Death in the Coverts

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘No, sir. He told me he couldn’t.’

  ‘But you did not accept his refusal?’

  ‘Well, I couldn’t.’

  ‘You couldn’t?’ repeated Welter heavily. ‘Did you say to Mr Danelli you must have the game register or there would be trouble?’

  ‘Not like that sir. I didn’t suggest…’

  ‘I shall tell you what you suggested. Mr Danelli is an Italian who, although he has worked in this country for several years, has an exaggerated respect for the police and their powers. Are you aware that your threats terrified him, Constable?’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘You terrified him. All he was doing was legitimately to try to defend the interests of the family for whom he worked and as a direct result he was threatened by you if he refused to hand over the game register.’

  ‘But I didn’t threaten him…’

  ‘Did you or did you not tell him he could be in trouble if he continued to refuse to let you have the game register?’

  ‘I… I may have said something like that, but it wasn’t a threat.’

  ‘Will you try to explain to the jury how you can threaten a man with trouble and yet not threaten him? Will you explain to the jury how you can browbeat a foreigner, unaware of the restrictions wisely placed on police action in this country, and yet not threaten him?’

  ‘I keep telling you, I didn’t threaten him.’

  ‘You keep telling me that, Constable, but, to be quite frank, I don’t believe you. I imagine that the jury will similarly disbelieve you.’

  Pawley, not without reason, was stupid enough to lose his temper. ‘I didn’t threaten him. I didn’t threaten him, whatever the old fool says. I didn’t hit him, or beat him…’

  Welter broke in. ‘You didn’t actually hit or beat him, so you can stand there and proudly claim you used no threats? We all take careful note of your standards of behaviour.’ Welter sat down.

  ‘That’s all,’ said Calaghan.

  Pawley stared with hatred at prosecuting counsel. Why wasn’t the bloody fool re-examining to show that defence counsel had maliciously twisted the facts?

  ‘That’s all,’ repeated Calaghan sharply, when Pawley remained in the witness-box. Calaghan was unconcerned about Pawley’s reputation and as far as the game register was concerned, it mattered not how Pawley had obtained it. Pawley could be proved to be a psychopath and it would not affect the figures of game shot on the fourth of December one little jot.

  Pawley finally left the box. Several witnesses were called whose evidence was more or less formal, then the Decker family solicitor went into the witness-box. He was a small, precise man with the habit of rubbing forefinger and thumb together whilst he spoke.

  ‘Will you please tell the court in the simplest form the terms of the trust that was created by Fawcett John deCourcy Decker.’

  ‘The trust was created in nineteen hundred and fifty four, after extensive consultations with counsel. Mr Decker, sole owner of the estate, by which I mean Hurstley Place and the several farms belonging to it, gave the estate to the trust absolutely, thereby divesting himself of any rights in it. At the same time, Mrs Lydia Decker gave up all and any rights she had, or might have, in this same estate.’

  ‘What was the reason for doing this?’ ‘The desire to avoid the payment of death duties. Once the gift was five years old, by law no death duties would be payable on Mr Decker’s death.’

  ‘What were the terms of this trust?’ ‘The estate was to be held in trust until Fawcett Decker, the son, reached the age of thirty-five. On that day he was to elect whether to accept the estate, or not. If he refused it, it would go to his younger brother, Mr Julian Decker.’

  ‘Was the trust effective?’

  ‘It was. Mr Fawcett John deCourcy Decker lived for two days beyond the end of the five year period and so the estate was exempt from death duties. I might add that at that time there was not the present graded scale allowing lesser duty on a death in the third, fourth, or fifth year, so that full duties were avoided by those two days.’

  ‘Do you know when Mr Fawcett Decker would have attained the age of thirty-five?’

  ‘On January the fourth of next year.’

  ‘In other words, one month after his death?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you know what decision Mr Fawcett Decker had reached in respect of accepting or rejecting his inheritance under the trust?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘What is the effect of his death?’

  ‘The estate is inherited by Mr Julian Decker.’

  Welter cross-examined briefly. ‘Were you aware that the deceased had long since decided to renounce his claim under the trust due to the sad fact that his expectation of life was at all times nil?’

  ‘I had no knowledge of this.’

  ‘You cannot deny that this is so, then, if I call witnesses to such effect?’

  ‘Obviously not.’

  ‘Was the object of the trust simply and solely to avoid death duties?’

  ‘As I have already said, yes, that was the object. It was perfectly legal.’

  ‘If Mr Fawcett Decker had inherited the estate and had then died soon afterwards, as was almost inevitable, would death duties have had to be paid?’

  ‘They would.’

  ‘Would he have known this?’

  ‘I cannot say.’

  ‘Surely it’s reasonable to suppose he did?’

  ‘I would think so.’

  ‘Then it’s very unlikely indeed that he would ever have accepted the estate?’

  ‘I cannot say.’

  ‘But knowing how the Decker family did everything in their power to keep the estate intact…’

  ‘No, no, Mr Welter,’ interrupted the judge, ‘this is pure supposition. You know better than to try to introduce such evidence.’

