“Isn’t it a fact,” continued Yorker with infuriating smoothness, “that you detested her, jeered at her, and secretly envied her for the rich marriage you thought she was going to make, that you made no secret of your feelings, and that had she been going out with five hundred boys you wouldn’t have known anything about it because you and she were hardly on speaking terms?”
She flushed red. “That’s a downright lie. Envy her? That would be a laugh!”
Yorker sat down.
“How long have you worked in your present place of employment?” asked Scatt in re-examination.
“Three years.”
“Miss Stukeley worked there two years, consequently you were there the whole time she was. I suppose that during that time you and she had several little tiffs as do most people who work together?”
“One or two,” she admitted sullenly.
“But, no doubt, you made them up?”
“Are you asking her or telling her?” inquired Yorker loudly.
“We were good friends whatever he says.” She pointed at Yorker.
“Were you told by the deceased that she had met the accused?”
“I’ll say we were. She came bouncing into the room one morning and said she’d — ”
“At a later date, were you aware they were having an affair?”
“She told us after she’d made us promise never to mention it, that she and him were very, very warm friends.”
Yorker objected. “My Lord — ”
“Quite,” said the judge. “Mr. Scatt, we can’t have that answer.”
“Quite so, my Lord.” Why should he worry, thought Scatt. The jury had heard. “In other words, Miss Prentice, the relationship between the two of you was a mixed one of confidences and recriminations — of which mixture most friendships are composed.” Yorker said, “If my learned friend has completed his evidence, perhaps I may be allowed to cross-examine?”
The witness was dismissed and she left the box after one last look at Yorker that suggested there would never be any kind of friendship between the two of them. Sarah Smith, Margaret Stukeley’s landlady, said that although she had seen the accused on several occasions in her house, she had never seen the deceased with another man. Mr. and Mrs. Stukeley agreed independently that they’d heard of Roger Ventnor but never of any other male friend and that they’d been under the impression the two of them were unofficially engaged.
“Doctor Franch.”
Franch looked at Roger as he made his way to the witness box, and it was a look of dislike. Franch had been subjected to a great deal of publicity because of what had happened, and some of it had come very close to suggesting the real truth was that it had been he who gave the pills to the accused.
“Doctor Franch, have you recently seen the accused?”
“At the beginning of July he came to my house in London and told me he knew a girl who was pregnant and who was desperate to end her pregnancy. He asked me to help him.”
“Did he say whether or not he was the putative father?”
“He said he wasn’t.”
“Did he make any reference to the relationship between himself and the deceased?”
“He stated that there had been an affair between them and that that was why he was trying to help her, but that the affair had come to an end several months before.”
“Did he say who he thought the putative father was?”
“He did not.”
“What was your reply to his request for assistance?”
“I told him that even had he admitted to being the father I would have refused to help him in any way whatsoever and that since he was not the father the same thing went but even more so.”
“Did he try to get you to change your mind?”
“No.”
“Did you explain your reasons for not helping him?”
“I didn’t bother to say that by the rules of medical conduct I could not assist him, and by the ethical rules I would not, because I assumed he must realise all that. I did, however, point out that if he had any sense whatsoever he’d ignore any further request the girl made because no matter what physical method she might attempt it would be dangerous, and that any drug which could kill the child might also kill the mother.”
“In other words, you made it clear that anyone who assisted the abortion was likely to assist in bringing about the mother’s death?”
“That is so.”
“Did he at any time name the mother-to-be?”
“He did not.”
Yorker cross-examined. “Do you imagine you made your warning clear?”
“Yes.”
“You’re quite certain the accused could have been in no two minds about the dangers involved?”
“I can only repeat that I made the facts as clear as possible.”
“Don’t you think, being quite honest about it, that anyone with any sense who had had such a clear warning would be extremely unlikely to go against it?”
Doctor Franch shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I can answer that.”
“Suppose you were given such a warning — would you proceed?”
“No.”
“Thank you.”
Permission was asked for the doctor to be allowed to leave the court. Grumbling, as he had previously, the judge gave his consent.
Canon, the chemist, was the next witness. With his heavy horn-rimmed glasses, his pale face, and his bowed shoulders, he looked rather like a second-rate Mr. Chipps.
“Expert evidence has been given which shows that the bottle of aspirins found in the dead girl’s possession was sold from your shop. Would you, of your own knowledge, have been able to identify that bottle?”
“No, sir.” His voice was short and sharp.
“Presumably you must sell a great number of bottles of aspirins in a year?”
“I do, and that is why there is absolutely no chance of my identifying this particular bottle.”
“Quite so… Did the police visit your shop in the latter part of July?”
“They did.”
“Will you tell the court, please, what happened?”
