A Sentence of Life

by Julian Gloag

  In the back of his mind Jordan was aware of Colin’s awkwardness, but he was not really thinking about Colin at all.

  “We’re all liable to go off the rails once in a while, you know.” He paused; the expression on his face was one of complete absorption, as though what he were saying was surprising and profound.

  “When John had his mishap and that’s the way I think of it, a mishap, not a deliberate, er, immoral act. After all, John was never quite normal. Not since the war of course, before that … I remember John when he was the last person on God’s earth you would think of as simpleminded. He was—well, what he was is neither here nor there. But he was never malicious. I’m wandering a bit, I’m afraid.” He finished his gin. “Well, you couldn’t expect Mary to understand really, could you? A sexual offence, that’s all Mary saw—and she’s never in her life wanted to see much beyond the flowers and the bees. But even then, even if she and Trevor had not been so—straightlaced, it’s difficult to know what else they could have done. Obviously John couldn’t be let out on his own again, could he? And they weren’t unkind, you know.” He turned towards the room and raised his hand slowly. “A large gin and orange.”

  He waited until the drink was brought and then went on. “What I’m really trying to say is, no one is to blame for what has happened. No one. You understand that, Jordan?”

  Jordan smiled mechanically.

  “No one,” Colin said, “except the Jerry shell in 1917 that hit John’s battalion HQ. It might have been better if there’d been no survivors from that. Perhaps it might have been better.”

  The food arrived. Colin looked speculatively at his plate. “I’ve never told you much about your father, have I?”

  Jordan said, “He was a drunk.”

  Colin’s head jerked up. “He was the dearest friend I ever had in the world.”

  Jordan sighed. “I’m sorry, Uncle Colin.”

  “Let’s forget the ‘Uncle’ from now on, shall we, old chap? I’ve never been very good at this in loco parentis business.” He smiled.

  Colin began to eat, slowly at first, but gradually getting into the rhythm. Once or twice he frowned. Once or twice he started to say something. Jordan could not eat.

  When Colin had finished and had ordered a Van der Hum, Jordan said, “It wasn’t an accident, was it?”

  Colin took a cigar from his case and dipped the end carefully into his black coffee. “I don’t know. Mary—I don’t blame her—was a bit cagey on the phone.”

  “Aunt Mary phoned you?”

  “I gather, reading between the lines, that Trevor was in rather a state. When John fell, he apparently tried to save himself by grabbing the fig tree. Well, the whole thing came with him.”

  “The fig tree came down?”

  “Yes. The whole thing was rather a mess.” He began to light his cigar.

  “That must have broken Uncle Trevor’s heart.”

  Colin looked at Jordan over the end of the cigar he was gently drawing on. When it was fully alight, he said, “Another odd thing. John wasn’t wearing any clothes. Nothing. Stark naked.”

  “Aunt Mary told you that?”

  “No. No, she didn’t. But I phoned the curate—Mansard—and had a word with him.”

  “Then you do think there’s something funny about it?”

  Colin stirred his sugarless coffee. “This bloody war,” he murmured. He laid the spoon down and looked at Jordan. “I don’t know.” He seemed to make a great effort. “It may—and I only say may—have been suicide.”

  Jordan sat stone still. Ever since he’d heard, nothing else had been in his mind.

  “You’ve got to face the possibility, Jordan. Face it and dismiss it. We’ll never know.” Colin was firm. “For all practical purposes, it was an accident. I don’t know if there’ll be an inquest. But if there is, that’s what it’ll be—an accident. We all know how John used to lean far out to clip the leaves of the fig tree away from his window and—”

  “Only in summer.”

  “Well, that’s not …”Colin frowned.

  “Why did he do it?”

  “God knows,” Colin said. “If he did do it. We can only surmise. Perhaps it all proved too much for him at last. He had been, well, going downhill. He was not—happy.”

  Jordan laughed.

  “We had better be off, I think,” Colin said at last.