  Welter bowed, a trifle ironically, at the Bench. He addressed the witness again. ‘There is, is there not, a rule under English law by which the perpetrator of a crime may not benefit from his crime?’

  ‘There is.’

  ‘If Mr Julian Decker killed his brother in order to inherit the estate, then this law would prevent his inheriting it?’ Welter paused, to allow the jury to understand fully the meaning of his words. ‘That surely makes nonsense of the alleged motive for this crime?’

  The witness made no answer. Welter sat down.

  Calaghan re-examined. ‘If the accused had shot his brother and his crime had gone unpunished, would he then have been legally entitled to inherit the estate?’

  ‘He would.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The witness left the box. Welter watched him walk to one of the benches and sit down and wondered, morosely, whether it had been a bad mistake to try to make that last point.

  Doherty was called. His evidence was only partially heard when the judge called a halt and adjourned the court for the day.

  *

  Even his short period of imprisonment, or remand in custody as it was more politely called, had taught Julian that there were grades of criminals. Being on remand, he was not at night-time held in the main part of the prison but in one of the wings where there was little contact with other prisoners: even so, two men separately had told him the previous night what they thought of someone depraved enough to shoot his own crippled brother. It was all a question of status, he’d thought with bitter irony. If he’d shot a policeman, he would no doubt have been a hero. Just now, when a warder had brought him his dinner – he was not to return to prison from the cell under the courtroom until eight o’clock – the warder had slammed the tray down on the bunk and said that the grub was far too good for a bastard who shot his own brother. What sort of food was suitable for a train robber, a rapist, or a child murderer?

  He stared at the half roast chicken, fried potatoes, peas, brown bread and butter, and the fruit salad and cream. To be tried for a crime when guilty of it was a frightening thing: but to be innocent and yet know a verdict
of guilty must be brought in was a thousand times more frightening. In war, men were often tortured to give information. If they had information to give, eventually they could break down, give it, and so be released from the torture: but if they knew nothing, there could be no end to the torture.

  He wanted to shout, to slam his fists against the brick walls, to seek pain in order to relieve the fear in his mind, but he did nothing. Even as he longed to act, part of his mind assured him of the futility of such action.

  How could they believe he had shot Fawcett? How could they have missed the one successful point that Welter had made? Fawcett would not have taken the estate because he might have died the next year and he would never have so jeopardised Hurstley Place. Hurstley Place was infinitely bigger than any Decker. Why couldn’t the people in court understand that? The motive ascribed to the murder was so utterly ridiculous. Any Decker might kill to save Hurstley Place, but the killing of Fawcett was meaningless.

  He lit a cigarette and noticed how his hands were trembling. It took so little to topple a man into the dust. An empty cartridge case, a game counter, one or two facts, one or two theories, and he was no longer Julian Decker of Hurstley Place, but was Decker the bastard who’s shot his brother for the loot.

  Barbara would be giving evidence tomorrow. How in God’s name was he going to be able to bear seeing her in the witness-box? They weren’t content with putting him on the cross, they had to make her suffer as well. How much was she suffering? It could be even more than he because she had the added burden of the guilt of freedom. That was a phrase he remembered having read a few years before. When there were two people close together of whom only one directly suffered, the other indirectly suffered because of the guilt of freedom: freedom, or innocence, became a terrible burden. Suppose he were imprisoned for life? What would she do? Would she always mourn? Of course not. Time would eventually come to her help. She would one day be able to forget that he was mouldering away in some prison.

  The warder came in, saw he had not eaten, and told him roughly to get a move on as there was not much time left. He suddenly felt hungry. He ate.

  Throughout the journey to the prison in the Black Maria, his mind focused on Barbara. He tried to recall every inch of her face, the way her mouth twisted just before she smiled, how she’d hold his hand. The memories brought on bitterness that increased until his mind became a cauldron of emotion. The warder, beyond the last cell-like compartment, stared hard at him as if believing he might be about to try to escape. He remembered when Barbara and he had walked slowly through the cherry orchard at blossom time. They had sworn they would plant a cherry orchard in the park so that they could always remember that day. It had been uninhibited sentimentalism and they had revelled in it. Now, the memory of those blossoms mocked him.

  Inside the prison, the Black Maria stopped quite near the gates so that when he was let out of the back he was in time to see two warders swinging the double gates shut. They came together with a deep clang. He was inside and Barbara was outside and never the twain should meet. The warder who had been in the van shouted at him to get moving because he wasn’t bloody well going to stay there all night.

  He and Barbara were to have been married soon. A lot of the arrangements were already made. He remembered his mother had suggested a firm of caterers who did absolutely everything for the bride: she had said that they even sent telegrams of congratulations when too few could normally be expected. That was probably nonsense. His mother often got hold of the wrong end of the stick in things that didn’t matter: things that did matter, however, found her sharper than the proverbial needle.

  He remembered Barbara the last time they had allowed their passion a free run. She had not wanted to stop any more than he had, but somehow they had managed to because they both wanted to leave the final act of love making until after they were married. There was nothing prudish here – they merely knew how much more wonderful their marriage would be if they did this.

