by Peter Murphy
‘But, members of the jury, we say that even if he genuinely held such a belief, it affords him no defence in law. I anticipate that when he directs you about the law later in the trial, His Honour will tell you that English law does not recognise polygamous marriages as valid if they are contracted in this country between British citizens; so even if Mr Findlay-Smyth sincerely believes that he is entitled to marry polygamously – and I’m afraid the prosecution doesn’t accept the sincerity of that belief – but even if he does, it would afford him no defence to a charge of bigamy.
‘Members of the jury, it seems that even the defendant himself doesn’t have much confidence in his defence of religious belief. I say that because in his defence statement he puts forward a second and quite different defence: the defence of duress. He claims that he was forced to go through the ceremony of marriage with Deborah Jane Martineau because she was already pregnant with Charlotte at the time, and her father and brother threatened him with dire consequences if he didn’t do the right thing by her. The Crown say, members of the jury, that this claim, too, is arrant nonsense.
‘Members of the jury, the Crown bring this case and the Crown must prove the defendant’s guilt so that you are sure of it, if you are to convict. If, having heard all the evidence, you are not sure of his guilt you must find him not guilty. But we say that the evidence will prove beyond any reasonable doubt that the defendant has committed the offence of bigamy, and that you will be sure that the only possible verdict is one of guilty. With your Honour’s leave I will call the evidence.’
I nod; but before Aubrey can announce his first witness, Carol stands quickly, turns to me, and hands me a note. Aubrey pauses to allow me to read it. It’s short and to the point, surprising and rather worrying. The note tells me that Sir Jeremy Bagnall, of the Grey Smoothie High Command, is in my chambers and would like to see me immediately on a matter of some urgency. I can’t imagine what could be so urgent on a Monday morning that it couldn’t at least wait until lunchtime. But there have been times in the past when the Grey Smoothies and I have differed on the interpretation of ‘urgent’; and I’ve been doing this long enough to know that they will get their way in the end: I don’t really have a choice. Saying that I have to deal with an ‘urgent administrative matter’, I extend Marcus Findlay-Smyth’s bail for the duration of the trial, and send everyone away for coffee.
Arriving back in my chambers, I find Sir Jeremy pacing up and down in front of the window, looking quite agitated. On seeing me, he walks over to me, we shake hands, and he takes a seat in front of my desk. I take my seat behind the desk, opposite. As Carol has accompanied me, I offer coffee, which he declines.
‘And actually, Charles,’ he adds, ‘I would prefer it to be just the two of us, if you don’t mind.’
‘You don’t want your meeting recorded, Sir Jeremy?’ Carol asks.
‘No, thank you.’
Carol raises her eyebrows: this is a distinct departure from Grey Smoothie protocol, which requires every conversation to be recorded if any official matter is to be discussed, whether urgent or not. But clearly the agenda is different this morning. In any case, Jeremy wouldn’t rely on us to record the meeting for him: if he wanted to make a record he would have our cluster manager Meredith with him, pencil in hand, ready to take a comprehensive note of the proceedings. I nod to Carol to say it’s all right, she can return to court, which she does. A number of seconds elapse.
‘I’m sorry to drag you out of court like this,’ he says, eventually.
‘Not at all.’
Another lengthy pause.
‘Charles, do you know how old Judge Drake – Hubert – is?’
I close my eyes. I’ve known ever since I came on board as RJ that I would be having this conversation with the Grey Smoothies sooner or later, and I’ve been dreading it. I’m not the only one. Everyone at court has been aware of the question of Hubert’s age looming; it’s been a recurring topic of conversation – in Hubert’s absence, naturally – throughout the building. But as RJ, I’ve probably been more conscious of it than most, and I suddenly have a premonition that the day I have dreaded may have arrived. I pretend to make light of it. I smile.
‘Ah. Well, Jeremy, that’s one of the great mysteries of western civilisation,’ I reply. ‘He says, sixty-six.’
‘Yes, I know. But for how long has he been saying sixty-six?’
I nod reluctantly. ‘For a bit too long, I suppose.’
‘Yes, that’s what I was thinking.’ He pauses. ‘The ministry doesn’t seem to have any formal record of his age. I think he’s been on the bench long enough to date back to the days before the Judicial Appointments Commission. We didn’t have application forms to become a judge in those days; it was all done by an exchange of letters, and in Hubert’s case the letters don’t seem to have much personal information about him. I even tried Who’s Who but he hasn’t got his age listed there, either. He must be the only one in the whole book who hasn’t.’
He’s still looking agitated. I lean forward.
‘Jeremy, I must admit, I’ve never really pressed Hubert about his age. I suppose I should have, but I always thought that eventually there would be talk of retirement and we would find out then. But if you really need to know now, I suppose I could try asking and not taking “sixty-six” for an answer – or perhaps I could threaten to ask the secretary of the Garrick Club. That ought to do it.’ For the first time Jeremy ventures the ghost of a smile. ‘But I am curious to know why it’s become urgent all of a sudden.’