  Outside in the dark they stood for a few moments before getting into the car.

  The night in some way concealed their embarrassment. The end of Colin’s cigar brightened and dulled, brightened and dulled.

  “Look, old chap,” he said, “it’s all over and done with now. And that’s the way you should try to think of it. It will take time, of course. But time passes quickly. Too quickly. Remember that.”

  The driver was waiting in the car.

  With his hand on the door, Colin said, “I’m afraid I sound awfully sententious at times like these.”

  They got in and the car started.

  “We’ll be there in an hour.”

  19

  They were standing, waiting for him in the solicitors’ room.

  Jordan sensed at once that something was up. “Hello, Bartlett. Tom. This is unexpected.” He tried to shut off his automatic smile.

  “Sit down, Maddox, will you?” Bartlett said.

  The three chairs scraped the unpolished linoleum.

  Tom was flushed and breathing audibly. But it was Bartlett Jordan looked at. All the others in their familiar aspect could be ignored: landmarks along a road he travelled every day and therefore did not have to attend to. The hedges, the ditches, the red new council houses, the stretch of high glass-topped wall, the clock on the post office, the green barrows in the station yard. But Bartlett bore watching, a sign on the verge just where your eye must fall. STEEP HILL. BENDS FOR ONE MILE.

  “Shall I …?” Tom began.

  “Just one moment, Short, if you would.” The barrister touched the base of his ear. The lobe was very small and white. “You’ll recollect our talk last week, Maddox, when I suggested that one of the weaker aspects of the prosecution’s case was a lack of evidence of motive?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Director of Public Prosecutions’ office has now produced some evidence, or what purports to be evidence, of somewhat closer ties between yourself and June Singer than has hitherto been suggested. This was communicated to us this morning. I suggest Short run through this quickly for you, and then we can take it up point by point and let you cast any light you can upon it.” He paused. “Short?”

  Tom had taken some papers from a black attaché case. He glanced down at them. “There are really six points.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll deal with them as they come. First of all there’s a letter you wrote to a publisher in New York called Timberley. You remember that?”

  “I must have written a hundred letters to Jack Timberley over the years.”

  “Short,” Bartlett interrupted, “let’s just give Maddox the full picture, shall we? We can go into the details later.”

  Tom flushed. He looked as though he had drunk a great deal for lunch. “Right. This letter was written on February the eighteenth. Essentially you’re asking Timberley about the prospects of a job for June Singer. There’s his reply, actually offering her a job—through you, that is. And then June’s letter—a photostat—to Timberley, refusing the job. The point of all this being, of course, that—”

  A tiny gesture from Bartlett stopped Tom in midrack.

  “To get on. The next item is a photograph of June Singer which was found in the drawer of your desk at your office.”

  “A photo of June in my desk?”

  “Yes. She’s wearing a summer frock and—” he looked down at his notes—“the photo appears to have been taken in the country.”

  “Can I see it?” Jordan held out his hand.

  “The D.P.P.’s office hasn’t seen fit as yet to provide us with a copy,” Tom said angrily, as though it was Jordan’
s fault. “Bartlett and I have seen it, though.”

  “What in God’s name would I want with a photo of June? Why, I saw her every day…”

  Tom’s effort of restraint was evident from the rigidness of his body. And suddenly Jordan felt he’d been through all this before.

  “And to tie in with that,” Tom went on, “there was found in June’s handbag a photograph of yourself. You’re wearing—”

  Jordan laughed. “That is ludicrous.”

  “Shall we continue?” said Tom tightly. “The letters and the photographs will be exhibits. In addition to this, we are served notice of three additional witnesses the Crown will call. First is a fellow called Lambert. He’s a chemist’s assistant—assistant dispenser. He’ll give evidence that Singer purchased several bottles of a laxative preparation over a period of two or three weeks in February and March.”

  “What—?”

