Detective Superintendent Danby drove down from county H.Q. on the morning of Tuesday, the seventh of June. The day was a blustery one, with the sky promising rain. With Danby came Smith, from the legal department, a thin man with a mournful-looking face.
The meeting was held in the divisional superintendent’s room, in which was a glass-fronted cabinet filled with silver cups and plaques that the superintendent had won at police sports when a P.C.
The superintendent sat behind his desk, Danby sat on his right, and Smith in one of the two arm-chairs. When Cathart knocked and entered, Danby said good morning and then introduced him to Smith.
“Anything turned up at the last minute in the Cabbot case?” asked Danby, a large man, normally quiet and pleasant in speech and manner, but with a quickly raised anger when things began to go wrong.
“Nothing since the report from the lab on the straws in the tin, sir,” replied Cathart.
“Very well. Then let’s have your working summary.”
“On the face of it, it’s an open and shut case. You’ve seen all the relevant evidence so I won’t go into it all. But there are some features that still worry me. Who was Cabbot, where did he come from, why did he come, what was he going to talk about that was so urgent, what changed this urgency? I’ve tried my damndest to find the answers and got nowhere.”
“Surely his wife can fill in some of the background, Fred?”
“There’s absolutely no joy. She disclaims any knowledge of what her husband was doing. I can’t make out — no matter what the doctor says — whether she’s still in a state of shock, whether she’s not saying, or whether she just didn’t know what her husband was doing.”
“Plesence hasn’t changed any part of his story?”
“Not a jot. He says Cabbot telephoned from out of the blue and disappeared back into the blue. What irks me, sir, is I just can’t make out if Cabbot’s important to the case, or not. Suppose he was a total stranger to Plesence and that all he did was quite logical to him, if not to anyone else — then it was his bad luck he got poisoned, but so far as the rest of the case is concerned, he’s irrelevant.”
“Some epitaph,” said Danby.
The divisional superintendent spoke. “Have you asked America for help?”
A slight frown crossed Cathart’s face. “Yes, sir,” he answered shortly.
Danby crossed his legs and hitched up his trousers. “The straws were poisoned and ready for the wife. Cabbot turns up by sheer chance. Plesence offers him the tin of straws and he’s unlucky enough to take one of the poisoned ones. Is that it?”
“It seems to be, sir. But that immediately brings us the question, why didn’t Plesence stop Cabbot from eating the straw?”
“Only four in all were poisoned: one was eaten, three remain. Plesence might have got mixed up with which were which. He might have panicked — when this total stranger turned up.”
“Since the morning, he’d been expecting the man. But as his wife had left him, he wasn’t expecting her.”
“He could have poisoned the straws a time back so that they were ready for when she did turn up. Or maybe he’d gone to make the attempt before and his nerve failed at the last moment.”
“I still hold that he didn’t really mean to kill her. He thought the amount he’d put in the straw would only make her ill so this would be a warning of what would happen if she didn’t divorce him and kept to the judicial separation.”
“How much of the wife’s evidence can you trust?” asked the divisional superintendent.
Cathart spoke carefully. “I’m sure she’s the kind of person who never really knows whether she’s telling the truth or a lie: to her, everything she wants to be, is, and that’s the truth. But all the evidence supports her story. She first of all applied for a decree of judicial separation and wasn’t ever going to give him a divorce because she was too bloody minded. Yet something frightened her into changing her mind pretty smartly. It must have been something drastic, since she’s vindictive enough, I’d guess, to do anything in the world to deny her husband what he wants.”
“Let’s examine the other possibilities,” said Danby. “Could she have been trying to poison him?”
“He never ate the celery straws: couldn’t stand the taste of celery. She wouldn’t have used the straws.”
“Could she have been trying to poison Cabbot?”
Cathart hesitated. “Yes, she could have been. But if so, why?”
“You said earlier that Cabbot was the unknown quantity, appearing from nowhere. He could be the answer.”
“He could be, but so far we can’t find out if he is. And meantime, I’d say it’s fatal to ignore the strength of Plesence’s motives.”
“I agree,” said Danby. “Which brings us to what Mr. Smith has to say.”
Smith opened the brief case on his lap and brought out a sheet of typed paper. “The evidence suggests that Plesence intended to poison his wife, but by mistake the poison intended for her was taken by Cabbot. In such circumstances, the law is quite clear.” He had a thin, reedy voice and a strange habit of raising it at the end of a sentence, as if it were meant to be a question. “If a man intends to poison another, but by chance or mistake the poison is taken by a third person, then this is just as much murder as if it were the intended victim who died. In the present case, then, whoever administered the poison is guilty of the murder of Cabbot, even though he may have had no intention of killing Cabbot. And, of course, it makes no difference if the intention was merely to frighten and not actually to kill.”
Cathart wondered what in the hell this was all about? There’d been no statement of law so profound or intricate that it needed a member of the legal department to explain it to a detective inspector.
Smith cleared his throat. “Inspector, are you convinced that Plesence attempted to murder his wife, or at the very least to frighten her by the administration of poison?”