He looks up at me. ‘I’ve received a rather disturbing report,’ he says.
‘About Hubert? About his behaviour in court, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
I shake my head. ‘Oh, you know Hubert, Jeremy; he can be difficult, and he does march to the beat of a different drummer. Well – you remember the case of the solicitor with the pink hair, I’m sure. But he means well, and in the end he usually gets it right.’
‘The report suggests that he may be losing the plot,’ Jeremy replies.
I take a deep breath, exhaling audibly. Of course, the question of the plot underlies any discussion of a judge’s age. In the old days, there was no retiring age for judges, and RJs hadn’t been invented; so at the Bar, dealing with the occasional judge who was hanging on a bit too long after his ‘best before’ date was something you just learned to do. Sometimes, if you were a regular at the court, you had a quiet word with another judge you knew well enough; or sometimes you made sure that a judicious alert made its way to the Lord Chancellor’s office via your head of chambers. But conditions that make you lose the plot are no respecters of age and nowadays it’s something an RJ is expected to notice in any judge, regardless of age, and report as necessary. Despite his shyness when it comes to his age, I’m actually surprised to hear this about Hubert. He has always been eccentric – even by judicial standards – and he sometimes rubs counsel up the wrong way. I hear about that occasionally, but I’ve never had this kind of complaint about him.
‘Losing the plot, how?’ I ask. ‘Losing his memory, seeming confused while on the bench, or what? What are we talking about?’
‘Being seriously confused while on the bench.’
I don’t respond immediately.
‘When is this said to have happened?’
‘Two weeks ago: a case called Karsten.’
‘Jeremy, I have lunch with this man every working day, as do the other judges here. If something serious was going on, we…’
‘The report is very specific, Charles. It suggests that Hubert was confused about the case he was dealing with. The case had been going on for three or four days, but he thought he was dealing with another case entirely.’
‘Would you mind telling me the source?’ I ask. ‘We have a pretty small, close-knit bar here at Bermondsey, and I’ve always encouraged our regulars to talk to me if anything h
appens to alarm them. I’m very surprised I haven’t heard about this already.’
‘I don’t know the exact source.’
I stare at him. ‘What? I don’t understand. How did you…?’
‘It didn’t come from the Bar,’ Jeremy interrupts. ‘That much I do know. Actually, it was an anonymous tip, in writing, sent directly to the Minister, which makes us speculate that it came from someone in an official position, fairly high up.’
‘Not the court staff, surely?’
‘Unlikely: they would speak to you first, wouldn’t they?’
‘I would hope so.’
‘I’m sure they would. No, we think it’s more likely to be a senior police officer, or someone with the CPS. But Charles, whatever the source, it’s the content of the report that matters. If Hubert really is losing the plot, a dignified retirement with his pension fully intact may be the best way to go. If he’s close to retirement, or, God forbid, already past retirement age, it will make it much easier.’
I allow some seconds to go by.
‘Retirement? Is it really that serious?’
‘That’s my impression. But that’s not my decision to make, as you know. That’s for the Minister to decide.’
‘But that’s why you want to know his age?’
He pauses. ‘It’s not even about his age, really, Charles. I can probably get that from some other government department easily enough if I need to. But I’d feel much better if you would talk to him. He’s bound to feel more comfortable with you than he would with me. Besides, I don’t want word of this leaking out. I want to put the lid on any gossip before it starts.’
‘If something happened in court, it may be a bit late for that,’ I point out. ‘But I will talk to him, of course, and see what I can find out. Hopefully, at least he will finally tell me how old he is.’
‘It’s in his own best interests,’ Jeremy replies. ‘You understand, Charles, I’m sure. I’m on Hubert’s side, and I think I have the Minister’s ear on this, but I need to be in a position to advise the Minister and answer any questions he has. I need to get a feel for what’s going on.’
I nod. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ I promise.
Deborah Jane Martineau is a young-looking woman with short blonde hair, visibly nervous, but nicely turned out in an elegant dark green dress. When Aubrey asks her name, she gives it as Deborah Jane Findlay-Smyth, which, of course, it isn’t; but no one is going to embarrass her by drawing attention to the fact; and Aubrey is a master when it comes to diplomacy in this kind of situation.
‘And is your maiden name Martineau?’ he asks, without missing a beat.
‘Yes, that’s correct.’
‘To make it easier, would it be all right if I call you Deborah?’
‘Yes, that’s fine.’
‘Deborah, are you a citizen of the United Kingdom?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘On the eighth of September 2012, did you go through a ceremony of marriage with the defendant, Marcus Findlay-Smyth, at Holy Trinity Brompton in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea?’
‘I did marry Marcus, yes.’
‘Had you ever been married before?’
‘No, I had not.’
‘How old were you at the time of your marriage ceremony?’
‘I was twenty-two.’
‘Whereas he was forty?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Before the ceremony took place, did you take any steps to ensure that there was no difficulty about the two of you getting married?’
