Janet had kept Roy informed about the meet at Rollo Eyles’s house, and they had taken days off during her half-term when the meet was at Wayleave. The sabbing was to be made the occasion of a holiday outing and a night spent in the country. When they had got their rucksacks and sleeping-bags out of the van, Roy, Angela, Sebastian and Judy retired to the pub in Wayleave where real ale was obtainable and they used it to wash down vegetable pasties and salads until closing-time at three. Janet Freebody had things to do in the cottage, exercise books to correct and dinner to think about, so she didn’t join the party in the pub. Neither did Den. He said he wanted to go for a walk and so set off, according to Roy, apparently to commune, in a solitary fashion, with nature. This meant that he was alone and unaccounted for at one o’clock when Tricia was going to swear on her oath that she saw him coming out of Fallows Wood with a coil of wire.
Other facts of interest: Fallows Wood was only about ten minutes from Wayleave. Roy couldn’t remember there being any wire in the van when they set out from London; it was true that they had discussed using wire to trip up horses, but he had never bought any and was surprised when the police searched the van and found the coil there. It was also true that the van was always in a mess, and probably the hammer found in it was his. Den had brought a kitbag with his stuff in it and Roy couldn’t swear it didn’t contain wire. Den was usually a quiet sort of bloke, Roy said, but he did go mad when he saw people out to kill animals: ‘Dennis always said that the movement was too milk and watery towards hunting, and that what was needed was some great gesture which would really bring us into the news and prove our sincerity – like when the girl fell under a lorry that was taking sheep to the airport.’ I made a mental note not to ask any sort of question likely to produce that last piece of evidence and came to the conclusion that Roy, despite his willingness to give Gavin a statement, wasn’t entirely friendly to my client, Dennis Pearson.
The placards, a small plantation at the meet, had become a forest outside the court in Gloucester. Buses, bicycles, vans, cars in varying degrees of disrepair, had brought them, held up now by a crowd which burst, as I elbowed my way towards the courthouse door, into a resounding cheer for Rumpole. I didn’t remember any such ovation when I entered the Old Bailey on other occasions. In the robing-room I found Bernadette asleep in a chair and little Marcus Pitcher tying a pair of white bands around his neck in front of a mirror. ‘See you’ve got your friends from rent-a-crowd here this morning, Rumpole.’ He was not in the best of tempers, our demonstrators having apparently booed Bernadette for having thrown in her lot with a barrister who prosecuted the friends of animals.
I wondered how long their cheers for me would last when I went into court, only to put my hands up and plead guilty. My client, however, remained singularly determined: ‘When we plead guilty, they’ll cheer. It’ll be a triumph for the movement. Can’t you understand that, Mr Rumpole? We shall be seen to have condemned a murderer to death!’
The approach of life imprisonment seemed to have concentrated Den’s mind wonderfully. He was no longer the silent and enigmatic sufferer. His eyes were lit up and he was as excited as when he’d shouted his threats at the faded beauty on the horse. ‘I want you to tell them I’m guilty, first thing. As soon as we get in there. I want you to tell them that I punished her.’
‘No, you don’t want that. Does he, Mr Garfield?’ Gavin, sitting beside me in the cell under the court, looked like a man who had entirely lost control of the situation. ‘I suppose if that’s what Den has decided …’ His voice, never strong, died away and he shrugged hopelessly.
‘I have decided finally’ – Den was standing, elated by his decision – ‘in the interests of our movement.’ For a moment he reminded me of an actor I had seen in an old film, appearing as Sydney Carton on his way to the guillotine, saying, ‘It’s a far, far better thing I do, than I have ever done.’
‘You’re not going to do the movement much good by pleading guilty straight away,’ I told him.
‘What do you mean?’
‘A guilty plea at the outset? The whole thing’ll be over in twenty minutes. The animal murderers, as you call them, won’t even have to go into the witness-box, let alone face cross-examination by Rumpole. Will anyone know the details of the hunt? Certainly not. Do you want publicity for your cause? Plead guilty now and you will be lucky to get a single paragraph on page two. At least, let’s get the front page for a day or so.’ I wasn’t being entirely frank with my client. The murder was serious and horrible enough to get the front pages in a world hungry for bad news at breakfast, even if we were to plead guilty without delay. But I needed time. In time, I still hoped, I would get Den to tell me the truth.
