A Sentence of Life

by Julian Gloag

  “None at all?”

  “None.”

  “You are not an obstetrician?”

  “I have already stated that.”

  “Nor a gynecologist?”

  “No.”

  “And for over more than twenty years you have had no experience with pregnant women?”

  “I have said that, Mr. Bartlett.”

  “And yet you did not consider getting a second opinion?”

  “It was not necessary.”

  “Despite all these unknown factors?”

  “They would have been equally unknown to any other physician.”

  “Oh, I see, your opinion was just as good as any of the experts. What happened to the foetus after you had examined it?”

  “It was destroyed. That is perfectly normal procedure.”

  “It was destroyed. Well, then, I suppose we shall just have to place our reliance upon you. At the time of her death on March the ninth, Singer was, in your opinion, in her ninth or tenth week of pregnancy. That would mean that conception occurred some time between December the twenty-ninth and January the twelfth, would it not?”

  “I don’t have a calendar. But I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. So in your opinion there is a two-week margin of doubt. In that margin, what weight did you give to the unknown factor of the effect of large quantities of laxative upon the development of the foetus?”

  “I am afraid I do not understand the question.”

  “You have acknowledged that large doses of laxative might retard the growth of the foetus. What allowance did you make for such possible retardation?”

  “Possible retardation is based upon a hypothesis which can neither be proved nor disproved.”

  “In other words, you made no allowance?”

  “One cannot allow for a factor which in all probability does not exist and, even if it did exist, could not be measured.”

  “You made no allowance?”

  “No, sir. I did not.” The pathologist had long ago ceased to pull at his cheek, the sign of judgement deeply considered. He gave his answers now with the lofty contempt of a philosopher ignoring the sallies of an impertinent wasp.

  “This factor, which you did not take into account, how long might it have retarded the normal process of development?”

  “Quite impossible to say.”

  “A month?”

  “Out of the question.”

  “A week?”

  “It is quite impossible to give an opinion upon this matter.”

  “Doctor, can you conceive that this factor might have retarded the growth of the foetus by as long as one week?”

  “I can conceive of it. I can conceive of a lot—”

  “It’s conceivable?”

  “It’s conceivable, but totally unverifiable.”

  “Yes, the foetus was destroyed, was it not?”

  “That is not what I meant, and I strongly resent your imputation.” Compelled now to slap at the wasp. “Your whole hypothesis is unlikely, improbable, highly dubious and—”

  “But possible?”

  “I have never denied that it is possible.”

  “Very well. Then it follows that June Singer may have been in the eleventh week of pregnancy, that she may have conceived as far back as December the twenty-second. Is that not correct?”

  “It’s not actually impossible.”

  “It is possible, Doctor, is it not?”

  “If you must have it—possible.”

  “It is not a question of what I must have!” Very sharp. Then hard and emphatic: “Doctor, I surely do not need to remind you that a man here is on trial for murder. These are not debating points, but matters upon which the guilt or innocence of this man may hinge, matters which must, therefore, be tested to the utmost for accuracy, and on which every possibility must be closely examined.” Pause. “We have established that it was possible for conception to have occurred as early as December the twenty-second. Now let us consider the matter of diet—another unknown factor. I take it, Doctor, that an inadequate diet would be likely to have an adverse effect upon the normal rate of foetal development?”

  “You’ll have to define what you mean by ‘inadequate.’”

  “Let us refer once again to Jardin.” Bartlett opened the book. “I read you the following passage, Doctor.…”

  As Bartlett read the dreary statement about calories and carbohydrates, vitamins and protein, Jordan began to feel sick. If he closed his eyes, he felt his head would fly away, like a kite snapping loose in a strong breeze. But the taut string held his attention to the courtroom.

  “That is quite true,” said the pathologist. “But if the baby were suffering from the effects of the mother’s undernourishment, one would expect to find signs in the mother of such undernourishment.”

