The Caverel Claim

by Peter Rawlinson

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘She’s Paul’s wife.’

  ‘The widow of the man who knew you as Sarah Wilson?’

  Before Fleur could reply, from the bench Murray said abruptly, ‘It is after one o’clock. I shall rise now.’ He gathered up his papers.

  ‘No,’ Mordecai protested angrily. ‘This part of the evidence should be concluded before there is any adjournment. It is important this should be done without any interruption and before the witness has a chance to –’

  ‘I decide when my court shall rise, not you, Mr Ledbury. I said I shall rise now. It is past one o’clock.’

  Murray rose. Mordecai thumped the table with his stick. ‘The witness should be warned –’ he began.

  ‘It is common knowledge that no one is permitted to speak to a witness under cross-examination,’ said Murray coldly. ‘I trust you’re not suggesting that Sir Percy or anyone else would do such a thing.’ He disappeared.

  When he had gone, Mordecai turned to Percy. ‘I hold you personally responsible to see that no one, no one, speaks to the witness.’

  ‘There is no need to threaten me, Ledbury.’

  ‘Then what arrangements will you make?’

  ‘Miss Caverel will be escorted to the cafeteria for her lunch. You can send a clerk with them if you wish.’

  ‘I certainly do.’

  Oliver spoke to Freeman who went across the court and stood beside Stevens.

  ‘I don’t want anything,’ Fleur called from the witness box. ‘I’ll stay in the court.’ She stepped down and came to the seat beside Stevens where she’d been sitting before she had begun her evidence. ‘Bring me a glass of water, please,’ she said to the usher.

  Freeman remained beside her.

  Outside, Willoughby came up to Stevens as he emerged alone. ‘Where’s Fleur?’

  ‘She’s staying in court. She doesn’t want anything.’

  ‘The woman who was brought in? What’s she going to say?’

  Stevens shrugged and Willoughby flung away.

  Mordecai and Oliver joined Mr Rogers in the conference room. ‘The others?’ Mordecai asked. Mr Rogers nodded. Mordecai poured some liquor from his flask into his coffee cup and ignored the sandwiches. Oliver watched but said nothing.

  * * *

  When the court resumed, Fleur was back in the box, the woman standing where she had been before the adjournment.

  Murray nodded curtly. Mordecai turned to Fleur. ‘You have been granted some time in which to think about what you know I am going to ask.’

  ‘That is not a question,’ said Murray.

  Before Mordecai could reply Fleur said, ‘I have no idea what you’re going to ask me.’

  ‘Haven’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where have you met this lady before?’

  ‘In Paris.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Two or three years ago.’

  ‘When you met her, it was many months, perhaps a year before you saw the advertisement for Sarah Wilson in the Herald Tribune. Isn’t that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And many months after you had first met Paul Valerian in Istanbul?’

  ‘More than months, a year or more.’

  ‘Did you meet this lady, Mr Valerian’s wife, now widow, in a restaurant in Paris in the Rue Montparnasse where you and Paul were having lunch?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She came to your table and spoke to her husband. Did he introduce you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He said to you, I suppose … This is my wife?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what did he say to her about you? How did he introduce you?’

  ‘I cannot remember.’

  ‘Try.’

  Fleur shook her head. She had the small handkerchief in one hand rolled in a ball and she began passing it from one hand to the other. At the back of the court Greg shifted in his seat, in agony for her.

  ‘You told us that Paul knew you as Sarah Wilson, that he always called you Sarah. Well, was that the name he called you when his wife came over to the table in the restaurant in Paris?’

  Still she did not reply. Mordecai answered for her. ‘He didn’t, did he? Nor did he say, this is Leila Houseman, the name you were using at his club, did he?’ Mordecai waited for her answer but as she didn’t reply, he went on, ‘He called you Ella Moreau, that’s what he called you, didn’t he? Not Sarah Wilson. It wasn’t Sarah Wilson he called you when he introduced you to his wife, was it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember.’

  ‘I repeat. Did he not say to his wife that you were Ella, Ella Moreau?’ Mordecai waited but she did not reply.

  ‘If this lady when she comes to give evidence says you were introduced to her as Ella Moreau, would you deny that?’

  ‘No. I suppose he may have.’

  ‘Why should he have called you Ella Moreau when you’ve told us he always referred to you on all occasions as Sarah Wilson?’

  ‘If he did, I don’t know why.’

  ‘Do you think that this lady, if she says her husband called you, introduced you as, Ella Moreau, could be mistaken?’

  ‘No, but –’

  ‘You and she had quite a long talk on that occasion, did you not?’

  ‘We talked.’

  ‘She joined you and Paul, and asked you about yourself and you told her?’

  ‘She did ask about me.’

  ‘And you told her you were Ella, Ella Moreau and’ – he went on rapidly – ‘that your mother came from the island of St Martin near Guadeloupe in the Caribbean and that your father was a steward off an American tourist ship?’

  Fleur leaned forward over the edge of the witness box. ‘That is not true,’ she said, ‘that is not true.’ She had raised her voice almost to a shout. ‘I never said that.’