  “Laxatives are commonly held to be an abortive agent if taken in sufficiently large quantities.”

  And Jordan remembered: All that stuff she was taking. All that time you were urging her to get rid of it. He shook his head.

  “You don’t agree?” said Tom.

  “Agree with what?”

  “I was telling you,” Tom said very carefully, “about the testimony that will be given by Mrs. Payne. Mrs. Payne is the woman who lived below June Singer and her mother in Putney. She used to give Mrs. Singer lunch and generally looked after her if June went out. She’s a widow. We are informed she’ll testify that you wrote a number of letters to June, that you frequently gave June flowers and that she, June, talked of you with great affection.”

  Jordan stared at the solicitor. “Tom, you must be making this up.”

  “I’m not making it up, old man.”

  “But—”

  “Let’s just get to the end of it, Maddox,” said Bartlett.

  “Finally,” said Tom, “there is a Mr. Harold Grand, waiter at Blain’s Restaurant, who will testify that he saw you having dinner alone with June Singer on the night of January the tenth—indeed, that he served you—and that you appeared to be on intimate terms with her.” Tom blew out a long breath. “That’s the lot, in a nutshell.”

  “It’s absolute, utter nonsense. I’ve never heard such an extraordinary tangle of lies and half-truths.” But he had, of course. He remembered it—the hot dry smell of the suffocating little room at Sarah Street.

  “I’m interested in this evidence of Grand’s,” Bartlett said. “Did you in fact dine with Singer on the night of January the tenth?”

  “I’m not sure whether it was the tenth,” said Jordan slowly. “But I did have dinner with her one night at the beginning of January, I remember now.”

  “Why so late?” Bartlett asked.

  “Late?”

  “Grand is going to say that you were there between ten forty-five and midnight.”

  “Oh well, after the theatre, you know—”

  “You took her to the theatre?”

  “I didn’t exactly take her to the theatre,” Jordan said petulantly. “It was—well, I had given her a couple of theatre tickets, you see. And she told me, after a bit of pressing, that she didn’t have anyone to go with. Well, I felt sorry for her. Her mother had died not long before, you know. And there was no reason why I shouldn’t go with her. Willy—my wife and daughter were spending a week down at Sibley with my aunt and uncle. That’s why I gave her—June—the tickets, as a matter of fact. And then …”

  “And then?”

  “What? Oh well, nothing really.”

  “Nothing?” The barrister made the word sound unlikely. “What was the play?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “Any idea which theatre?”

  “I really don’t, no.”

  “And after the theatre, you took her to dine at Blain’s?”

  “We had dinner, yes.”

  “Drinks?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And then—did you take her home?”

  “I rather believe I did, in a taxi.”

  “To Panton Place?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you go up?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Did you kiss her good night?”

  “Certainly not. Now look—”

  “Maddox, please understand I’m only trying to elicit what happened, and—”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Ummm.” He paused. “That week your wife was away, did you take Singer out again?”

  “No, I did not. It was the purest accident that I took her out in the first place.”

  “Did you tell your wife you’d taken your secretary out?”

  Jordan was aware of Tom looking at him. “I didn’t think it was necessary,” he said, trying to match Bartlett’s detachment.

  “You didn’t think it was necessary,” said the barrister coldly. “I’m very glad, Maddox, that no jury is going to hear those words.”

  Bartlett sat quite still. He was very angry, it came to Jordan.

  “Maddox—is there any reason why you should not have informed Short or myself of this earlier?”

  “No, I don’t think so—I …” There was a tremor in his voice, in his body. And he had again that strange sweet sensation.…

  “Well?”

  “I—I had forgotten all about it, I suppose. It didn’t seem important.”

  “Good God, man,” Tom said loudly, “this isn’t some kind of a game. Bartlett’s absolutely right—” He was brought up abruptly by a light tapping of the barrister’s fingernail on the table.

  “You had forgotten. Or you remembered, but it didn’t seem important,” said Bartlett. “Which?”