  “I’m not talking about prolonged undernourishment, Doctor. Six or seven weeks of inadequate diet—the physical symptoms of such malnutrition would not be immediately evident, would they?”

  “Again, you must define more closely the nature of the inadequacy.”

  “Let us say then a largely unrelieved diet of, for instance, chocolate cake and coffee.…”

  Jordan tasted on his tongue the nausea of plums and custard. As he gripped his hands tightly together, his mind was stirred to a sudden memory of Georgia. Himself and Georgia in the back of the car coming away from the afternoon at Cheppingden Castle, Willy driving in her straight-backed, old-fashioned way, as though the car were a temperamental steed. And Georgia turning to him: “Daddy, I’m going to be sick.” Leaning across, trying to hold her and open the window at the same time, and then the quick rush of vomit over her frock, the floor, the leather seat, his jacket. Something within him had become frantic as he tried to clean her up with rapid, clumsy dabs of the car rug. His meaningless jabbered soothing had only made louder her howls of horror at the desecration.

  “Oh, Jordan, you are an ass.” And as Willy dragged the little girl out of the car and stripped off the sodden summer frock, Jordan had stood by, sticky fingers wiping idiotically at his jacket, thinking that something terrible had happened and yet not knowing what it was.

  “Now don’t make a fuss, Georgia. We’ll soon be back at the hotel. It’s probably that ice and a touch of the sun.”

  But it wasn’t the ice or the sun, he was sure. It was the row they’d had below the tower.

  Georgia was stripped swiftly, wiped clean with a handkerchief, wrapped in Willy’s cardigan, and sat in the front seat. Finger in mouth, she turned, solemn, to look at him where he sat among the odour of sick and the muddled rug in the back. He had endeavoured to smile. “I like sitting in front best of all.” she’d said as she looked away.

  “… unlikely. But it is just barely possible. And I must emphasize that the combination of factors you—”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” In his long whittling at the calendar, Bartlett had gained an extra two weeks. She might have conceived as early as December 15th. Highly unlikely. Wildly improbable. Fantastic. But possible. Ridiculous, absurd, outrageous.

  Jordan swallowed.

  “As a result of your post-mortem examination you have placed the probable time of death at between seven o’clock and eleven o’clock of the morning of March ninth. These are fairly narrow limits. Would it not have been possible for death to have occurred as late as twelve noon of the same day?”

  “Oh, yes, I thought I made that clear. It was my determination that death probably occurred between seven and eleven A.M. Once we get outside those time limits I regard it as progressively less likely, but by no means out of the question.”

  “I see.” Bartlett paused. “Your examination of the contents of the stomach led you to conclude Singer died some ten to twenty minutes after eating a piece of chocolate cake?”

  “Yes. The state of the digestive process is an accurate guide.”

  “But only if one knew the exact time at which the chocolate cake had been eaten?”

>   “Yes, quite.”

  “It has been suggested to you that if a piece of cake had been eaten by Singer at nine-thirty A.M., then death would have supervened at between nine-forty and nine-fifty. It would follow, would it not, that if a piece of chocolate cake had been eaten at, say, eleven-forty, then the time of death could accurately be placed at between eleven-fifty and twelve noon?”

  “Up to a point that’s true.”

  “Up to a point?”

  The pathologist pulled hard at his cheek. A warning signal. “Well, if the cake had been ingested at eleven-forty, then no cake could have been ingested at nine-thirty.”

  “Is it not possible she might have eaten two pieces of cake?”

  “No. If she had eaten a piece of cake two hours before eating the piece just before she died, then there would be evidence of it in the digestive system. There is no such evidence.”

  “You are stating that after two hours the cake would still be identifiable as cake?”

  “No, sir, I am not stating that. But there would be evidence of something. In fact, Singer had eaten nothing for at least twelve hours prior to her death—except the cake—and probably for even longer.”

  “That was not in your report.”

  “It was in my notes.”

  “Why was it not in your report?”

  “I did not consider it in any respect significant. It is quite usual, you know, for a twelve-hour period to elapse without food—particularly at night.”

