by John Creasey
Parsons gave simple evidence of charging and arresting Miles, and went on: “I would like the prisoner to be committed for trial, your honour. I believe that it would be in the public interest not to submit any but formal evidence at this hearing.”
“And who is the best judge of the public interest in this matter?” Thompson had obviously been annoyed by Miles and was not going to make things easy.
“With respect, sir, I am the officer in charge of the measures necessary to ensure that the general election takes place in an atmosphere free from all prejudice, and for that reason I submit that it is in the public interest to present as little evidence as possible. I can if necessary produce witnesses, including Mr. Roland Quatrain, to testify that the accused was in fact arrested after being prevented from starting another explosion which could have caused considerable damage. I can produce a witness to identify the accused. I can also call witnesses to testify that among the accused’s close friends is an employee of a firm of pyrotechnic manufacturers who has had access to and facilities for making the kind of explosive unit which has been used in this case. Between now and the time of the trial by jury, if your honour so directs the trial to be held, the police expect to be able to submit evidence which will prove that the accused’s objectives were twofold: one, to stir up sufficient public unrest and agitation to make the holding of the general election difficult in the proper atmosphere and, second, to remove from proximity to his then friend and leader certain individuals whom he believed to be exercising a moderating influence on his leader. I think I may venture to say that there is no doubt whatsoever that these witnesses will be forthcoming, and some of them are in fact available today. Nevertheless, I ask for a committal, your honour.”
Thompson said, “Ugh.” He looked at Quatrain and at Miles. Miles seemed to be clenching his teeth, and his grip on the dock rail was so tight that even across the courtroom one could see his knuckles gleaming white.
“And have you still nothing to say?” Thompson asked him.
Miles opened his mouth.
Quatrain sat with a hand raised in front of him, as if to command the accused to say nothing in his own defence. There was almost unbearable tension in the court, generated partly by the conflict between Quatrain and Miles, and partly by awareness of the influence they had tried to exert on the political scene. Miles licked his lips. Quatrain kept his hand up. Parsons glanced at Thompson.
“Very well,” the magistrate said at last. “In the circumstances I shall accede to the request from the police, particularly as the accused obviously has nothing to say.”
“Nothing!” Miles cried. He raised his clenched hands toward the raftered ceiling. “Nothing? What I have to say is the most important thing in the whole world. That man has betrayed his country and betrayed everything he stands for. That man, Roland Quatrain, should be here, not I.” Thompson opened his mouth as if to protest, but Miles’s torrent of words swept over him. “He should be standing in the dock arraigned before the people of all England. That man had the vision and the opportunity given to no one in history before, of leading the nation from the brink of disaster, the brink of famine, the brink of economic collapse. There is the man who could have led this nation to the bright uplands of prosperity, who could have won the devotion of a people who have lost greatness, and given them vision and greatness and power. He could have led the British people so that once again they would lead the world. And he has betrayed them.”
“Please stop at once,” Thompson said clearly.
Miles did not seem to notice the interruption.
“That man has preferred the vain trappings of a so-called democracy. He has submitted to the sell-out of our history to Europe and to the United States. He has helped to tread this great nation into the dust. He could have wiped opposition from the face of the land, he could have created the perfect state, a shining example to the whole world, to the universe beyond the world. He should be dragged out of this place and strung up on the nearest tree. You!” screamed Miles, and he leaned forward and shook his fists at Quatrain, his face suffused with red, as if he would burst, his great body thrusting against the oak of the dock. “You, you devil, you ought to be hanged and drawn and quartered, like traitors of our greatest age. I worshipped you. The country could have worshipped you.”
Thompson seemed stunned to silence.
Parsons, three policemen, two warders, and an usher drew close to Miles. Saliva was showering from his lips; the only part of his face without colour was those lips. He began to shake the dock, and soon the inevitable happened. He swung over the front of the dock to try to get to Quatrain, but the group of men made a solid barrier and they bore him down, struggling, screaming, shouting.
Among those who watched was Catherine Miller, who had been told that she might be called upon as a witness, and had been terrified in case she was, for fear her name should get into the newspapers, and her parents find out. Since Parsons and Gideon had talked to her, she had known moments of comfort, but the gloom of unhappiness shrouded her most of the time. She had not seen her lover again, but he had telephoned her twice, at the shipping office in the City where she worked. She knew that it would not be long before everything was over between them. He had talked of money, and she had shrunk from the very idea of being paid off, but as she watched the proceedings and realized that her immediate dread was over – for she would not now be called as a witness – she thought of her predicament. She could not work much longer; already some of the girls were pretty sure of the truth. Without money she could not live on her own. She dreaded having to confess to her father, and her mother would be horrified too.
Parsons came across to her when it was over.
“Glad we didn’t need you,” he said. “Will you come with me, below the dock? There are one or two little formalities to go through.” As he took her arm it crossed her mind that it was remarkable that after having so much on his mind he could spare time and thought for her, but she had come to take that for granted. He led the way through a doorway and down a short flight of stairs, and then said: “Did I tell you I’ve a good friend in the Brighton Police Force?”
