EVIDENCE OF THE ACCUSED
Roderic Jeffries
© Roderic Jeffries 1961
Roderic Jeffries has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1961 by William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd.
This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER I
The brakes of the Old Girl, an Austin Seven, squealed and one of the wheels locked and churned up the gravel. Finally, she came to a halt and the engine died with a strangled hiccup. Excusable eccentricities in a car which first travelled the roads in 1935 and which was still in commission because the owner of the local garage had once raced Austin Sevens at Brooklands and had had a soft spot for them ever since. I opened the door and climbed out, slamming the door shut.
I passed the Mark Nine, green Jaguar. Mark had said he was getting a new car but I’d no idea it was to be in this class. Long live the expense account.
I rang the bell and waited. The wind curled round the porch and dug into the back of my neck. About to pull the hood of my duffel coat up and over my head, I stopped as I heard approaching footsteps. The door opened.
‘Hallo, John. Hurry in and get before a fire — I’m sure it’s cold enough for snow or something.’
‘Thanks, Lindy. Touch of the Arctic, all right.’ I stepped inside and brushed my feet on the large mat. She hurriedly shut the door on the wind. She wore a new dress which suited her as well as ever. Lindy had a flair for clothes which might have been of commercial use had she ever had to earn a living. Her appearance would have been an additional asset. Naturally curly blonde hair, a round face, blue eyes set above a well-proportioned nose and mouth, and a figure as thin as contemporary taste demanded yet with all the right curves.
‘Mark’s in the study — he’s only just back from a walk in the wood with a gun.’
‘Did he have any luck?’
‘One old cock pheasant with spurs that stretch from here to there. I’ll have to dash madly through all my cookery books to try and find out how you deal with an old bird.’
I reflected that after a great deal of effort and trouble she would bring to table a beautifully tender dish that lacked practically all flavour. That just about summarised her cooking.
We walked along the narrow part of the hall, and came to the broad open section which gave to the house a touch of the baronial. The study was on the left. During the winter it was used for informal occasions since it could be kept warm. The drawing-room which was to the north of it was twenty feet long and even with the central heating full on everyone in it was uncomfortably aware of cold draughts.
Lindy entered the study and I followed her. Mark stood by the gun cupboard, cleaning his gun. It was obvious it was in the Holland class because of the careful way in which he handled it. Lindy had given it to him a couple of birthdays back. He looked up. ‘Hallo, John, glad you could make it.’ He smiled briefly. He was a handsome thirty-five, a man who took enough exercise to keep his figure tight despite all the sedentary hours he spent in the City making money. Lying near his feet were his two German short-haired pointers. They half barked at me, wagged their shortened tails as I spoke to them. Then they returned to what they’d been doing before. Apples, spotted all over, licked her fore-paws: Pears, liver-coloured with only a dash of white, drooping from a litter she had only recently finished feeding, stared wistfully up at the gun. ‘I had some damned bad luck today,’ said Mark. ‘Apples pointed a bird and put it up and I shot and missed with both barrels and then another two broke out almost under my feet and caught me reloading.’
‘They’ll be there for another day.’
‘I shouldn’t bet much on that. There are too many locals who know the woods far better than I ever shall, and I’ll guarantee they don’t dine on butcher’s meat during the season.’ He finished swabbing the barrels of the gun with oil, fixed them on to the stock, clipped home the hand-grip. He put the gun into the cupboard, locked the door. ‘Why don’t you come out sometime for an afternoon’s sport?’
‘Much too busy.’
He laughed. ‘Listen to him, Lindy! The man spends half his life sitting down waiting vainly for inspiration and he says he hasn’t time!’
‘You’re not to be rude about John’s writing,’ she replied.
‘You’d never take offence, would you, John?’
I shook my head. ‘Since when did the mutterings of the Philistines disturb the Israelites?’
Mark ignored my comment. Any religious reference tended to embarrass him, probably because he always thought he ought to be more religious than he was. Lindy and he went to church with reasonable regularity because it was expected of people in their position: they were always very careful never to become too friendly with the vicar. ‘When’s Stuart coming?’ he asked.
‘I said four, but knowing him I doubt we’ll see him before five,’ replied Lindy.
‘Maybe his archaic rattle-box of a car has finally burst at the seams.’
‘You keep the bright remarks to yourself, Mark Cheesman. Last time you two argued about cars I thought you’d end up by shooting each other — and I don’t want to become a widow.’
‘Vintage cars! All noise and no go.’ Mark crossed the room to the small pembroke table and picked up the silver cigarette case. He offered it. Lindy and I accepted. He flicked open the Ronson. ‘D’you see the new Jag. by any chance, John?’
‘Hardly miss doing so when it’s stuck out in the middle of the drive.’
‘Left it there this morning and haven’t had time to move it … She’s an absolute beauty. Comfortable as they come and when you put your foot down the acceleration’s so fierce you all but take off. Don’t you think she’s just the job?’
They watched me. They liked everything they owned to be praised. Since they never bought anything but the expensive, it wasn’t too difficult to do this.