  The warder took hold of his arm in a harsh grip and warned him not to make trouble.

  ‘Trouble?’ queried Julian, bewildered.

  ‘I’ve told you to move three times and you’ve gone on standing there. You start anything, mate, and it’ll be me what finishes it even if you are a bloody aristocrat.’

  Did the oaf really think he’d been about to start trouble? He began to walk. They went up stone steps, along a passage, and climbed the circular stairs. All the time, his mind mocked him by reminding him how she had looked that last time when he had drawn away and stared down at her. Her eyes were closed, her mouth was slightly open, and she had appeared almost to be in pain because the fires of passion hadn’t yet all been put out.

  ‘Get in,’ muttered the warder.

  He went into the cell, sat down on the uncomfortable bunk, and rested his head on his hands. If he could make his memory commit suicide, he would: but he knew that nothing would kill it. Other images came. Himself and Barbara doing this or that.

  The cell door opened and a trusty stepped inside. ‘Want anything?’

  Because he was on remand and might, in theory, be found innocent at his trial so that his imprisonment would be wrong, he was granted a number of ‘privileges.’ Right now, he could ask for a hot drink, something to eat, newspapers, or books.

  ‘I said, d’you want anything, mate?’

  He looked up at the trusty. Was this how he would look and behave after seven years of imprisonment: a human husk inside which most human attributes had withered? He cursed. He was innocent. To hell with how the trial had gone, to hell with his own counsel. He was innocent. There must be some way of proving it. ‘Are there any law books in the library?’

  The trusty stared with perplexity at him. ‘Any what, mate?’

  ‘Law books. Text books on criminal law.’

  ‘Search me, mate.’

  ‘If there are any, I want ’em.’

  ‘I don’t rightly know…’

  Julian took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. Even his short stay in prison had been long enough to teach him the purchasing power of a packet of cigarettes, full size and so many times fatter than the cigarettes the convicts rolled themselves.

  The trusty took the cigarettes and then hurriedly left, pulling the heavy steel door shut after himself.

  Julian rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. Law books? What in the name of hell did he think he was going to do with them? Hadn’t he one of the top criminal lawyers battling for him, so of what use could a law book conceivably be?

  His mind recalled Barbara once more. He groaned. If only to God a man’s mind could be imprisoned at the same time as was his body.

  Chapter Sixteen

  For most of the following morning Doherty was in the witness-box. Because he gave his evidence very fairly, stressing no point beyond another, Welter found himself in a quandary when it came to cross-examination. He turned and spoke to his junior. ‘Well, Felix?’

  ‘You’re the boss, not me,’ replied Richie unhelpfully.

  ‘Stop being so bloody craven, man. Do I tackle him on accident or don’t I?’

  ‘Can’t you stall a bit longer?’

  ‘No.’

  The judge interrupted them. ‘Mr Welter, I expect counsel to have completed their consultations before they come into my courtroom.’

  ‘I’m sorry, my lord,’ said Welter, turning round as he spoke. You old bastard, he thought: you know damned well this is the point of no return and I’ve got to make the decision. Welter looked at the back of the head of his instructing solicitor, who sat in front and below him. Cortelan had some time ago made the classic statement that on the one hand it would pay to introduce the defence of accident, but that on the other hand it would not.

  Welter hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his waistcoat. For a few seconds he stared down at the folds in his gown, then he looked at the witness. ‘Inspector, had you heard of the Decker family before this regrettable death?’

  ‘Ye
s, sir.’

  ‘What did you know about them?’

  ‘That they owned a large estate.’

  ‘Had you ever seen the house?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Or the grounds?’

  ‘I’ve been past them, but I never knew which land belonged to the estate.’

  ‘Would it be true to say that you were well aware that the Deckers were an old family and that they were, if one is still allowed to use such a phrase, of the landed gentry?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Were you aware before Mr Fawcett Decker’s death that the estate belonged to a trust?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘And were you aware of the terms of the trust?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘You well knew that the whole estate was in trust for the elder son, Fawcett Decker, when he reached the age of thirty-five? That on his thirty-fifth birthday he must elect whether, or not, to accept the estate and that if he decided against it the estate would pass to the younger son, Julian Decker?’

  ‘Yes, I did know that.’

  ‘Then you were aware of a possible motive for the murder of the deceased some time before he died?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it like that, sir.’

  ‘But I would, Inspector. This means that when Fawcett Decker died you not only knew there could be a motive, but because you knew this you naturally thought of the death as a murder?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then it is not true to say that you treated the death as a murder from the very beginning?’

  ‘I took such steps as I deemed necessary, sir, and then awaited various reports, including those from the pathologist and the gun expert.’

  ‘Yet surely we have earlier this morning heard you testify that on your arrival in the woods and after a brief inspection of the body you demanded two cartridges from each of the guns present?’

  ‘I did, yes.’

  ‘And you called in a photographer and had your men search the woods long before you ever received the reports from either the pathologist or the gun expert?’

  ‘I was taking such steps as I deemed necessary, sir.’