  “Well, I suppose it was at the back of my mind. But I didn’t consciously think about it.”

  Bartlett took a few moments to light a cigarette. He didn’t offer one to Jordan or to Tom Short.

  Jordan said, “I’m sorry if I messed things up.”

  “Messed things up?” Tom laughed. “You could hardly of done a better job if you had actually murdered the blasted girl.”

  “You think I murdered June Singer?” He spoke to Tom, but the question was for Bartlett.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Jordan,” Tom burst out, ignoring the barrister’s movement of restraint, “of course you bloody well didn’t do it. You wouldn’t have enough backbone. And that’s just the point. Every time—”

  “Short!”

  “—every time we get onto firm ground, you just casually come up with something that knocks the whole bottom out of our strategy. Anyone would think you bloody well wanted to—”

  “I must ask you to be silent.” Bartlett’s slicing courtroom voice cut Tom off.

  Tom’s big footballer’s body was still as in the second before kickoff, head up, heavy red cheeks rigid, throat strained for the yell of attack. But there was no yell, only a faint grunt.

  Bartlett brushed some smoke away from his face. He smoked the cigarette rapidly, as though anxious to get to the end of it. When he did, he stubbed it out briskly.

  “Maddox,” he said, “as counsel for your defence, I am of course completely in your hands. I form the impression, however, that you are not entirely aware of the seriousness of the case against you.”

  Jordan felt something slipping away, a sharpness within him becoming blurred by reasonableness. He shut his eyes for a moment and could almost imagine himself back at Sarah Street. He looked up at the bare bulb with its fringe of dust, and the light seemed to sway.

  “… very serious. In law we are not obliged to prove that you did not murder June Singer. That is fortunate, for we cannot prove it. What we have to rely on is establishing real and reasonable doubt of your guilt. Our chief hope of instilling such doubt into the minds of the jurors lies in the fact that, if you had killed Singer, it would have been a motiveless murder. Thus we must establish, or see to it that the Crown fails to establish, two things. First, that you are not mentally unbalanced, in other word
s, that you would not be likely to commit a pointless and profitless crime. Second, that you were not in love with the girl, did not have an affair with her, et cetera. In sum, we must establish that you are a reasonable man without the slightest motive for murder. That is our assumption. Do I make myself clear?”

  Jordan looked down from the light. The image of the bulb hovered about the lawyer’s face. “Yes.”

  “In the light of that assumption, anything—anything whatever—in your relationship to Singer outside the usual and normal intercourse between employer and employee automatically becomes evidence for the prosecution. Anything whatever, no matter how small. Evidently, Maddox, you had not fully grasped that point. Do you now?”

  “Yes.”

  “And so that means that we must produce and substantiate, insofar as possible, a reasonable explanation for every point which the prosecution produces to suggest a guilty association with the girl. You must, for instance, reasonably be able to explain why you took Singer to the theatre.”

  “Yes.”

  “You must be able to explain in reasonable terms why you wrote that letter to Mr. Timberley in New York.”

  “Yes.”

  “You must reasonably explain …”

  “Yes.…” If he could just go on effortlessly saying yes, everything would be alright. They would be happy and he would be happy. He would be able to go back to his private ward and drift away. He became aware that Bartlett had stopped talking.

  The image of the light had gone now, and he saw that the barrister was looking at him with a slight smile.

  “Yes,” said Jordan, not knowing to what he was assenting.

  “Good. Then, first of all, I think we’d better go back to that Monday morning, the morning of the murder. Let’s go over it again and make quite certain there is not a single point we have missed. Please tell us everything that happened, everything that you can remember.”

  Jordan was silent for a moment. He was more tired than he had ever been in his life. Now he was going to have to walk up a long steep hill with a great weight upon his shoulders. Perhaps when he got to the top they would allow him to collapse.

  20

  “Why, it’s you, Mr. Maddox.”