‘He did, sir.’
‘And can you recall the date the cheque or banker’s order actually arrived with you?’
‘I am afraid I cannot, sir,’ said Lucas after another pause, now looking rather desperately at Pugh as if he could save him from his ordeal.
‘Perhaps you can help me here, Mr Lucas.’ Sir Rufus was trying to kill the young man with kindness. ‘You cannot remember the date when your godfather came to see you in October. You cannot remember the date when his cheque or banker’s order arrived after his visit, even though that is the most recent event. But you are able to remember the precise date and time in November. Is that so?’
Paul Lucas was going quite red now. ‘That is true, sir,’ he said finally.
‘Tell me, Mr Lucas,’ another line of attack suddenly came to Sir Rufus, ‘are you financially dependent on your godfather?’
‘I’m not quite sure what you mean,’ said the young man.
‘Does he support you financially at Oxford, Mr Lucas? It takes quite a lot of money to keep an undergraduate there for three years.’
Paul Lucas looked again at Pugh. ‘He does, sir. My father is dead and my mother has very little money.’
Sir Rufus had not expected to find such treasure as this. ‘Do I understand you correctly, Mr Lucas? All your bills and so on are paid for by Mr Buckley? I’m sure you must be very grateful to him, is that not so?’
‘I am indeed grateful to him, sir.’
‘Would it be fair to say, Mr Lucas, that you would do anything you could to help Mr Buckley if he was in trouble?’
Paul Lucas may have been rattled but he could sense what might be coming.
‘Of course I would help my godfather,’ he said, taking his time, ‘as long as it was the right and proper thing to do.’
‘And would you regard it as the right and proper thing to do, Mr Lucas, to remember the precise date and time of a visit from your godfather when you cannot recall even the approximate date of his previous visit and the date his money arrived?’
‘Only if it was the proper thing to do,’ said Lucas.
‘I put it to you, Mr Lucas, that you are only able to pursue your studies at Oxford through the generosity of Mr Buckley. I further put it to you that you were more than willing to help him by fabricating the date of his visit to you on 9th November to help your godfather be acquitted on a charge of murder. That is the case, is it not?’
‘That is not true,’ said Lucas, now looking rather shaken. Sir Rufus sat down. Pugh rose to his feet once more.
‘Let us just make sure that the jury are clear in their minds here, Mr Lucas,’ he said, smiling once more at his witness. ‘On 9th November of this year did Mr Buckley come to visit you in your rooms at Keble between the hours of twenty past four and a quarter to five in the afternoon?’
‘He did,’ said Lucas.
‘Recall Chief Inspector Wilson.’
Wilson was a veteran of many trials. Indeed he was often used by the Oxfordshire Constabulary in the training of new recruits going to court and giving evidence for the first time. Always be respectful, he would tell the young men in their bright new uniforms. Don’t let them rile you. Look them straight in the eye. Sound as though you believe every word you say. Think before you speak.
‘Chief Inspector Wilson.’ Pugh had been deferential with the Dean, gentle with the future minister of the Church. He was now charming with the Chief Inspector, but hinting ever so slightly that Wilson might not be very bright. ‘I would just like to run through the prosecution account of Mr Buckley’s movements in Oxford, if I may. The post-mortem said that Thomas Jenkins was probably killed between the hours of four and seven o’clock. Your first statement,’ Pugh sorted through some papers in his hand, ‘stated that Mr Buckley was seen at the railway station at about ten to four. There is a London train that arrives five minutes before. Is that correct?’
‘That is correct,’ said the Chief Inspector.
‘And your second witness statement said that he was seen at the bottom end of the Banbury Road where Thomas Jenkins lived shortly before or about a quarter past four. Is that correct?’
‘It is,’ said the Chief Inspector, suddenly remembering Powerscourt’s doubts about the second murder. He looked quickly around the court. Powerscourt was sitting directly behind Charles Augustus Pugh.
‘You will forgive me, Chief Inspector, if I say that you are better acquainted with the geography of Oxford than the members of the jury I have here a map of the relevant areas of central Oxford to assist them.’
Pugh rested a large map on the edge of the table in front of him. Powerscourt had brought it back for him on his last trip to Oxford. Pugh’s junior came round to hold it steady. The map was clearly visible to the judge and jury.