  It was a dangerous cul-de-sac, a dead end—even Jordan could see that. And Bartlett turned quickly. “Now, Doctor, you have said that the process of digestion …”

  And he remembered the smudge of chocolate on her tooth. He could have said, “You’ve got chocolate on your teeth.” But he wouldn’t have done that—it was too like Willy who, just when he’d got to something important, was always apt to say, “There’s a piece of spinach on your lip, darling.” Besides, there was something fascinating about that dab of brown on her even, white teeth. For somebody who liked sweets so much …

  Something had happened. The loud tones of Pollen jerked Jordan back to attention. Pollen and the pathologist restoring the ponderous harmony between them.

  And then there was the cry for “Henry Lambert!”

  “You are an assistant at Marben’s Chemists in Panton Gardens, Mr. Lambert?”

  “Yes, sir.” Small, hair neatly brushed with water, he looked about seventeen, but must be more.

  “How long have you been employed there?”

  “Two years and seven months.”

  “Would you describe the nature of your duties?”

  “Well, I serve behind the counter mostly, when it’s busy. And then I help Mr. Latch, that’s in the dispensary.”

  “Were you acquainted with the deceased, June Singer?”

  “Not exactly acquainted. I knew her, so to speak. By sight, that is. She often came into Marben’s. But I didn’t know who she was till I saw her picture in the paper.”

  “You saw her picture in the paper after the murder?”

  “That’s it.”

  “And what did you do then, Mr. Lambert?”

  “I thought about it a lot. I knew it was her. And, well, then I went to the police.”

  “Why did you go to the police?”

  “That’s a bit hard to explain exactly. But, you see, well …” Lambert looked away unhappily.

  “Perhaps you thought—” gentle Mr. Pollen, cloying with condescension—“you had some information that would be of assistance in their investigations?”

  “That’s right. That’s it. It didn’t seem much, really, but …”

  “When do you first recall seeing June Singer?”

  “Christmas Eve. That was the first time I served her.”

  “And what did she purchase from you, Mr. Lambert?”

  “Well, er—” Mr. Lambert blushed. “Well—” his voice was low—“it was a box of Tampax.”

  “A box of Tampax,” came Pollen’s stentorian echo. “Was that all?”

  “Yes. She didn’t buy nothing else.” A sudden burst of confidence. “That’s why I remembered her particular at first. She seemed sort of—lonely, I suppose you’d say. I mean, just the one purchase. You know, at Christmas—most people are getting, well, bath salts and things.”

  “So you paid her particular attention?”

  “That’s it. I could see she was shy.”

  “And in the succeeding weeks, did you serve her again?”

  “She came in quite often. I always served her myself if I could.”

  “And on these other occasions, what did she purchase?”

  “Oh, well, you know, lipstick and cold cream and a flannel—I remember she bought a flannel once.”

  “And Tampax, I suppose?”

  “No—” almost a whisper—”she never bought no more Tampax.”

  “In all the weeks after Christmas, she bought no more Tampax?”

  “No, sir. Not off of me.”

  “Do you recall anything else she purchased?”

  “Gleason’s.”

  “She bought a bottle of Gleason’s Palliative, did she?”

  “Not a bottle. Lots of bottles.”

  “What size bottles?”

  “The big ones.”

  “The big ones. How many bottles is ‘lots,’ Mr. Lambert?”

  “I couldn’t say exactly. But a lot.”

  “Ten?”

  “Not as many as that.”

  “Five?”

  “Five or six, maybe.”

  “Five or six. And when did she make her first purchase of Gleason’s Palliative?”

  “February the fourteenth.”

  “Do you have any particular cause to remember that date?”

  “Oh, yes. Valentine’s, see? I mean, I was thinking, if only I’d known her name and where she lived, I’d ‘ave sent her a valentine, and then in she pops and asks for Gleason’s. A Saturday, it was.”

  “And when did she make her last purchase of Gleason’s from you?”

