A Sentence of Life

by Julian Gloag

  “And did you speak to him?”

  “I asked him what happened to our date New Year’s. He said he was sorry but he forgot all about it. I told him he couldn’t promise to do something and then just not do it and never a word of explanation. And then I asked him why he left Putney. He didn’t answer me at all. So then I asked him if it was all off between us. And he said it was. And I asked him why, and he said because he was in love with June. I told him that was all very well, but she wasn’t in love with him. He got very angry and said yes she was and they were going to get married. So I told him he was barmy, June would never marry him. He got furious. He said she would marry him—he said she’d got to. Well, then I knew he was barmy. I said—”

  “What did you understand by the phrase ‘she’d got to’?”

  “That she was going to have a baby. I mean, I really knew he was daft then. I said—”

  “A little slower, Miss Copley. Why did the news of June’s pregnancy make you assume Cole was daft?”

  “Well, I knew it wasn’t true. I knew he must be daft if he thought I’d swallow that. I knew June well enough to know she’d never have let him … do that.”

  “But you know now that Cole was right, June Singer was pregnant?”

  “Oh yes, but not with Bernie. It was him, wasn’t it?” She jerked her hand towards Jordan.

  “No—we don’t know that at all.”

  Jordan felt his heart plunge as Regina Copley flicked her thin little hand at him. He could not tell whether in joy or pain—for Cole was the strongest presence in court, and Jordan knew and felt, not his own, but Cole’s agony, Cole’s rage, Cole’s dream of longing.

  “But the papers said—” Regina’s voice protested.

  “The papers have reported the proceedings of this court. The suggestion that Maddox was responsible for Singer’s pregnancy has been advanced, but it has not been proved.”

  “Oh.” Deflated, and not really believing.

  “Now let’s go back to this conversation you had with Cole. What did you do when he told you June was going to have a baby?”

  “I gave him a piece of my mind. Spreading rumours like that! Then I just walked off.”

  “Having gone to considerable efforts to see him, you then just walked off?”

  “Well, there was no use talking to him when he was in that state. I knew he’d come round eventually. He’d have to, wouldn’t he?”

  “You thought that when he finally realised June Singer was not going to marry him, that he would come back to you?”

  “I thought he would, likely.”

  “Has he?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Have you, in fact, seen Cole since June’s death?”

  “I tried to, once. But he wouldn’t speak to me. It’s a shock for him, see? I mean, it would be, wouldn’t it? But he’ll get over it.” She said it knowingly.

  For a fraction of a second Bartlett seemed to hesitate. Then he said, “Thank you, Miss Copley. I have no more questions.”

  Pollen rose from his place. He also smiled as he approached Regina—a strained smile which could only just pass muster as benevolent.

  “Everything, Miss Copley, that you have told this court is true, is it not?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  “Oh, we won’t ask you to do that.”

  Regina decided to answer his smile.

  “Now, Miss Copley, I don’t have many questions for you. Just one or two points for further elucidation. You knew June Singer very well, did you not?”

  “I would say so, yes.”

  “But after you learned of her assignations with Cole, you had no great cause to like her, did you?”

  “No great cause … you mean, I didn’t like her? No, I didn’t like her.”

  “Up to that point, you liked her very well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Admired her?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were, in fact, her most intimate friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shared all her little secrets, no doubt?”

  “Well …”

  “Come, Miss Copley, no secrets?” Genial.

  “Well, June never was one to tell you how she really felt underneath.”

  A momentary frown sullied Pollen’s forehead. “But you did know her exceedingly well?”

  “Yes. I’ve said that.”

  “Quite. But later, when you learned of her friendship with Cole, you became jealous of her?”

  “Well, not jealous really. I wouldn’t say that.”

  “You never at any time thought, did you, that there was anything more to Singer’s seeing Cole than friendship?”

  “Oh no.”

  “Was it ever your opinion, out of your considerable knowledge of her character, that Singer was or could have been genuinely in love with Cole?”

  “No. I knew she wasn’t, couldn’t be.”

  “So you did not in fact consider Singer to be a serious or permanent threat to your relationship with Cole?”

  “No, I never did.”

  “So your dislike of her was actuated by the underhand way in which she had treated you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You did not have any malice towards her, did you?”

  “No. See, I knew what it was. June always liked things somebody else had. But after she got whatever it was, well, she never really knew what to do with it.”

  “So you are not here today in spite, are you?”

  “In spite of what?”

  “You hold no spite against June Singer?”

  “Oh no. I’m sorry for her, poor thing.”

  “Knowing her so well over all those years, knowing so intimately what sort of person she was, are you of the opinion that she would have permitted a man such as Bernard Cole to have sexual intercourse with her?”

  “Not in a zillion years.”

  “Why do you think she would not have?”

  “She just never would. She wasn’t that sort of person at all. She had respect for herself. She was always saying how wrong it was. If she’d been going to marry Bernie, then it might have been different—even then I don’t think she’d have done it. But she’d never even have thought of marrying Bernie.”