I answered. ‘Very suitable for the best bowler and the largest Havana.’
‘Did you look at the upholstery?’ asked Lindy.
I shook my head.
‘We had the leather covered, of course, and I chose an imitation leopard-skin.’
Pears dragged herself to her feet and her undercarriage hung low above the lambskin rug. She settled nearer the fire with a contented grunt. Apples almost immediately did precisely the same thing.
‘There were lots of colours we could have had but the leopard-skin seemed the most amusing.’ Lindy’s brow puckered. ‘I hope we chose the right way.’
‘I’m sure you did,’ I said.
‘If I didn’t, we can always change next year. The firm pays for everything and they don’t seem to mind. Not that they should — it all goes down to tax.’ Lindy crossed to the fire and stood with her back to it as she warmed her bottom. If anyone can have a characteristic posture, hers was before the fire with the back of her skirt lifted up so that although she remained very elegant and all proprieties were observed, her bottom warmed.
Mark sat down in the nearer leather-covered armchair. ‘I’m leggy. The bracken’s thick this year and tramping through it is like trying to wade through a sea of treacle.’
‘Many birds around?’ I asked.
‘You’ll be able to,’ said Lindy definitely. She was odd where money was concerned. No one had ever taught her how hard it was to make and so she regarded it with contempt.
‘If the estate were keepered,’ said Mark, ‘it would become a rattling good shoot. There’s every chance of showing the birds well.’
‘Why not hire a man now,’ I suggested, ‘and put it down on the firm’s taxes along with the leopard-skin covers?’
He grinned. ‘Some people seem to think that anything and everything gets put down to expenses and the income-tax boys swallow the lot.’
‘And don’t they?’
‘Depends on the tame-accountant. If he possesses the inherent characteristics of a crook, you’re probably all right.’
‘And should he unfortunately have an honest streak?’
‘You change him, of course.’
Apples cocked her head and Pears followed suit. They both began to bark, quietened to a command from Lindy who refused to suffer dogs that were smelly, dirty, or noisy. If she ever had a child it would quickly have to learn to be none of those things.
‘Must be Stuart,’ said Mark, ‘and not before time.’
‘I’ll go and start tea,’ said Lindy. ‘I’ll let him in on the way.’ She dropped her dress over her rear portions, made certain it was in order, left the room.
We heard the heavy roar of a car engine being revved. That was Stuart Tetley making certain his four and a half litre Bentley was appreciated by the neighbourhood. Then the engine was cut and there was silence.
Within a minute, Stuart came into the study. He was of Mark’s age, tall, broad-shouldered but otherwise slim, handsome in a vaguely too-handsome manner. Stuart invariably dressed as though about to attend a more important cocktail party. I’m sure that if he ever had to struggle through a twenty-foot patch of brambles he’d come out the other side sartorially fit for a tea-party in Eaton Square.
‘Hallo, Mark, someone’s insulted your house and hearth by dumping a revoltingly bloated example of modern cars in your front drive. I promised Lindy I’d telephone the local council to ask them kindly to cart it away … How’s John? Still writing books for the millions? That reminds me. I met a chap last week at the Macilroys’ and we began talking about books. Somehow your name cropped up and d’you know, he read your stuff and said he liked it.’
‘Try not to sound quite so surprised,’ I replied.
‘Yes, but he seemed an educated man.’
We laughed. Stuart had the fortunate knack of being able to be thoroughly rude in an amusing and disarming manner. That was one of the faculties which had greatly helped him to find success at the Bar. That, and the fact his father was one of the leading Silks in common law.
‘D’you have any luck this afternoon?’ asked Stuart, as he moved nearer the fire. ‘Sorry I couldn’t make it but the old man had asked a couple of local trouts to lunch and he demanded I stay and make polite noises … They’re a pair of sisters who were old when Victoria died. They believe in two things: work and the immaculacy of parents.’
‘And you believe in neither?’ I queried.
‘Either, so long as I’m not expected to do anything about it … What was the bag? Twenty brace?’
‘One old cock.’
‘What? I expected to be given at least a brace to take home.’
‘You’d better go and ask old Yarrow. I don’t doubt he’s got some spare poached ones around.’
‘I can’t think why you don’t fling the bastard into the local court.’
‘I will if ever I catch him.’
‘There’s a point there … In any case, since the office of J.P was thrown open to all and sundry no Bench has ever dealt with poaching as it should. Six months for every bird they take — that would soon stop the nonsense.’ Stuart bent down and patted the dogs. They licked his hands and wagged their tails, smelled him all over as they picked out the scent of his own bitch.
‘Are you fit for next Saturday?’ asked Mark.
‘Wouldn’t miss it for all the old trouts in Fowlton. I’ll give you a lesson in shooting, Mark. Right and left after right and left.’ He raised his hands as though he held a gun in them, swept them over an angle of fifty degrees and nearly fell sideways from the crouching position he was in.
Lindy came into the room. ‘Tea won’t be long.’