‘I don’t know.’ My client sat down then as though suddenly tired. ‘What would you do, Gavin?’
‘I think’ – Gavin shrugged off all responsibility – ‘you should be guided by Mr Rumpole.’
‘All right’ – Den was prepared to compromise – ‘we’ll go for the publicity.’
‘Dennis Pearson, you are accused in this indictment of the murder of Dorothea Eyles on the sixteenth of March at Fallows Wood, Wayleave, in the county of Gloucester. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?’
‘My Lord, Members of the Jury’ – Den, as I had feared, was about to orate. ‘This woman, Dorothea Eyles, was guilty of the murder of countless living creatures, not for her gain but simply for sadistic pleasure and idle enjoyment. My Lord, if anything killed her, it was natural justice!’
‘Now then, Mr – ’ Mr Justice James MacBain consulted his papers to make sure who he was trying. ‘Mr Pearson. You’ve got a gentleman in a wig sitting there, a Mr Rumpole, who’s paid to make the speeches for you. It’s not your business to make speeches now or at any time during this case. Now, you’ve been asked a simple question: are you guilty or not guilty?’
‘She is the guilty one, my Lord. This woman who revelled in the death of innocent creatures.’
‘Mr Rumpole, are you not astute enough to control you client?’
‘It’s not an easy task, my Lord.’ I staggered to my feet.
‘Your first job is to control your client. That’s what I learnt as a pupil. Make the client keep it short.’
‘Well, if you don’t want a long speech from the dock, my Lord, I suggest you enter a plea of not guilty and then my learned friend, Mr Marcus Pitcher, can get on with opening his case.’
‘Mr Rumpole, I was not born yesterday!’ Jamie MacBain was stating the obvious. It was many years since he had first seen the light in some remote corner of the Highlands. He was a large man whose hair, once ginger, had turned to grey, and who sat slumped in his chair like one of those colourless beanbags people use to sit on in their Hampstead homes. He had small, pursed lips and a perpetually discontented expression. ‘And when I want your advice on how to conduct these proceedings, I shall ask you for it. Mr Moberly!’ This was a whispered summons to the clerk of the court, who rose obediently and, after a brief sotto voce conversation, sat down again as the judge turned to the jury.
‘Members of the Jury, you and I weren’t born yesterday and I think we’re astute enough to get over this little technical difficulty. Now we don’t want Mr Pearson, the accused man here, to start giving us a lecture, do we? So what we’re going to do is to take it he’s pleading not guilty and then ask Mr Marcus Pitcher to get on with it and open the prosecution case. You see, there’s no great mystery about the law. We can solve most of the problems if we apply a wee bit of worldly wisdom.’
I suppose I could have got up on my hind legs and said, ‘Delighted to have been of service to your Lordship,’ or, ‘If you’re ever in a hole, send for me.’ But I didn’t want to start a quarrel so early in the case. I sat quietly while little Marcus went through most of the facts. The jury of twelve honest Gloucestershire citizens looked stolid, middle-aged and not particularly friendly to the animal rights protesters who filled the public gallery to overflowing. I imagined they had grown up with the hunt a
nd felt no particular hostility to the Boxing Day meet and horses streaming across the frosty countryside. They had looked embarrassed by Dennis’s speech from the dock, and flattered when Jamie MacBain shared his lifetime’s experience with them. Like him, they hadn’t been born yesterday, and worldly wisdom, together with their dogs and their rose gardens, was no doubt among their proudest possessions. As I listened to my little learned friend’s opening, I thought he was talking to a jury which, whatever plea had been entered, was beginning to feel sure that Den was as guilty as he was anxious to appear.
The first witness was the rambler, a cashier from a local bank who, out for a walk with his wife and daughter, had been met with the ghastly spectacle of an elderly woman almost decapitated and fallen among the brambles of Fallows Wood.
‘Where was the horse?’ was all I asked him in cross-examination.
‘The horse?’
‘Yes. Did you see her horse by any chance?’
‘I think there was a horse there, some distance away, and all saddled up. I think it was just eating grass or something. I didn’t stay long. I wanted to get my wife and Sandra away and phone the police.’
‘Of course. I understand. Thank you very much, Mr Ovington.’
‘Is that all you want to ask, Mr Rumpole?’ Jamie MacBain looked at me in an unfriendly fashion.