“I was shown a dozen photographs and asked if I recognised any of them. There was one that was familiar to me, but as I said at the time it was not sufficiently familiar to be that of a regular customer.”
In his seat immediately to the right of the dock, Fisher nodded his head in appreciation of the evidence Canon was giving. And of the evidence he was not giving.
“Once you’d made that identification, what happened?”
“I was told that the photograph was of Roger Ventnor. I immediately recognised the name as being that of the young man who had been mentioned as a friend of the girl who’d died from an abortifacient.”
“Do you see in this court the man you identified as a casual customer of yours?”
“Yes, sir. He’s there.” Canon pointed at the dock.
“Do you identify him as a person who has bought a bottle of aspirins from you?”
“I do not. I merely say that I immediately recognised the face when I was shown the photographs and that since I have never met the prisoner socially I presume I must have seen him in my shop at some recent time. If it were not recent I should not remember him.”
Yorker stood up when it was time to cross-examine and he studied Canon. A witness who would not give an inch. He’d known what he was going to say and he’d said it, and the jury had accepted his words as truth because he was so sure and exact. Juries disliked it if the truth were challenged and would swing against anyone who did so challenge it — yet, on the other hand, because Canon’s evidence had been accepted by the jury, probably in toto, a cross-examination would do little damage since it would only strengthen something that was already very strong. It might, also, discover a discrepancy. Very few identifications from photographs went quite as smoothly as Canon said this one had.
“The police came along to your shop and asked you to look thro
ugh some photographs,” said Yorker.
“Yes, sir.”
“Did they explain why they asked you?”
“To know if I recognised anyone.”
“Quite so, but did they tell you why they wanted that identification made?”
“Not before I’d made it.”
“Are you quite certain they gave no hint beforehand?”
“I’ve already said so.”
“Occasionally, Mr. Canon, witnesses are known to have the sense to have second thoughts when they are asked to consider a matter more fully.”
“The police said nothing to me regarding the case until I’d identified the picture of Mr. Ventnor.”
“Whose photograph was on top of the pile when it was handed to you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was it the accused’s?”
“No.”
“Are you quite certain of that?”
“Yes.”
“Where was the accused’s photograph?”
“I’d say approximately in the centre of the pack.”
“Was it marked in any way?”
“No.”
“Did you recognise any of the other photographs?”
“No.”
“Are you perfectly certain that you chose that photograph entirely of your own free will and without any help or prompting from the police?”
“I am.”
Yorker rubbed his eyebrows. “You don’t claim you remember the accused’s coming into your shop, do you?”
“No.”
“You merely state you identified a photograph as being of someone you’d seen within recent times, and that it was possible you’d met this someone right away from your shop?”
“Not quite that. I don’t think it was not in my shop.”
“Think, Mr. Canon? On a matter so vitally important as this, you are content to think?” Yorker sat down. His cross-examination had gained nothing. Nor had it lost anything.
Fisher spoke to Ritter. “Going as neat as a whistle, isn’t it?” He wondered if someone was reporting to Bazlow and commenting on the smoothness of the police work.
Chapter 16
The manager of The Kinema had dressed with care but not much taste. His suit was old and cut along the flamboyant lines the cheaper tailors had followed some years previously when trans-Atlantic influences in the tailoring world had been very great. The shoulders rode high and the lapels were broad and deep. The handkerchief in his top pocket was a shade of red that nearly clashed with his red tie. He wore a jewelled tiepin, a gold signet ring, and a topaz ring on the little finger of his right hand. Because he was a Jew, he wore the small cap handed to him by the usher and took the oath on the Old Testament.
“Herbert Quincy, sir, and I live at twenty-two Richborough Gardens in South Prestry. I’ve been manager of The Kinema now for about five years.”
“As manager, are you often in the foyer of the cinema?”
“I am. I make it my job to welcome customers and try to give them the feeling it’s a home away from home. In my opinion, that’s the only way we’ll ever get people back into the cinemas.”
“What are your duties when you’re in the foyer?”
“I escort the customer to the box office and then either to the doors downstairs or the bottom of the stairs if they’re for upstairs.”
“How often each day are you on duty in the foyer?”
“It all depends what other work I’ve got, but I try to be there as often as possible.”
“Did the police visit you toward the end of July?”
“They came into the cinema and I thought they were customers.” The manager still sounded aggrieved.
“What did they say to you?”
“They asked me to look through some photos and say if I recognised anyone. I did, but I didn’t… if you see what I mean?”
“Did you know who these photographs represented?”
“Not until I’d looked through and found I didn’t recognise anyone. Then the police explained it was in connection with the girl who hadn’t behaved as a good girl behaves.” The manager was about to snigger appreciation of his own wit when he saw the judge was regarding him with displeasure. The manager did not even grin.