  “And that is still your opinion, despite the fact that she was pregnant at the time of her death and, therefore, did have sexual intercourse?”

  “That’s different. If she had to have intercourse to get what she wanted, then she’d have had intercourse. But she didn’t want Bernie, I know that. But that’s not to say there wasn’t someone else she wanted.”

  “But that someone else would have to have been a better catch than Cole?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ever hear June talk about the accused?”

  “Did I!”

  “Did you?”

  “I should say. Why, all the time, it was Mr. Maddox this, Mr. Maddox that. You’d have thought he was the fairy prince, the way she carried on.”

  “I see. Just one more point then, Miss Copley. And in asking this question, I am making no suggestion of impropriety in your behaviour. On the contrary, you are clearly a sensible and truthful witness. But I am sure some members of the jury will have it on their mind that you did not, when you heard of this dreadful crime—as you must have heard—why you did not then go to the police and tell them what you knew about June Singer. Why did you not go to the police?”

  “Well, see—a policeman come to our house. And—well, I thought that was the end of it.”

  “What did you tell this policeman?”

  “Well, he asked me if I’d been at school with June, and I said yes, I had. Then he asked me when I last saw her, and I said about a year ago. And that’s all he asked me.”

  “You didn’t feel that you had anything material to contribute further?”

  “Well no, I didn’t. I mean—I don’t see what all the fuss is about. About Bernie and me, I mean.”

  “I have no further ques
tions of this witness.” Pollen sat down abruptly.

  Regina looked in puzzlement at the judge and then at the jury. One of the jurors was whispering hissingly at the foreman, who stood up looking doubtful.

  “My Lord—a juryman would like to ask a question. Er, is that alright?”

  “A question of this witness?”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “Very well.”

  It was the man in the green shirt who rose. “Well—” his voice was unnaturally loud—“what I think is—”

  “No no, juryman.” The judge clacked his teeth. “You must not tell us what you think. Just ask your question.”

  Green shirt flushed angrily. He turned to Regina. “What I want to know, Miss Copley,” he said overbearingly, as if to take out on her his humiliation by the judge, “this fellow Cole we’ve heard so much about. And if you ask me—”

  “We are not asking you.” The judge’s jaw went snap-snap. “You are to ask the witness. What is your question?”

  Green shirt sighed. He spoke as if to a child, deliberately emphasizing every word. “If this Cole was to ask you to marry him now, would you?”

  As instantaneously as Regina said, “Oh yes,” Pollen was on his feet objecting.

  “My Lord, this is an absolutely irrelevant question. It is preposterous. It has nothing to do with what has gone before. It—”

  “You object to it?”

  “I do most strongly, my Lord.”

  “Mr. Pollen, it seems quite clear to me that this question has been put for the purpose of determining any possible bias on the part of this witness. And that is an issue which you yourself raised in your cross-examination. I may say that I allowed you, and Mr. Bartlett in his examination of this witness, a great deal of latitude in regard to what are strictly matters of opinion. I have done so because, in making the case for the prosecution, you, Mr. Pollen, have made several emphatic suggestions, I may even say declarations, about the character of Singer. The impression of Singer’s character which you have been at pains to portray is something that the defence is fully entitled to combat. The reputation of Singer is of great concern in this case, and consequently the truthfulness of any witness who animadverts upon that subject is also of concern to the court. I shall therefore allow both question and answer to stand.”

  Pollen shrugged and sat down stiffly.

  Jordan watched Regina leave the box. She had done him a service.

  He knew now what June was, had been. It was all so very clear. So very simple. So very pathetic. He thought in some way he had known what she was like all along, yet had not recognised it—just as he had not recognised the lack, the yearning, the pity of them all.

  Bernard Malcolm Cole. The word had gone out.

  And as Jordan waited for him, his hands trembled on his knees—as if he himself were fulfilling the fear that Cole must feel.

  50

  Except for his narrow nose and small sharp mouth, Bernard Cole was not recognisable as the schoolboy in the photograph. His cheeks were plump and his hair receding over a suet-white forehead. And he was tall. He had a stoop, and his head was permanently bent to one side, as though used to paying great attention to absent-minded customers. He would be unctuously good with old ladies and properly frocked and toilet-trained children.

  “I do,” he said in a tone of righteous but muted defiance as though he had already been accused of not agreeing to tell the truth.

  Bartlett did not smile at this time.

  “Mr. Cole, were you in love with June Singer?”

  Cole blinked rapidly, but said nothing.

  “I asked you, Mr. Cole, whether you were in love with June Singer.”

  “Well, I …” It was a horribly straight question. Jordan knew instinctively that Bernie Cole was one of those people whose stock answers are, “I don’t mind” or “I’ll have what you’re having.”

  “You must answer the question, Mr. Cole. Were you in love with June Singer?”

  “Well, it depends what you mean by love, doesn’t it?” A quick movement of the lips.