‘Please correct me if I make any mistakes, Chief Inspector,’ said Pugh cheerfully. He took a pencil and pointed to a red line on the map that began at the railway station. ‘This is the position shortly before four o’clock. Mr Buckley is at the railway station here. Then he walks along this red line,’ Pugh’s pencil was tracing the route on the map, ‘from the station here, past the front of Worcester College here, along Walton Street, over Little Clarendon Street there and crosses the Woodstock Road. He arrives here at the bottom of the Banbury Road at about a quarter past four.’
The red line stopped. The jury stared in fascination at the map.
‘Now, Chief Inspector, you, like our friend the Dean, know Oxford well. Number 55 Banbury Road is some distance up that thoroughfare.’ Pugh’s pencil pointed to a large circle further up the road on his map with the number 55 written inside in large letters. ‘Would you say a further ten minutes away?’
‘Something like that,’ said the Chief Inspector, worried suddenly by the direction of the questions. Pugh’s pencil was back at the end of the red line, moving slowly towards the circled 55.
‘So, Chief Inspector, it would have taken Mr Buckley ten minutes to arrive at Number 55,’ the pencil stopped inside the circle, ‘let us say ten minutes for the despatch of Mr Jenkins, another ten minutes,’ the pencil was moving quickly now, ‘back to the bottom of the Banbury Road. That would make it four forty-five. Yet we know from the evidence of Mr Lucas that Mr Buckley was taking tea in Keble between the hours of four twenty and forty-five. The University of Oxford, Chief Inspector, is famed for its expertise in mathematics and metaphysics. Can you explain how the defendant could have been in two places at one time?’
Chief Inspector Wilson paused before replying. Pugh felt a momentary sense of triumph.
‘It is the prosecution case that the defendant did murder Mr Jenkins on that day,’ Wilson said, sensing that his face might be turning red.
‘Ah, but when, Chief Inspector? When? That is the question. Let us just make the remaining journeys of Mr Buckley in Oxford on that day last month perfectly clear to the members of the jury.’ Out came the pencil again. ‘At a quarter to five, as Mr Lucas told us, he leaves Keble.’ The second line was black. ‘He comes into St Giles here, past the Ashmolean over there, past Carfax and down St Aldate’s to Christ Church along this black route on the map. A journey, as Dean Morris told us, of some twenty minutes. And sure enough, he was seen in his position in the choir stalls shortly after five o’clock.’
Pugh paused. Chief Inspector Wilson looked more and more uncomfortable. Pugh’s pencil was hovering over the cathedral.
‘Let us just examine the final window of time in which Mr Buckley might, I stress the word might, have been able to go to 55 Banbury Road and murder Mr Jenkins. The Dean himself has just told us that the defendant left the Deanery shortly before seven. And seven is the latest time the doctors give for the time of death.’ The pencil of Charles Augustus Pugh began to make darting movements between Christ Church and the Banbury Road. ‘An angel of the Lord or one of the fastest runners in the University Athletics Club might have made the journey from Christ Church to Mr Jenkins’ lodgings in the time available. It would take half an hour or mo
re.’ The pencil was shooting back and forth now between the two locations at a dizzying speed. ‘But it was surely impossible for a man of Mr Buckley’s age.’ Pugh paused. Chief Inspector Wilson looked as if he was about to speak. Pugh didn’t let him.
‘Tell me, Chief Inspector,’ he went on, ‘what other evidence do you have that the defendant murdered Mr Jenkins?’
The Chief Inspector looked defiant. ‘There is the tie, the tie found in his room which had gone missing from Mr Buckley’s wardrobe.’
‘Ah the tie, Chief Inspector.’ Pugh had turned charming again. ‘Have you ever lost any ties? I certainly have. There are often times when one simply cannot find them. Is that the case with you?’
‘I have on occasion lost some ties,’ admitted the Chief Inspector. ‘My wife usually finds them later on.’ There was a faint ripple of laughter around the court.
‘Indeed so, Chief Inspector, indeed so. We can all lose our ties. Let me ask you a further sartorial question, Chief Inspector. Do you have any ties with stains on them?’