“No,” she said. Brighton was near her home.
“Well, I have. And I had a word with him yesterday and he went to have a word with your father. Everything will be all right.”
Alarm flared up in her.
“Oh, you shouldn’t! You’d no right to. Oh—”
That was the moment when she saw her father. It was no illusion this time, no passing likeness. It was—Dad. He was coming toward her across a wide passage which was crowded with people, including policemen and warders. He was very close to Quatrain. He was smiling. He nodded to Parsons, and said:
“Thank you very much, Superintendent. Thank you indeed. Cath, I’ve got a taxi waiting outside. We’re going straight home in it. Somehow we have to work this problem out between us.”
Parsons watched the girl as she went off, her father’s arm about her. Tears were spilling down her cheeks. No one took any notice, because Jefferson Miles was still making abortive attempts to free himself.
The editorial, London Evening Times:
In a London police court this morning we saw an exhibition of megalomania, unbridled and uncontrolled, and caught a glimpse of how hideous the face of this nation could become under the control of such men. It may seem absurd to contemplate even the possibility, but it is a sobering thought that other nations, once believed to be thoroughly democratic, have in fact fallen under the spell of ranting dictators. If we go near to contempt of court in speaking thus frankly, we do so humbly but with a deep conviction that it is necessary to tell the British electors exactly what happened. It is to some degree reassuring that the man now committed for trial by jury in the best English tradition was not the leader of the men among whom he worked. The leader has shown a quality of statesmanship which, considering the circumstances, can only be admired.
One of the gravest features in this case,
the full truth of which will not come out until the trial, is the fact that Jefferson Miles – what a tragic irony that the name Jefferson should have been given to a man who rejected freedom – believed every word he said. Fool, bigot, fanatic he might be; but in his way he followed his star, and believed it the right star to follow.
From the London Evening Times, page 1:
DOCTOR SERIOUSLY INJURED
Attacked by Man with Spanner
Dr. Eustace Fairweather, who was about to act as locum tenens for Dr. Osbert C. Jones, of 66 May Street, Putney, was attacked by a man with a spanner as he left Dr. Jones’s surgery this morning. Dr. Fairweather is in hospital in a serious condition.
Frederick Allen Wilcox of Stepp Street, Sydenham, the attacker, has been charged with attempted murder and will appear at West London Police Court tomorrow.
From the London Evening Times, page 4:
MORE CANDIDATES ROBBED
The police are baffled by the series of daring burglaries at the homes of general election candidates. Money and valuables have been stolen, but there is a possibility that the burglaries have some political motivation. Three candidates’ homes were entered last night.
At the home of Mr. Robert Talmad, Independent candidate for Willison, a friend of Mr. Talmad’s was attacked by the thief, who hacked him in the shins.
Scotland Yard are redoubling their efforts to apprehend the thief, who …
From the London Evening Times, page 5:
WHAT IS THE BATTLE COMMITTEE PLANNING?
Behind the Scenes Threat
The Fight for Peace campaign, or that part of it controlled by the Battle Committee – which is quite distinct from the Committee of 100 and also from the Group led by Canon Collins – is planning a great demonstration.
No one yet knows what it will be.
So far their members, like those of other groups with the same objectives, have heckled at outdoor and indoor meetings, making things uncomfortable for candidates who refuse to answer their questions. The members of the committee have drawn up a questionnaire about attitudes toward Nuclear Disarmament and have sent it to all candidates, all election agents, all newspapers, and leading citizens in most constituencies. A door-to-door distribution of Fight for Peace leaflets has been made in many constituencies, showing that the organization is nationwide. There can be no one in the country who is unaware of what they require – to force this country to give up the nuclear deterrent, to send the bombs back to the United States or to Europe. The rights and wrongs of this belief are irrelevant at this time. What is important are the rumours of some sensational demonstration planned between now and the date of the election and intended to sway electors to cast their votes for those candidates approved by the Battle Committee.
If the methods of persuasion are within the law, no one will complain.
If they are against the law, they constitute a threat to our free system of government, and we hope that the Home Secretary will instruct the police throughout the nation to act swiftly and with whatever severity is called for. This is a democracy. Any attempt to influence political decisions or the electors of the country by illegal or unconstitutional methods must be stamped out.
From the London Opinion, page 3:
Everyone in this country has a right to his vote, to freedom of expression, and to his opinion; and unless he or she is uttering treason – that is, the overthrow of the government by force, or the overthrow of the monarchy, or endangering the safety of the realm – he or she should be allowed to say what he likes where he likes within the bounds of decent language.