  “Assume the question refers to what you mean by love, Mr. Cole. Then answer it. Were you in love with June Singer?”

  “I may have been.”

  “You may have been?”

  “It’s hard to tell, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?”

  “Well, yes. I mean, sometimes you think you …” He blinked again as he recognised the danger.

  “Yes, go on, Mr. Cole?” Pause. “Were you going to say that sometimes you think you are in love?”

  Pollen was up. “My Lord, that is leading too much. This is simply-putting words into the mouth of the witness.”

  The judge nodded. “Quite. Please don’t lead the witness in that manner, Mr. Bartlett. However—” he turned to Cole and champed for a moment—“I should like to know what you were about to say, Mr. Cole. Your words were, ‘Sometimes you think you …’ Perhaps you would finish the sentence for us?”

  Bartlett held quite still.

  “Well,” said Cole, “what I was going to say, really, was sometimes you think you never can tell.”

  “I see,” said Bartlett. “To put it in full then, you are saying: ‘Sometimes you think you never can tell whether or not you may have been in love with June Singer.’ Is that it?”

  Cole blinked. “More or less. It’s hard to be sure.”

  “Were you in love with Regina Copley?”

  “Oh no.”

  “You’re sure about that, aren’t you?”

  “I never felt that way about Reg.”

  “But you did sometimes feel ‘that way’ about June?”

  “I suppose you might say so.”

  “Never mind about what I say. What do you say?”

  “Well, yes then.”

  “Yes, you did sometimes think you were in love with June Singer?”

  “Yes, I suppose I did—at times.”

  “What times?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When? When were you in love with June Singer?”

  “I didn’t say I was, did I?”

  “You said you thought you were in love with June Singer at times. What times? When?”

  “Oh, last year.”

  “Last year—not this year?”

  “Oh no.”

  “Where do you live, Mr. Cole?”

  “Rumbold Street.” Quick with relief.

  “Where do you work?”

  “I’m a sales assistant at Ramsden and Black.”

  “What is the firm’s line of business?”

  “Ironmongery.”

  “Where is Ramsden and Black located?”

  “Devizes Road.”

  “At which end of Devizes Road?”

  “It’s at the north end. One Hundred and Twelve Devizes Road it is.”

  “How far is that from Panton Place?”

  “About a three-minute wa—”

  “A three-minute walk?”

  “I’m only guessing.”

  “But that is what you were going to say? A three-minute walk?”

  “Well, yes. It was only a guess.”

  “A very good guess—an absolutely correct guess, as it happens. Did you know that June Singer lived at Panton Place?”

  “It was in all the papers, wasn’t it?”

  “Before it was in the papers. Before the murder. Did you know then that June Singer lived at Panton Place?”

  “I may have done.”

  “Did you or did you not?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “When did she move there?”

  “I really couldn’t say.”

  “Guess then. You’re good at guessing.”

  “I really couldn’t.”

  “It’s been in all the papers. She moved to Panton Place on December the twentieth last year. You didn’t know that?”

  “Not exactly. I mean, I may have read it.”

  “How do you get to work, Mr. Cole?”

  “I walk.�
�

  “How long a walk is it?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “A ten-minute walk from Rumbold Street to Devizes Road. By which route is that?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Which way do you go?”

  “I go all different ways. Depends how I feel.”

  “Do you ever go by way of Panton Place?”

  “I expect so.”

  “Do you or do you not?”

  “Once in a while I do.”

  “How often?”

  “I really haven’t noticed.”

  “Well now, you must have some idea. Once a week?”

  “Not as often as that.”

  “Once a fortnight?”

  “That would be more like it. It’s a bit out of the way.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “It’s a long way round, see?”

  “It’s longer via Panton Place than by some other route?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are quite sure of that, aren’t you, Mr. Cole? It may be measured.”

  “Well, I think it is.”

  “You only think it is now?”

  “I’m sure it’s longer.”

  Jordan watched Cole intently. And though the only movement of expression upon that face was the sudden stutter of blinks, Jordan knew quite certainly what was going on within the mind. The obstinacy reinforced at every turn with a sense of righteousness which bore only upon itself. The evasions masquerading as pride. The world was on the offensive against Cole—always had been, always would be. But he would never give in. He knew their tricks, he knew their ways to deceive, he knew what they wanted alright.

  But he would keep himself to himself, and dispense it sparingly, where and when he pleased. Ask, and you wouldn’t receive—not from Cole. Any question was a demand and would be fought off, pronto, as it deserved, unless it was from someone too weak to take anything—infants, the elderly, dumb animals. He knew the injustice of this world, knew it too well to ask for anything that was not rightfully his—and would fight it, bitterly, evenly, carefully.

  “If I were to tell you it were so,” Bartlett was saying, “would you accept the fact that the shortest route from the south end of Rumbold Street to the north end of Devizes Road is one thousand, one hundred and twenty yards—some forty yards shorter than any other route—and that this shortest route is the way via Panton Place—if I were to tell you that, would you accept it?”