Walden of Bermondsey

by Peter Murphy

  The consequences of the fire, Roderick continues, were very serious even as things were, but at least it was only property damage; no one was killed or injured. He describes the extent of the fire, and the forensic findings about how and where it started and spread. He describes Father Stringer running from his cheese omelette, home fries and Old Peculier to summon help. He relates Father Stringer’s identification of Tony Devonald as the young man running away from the church and discarding a can later found to have contained an accelerant. He concludes by giving the jury details of the defendant’s arrest and interview and announces that he will call Father Osbert Stringer.

  It’s an odd case in a way, I reflect. The issue is not really one of identification. Tony Devonald admits to having been in the vicinity of the church, and claims to have been running to get help. No one saw any other potential culprit. Roderick hasn’t mentioned any inquiry into the phone call Tony claims to have received summoning him to the church, even though the police seized his mobile when he was arrested.

  ‘Father Stringer, how long have you been in holy orders?’

  ‘For more than thirty years.’

  Stringer is a small, wiry man. It’s hard to guess his age, except that for some reason he looks closer to sixty than forty. He has thinning white hair, a white moustache, and a neatly trimmed white beard. Everything else about him, the full-length cassock, belt – and the eyes – are solid black. There is a definite touch of the Rasputin about him. Instead of looking at Roderick Lofthouse, he fixes the jury with a stare which has one or two of them shifting uncomfortably in their seats.

  ‘And for how long have you been vicar of St Giles?’

  ‘For about four years.’

  ‘Let me take you to the evening in question, the evening when your church was burned. Do you remember that evening?’

  Oh, come on, Roderick, I think, no prizes for the answer to that one. But it is interesting: I look at Stringer, and I can’t detect any emotion in the reply at all.

  ‘I remember it very well.’

  ‘Where were you at about eight o’clock on that evening?’

  ‘I was in the kitchen at the vicarage, having dinner, an omelette and chips.’

  ‘Was anyone else in the vicarage at that time?’

  ‘No. I live alone.’

  ‘And, to your knowledge, was anyone in the church?’

  ‘No. The choir should have been there practising, but the practice had been cancelled.’

  ‘For what reason, do you remember?’

  Hesitation.

  ‘No. Offhand, I can’t remember.’

  ‘Did anything come to your attention at about eight o’clock?’

  ‘Yes. I happened to look out of the kitchen window, and I saw what at first seemed to be a bright light coming from inside the church, close to the altar. Almost immediately, I saw smoke drifting towards the vicarage, and then flames inside the church. I knew then that the church was on fire.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I ran outside at once, taking my phone with me, and called the fire brigade.’

  ‘As you were running outside, were you aware of anyone else?’

  ‘Yes. I saw a figure running away from the church towards Vicarage Road.’

  ‘Can you describe this figure?’

  ‘Male, young, late teens to early twenties, wearing a dark jacket and jeans, dark short hair, about five-seven, five-eight.’

  ‘Father Stringer, I think that a few days later you made a formal identification of the person you saw, by identifying his image as number six in an array of nine you were shown at the police station, is that right?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Was this person also known to you before that occasion?’

  ‘He was very well known to me. It was the defendant, Tony Devonald. He and his parents are my parishioners.’

  ‘How sure are you of your identification?’

  ‘One hundred per cent.’

  ‘Thank you, Father. Did you notice whether the figure you saw had anything with him?’

  ‘Yes, he was carrying what I later saw was a metal can.’

  ‘Later saw?’

  ‘He threw the can away on the ground as he was running away. Once I had called the fire brigade, I went to look at it.’

  ‘Can you describe it for us?’

  ‘It was a large metal can, silver in colour.’

  ‘Did you notice anything else about it?’

  ‘It smelled strongly of white spirit.’

  Roderick turns around to the officer in the case, who hands him an object contained in a large, heavy-duty plastic evidence sack, bearing various labels.

  ‘With the usher’s assistance…’

  The usher today is Dawn, a thirty-something brunette who always wears bright colours under her black usher’s robe. She is the court’s resident expert on home remedies, and is our trained emergency first aid person. Dawn takes every verdict of not guilty as a personal affront. ‘Oh, Judge, after all that work,’ she sometimes says sadly once we are alone in chambers, reflecting on the loss of some defendant I have just discharged, for no better reason than that the jury were not sure of his guilt. Dawn walks brightly over to Roderick, relieves him of the package and, needing no further bidding, makes her way to the witness box to show it to the vicar.

  ‘That appears to be the can I saw,’ he confirms.

  ‘May that be exhibit one?’ Roderick asks. I assent. Dawn passes the exhibit around the jury, so that they can see the tool of the dastardly act at close quarters and be suitably horrified. They don’t look too impressed.