Chief Inspector Wilson looked quickly round the court as if checking that his wife was not there. ‘I believe I may have one or two in such a condition,’ he said defensively.
‘Never mind,’ said Charles Augustus Pugh, smiling at the members of the jury, ‘I’m sure we all have a few ties with stains on them. Could you remind the jury what sort of tie it was?’
‘It was the tie belonging to Trinity College, Cambridge, Mr Buckley’s old college,’ Wilson replied, feeling on firmer ground.
‘Trinity College, Oxford,’ said Pugh, with a slightly patronizing air, ‘is a very small college. But Trinity College, Cambridge is a very large college. Do you happen to know how many new undergraduates it takes in every year?’
‘Objection, my lord.’ Sir Rufus was on his feet once more. ‘Unfair questioning of the witness.’
‘Mr Pugh?’ said the judge firmly.
‘I was just coming to the point, my lord, before my learned friend interrupted me.’
‘Objection overruled,’ said the judge. ‘Mr Pugh.’
‘Let me tell you the answer, Chief Inspector. About one hundred and fifty undergraduates go up to Trinity College, Cambridge every year. Fifteen hundred in ten years. And assuming that a man will live for three score years and ten, that makes seven thousand five hundred people who could have been wearing that tie.’ Pugh paused briefly. ‘With or without a stain. Rather a lot of suspects, wouldn’t you say, Chief Inspector?’
Pugh didn’t wait for the answer. He sat down and began looking through his papers.
‘No further questions.’
‘Damned good witness, that Dean of yours, Powerscourt.’ Pugh was pouring tea back in his chambers, the jacket draped once more across his chair, his own tie removed.
‘Bloody well should have been,’ said Powerscourt. ‘The fellow was on the same staircase as me at Cambridge.’
Pugh glanced curiously at Powerscourt. He looked as if he was about to speak. But when he did it was to do with events on the following day.
‘Friday tomorrow, Powerscourt. This judge likes to get away early on Fridays. He’s got some huge pile in Hampshire. Needs to catch the five twenty from Waterloo. Tomorrow morning I shall recall Johnston, the National Gallery fellow, then Edmund de Courcy I hope we can save the forger and all his works for the afternoon. I’ve had one of our people here speak to the newspapers, warning them that there may be a sensation in court.’
What Charles Augustus Pugh did not say was that widespread coverage in the press would publicize his name. Publicity was no bad thing for up and coming young silks.
‘As yet,’ said Powerscourt, ‘I have had no reply from the Chief of Police in Calvi, but I sent him another wire saying that it was vital we heard any news he had as soon as possible.’
Powerscourt set off from Pugh’s chambers to walk back to Markham Square. His route took him along the river, the dark waters of the Thames flowing swiftly towards the sea. Parties of gulls circled round the shipping. When he reached Piccadilly he passed the offices of the Royal Academy, all lights extinguished now, where he had first met Sir Frederick Lambert weeks before. He remembered the extraordinary classical paintings on the walls, the terrible coughing, the handkerchiefs covered with blood secreted away behind Lambert’s desk. He remembered his last visit to the old man, the ruined hands forming and re-forming the stamps from his correspondence on the table in front of him, the nurse in her crisp white uniform waiting to terminate his interview. He remembered his own promise to Lambert on that occasion, that he would find out who killed Christopher Montague before Sir Frederick died. Hang on, Sir Frederick, he whispered into the London evening, hang on. We might be nearly there. Nearly, but not quite. Just hang on for a few days longer.
24
Roderick Johnston filled the witness box when Pugh recalled him on the Friday morning. He seemed to tower above the rest of the actors in the courtroom, the clerk of the court taking notes in his place beneath the judge, Mr Justice Browne himself resplendent in his dark robes, gazing now at the jury, now at this giant witness come to his court, now at Charles Augustus Pugh collecting his papers and rising to his feet.
Powerscourt was in the row behind Pugh, Pugh’s young second sorting through more files in front of him. Behind him the court was packed. Word must have leaked out that there might be a sensation in court that day. At the back, pens poised over their deadly notebooks, were the gentlemen of the press, jackals come to entertain their readers with tales of vice and adultery, of murders committed by an unknown hand. Murder trials were guaranteed to cheer up the British public, battered by yet further news of British defeats in South Africa. Five days before Lord Methuen had been repulsed at Magersfontein, just a few miles from the besieged garrison at Kimberley.