“On the present evidence, yes, sir.”
“If a case is brought against him, how much of the evidence rests on the wife’s testimony?”
“A considerable amount.”
“Could the action be brought without her evidence?”
“No, sir. Unless Plesence made a full confession, we wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“A wife is not competent to give her evidence against her husband in common law and the statutory exceptions to this rule would not cover the present case.”
“Quite, sir,” said Cathart, almost angrily, wondering if it had been presumed that he did not know this elementary principle. “But there’s a further exception under common law, isn’t there?”
“Indeed.”
Cathart waited, but no one spoke.
“Is this a private silence, or can anyone join in?” demanded Danby.
“I’m not quite certain...” began Cathart.
Danby brusquely interrupted him. “Well, Mr. Smith?” Smith brought out a text book from his brief case, opened it at a marked page, and read. After a while, he looked up. “Put briefly, the exception in question says that when a husband is indicted for personal injury to his wife, or the wife to the husband, the law allows the injured party to give evidence against the other spouse. One might say — even though this is a legal matter — that this is a matter of common sense.”
Cathart saw a quick smile appear on Smith’s face and for the first time realised the other must have a strong sense of humour behind his rather frosty exterior.
“However,” continued Smith, “in a case in nineteen fifty-one it was held that when a man was indicted for sending his wife a letter threatening to kill her, the wife was not a competent witness against him on this charge because there was no authority for saying that a threat to kill was a personal injury. By analogy, in the present case there has been no personal injury to the wife, even though grave personal injury was almost certainly intended. The fact that a third party was killed does not matter. The wife cannot, therefore, give evidence in court against th
e husband. In view of this, Inspector, do you still say that there’s insufficient evidence without the wife’s evidence to bring a charge of murder against Plesence?”
Cathart looked quickly at Danby. “I don’t think there’s a chance,” he said finally.
“I agree.” Smith replaced the text book in his brief case. He closed the brief case and carefully tied the straps.
“But...but that’s absurd,” said the superintendent suddenly.
“The law or the conclusion?” asked Smith.
“Well the...the whole thing, sir. A man’s been murdered. The murderer’s got to be charged, otherwise he’ll get away with murder.”
“It’s not quite like that, is it?” replied Smith, rather as if giving a lecture. “For the moment, a rule of law prevents the case from being brought, but that rule of law does nothing to prevent the detective inspector turning up further evidence that will enable the case to go ahead without the wife’s evidence. Obviously, more evidence on Cabbot’s background could prove highly relevant.”
“But suppose we can’t find out anything more?” demanded the divisional superintendent, a man who became very angry when the law threatened to hamper justice.
“In those circumstances,” replied Smith, “there will be no trial.”
CHAPTER VIII
The divorce court was the second and smaller court in the assize buildings in Borisham. It was meanly furnished, and little of the pomp and circumstance of the law was wasted on it. The petitioners, their lawyers, and their witnesses, had only the corridor outside in which to wait and hold their conferences. It was a place of misery, sometimes starkly displayed, sometimes so carefully concealed it was nowhere apparent. It was a place that bred indifference to misery: no one in divorce work for long could continue to feel sympathy for the clients...to do so would be to ask too much of that person’s own emotions.
Catalina Plesence had dressed with very great care. Her hair had been cut, washed, and set the day before in London. She wore a frock that had cost seventy-five guineas, crocodile skin shoes, and she carried a crocodile skin handbag. On her fingers were three diamond and two emerald rings: round her neck was a diamond necklace. She was determined to show people that she was no ordinary grub-stained housewife.
Her counsel walked across and spoke to her. He was a youngish man and in his wig and gown looked very handsome. She went out of her way to be friendly to him and was hurt when he hurried to leave her, on the ridiculous plea that he was going to look at the lists to see how close to being heard the case was.
Ten minutes later, Padlow — the father and a very abruptly mannered man — told her it was time to go into the courtroom. She went in, sat down, and stared about her with ill-tempered boredom. The woman in the witness-box, describing the physical cruelty of her husband, began to weep. Catalina knew only contempt for the other. If any man had ever hit her, she’d have hit him back, right where it hurt. The crying woman left the box and her place was taken by a friend who corroborated some of the evidence.
The decree nisi was granted. In the pause between the cases, there was a considerable movement as people came and went. Then the associate called out: “Plesence and Plesence.”
Counsel said it was a petition for dissolution of marriage on the grounds of adultery.
Catalina went into the witness-box and took the oath, wondering as she did so why anyone still used such ridiculous mumbo-jumbo. She gave her evidence and the bitterness welled up inside her. As she thought of how Patricia must be laughing at her, her words became vitriolic.
“The witness will contain herself,” said the judge coldly.
Catalina gripped the edge of the witness-box with her gloved fingers. They called this justice, yet they refused to listen to her. David was a swine. He’d betrayed her, spat in her bed, humiliated her after she’d given him everything, done all she could to make his life wonderful. Yet now she was not being allowed to tell all this to the world. Hadn’t she found them in bed together, or very nearly so? Didn’t he deserve to be crucified by her evidence?