  ‘How long did it take the fire brigade to arrive on the scene?’

  ‘They were there very quickly. No more than ten minutes at most.’

  ‘Did they succeed in extinguishing the fire?’

  ‘Eventually. But by the time it was brought under control there was virtually nothing left inside the church.’

  ‘So the church lost…?’

  ‘All the furniture, the paintings, statues, the silverware on the altar, my vestments, prayer books, hymnals. There was nothing left, really. I didn’t discover the extent of the loss until two days after the fire. They wouldn’t let me back inside until they were sure the structure was safe.’

  Once more there is no display of emotion at all. Just the facts.

  ‘Finally, Father, have you been able to use the church since then?’

  ‘No. The church has received funds from our insurers, but the work will occupy a considerable time. We are enjoying the hospitality of our Methodist friends for the foreseeable future.’

  Roderick invites Father Stringer to stay where he is, in case there are further questions. There will be further questions; you can bet your pension on that. Cathy Writtle is already on her feet.

  ‘You were having dinner, when you noticed the fire, were you, Father?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘A cheese omelette and chips?’

  ‘I don’t see what that has to do with it.’

  ‘Neither do I. But you gave the jury the menu when my learned friend asked you what you were doing.’

  ‘Did I? Well, perhaps I did.’

  ‘What you didn’t mention was the bottle of Old Peculier you had with it. Does that have nothing to do with it as well?’

  ‘I can’t see how that would be relevant.’

  Neither can I, at present. Cathy’s defence statement says nothing about Rasputin burning the church down accidentally while trying to light a candle under the influence of Old Peculier; and in any case, that scenario wouldn’t entirely account for the presence of white spirit. It may be that Cathy is just engaging in a bit of gratuitous violence against the witness to soften him up. Roderick doesn’t seem concerned enough to object, so I’m not going to stop her unless it gets ou
t of hand.

  ‘Well, let’s think about that for a moment. Was it just the one bottle you had?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Well, it might have been two.’

  ‘Might it have been more than two?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘You don’t think so?’

  ‘No. I am sure it was just the two.’

  ‘Any advance on two? Going once …’

  ‘Miss Writtle…’ I say.

  ‘Sorry, your Honour,’ she replies, insincerely.

  ‘It was just two,’ Father Stringer says.

  ‘All right,’ Cathy says. ‘Let’s move on to something else. Was it your practice to keep the church locked at night?’

  ‘It was locked most of the time,’ Stringer replies wistfully. ‘We would have liked to keep it open all the time for prayer and meditation. But in Tottenham, you know… that would just be inviting vandalism. So we kept it locked unless there was a service or a church activity going on.’

  ‘On this evening, there should have been a choir practice going on, yes?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘But for some reason you cannot now remember, it had been cancelled?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many entrances are there to the church?

  ‘There are two. The main entrance is by the west door. But there is a smaller door on the south side. Actually, there is also a third door leading, not from the church, but from the vestry directly out into the graveyard on the north side. But it is hardly ever used.’

  ‘Were these doors locked or unlocked at the time of the fire?’

  ‘They should have been locked. Perhaps it might be more accurate to say that there would have been no reason for them to be unlocked.’

  ‘When was the last time you were in the church before the fire?’

  ‘At about four-thirty that same afternoon. I had left some papers I needed in the vestry, and I went in to get them.’

  ‘How did you enter the church?’

  ‘Through the south door, as always.’

  ‘Did you have to unlock the door in order to enter at that time?’

  ‘Yes, I am sure I did. If it had been unlocked I would have noticed.’

  ‘Did you lock the door when you left?’

  ‘Yes, I am sure I would have locked it.’

  ‘How many people have keys, apart from yourself?’

  Stringer thinks for some time.

  ‘A number of people have keys. My church wardens, our organist and choir master, the ladies who do the flowers, the cleaners. People need access to the church for various purposes throughout the day.’

  ‘Did Tony Devonald, or any member of his family, have a key?’

  ‘No.’

  Cathy pauses to allow this to sink in, seeming to consult her notes.

  ‘Now, you say you saw Tony Devonald when you came out of the vicarage, having seen the fire?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Tony does not dispute that you saw him.’

  ‘He could not dispute it. I saw him running away.’

  ‘You saw him running, Father. But you don’t know whether or not he was running away, do you? He could have been running for some other reason, could he not?’

  Stringer scoffs.

  ‘Not when I saw him throwing that metal can away.’

  Cathy nods and pulls herself up to her full height.

  ‘What was Tony wearing?’

  ‘A dark jacket and jeans.’

  ‘Gloves?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so… well, I’m not sure. I didn’t really see his hands.’