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘I don’t think that question and answer has added much to our understanding of this case, Members of the Jury. I’d be glad if the defence would not waste the time of the court. Yes. Who is your next witness, Mr Marcus Pitcher?’
I restrained myself and sat down in silence ‘like patience on a monument’. But my question had added something: Dorothea’s riderless horse hadn’t galloped on and jumped the stile. We learnt more from Bob Andrews, a hunt servant who, when the hunt was stopped, went back to the wood to recover Dorothea’s horse, which had been detained by the police. I risked Jamie’s displeasure by questioning Andrews for a little longer.
‘When you got to the wood, had Mrs Eyles’s body been removed?’
‘It was covered. I think it was just being taken away on a stretcher. I knew the ambulance was in the road. The police were taking photographs.’
‘The police were taking photographs – and where was Mrs Eyles’s horse?’
‘I think a police officer was holding her.’
‘Can you remember, had Mrs Eyles’s horse lost a shoe?’
‘Not that I noticed. I looked her over when I took her from the policeman. He seemed a bit scared, holding her.’
‘I’m not surprised. Horses can be a little alarming.’
‘Can be. If you’re not used to them.’
There were a few smiles from the jury at this; not because it was funny but as a relief from the agony of hearing the details of Dorothea Eyles’s injuries. The jury, I thought, rather liked Bob Andrews, while the animal rights enthusiasts in the public gallery looked down on him with unmitigated hatred and contempt.
‘Mr Andrews,’ I went on, while Mr Justice MacPain (as I had come to think of him) gave a somewhat exaggerated performance of a long-suffering judge, bravely enduring terminal boredom, ‘tell me a little about the hunt that day. You were riding near to Mr Eyles?’
‘Up with the master. Yes.’
‘Did your hunt go near Fallows Wood?’
‘Not really. No.’
‘What was the nearest you got to that wood?’
‘Well, they found in Plashy Bottom. Down there they got a scent. Then we were off in the other direction entirely.’
‘How far is Plashy Bottom from Fallows Wood?’
‘About half a mile … I’d think about that.’
‘Did you see Mrs Eyles leave the hunt and ride up towards the wood?’
‘Well, they’d got going then. I wouldn’t have looked round to see the riders behind me.’
‘Did you see anyone else – Miss Tricia Fothergill, for instance – leave the hunt and ride up towards Fallows Wood?’
‘I didn’t, no.’
‘He’s told us he wasn’t looking at the riders behind him, Mr Rumpole.’ Jamie managed to sound like a saint holding on to his patience by the skin of his teeth.
‘Then let me ask you a question you can answer. It’s clear, isn’t it, that the hunt never went through Fallows Wood that day?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So, it follows that in order to come into collision with that wire, Mrs Eyles had to make a considerable detour?’
‘That’s surely a matter for argument, Mr Rumpole.’ Jamie MacBain did his best to scupper the question so I asked another one, very quickly.
‘Do you know why she should make such a detour?’
‘I haven’t got any idea, no.’
‘Thank you, Mr Andrews.’ And I sat down before the judge could recover his breath.
Johnny Logan replaced the whipper-in. He was wearing a dark suit and some sort of regimental tie; his creased and brown walnut face grinned over a collar which seemed several sizes too large for him. He treated the judge with a mixture of amusement and contempt, as though Jamie were some alien being who could never understand the hunting community of the Cotswolds. Logan said he had heard most of the dialogue between the sabs and the hunters in the driveway of Wayleave Manor. He also told the jury that he had seen the saboteurs’ van at various points during the day, and heard similar abuse from them as he rode by.
‘You never saw the saboteurs’ van near Fallows Wood?’ I asked when it was my turn.
‘We never went near Fallows Wood as far as I can remember.’
‘Then let you and I agree about that. Now, will you tell me this? Did you ever see Mrs Eyles leave the hunt and ride off in a different direction?’
‘No, I never saw that. I’m not saying she didn’t do it. We were pretty spread out. I’d seen a couple of jumps I didn’t like the look of, so I’d gone round and I was behind quite a lot of the others.’
‘Gone round, had you?’ Jamie MacBain, about to make a note, looked confused.
‘Quite a lot of barbed wire about. I don’t think you’d have fancied jumping that, my Lord,’ Johnny Logan added with a certain amount of mock servility.