‘You mean, to make sure it was legal?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought so at the time. We did all the usual things. We went to see the vicar at Holy Trinity, and produced proof of identity and so on, whatever he asked for. Apparently, that was all in order. He explained to us that the banns would be read in church, and that was about it, really.’
‘Do you remember what proof of identity you showed the vicar?’
‘We both produced our British passports.’
‘Yes, thank you. Did the question ever arise between you and Mr Findlay-Smyth as to whether or not he was free to marry you?’
For the first time, a question causes some real distress. She removes a handkerchief from her handbag and wipes her eyes.
‘I don’t think we ever discussed it in those terms,’ she replies. ‘It was understood – or so I thought. He asked me to marry him. He didn’t suggest that there was any problem. It’s something that never occurred to me. I never dreamed…’
‘No: of course. Did you ever hear Mr Findlay-Smyth say anything to the vicar to suggest that there might be a problem of that kind?’
‘No: not a word.’
‘Were you ever told that anyone had come forward to object to the marriage when the banns were read?’
‘No.’
‘And at the point in the marriage service when the priest asks anyone who has an objection to speak now or forever hold their peace, did anyone say anything?’
‘No.’
‘Did Mr Findlay-Smyth say anything at that point?’
‘No. He did not.’
‘And do you now produce a certified copy of the entry in the register of marriages relating to the ceremony, which describes Mr Findlay-Smyth and yourself as husband and wife?’
She looks away almost immediately after Dawn has shown it to her.
‘Yes,’ she answers, almost inaudibly.
‘Exhibit one, please, your Honour,’ Aubrey says.
Cathy Writtle leaps to her feet. ‘No objection, your Honour.’
‘Exhibit one,’ I confirm.
She’s using the handkerchief again, and Aubrey gives her a short respite by pretending to go through his notes.
‘Deborah, how long had you known Mr Findlay-Smyth when he proposed marriage to you?’
‘Not very long: less than a year.’
‘Please tell the jury how you met.’
‘I was living at home with my parents. My father is a… well, a businessman. He’d met Marcus at some conference or other and thought a private investment bank sounded interesting, prestigious, or whatever; and he invited him to the house for dinner one evening. Marcus obviously took a shine to me, and asked me out. Well, actually, first he asked my father for permission to ask me out. I assume that was for my benefit, to show me how sophisticated he was. He was always like that – so full of it.’
Cathy is already halfway to her feet. Aubrey raises a hand.
‘I know it’s difficult, Deborah, but please…’
‘I’m sorry. Anyway, that’s what he did. I was twenty-one, going on twenty-two: what did I know?’
‘Were you working at that time?’
‘No. I’d been to university for a year, a little more than a year actually, and I’d realised that it wasn’t for me. I was thinking about what I wanted to do with my life when I first met Marcus. I eventually started working with a friend of mine who had started a day-care centre for men and women working in the City. Of course, Marcus was all over that, what a good idea it was, since he worked in the City himself. He even gave us one or two donations.’
‘As a matter of interest, are you still involved in that work?’
She smiles for the first time.
‘Yes. Eleanor made me a partner after a couple of years. We’re doing really well now.’
‘You knew that Mr Findlay-Smyth was a director of an investment bank, essentially a family business: is that right?’
‘Yes. He wasn’t shy about it. I used to hear about all the money he made. To be honest, I can’t complain about him when it comes to money. He took me out to all sorts of fancy restaurants, the theatre, whatever I wanted, and when he proposed to me he bought us this lovely flat in Park Walk. It was something my parents could never have affor
ded. I suppose that shouldn’t have mattered. But you know what you’re like at that age.’
‘Did you also come to understand that his family bank had an office in Edinburgh, in addition to the City office?’
‘He told me they had offices all over the place: Edinburgh was one, but they also had one in Hong Kong, one in Singapore, one in Amsterdam, and, I think, one in Frankfurt; there may have been others, but those are the ones I remember.’
‘Did he ever say anything to you about his work involving any of those other offices?’
She nods vigorously. ‘He was gone a lot, for days or even weeks at a time. This was before we were married, but it got even worse after we were married. He said it was a small family company and all the directors had to take turns visiting the outlying offices to make sure they were working properly. But he would be away for weeks on end. I can’t believe I fell for it.’
‘Well,’ Aubrey says quickly, ‘I was going to ask you about that. Did Mr Findlay-Smyth ever suggest that you might like to accompany him on his trips to the outlying offices?’
‘No. He always told me that it was just business, that it wasn’t the done thing for wives to tag along. And the strange thing is, I don’t remember ever questioning it, even when he didn’t come home for the weekend from Edinburgh, when he could have just jumped on a train.’ It’s almost as if she’s talking to herself for a moment, ignoring her surroundings. ‘I never once asked myself, what’s going on? I just accepted what he said. I feel like such a fool. But whenever he did eventually come home he treated me like a princess – restaurants, parties, the theatre, whatever I wanted.’ She doesn’t cry this time, but shakes her head sadly.