  “Right about the beginning of March.”

  “You mean that she bought five or six bottles, large bottles, of Gleason’s Palliative between February fourteenth and the beginning of March—a period of two weeks?”

  “Yes.”

  “And then what? She ceased to buy it?”

  “Yes. From me, that is. But I don’t think she came into Marben’s again. That was the last time I saw her—till her picture was in the paper.”

  “The last time you saw her was at the beginning of March when she purchased a bottle of Gleason’s. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. See—well, I think I scared her off. When I handed her the bottle, done up, I said, joking like, ‘You want to watch out, you’ll get hooked on that stuff.’ The moment I said it, I could have bit my tongue out. She went all white and then …”

  “And then?”

  “Well, she just ran out of the shop and I never saw her again.”

  “Yes. Now, Mr. Lambert, has it been a common occurrence within your experience for a customer to purchase as many as five or six bottles of Gleason’s in a period of two weeks?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Or any other laxative preparation?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Has it ever happened—within your experience—that a customer bought so large a quantity in so short a time?”

  “Once, yes. In my experience. And she was pregnant too.”

  “You knew that Singer was pregnant?”

  “I didn’t know. But I guessed. Why else did she buy all that Gleason’s? And she stopped buying the Tampax, didn’t she? If only I’d ‘ave known her name before, maybe I could have helped her. Poor kid.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lambert.”

  “It was obvious she’d got herself in trouble and was trying to get rid of it. She was desperate. I could see what she was up—”

  “Thank you, Mr. Lambert,” Pollen roared. Then, with a massive smile, “No fur
ther questions.”

  Bartlett rose. “Mr. Lambert, you have said that, if only you had known Singer’s name, you could perhaps have helped her. How could you have helped her?”

  “Well, you know. I mean I could have done my best.” He was blushing.

  “How would you have proposed to help her?”

  “Well, I might have been able to … talk her out of it.”

  “Talk her out of attempting to procure her own miscarriage?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “Did Singer ever ask you for the name of a doctor?”

  He was bright red now. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I mean, did she ask you for the name of a doctor?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Why the ‘of course’, Mr. Lambert? It would be quite a normal request, would it not?”

  “Normal?” Lambert was lost. “I don’t … It depends what you mean by normal.”

  “Don’t new residents in your district sometimes ask you for a recommendation to a local physician?”

  “Oh!” Lambert smiled. “Oh, yes. Sometimes. Yes, they do. But June didn’t.”

  “June?”

  “I mean Miss Singer.”

  Bartlett stood quite still for a moment, staring at Lambert. Then slowly the barrister nodded his head. “I have no further questions to put to this witness, my Lord.”

  Lambert left the witness box quickly. He did not look, somehow, so young and fresh as when he had entered it.

  Jordan sat rigid, each bone in his body a fixed metal bar.

  She was desperate!

  He heard and saw with unbearable accuracy—the departing squeak of Lambert’s shoes, the judge shuffling his notes, the old man’s grunt, the gold of the police sergeant’s chevrons, the clear call for the next witness—“Superintendent George!”—and the whisper of swing doors. Unbearable.

  Poor kid!

  He closed his eyes. And then the kite string snapped, and he could fly away.

  23

  “Well, no disasters after all,” said Jordan, tucking the ends of the scarf under the shoulders of his overcoat.

  “Disasters?” June looked up at him seriously.

  “Friday the thirteenth.” He nodded at the wall calendar and smiled. He was reluctant to leave the office tonight. The idea of the jaunty music in the grey cave of Waterloo Station, the stale urine-and-tobacco smell of the Southern Railway, and the fish pie that he would eat alone because it was one of Willy’s meeting nights—did not tickle his fancy. He had once, he thought irrelevantly, seen Sir Adrian Boult having dinner by himself in the Railway Hotel at Waterloo. He had looked like a prosperous but melancholy family solicitor, eating sausages and mash in the half-empty dining room. There had been something indescribably gloomy about the sight which still haunted Jordan.