‘Good,’ said Stuart as he stood up. ‘The drive in the fresh air’s given me an appetite. Crumpets, bread and raspberry jam with Devonshire cream, tea-cakes … ’
‘You’re being offered chocolate biscuits and nothing more until supper.’
‘Mother was quite right when she said that if I was coining here I ought to have a solid meal first.’
‘Your mother wouldn’t know how to be so rude.’
Mark threw his cigarette butt into the fire. It hit a log, rolled backwards and out into the grate. He bent down, picked it up, dropped it behind the logs. ‘Why don’t you join in the shoot for once, John?’ he asked as he stood up. ‘Push some fresh air down your throat.’
‘As I said before: too much work.’
‘You don’t really work over the weekend, surely? I thought no one did that in the welfare state.’ Stuart tried to sound surprised: perhaps forgetting the times he had seen his father work throughout Saturday and Sunday. Few counsel were busier than Sir Brian Tetley.
A shrill whistle came from the kitchen. ‘That’s the kettle,’ said Lindy, and she hurried from the room.
‘How’s the City doing, Mark?’ asked Stuart. ‘Work pouring in?’
‘Things aren’t too bad at the moment.’
‘That whale-sized Jaguar is yours, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then the City’s doing bloody well, boy, and admit it. What are your firm’s profits? A couple of thousand per cent? You just can’t miss being a millionaire in your job unless you’ve got a conscience.’
Mark smiled briefly, put more wood on the fire. I’d noticed before that although he liked people to be able to appreciate the extent of his income, he did not like them to do so in words. He considered that to be in poor taste.
Lindy called out from the kitchen and Mark left the room.
‘The old man asked me to give you a message,’ said Stuart. ‘He was going to write but when he heard I’d be seeing you today he asked to be forgiven for doing things the lazy way. In the near future you’ll be receiving an article from a very learned judge. The old man says the article will almost certainly be quite chaotic but he hopes you’ll agree it might be an idea to print it.’
‘And keep the very learned judge happy?’
‘That’s the angle. The poor old boy has reached his dotage, as the Court of Criminal Appeal pointed out the other day. They referred to one of his decisions as explainable only if the facts of the case as well as the law had been completely misinterpreted.’
‘I’ll print the article, no matter what.’
‘Good on you, John, as a friend of mine used frequently to say in a Chauvinistic desire to underline his country of origin … An unnecessary art, really, since it was perfectly obvious if one took account of the way he behaved.’ Stuart knelt on the carpet and began to speak to Pears. ‘Well, my little bitch, and how’s mum after all the little puppies has been sold off? Still the best pointer in the south of England?’ The dog’s tail beat the floor and she reached out with a long tongue to lick the right-hand side of his face. Apples pulled herself across the carpet, determined that she should be included in the fuss. ‘Well, you two, are you going to do your work next Saturday? Are you going to point thousands of birds for your Uncle Stuart to shoot?’
Stuart was one of the few people I knew who could talk to dogs with doggie inanities and yet not sound ridiculous.
Mark, carrying a large tray, retur
ned to the room. Lindy was immediately behind him and she moved forward and put the small tea-table in position before the fire. She looked round the room as she made certain everything was in order, noticed the dogs. ‘Out.’
Apples and Pears sought support, their canine eyes filled with appeal. It was useless. Lindy would not have dogs in the room while she ate. Slowly, they stood up, walked across to the door which Mark opened for them. Their shortened tails were miserably tucked against their sides. Mark shut the door on them. He would have let them stay but he would never cross Lindy on a matter such as this.
‘Move the chairs up and sit down.’ Lindy filled the cups from the Georgian tea-pot that had been a wedding present from an aunt. She didn’t like it because she believed it did not look as good as it undoubtedly was. Because of that, on formal occasions she used a modern silver tea-pot she had made Mark buy her and which looked precisely the forty-five pounds it had cost.
The fire warmed our fronts and the central heating protected our flanks. The wrought-iron standard lamps gave a pleasant mellow light which blurred together into a semblance of harmony some of the colours Lindy had inadvisably brought together in the room.
*
I said good night to Lindy in the study. She told me to visit them more often and not wait for an invitation: I smiled because there was nothing more guaranteed to upset her than an unannounced visit.
Mark came outside with Stuart and me.
‘I never thought you’d sink to this!’ Stuart pointed at the Jaguar, her new paint-work gleaming in the porch light.
‘Jealous because your old thing had seen better days a quarter of a century ago?’
‘Sir, you’re talking about the woman I love.’ Stuart secured the upraised collar of the thick overcoat more firmly around his neck, wedged the cap about his head. ‘Many thanks, Mark. Next Saturday, and may the wood boil with birds. So long, John.’ He walked past the Austin Seven and reached the Bentley, looking like a chunk of prehistoric monster. He stepped on to the vast running-boards, undipped the tonneau-cover, climbed over the side and sat down behind the wheel. With a screech of metal the starter engaged and the behemoth’s engine began to beat. He waved, revved, let out the clutch and the car moved off. There was more than a trace about him of Kenneth More in the car that wasn’t Genevieve.
Evidence of the Accused Page 1