  ‘So if this lady were to say you did, she would be lying?’

  ‘She would, she would be lying. I may have said my name was Ella – I did use that name. I’ve told you it was one of my stage names but I never said anything to her about my mother or my father. That’s a lie, a lie.’ Tears had come into her eyes and she dabbed them with the handkerchief.

  Mordecai turned to the woman standing below the witness box. She was looking even more bewildered than she had when she had entered the court. ‘Merci, madame,’ Mordecai said. ‘Asseyez-vous maintenant, s’il vous plaît.’

  ‘What was that?’ said Murray. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I told her in my imperfect French that she may sit.’ Mordecai looked around. ‘I think she may prefer to leave the court and wait outside. But she’ll be back, to give evidence when she is needed.’

  Mordecai nodded to Mr Rogers who led the woman out through the swing-door.

  Murray saw Fleur’s distress. ‘Would you like to sit?’ he asked her.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. The usher pushed up the chair and Fleur sat. Only her head and her folded hands in which she still held the balled handkerchief could be seen over the rim of the witness box.

  ‘Continue,’ Murray said.

  ‘At the date when you met the lady who has just left court, what was the name on your passport?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘When you first came to Europe, what kind of a passport did you have, from what country?’

  ‘The United States.’

  ‘In what name?’

  ‘Sarah Wilson.’

  ‘Where is that passport?’

  ‘It was stolen.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In Istanbul. I was lodging in the Pera. I left my bag on the bar counter for a moment and –’

  ‘Did you report the loss or theft to your embassy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I thought I might get into trouble.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I thought they might think I sold it. People were doing that at that time, a
nd anyway I had another.’

  ‘Another passport?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How was that?’

  ‘Paul got me one.’

  ‘He got you another American passport?’

  ‘No, it was German.’

  ‘How did he get you that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘In what name?’

  ‘He said the name had to be German-sounding so it was in the name of Leila Houseman.’

  ‘One of your so-called stage names?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you still got that passport?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was that passport stolen too?’

  ‘No. I gave it back to Paul.’

  ‘What passport have you now?’

  ‘An American passport.’

  ‘In what name?’

  ‘Sarah Wilson.’

  ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘From the embassy in Paris. I told them I’d lost the original.’

  ‘When did you get this new passport?’

  ‘Just before I went to Charleston.’

  ‘For the first or the second time?’

  She looked at him, biting her lip. ‘The first time. When I went to see Mr Walker about the advertisement.’

  ‘You made a second trip to Charleston and not long before this trial commenced, did you not?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  She hesitated. ‘I needed to remind myself.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About where I’d spent my early life.’

  ‘And you needed to remind yourself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Or was it so that you could see for the first time the places where Sarah Wilson spent her childhood so that you, Ella Moreau, could the better lie when you came to court?’

  She struck the edge of the witness box with the hand holding the handkerchief. ‘That’s not true. I went because I … because I just wanted to see the place again, to remind myself and…’ Her answer petered out.

  Mordecai stared at her, waiting. Then he said, ‘I shall return to that second, recent, mysterious visit, the visit which you say was to remind yourself, a little later in my cross-examination. For the moment let me ask you about your first visit to Charleston. In Paris you applied for a new passport in order to go and see the lawyer who had placed the advertisement in the Herald Tribune?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘By applying at the embassy for a replacement passport, didn’t you fear there might be trouble, as you had feared when you were in Istanbul?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you applied as Sarah Wilson?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And using that passport you went to Charleston to see the lawyer and showed him that passport to identify yourself as Sarah Wilson?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it was many months later that you returned to Charleston in order, you say, to remind yourself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  There was a long pause. Suddenly Mordecai asked, ‘Have you ever been to Budapest?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve worked there.’

  Mordecai turned and nodded to Mr Rogers who held open the door of the court.

  This time the noise from the spectators in the gallery which greeted the new entrant through the court door was louder. ‘It’s Dukie,’ someone cried from the gallery, ‘it’s Dukie Brown.’

  When he heard the cry as he came into court, Dukie Brown, bronzed and sun-tanned, wearing an electric blue jacket and white trousers, hand in hand with Clem in the shortest of miniskirts, looked up at the gallery, grinned and waved with his free hand.

  ‘Who shouted that?’ Murray said from the bench. ‘Have that person removed immediately.’

  The usher stood, looking up at the gallery. In the body of the court, Willoughby half rose to his feet. Dukie saw him and raised two fingers at him.

  ‘Who are these people?’ said Murray.

  ‘I shall ask the witness,’ said Mordecai. ‘But I’m only interested in the man, not his companion.’

  ‘She’s with me,’ said Dukie cheerfully.

  ‘Be quiet,’ Murray said, a querulous note now in his voice. For the first time in his judicial experience he seemed to be in danger of losing control of his court. Ledbury, it was all Ledbury’s doing.

  Mordecai went on, ‘Do you recognise this man?’

  Fleur was staring at Dukie. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  ‘He’s a singer, isn’t he, a pop star?’

  She nodded. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Dukie Brown.’