This journal feels strongly that there are a great number of genuine idealists in the various groups who wish us to withdraw from participation in nuclear armament races. They believe what they preach. They make considerable sacrifices for their beliefs. Yet there is something suspiciously – dangerously – like a witch hunt going on among these people. They cannot meet in one another’s houses without the police watching. They cannot ask a question at a public meeting without the eye of the police upon them. This is wrong. This is not democracy. This is not what we fought two great wars for.
The police have plenty to do in the perpetual battle against crime. They have too much to do with the warm-hearted idealists who – even if mistakenly – believe that they are serving humanity in the only way humanity can be served.
Gideon read all of this.
Barney Spicer, Shins Mason and Wilfy Darlington read the stories and editorials too.
Amanda Tenby, Daniel Ronn, and most of the other members of the Battle Committee read them.
Fred Wilcox did also.
So did Cecil Libby, relaxing for a few minutes between meetings. He felt on top of the world, for his canvass was showing more support than he had expected, and the two meetings he had already addressed tonight had been enthusiastic and well-attended. He had two more before going home. His wife would be at the next one, provided their sitter-in turned up, and he always liked Jane to be on the platform whenever possible. There was even a sneaking hope that she would be at the next hall, the Catholic school hall near the café where he was sitting. That paragraph about the clerk who had been sent to prison no longer worried him.
He walked along to the meeting, saw two dozen cars parked outside, and was elated. As he entered the door a little group started cheering. The speaker, one of Libby’s ward workers, stopped and began to clap. The hall, which would hold two hundred people, was three quarters full. Two or three men stood up, and others followed. Libby felt very excited; nothing like this had ever happened to him before. He kept his wits about him, and noticed that one man in four or five was still sitting down; they would be the unconverted. But a welcome such as this was wonderful.
He began his speech. He knew that he had never reeled off policy so easily and had never felt more confident when answering questions. Let ‘em all come! To put the finishing touch to his triumph, he saw Jane at the back of the hall, sitting down unobtrusively. He waved to her, and she smiled and waved back.
Then a tall, very dark man rose to ask a question, and Libby’s heart missed a beat. Somehow he thought he recognized the questioner from distant days – from those days when he had been such a reckless fool. If he was right, this man had been in the general office of the firm where he had worked.
The man asked: “What does the candidate think about the condition of prisons in this country? Does he believe that convicted criminals are punished with sufficient severity?”
Libby never remembered how he answered.
At his next meeting he was flat and dull, and the meeting was unresponsive.
On the way home he told Jane what had happened.
“Oh, they’d never use that,” she protested. “You’re worrying yourself about nothing.” Soon she went on with forced brightness: “Darling, I must tell you what Monk did today—”
Monk had climbed his first tree, but the story did nothing to dispel Libby’s gloom.
“You’ve got to make up your mind soon,” said Richard Benwell’s agent. “I got that chap to ask Libby a question at his third meeting tonight, and Libby recognized him at once. He folded right up. He knows what will happen if the story gets around. And believe me, Ricky, you need every vote you can get.”
Effie Wilcox had read the Evening Times too.
She was in the little room which she had once loved so much because it was hers and Fred’s. Her mother was there, a big, bustling, hearty woman, very different from Effie, but overflowing with affection and with deep understanding. She did not keep on talking to Effie but watched her from time to time. Effie kept looking through the evening papers, making herself read most of the things, including the snippets of news about the election, especially the constituency Fred was so interested in.
Suddenly she looked up.
“Mum.”
“Isn’t it time you thought of bed, dear?”
“Mum – that doctor won’t die, will he?”
“Don’t t
alk nonsense. Of course he won’t die.”
“It says here he’s in a serious condition.”
“That doesn’t mean that he’s going to die.”
“If he does—”
“How about a nice cup of tea, and an early bed?”
“If he does,” persisted Effie evenly, “it would be murder, wouldn’t it?”
“Now, my girl, don’t let me hear you say anything like that again!”
“But it would be.”
“Now, Effie—”
“Mum, do you think Mrs. Mullery will let me use her telephone?”
“What on earth do you want to use a telephone for tonight?” The big woman stood in front of her daughter, arms akimbo, and went on with pretended suspicion. “You haven’t got a boyfriend in the background, have you?”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Effie said. “You ought to know better than to say that. No, I want to find out how that doctor is. If I telephone the hospital, they’ll tell me, won’t they?”
After a long pause, her mother said, “You won’t get any rest until you know, will you? Shall I go downstairs and ask?”
“No,” Effie said. “No, I’d rather do it myself.”
The telephone was in the hallway of the neighbour’s flat. The light was on, the living room door closed, the muted tones of a television sounded against the background of buzzing and squeaking on the line. At last a man answered: “Putney Hospital.”
“I want—I want to make an inquiry about a patient,” Effie said, in a voice that was so low-pitched she hardly heard it herself.
“Can you speak up, please?”
“I want—I want to inquire about a patient.”
“What ward, please?”
“I—I don’t know. It’s—it’s the man who was—it’s the man who—”
The operator said in gentler tones, “No hurry, miss, just tell me the name of the patient.”
