones?”
“I didn’t look, I’m afraid. Does it matter? Oh, one was much bigger than the others.”
“That’ll be Waterloo!”
“Is it a good one?”
“I think it was probably Uncle John’s finest. It was one of the last he did before …”
“Before he died?”
“No, before …” He shook his head. “Waterloo is almost twice the usual size. And the technique is quite different. It’s really a series of smaller pictures. John usually tried a panorama or else took just one point in the battle. But here he tried to get everything in: Hougomont, La Haye Sainte, Picton’s charge, Blücher coming up on the left, even the Duke. He used the smoke and darkness to divide up each scene. It took him over a year to do it.” He glanced at Willv. “It’s quite a story. Quite a puzzle.” He might just as well have been talking about the economic situation in Cambodia. “Did you have much trouble digging them up?”
“Well—you didn’t tell me that little attic room was locked.”
“Oh?” The long iron key was on his ring, where it had been for twenty years, and now, with all his other personal possessions, was impounded. “I’d forgotten. How did you get in then?”
“I had to force the lock.”
Jordan felt a sudden pang at this violation.
“It was absolutely filthy. No one can have been in there for simply ages. What it needed was a thorough spring cleaning.”
“Yes. How were they at Sibley?” He’d been putting off the question, which would, he knew, loose a flood of chatter. Sibley irked him—small and mean and hung with a thousand unseen cobwebs, not as he chose to remember it—but it revivified Willy.
“
… now old Graham has gone, Aunt Mary is secretly finding the garden a bit much for her. She won’t say anything, of course. Annie Brierly—you remember Annie—still comes up to give her a hand whenever she can get away from the post office, which is very nice of her. Trevor is upset about his new curate. He has a little red MG, you know, only secondhand, but Trevor thinks it’s most unsuitable. Of course it is. When he mentioned it, the curate was frightfully rude. He said he thought it was about time clergymen stopped behaving like a bunch of dowdy virgins. That’s what he said—’a bunch of dowdy virgins.’ Poor old Uncle Trevor. Aunt Mary is dying to take a hand, but Trevor has put his foot down. He thinks it’s up to him. He wrote a letter to the archdeacon about it and got a very brusque reply. So he’s going to the bishop. They’re not on speaking terms now, which makes it very difficult. The curate and Uncle Trevor, I mean. They send each other little notes. Ever since Mansard left they’ve had nothing but trouble with curates, poor things.”
“Mansard always had egg on his bib,” said Jordan.
“He was a bit grubby. But he seems like a treasure now, particularly when …” She went on talking. When she was wound up like this, each sentence became a sharp, breathless burst. As if she had been running a long distance with important news—a fire or an earthquake—and could only get it out between heartbeats. The first time he had met her he had been amused by it. Frank Wade had called her a babel of clichés, and Jordan had half humorously taken her part. In an odd way he had felt sorry for her—to see so much desperate earnestness lavished upon trivialities. And that had been the beginning—although nothing could have seemed more unlikely at the time.
“… trouble with the lilies of the valley. It’s a continual battle to keep them in control, and Aunt Mary—”
“Yes, I remember. She thinks they’re a weed.” He paused for a moment as the prison officer passed behind him. “Has Trevor planted a new fig tree yet?”
Willy shook her head. “I don’t think he ever will.”
“I suppose not.” Ever since the destruction of the fig tree, it had been understood that one day a new one would be planted. But that was twenty years ago. And by now those bricks, so rawly uncovered on the side of the rectory, had weathered with the rest. There was nothing for a new tree to conceal any more. It was probably better, on the whole, just to pretend these things had not happened.