‘Never mind what I’d’ve fancied. Just answer the questions you get asked. That’s all you’re required to do.’ It was clear that the judge and the witness had struck up an immediate lack of rapport.
‘Did you see anyone else leave the hunt?’
‘I don’t think so. Well, you mean at any time?’
‘At any time when you were out hunting, yes.’
‘Well, I think Tricia Fothergill left. But that was at the very end, just before the police arrived and told us that Mrs Eyles had been – well, had met with an accident.’
‘So that must have been after Mrs Eyles’s death?’ The judge made the deduction.
‘You’ve got it, my Lord,’ Johnny Logan congratulated him in such a patronizing fashion that I almost felt sorry for the astute Scot.
‘Why did she leave then, do you remember?’
‘I’m not sure. Her horse was wrong in some way, I think.’
‘Just one more thing, Mr Logan.’
‘Oh, anything you like.’ Johnny showed his contempt for us all.
‘It would be right to say, wouldn’t it, that Mr Rollo Eyles was devoted to his wife?’
‘He would certainly never have left her. Is that what you mean?’
‘That’s exactly what I mean. Thank you very much.’
As I was about to sit down, the judge said, ‘And what were the jury meant to make of that last question and answer?’
‘They may make of it what they will, my Lord, when they are in full possession of the facts of this interesting but tragic case.’ At which point I lowered my head in an ornate eighteenth-century bow and sat down with as much dignity as I could muster.
‘Work at the Bar!’ little Marcus said. ‘Sometimes I think I’d rather be digging roads.’
‘Only
one thing to be said for work at the Bar,’ I tended to agree, ‘is that it’s better than no work at the Bar.’
It was the lunch adjournment and the three of us – Marcus, Bernadette and I – were in a dark corner of the Carpenters Arms, not far from the court. There they did a perfectly reasonable bangers and mash. Marcus and I had big glasses of Guinness and Bernadette took hers from a bowl on the floor. The little prosecutor said he was looking forward to going for a holiday with a Chancery barrister called Clarissa Clavering on the Isle of Elba. ‘I’d been living for the day, but now it seems likely I’ll have to cancel.’
‘Why on earth?’
‘I can’t find anyone to leave Bernadette with. Clarissa only likes cats. And I do love her, Rumpole! Love Clarissa, I mean. She has a lot of sheer animal magnetism for a girl in the Chancery Division.’
‘Couldn’t you put her in a kennel? Bernadette, I mean.’
‘I couldn’t do that.’ Marcus looked as though I’d invited him to murder his mother. ‘Much as I fancy Clarissa, I couldn’t possibly do that.’
‘Then, there’s nothing else for it …’
‘Nothing else for it.’ His little mouse-like face was creased with lines of sorrow. My heart went out to the fellow. ‘Except cancel the holiday. I won’t blame Bernadette, of course. It’s not her fault. But …’
‘It’s a pity to miss so much animal magnetism?’
‘You’ve said it, Rumpole. You’ve said it exactly.’
When we arrived back at the court, there was a certain amount of confusion among the demonstrators. They started with the clear intention of cheering me and Bernadette, who, even if she was part of the prosecution team, was, after all, an animal. They knew they should boo and revile young Marcus, the disappointed lover. Finally, when they saw that I, as well as Bernadette, was on friendly terms with the forces of evil and the prosecutors of sabs, they decided to boo us all.
In the entrance hall the prospective witnesses sat waiting. I saw Tricia Fothergill as smartly turned out as a pony at a show, with gleaming hair, shiny shoes and glistening legs. She was prepared for court in a black suit and her hands were folded in her lap. On the other side of the hall sat the prospective witnesses for the defence: purple-haired Angela Ridgeway, Sebastian and Judy from the bookshop, and shaven-headed Roy Netherborn. Janet, the schoolteacher, sat next to Roy, but I noticed that they didn’t speak to each other but sat gazing, as though hypnotized, silently into space. Then, as I was wigged and gowned by now, I crossed the entrance hall towards the court. Roy got up and walked towards me slowly, heavily and with something very like menace. ‘What the hell’s the idea,’ he muttered in a low voice, full of hate, ‘of you getting into bed with the prosecution barrister?’
Forever Rumpole Page 34