‘You are Roderick Johnston, senior curator of Renaissance paintings at the National Gallery, currently residing at Number 3, River Terrace, Mortlake?’
Pugh’s voice was flat this morning.
‘I am,’ Johnston’s voice boomed out round the courtroom.
‘Could you tell us, Mr Johnston, how much you earn from your position at the gallery?’
‘Objection, my lord, objection.’ Sir Rufus Fitch was at his most indignant. ‘We are here trying the defendant for murder, not inquiring into the witness’s financial situation.’
‘Mr Pugh?’ Powerscourt remembered Pugh telling him that the score so far in this case was one objection each. So far the judge was even-handed. Pugh had a bet with his junior that he would lose heavily in the final score of objections.
Pugh smiled a slight smile at the judge, but his eyes roamed around the jury. ‘It is the contention of the defence, my lord, if we are allowed to present our evidence without interruption, that the financial situation of the witness is indeed germane to this case. We propose to show that if the unfortunate Mr Montague had not been murdered, Mr Johnston would have lost a very great deal of money. Mr Johnston was the last man to see Montague alive. We intend to show that he would have profited from Montague’s death. It would have saved him a fortune.’
‘I have to tell you, Mr Pugh,’ said the judge, with a slight air of menace in his voice, ‘that there had better be a sound basis for this line of questioning. For the present, Sir Rufus, objection overruled.’
‘I was going to suggest, Mr Johnston,’ Pugh carried on, ‘that your income from the gallery alone is not enough to sustain your lifestyle, the expensive house by the river, the frequent trips abroad. Perhaps we may take that as read?’
Johnston coloured slightly. ‘You may,’ he said grimly.
‘Please don’t misunderstand me, Mr Johnston,’ purred Pugh, ‘nobody here is suggesting that there is anything wrong with extra work giving a man a little extra income. Heaven forbid. But perhaps you could tell the court what the main source of your extra-curricular income, as it were, is?’
‘I have written a couple of books,’ said Johnston defensively. ‘I also advise on exhibition
s, that sort of thing.’
‘Come, come, Mr Johnston, the gentlemen of the jury are too sophisticated to believe that such funds would be sufficient for you to move house from a humble dwelling in North London to a most desirable property in Mortlake looking out over the Thames.’ Pugh could see Sir Rufus Fitch beginning to rise to his feet. He hurried on. ‘But the details of your houses are not our concern today,’ Pugh sensed Sir Rufus beginning to sink slowly back into his chair. ‘Perhaps you could tell us what you do in the way of attributing paintings. Before you do, may I suggest to you and to the jury what is meant when we talk of the attribution of paintings?’
Sir Rufus Fitch was looking rather cross. He was telling himself that this was meant to be a murder trial not a tutorial at the National Gallery.
‘Suppose you are a rich American gentleman,’ said Pugh, looking carefully at the jury. ‘You have made millions from steel, or railways, or coal. You have magnificent houses in Newport, Rhode Island and Fifth Avenue in New York.’
‘Could I suggest, Mr Pugh, that you come to the point.’ Mr Justice Browne sounded rather irritated. ‘One minute you are implicitly criticizing a man for the size of his house. Now you are telling stories of American millionaires. Perhaps you could reach the point you wish to make?’
Two all, thought Powerscourt. Sir Rufus might not have intervened but that definitely counted against Pugh.
Pugh was unperturbed. ‘I am coming to the point, my lord.’ He smiled a deferential smile in the direction of the judge and carried on. ‘Many of these rich Americans come to Europe to buy paintings. They are keen to establish their own collections of Old Masters. They go to the galleries here and in Paris and in Rome. But how do they know whether a painting is genuine or not? How do they know whether they are buying the real thing or a forgery? This is how they find out. They, or their art dealers, go to an expert. They go to a man like Mr Johnston here for what is called an attribution. If he certifies that the painting is by Titian, they are satisfied. They pay large sums of money for the Titian. Without the attribution the picture is worthless. Is that a fair description, Mr Johnston?’
Death of an Old Master Page 30