Soon, she was told to step down from the witness-box. She returned to her seat and there, in a loud whisper, told her solicitor exactly what her feelings were on the injustice she had just suffered. Tullet paid very scant attention to her. The English, she thought bitterly, were a savage race, showing no respect for women.
The private detective gave his evidence.
She dug her nails into the palms of her hand. How had David dared to go off with that woman? A woman with breasts big enough to shame an Indian peasant from Llanquihue. Only an Englishman could have deserted her, Catalina, and taken up with a peasant like Patricia.
The private detective recounted how he had been shown up to the bedroom. In it had been a double bed and Mr. Plesence was in the bed and without a pyjama jacket.
How had David been able to make love to the bitch? How could he have been so cruel to his own wife who, throughout their married life, had always done everything with but one aim and object — to further his comfort and happiness.
“On that evidence, my Lord,” said counsel, “I would ask for a decree nisi and costs.”
“Yes,” said the judge.
Catalina left the courtroom. She had her divorce. But David had not been degraded as she had longed to degrade him. Patricia had not been publicly humiliated.
The lawyers came along and told her something about the decree nisi taking three months before it could be made absolute and also about the necessity of a hearing to decide on the amount of maintenance and secured provision she should be awarded. She said she wanted every penny he’d got. At least that would hurt him, especially if she could cut off some of the money he spent on that boring factory. It was a pity there had been no way of taking the factory right away from him.
The lawyers were stupid. They came to tell her everything was all right and then hurried away. She didn’t give a damn. They were hired men and would do what they were told to do. Their job now was to break David: ruin him, if they could.
Without any conscious volition, her mind changed tracks. She remembered the police and all the questions they’d asked. She’d been utterly terrified by what had happened, but it had been the police who, ironically, had shown her the way out of the trouble she was in. They had made it so obvious they thought David had put the poison into the celery straws. When they’d asked her questions, she’d given them the answers they obviously expected to hear. As a result of her cleverness, they would put David on trial and jail him for life. That would be a time for Patricia to laugh! Would she visit David over the years, always looking at him through bars? Would they stare at each other and gradually realise how stupid they’d been? Only one thing was now wrong with all that had happened: Patricia wouldn’t suffer directly. Still, if she was as emotional as she looked, she’d suffer mentally and that was a good second best.
Catalina walked from the corridor into the main hall, an ugly absurdity in mock Gothic, and across to the outside doors. She stepped into the sunshine. When she had the money, she’d return to life. She was still relatively young and as attractive as ever and the men would not be tardy in coming forward. She knew how to interest men. She had more charm in her little fingers than Patricia had in the whole of her misproportioned body.
Catalina hailed a taxi and was driven to her flat. She went inside and sat down in one of the arm-chairs. It was hot and her corset was too damned tight. She went through to the bedroom and struggled out of the corset. The released flesh sagged downwards and she was astonished to see how much of it there was. She hadn’t realised she’d put on quite that much weight. Still, a mature woman always had the edge over a young one, because maturity was experience and that was what the men really liked.
The front-door bell chimes rang. Hastily, she pulled her dress down and stared at her reflection in the full length mirror on the far wall. She was dismayed to see that the dress did not hide the bulges and she cursed herself for having taken off the corset.
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She went through the sitting-room to the small hall and opened the door. A woman stood outside who immediately reminded her of a portrait by Grandma Moses.
“What d’you want?” she asked rudely.
“Are you Mrs. Plesence?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’d like to speak to you.”
Unasked, the woman stepped inside. Catalina was about to object loudly when she noticed the look in the woman’s eyes and was appalled by it. Never before had she seen such naked hatred.
“I’m George’s wife,” said the woman.
“George?” repeated Catalina, her wits temporarily befuddled.
“The man you murdered.”
Catalina suffered a terrible shock and for a few seconds she knew only a near overwhelming panic. Then, she forced herself to try to fight. “Are you mad?”
“You are the one who’s mad. You’re a fat, ugly, wicked woman who’s mad. You murdered my husband.”
Catalina swore in Spanish, reviling this desiccated hag who’d dared to call her fat and ugly.
Mrs. Cabbot slowly walked into the sitting-room. Catalina followed her.
“Get out,” shouted Catalina.
“I’ll leave when I’ve said my piece.” Her voice was flat and toneless and her accent was very thick. Somehow, despite the deep emotion she felt, she made it sound as if her words had no direct relevance to herself. “You poisoned my husband, George.”
“That’s a terrible lie.”
“I know it’s the truth.”
“You’re mad. I’ll call the police and have you thrown out of here. David killed that man...”
“You murdered my husband.” The woman opened her handbag and brought out a small automatic. She released the safety catch with her thumb.
Catalina stared at the muzzle of the gun and saw it was pointing directly at her stomach. She suffered a strange disassociation from what was happening, as if it was not really she who stood in the flat and was threatened by this gaunt, grey-faced woman.
“I came here to shoot you, to murder you like you murdered my George.”
A Deadly Marriage Page 9