“What do you mean by ‘the police explained’?” asked Scatt.
The manager hastened to answer. “They said one of the photographs was of Ventnor. I said was that the case they were interested in, they said they were, so I said I’d seen the girl but not him. They were very interested and wanted to know how I knew Margaret Stukeley and I told ’em because I’d noticed the girl’s photograph in the local paper.”
“And where had you seen the deceased?”
“Waiting outside my cinema. Twice. A shooting brake came along each time and picked her up.”
“Can you identify the driver of this car?”
“I can’t, because I never got a good look at him, but the number was four-five-four PKM. I noted that because my old car used to be the same only the other way round, and it was such a coincidence.”
Scatt addressed the judge. “Evidence has been given, my Lord, that that is the number of the prisoner’s car.”
The judge nodded.
Scatt spoke to the witness again. “And you say the deceased climbed into this car and was driven away?”
“That’s right.”
“When was the date and time of the first of these two meetings?”
“It was Sunday, at the beginning of July. Must have been just after four because I’d only a moment or so ago opened the doors.”
“And can you tell us the date?”
“The first of the month.”
“What happened on the second occasion?”
“The girl was waiting like she was before and the car came for her and she climbed in and away they went.”
“What date was this second meeting?”
“The following Saturday.”
“Following what, Mr. Quincy? The jury must be certain they understand what you’re saying.”
“I saw her on the Saturday following the Sunday I’d seen her.”
“What date was that Saturday?”
“The seventh of July.”
“Are you certain beyond doubt that this second meeting you saw took place on the seventh?”
“Yes, I am. I can remember wondering how the film would go the next week and I was feeling right glad that there was to be a change the next day — always a change for one day on Sunday — because the film that was on then had proved just as popular as the plague. You can’t get the public into a second-rate musical these days.”
“Although some of us may find your chain of remembrance a little unusual, you yourself have no doubts in the matter?”
“None. That second time I saw her was on Saturday the seventh.”
“Thank you, Mr. Quincy.”
Yorker was slow to rise to this feet. He always summed up his witness before beginning his cross-examination and in the present instance he found a thread of inconsistency about the other man. The manager was a flashy type who’d always have an answer for everything, and who’d stand by his answer because it was the great He who’d made it — yet when he’d been giving evidence as to the date of the second meeting there’d been a suggestion of hesitancy about his manner and he’d named the day without any bombastic assertion it could be no other day. It was a point to remember and to probe from a distance.
“Mr. Quincy, you must see a number of people waiting outside your cinema in the course of, say, a month?”
“That’s just about right — I do.” The manager spoke angrily. “They use it as a regular meeting place. If they was all to come inside afterward, I wouldn’t have to complain about business.”
“We gather business isn’t very good?”
“I’d rather you didn’t remind me.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that… Tell me, if a large number of people are always using your cinema as a trysting place, why do
you think you so particularly remember from among them all the deceased?”
“Because she was something very, very special, if you know what I mean.”
“Are you saying it was because she was so attractive?”
“Once seen, never forgotten.”
“On each of the two times you saw her, it was daylight?”
“Bright sunlight.”
“You’d noticed her from the beginning and because of that you were watching when she climbed into the car. Are you quite certain you really did notice the number of the car?”
“Didn’t I say so?”
“But it’s such an odd thing to make a note of.”
“It’s not odd at all. I told you, it was opposite to my old car.”
“You’re a little ahead of me, Mr. Quincy.”
“Way, way ahead.”
There was some laughter and Quincy looked pleased. Yorker grinned amiably. “Not too, too far, I trust… What I really meant was, when one watches a person get into a car, one doesn’t normally notice the license plate.”
“Well, I did. Maybe that makes me abnormal!”
“I hope not, Mr. Quincy… Are you quite certain the second meeting was on Saturday? That it did not, in fact, take place on Friday? The sixth of July?”
“Yes.”
“The accused claims it took place on Friday. You could make a mistake, you know. After all, you don’t appear to have a very strong remembrance chain to aid your recollections.”
“I know it was Saturday because the program was changed the next day.”
Yorker picked up part of his brief and seemed to be reading it. In fact, he was considering the evidence. For the second time, Quincy had been buoyant to a degree until asked about the date of the second meeting and then he had become defensive. Yorker decided to make a feint attack. “When did you first learn the registration of the accused’s car?”
“As I’ve said time and time again, when I saw him picking the girl up in it.”
“I suggest that that is not so and that you did not notice the registration number on that occasion.”
Quincy all but snorted. “You can go on suggesting until the cows come home, but the fact is, I did.”
“I suggest you somehow learned what it was after that date and that you then, perhaps unknowingly, decided you’d noticed it at the time.”
The Burden of Proof Page 13