  ‘Do you remember meeting Mr Brown in Budapest in 1992?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You spent the weekend of 16th to 18th December 1992 with him’ – Mordecai held up a piece of paper and read from it – ‘at the Grand Hotel, Corvinus Kempinski, isn’t that right?’ He lowered the piece of paper. She nodded. ‘Please answer, yes or no.’

  ‘Yes.’ It was a whisper.

  ‘What name did you call yourself when you spent that weekend with Mr Brown?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Think.’ He waited. ‘It wasn’t Sarah Wilson, was it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘When Mr Brown comes into the witness box and if he swears that you were then calling yourself Ella Moreau, would you deny it?’

  ‘No. I could have.’

  ‘Could have? You could have called yourself anything. What were you calling yourself in 1992?’

  ‘Ella Moreau, sometimes. It was my stage name.’

  ‘During your weekend with Mr Brown do you remember talking with him about the Caribbean and the islands – and in particular the island which is one half Dutch and the other French, the island called St Martin from which you came?’

  ‘That’s not true. That’s a lie.’

  ‘And did you tell him that you knew the island of St Martin well?’

  ‘I did not, I did not.’

  ‘So if this gentleman says you did, he too would be a liar, like the lady who has just left the court. Is that it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘About a year after your weekend with Mr Brown, you told Paul Valerian’s wife your name was Ella Moreau?’

  ‘If I did, I told you it was my stage name.’

  ‘So to Madame Valerian and to Mr Brown you said your name was Ella Moreau – not Lila or Leila Houseman, not Anna St Martin, not Sarah Wilson but Ella Moreau.’

  ‘I keep telling you. It was my stage name.’

  Mordecai paused. Then he said very quietly, ‘It was more than your stage name, wasn’t it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know very well what I mean. You called yourself Ella Moreau to Paul Valerian’s wife and to Duke Brown, because Ella Moreau was your real name, because Moreau was your mother’s name. You took her name, didn’t you, the name of your mother who never married the steward off the tourist ship. You were, and always have been Ella Moreau. The other names, including Sarah Wilson, were names you have assumed. Isn’t that the truth, Miss Ella Moreau?’

  She had got to her feet and was bending over the rail of the witness box, the tears now rolling down her face.

  ‘No, no, it’s not true. I am Sarah Wilson – I mean I was Sarah Wilson until I discovered my real name was Fleur Caverel.’

  Greg had his head again in his hands. Dukie Brown was pointing at Willoughby, raising two fingers again and laughing.

  ‘What is that man doing?’ said Murray.

  Mordecai turned to Mr Rogers. ‘Take them out,’ he said.

  As Dukie and Clem left, giggling, Mordecai turned once again to the back of the court. He pointed to an elderly black woman with grizzled, grey hair.

  ‘Please stand,’ he said. The woman did. Fleur had sunk down on to the chair behind her.

  ‘Who is the woman now standing in the back of the court?’

  Fleur had her hands over her eyes. ‘Please look at the lad
y standing in court behind me. Who is she?’

  Fleur dropped her hands and looked across the court. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t you know who she is? Don’t you recognise this lady? Perhaps if you stood, you might be able to see her better.’

  Fleur stood. ‘Who is she?’ repeated Mordecai.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Fleur. ‘I don’t know her.’

  Mordecai turned to the woman standing behind him. ‘Will you, please, come forward and stand below the witness box where the witness can see you clearly.’

  The woman came to where Mordecai had directed.

  Mordecai said to Fleur, ‘You can see the lady quite well now. Who is she?’

  ‘I told you. I don’t know her.’

  Mordecai gestured and the woman went back to her seat. Fleur sat, the tears falling down her cheeks.

  ‘Why are you weeping?’

  Percy got to his feet. ‘The witness is weeping because she’s distressed. My friend can see that perfectly well and –’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Mordecai said savagely. ‘I can see she’s distressed. She’s distressed, as you call it, because she knows…’ He raised his arm and pointed at Fleur in the witness box, his robe flapping, looking, Mr Rogers thought, like a great black raven. ‘… she knows that after all these months of lies and imposture, she’s being confronted with the truth.’

  Fleur, her hands in her lap, was rocking to and fro on her chair, now and again dabbing her eyes with the balled handkerchief.

  ‘The truth,’ repeated Mordecai, ‘she is being confronted with the truth.’ He paused. ‘I ask you again. Who is the woman who was standing just below you?’

  Still Fleur rocked back and forward, sobbing, shaking her head.

  ‘You don’t answer because you don’t know, do you? But if you were who you say you are, you would know. The real Sarah Wilson would know who that lady is and she’d be able to tell us. For the last time, I ask. Who is she?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Then let me tell you what I suggest that lady will say when she gives evidence before the court. She’ll say she is the niece of the woman who brought up Sarah Wilson, the niece Sarah Wilson used to call Aunt Tess, the niece whom fifteen years ago, during Sarah Wilson’s childhood, Sarah Wilson saw at the Wilsons’ home in St John’s near Charleston in South Carolina day in and day out, week in, and week out for years on end.’

  ‘That’s not true, it’s not true,’ Fleur sobbed. ‘It’s a lie.’