  ‘Well, you did see his hands, Father, didn’t you, if what you say is correct – that he threw down a metal can?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Father Stringer, what you saw was quite consistent with Tony removing the can to a safe distance and then running to get help, isn’t that right?’

  ‘That is not what happened.’

  ‘That will be for the jury to say, Father. My question is, whether what you saw was consistent with what I suggested to you?’

  ‘Not in my opinion.’

  ‘Very well. Did you phone Tony Devonald that evening to ask him to come to the church for any reason?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m asking.’

  ‘No. Certainly not.’

  ‘Did you ask anyone to make such a call on your behalf?’

  Stringer suddenly becomes agitated.

  ‘Don’t play games with me, young lady…’

  We are all a bit taken aback. Cathy looks at me. I prepare to lecture the witness about how to behave in court and tell him to answer the question, when he adds, quite gratuitously –

  ‘In any case, he’s done it before, hasn’t he? What more do you need?’

  There is a long silence. Roderick sighs audibly and looks away. The message he is sending me is: this is down to the witness, nothing to do with me. That is undoubtedly true.

  ‘Your Honour,’ Cathy says, ‘may I mention a matter of law in the absence of the jury?’

  I send the jury and the witness out of court. As far as I am concerned, this has put an end to the trial. The business of the fire in the garage is not admissible evidence, and it is horribly prejudicial. It should not have been mentioned. Tony Devonald is entitled to a fair trial before another jury, and once Cathy makes the request, I am bound to discharge this jury and adjourn the case to another day. The only consolation is that, once Roderick confirms to me that he instructed Father Stringer not to refer to the previous incident, which I am quite sure he did, I can threaten Stringer with proceedings for contempt for deliberately sabotaging the trial. But to my surprise –

  ‘Your Honour,’ Cathy says, ‘I am not sure how I wish to proceed. I would like to take instructions from my client. I see the hour. Might I ask your Honour to allow me until tomorrow morning to decide whether or not to apply to discharge the jury?’

  I agree immediately. It is the least I can do.

  On my way out of the building I pass Marjorie’s chambers, and poke my head around the door.

  ‘Did you get the yellow cards sorted?’ I ask.

  ‘Partly,’ she replies. ‘One of them was for head-butting a blind-side flanker. So that was easy enough. But the other one was for something called side entry.’

  We grimace at the same time.

  ‘That doesn’t sound very nice,’ I comment. ‘Do you know what it means? Is it anything to do with loose and tight heads?’

  ‘I’m not sure I want to know.’

  ‘It sounds like something that deserves an immediate red card, if you ask me. But I am sure Legless would say it’s just part of the game. Haven’t you asked him about it?’

  ‘He seems to have gone home. I’ll ask him tomorrow.’

  ‘Try not to think about it too much this evening,’ I advise. ‘It might put you off your dinner.’

  * * *

  Tuesday morning

  Fortified by a large latte, lovingly prepared by Jeanie to the accompaniment of a lament about her husband having invested the rent money in the outcome of the three o’clock at Chepstow, I make my way to chambers. Stella appears moments afterwards, to give me a date for the re-trial of Tony Devonald, and to discuss what she has available to keep me off the streets for the rest of the week. There is a two-day ABH, your typical fight outside a night-club at chucking-out time, which would otherwise go to Hubert. I can scarcely contain my excitement. But when I go into court –

  ‘Your Honour,’ Cathy says, ‘having considered the matter overnight, and having taken instructions from my client, I do not ask for the jury to be discharged. We would like the trial to continue.’

  I nod. ‘Do you want me to tell t
he jury to disregard the witness’s last answer?’

  ‘No, your Honour. But I would ask that you instruct the witness to confine himself to answering my questions.’

  That will be my pleasure. The jury comes into court. Father Stringer makes his way slowly back to the witness box. He looks rather sheepish. I get the impression that Roderick has already advised him about the error of his ways. To make sure, in the presence of the jury, I remind him that he is still under oath, and, as Cathy has requested, I give him a thorough bollocking and a lecture about behaving himself, on pain of having to show cause why he should not be held in contempt. This appears to have the desired effect.

  ‘Father Stringer,’ Cathy begins, ‘yesterday afternoon, you told the jury that my client, Tony Devonald, had, quote, done it before, unquote. The jury may be surprised to hear that, given that Tony is a young man of previous good character. Would you care to explain to them what you meant by it?’

  The witness is on the defensive now. He senses that no good is going to come of this.

  ‘Well,’ he begins slowly, ‘there was a time a couple of years ago…’

  ‘Let me help you,’ Cathy volunteers. ‘Tony’s father came to you and told you a story about knives and forks moving on their own in the Devonald household?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he suggested to you that Tony might have had something to do with that, yes?’