Evidence of the Accused

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘Where did he get this money then?’

  ‘He tried to persuade the mortgage people to cough up, but they stuck after buying the house.’

  ‘Then where did he go?’

  Suddenly, I appreciated the tone of his voice. It was full of stoaty meaning.

  I finished my beer. ‘How about the other half?’

  ‘Never say no to liquid refreshment. Keeps the kidneys active and nothing’s more important to men like me what are getting on. Eh, Ventnor?’

  ‘Kidneys are a booger,’ said Ventnor solemnly.

  I poured out the beers, returned to the arm-chair. ‘Wish to hell the weather would break. Grey skies day after day make everyone suicidal.’

  Pope threw away the butt of the cigarette he had been smoking, brought out a packet from his pocket. He handed it round, lit a match, first held it for me, then for Ventnor. He blew out the match, used another for himself. He exhaled a jet of smoke which was soon shredded by the draughts. ‘Good beer this. I’ll go for Mackesons any day of the week … Tell me straight and off the record, you reckon your loyalty lies with Cheesman and Tetley, don’t you?’

  ‘They’re my friends if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘I don’t want to sound bloody-minded, but are they?’

  I could almost hear his stoaty mind working, probing, striving to find the weak point.

  ‘It’s like this, Mr Waring. In my job I meet all sorts and I begin to know and recognise ’em. You’ll understand I’ve nothing personal against your friends even when I say they’re a definite type. If I was to come and live ’ere tomorrow they wouldn’t know I existed: or if they did, they’d try to forget the fact. If I was to win the treble chance and buy a thumping big ’ouse, a Rolls: they’d know me. They’d laugh at me behind me back, sure, but they’d know me ’cause I’d ’ave lots of money … Now again nothing personal, Mr Waring, but you ain’t got lots of money so they wouldn’t stay friendly with you because of that. Would they because you write? Would you call yourself the kind of author people think it’s a privilege to know you — like a telly star?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Then for people stupid enough to go by concrete things, you ’aven’t much concrete. They might like you very much but they just couldn’t see why they should put themselves to trouble to ’elp you.’

  ‘You’ve got on a pretty warped pair of glasses, Superintendent. I’ve known them for quite a long time. The Cheesmans may have liked money but they weren’t stupid enough to let it count for everything. They may have valued success but that’s not to say they immediately scorned anybody or anything which fell short of it. Alternatives don’t have to be diametrically opposed.’

  ‘Were you ever invited to their big parties? Or were you for the second helpings, the cold meat that had to be finished up?’

  I laughed. ‘You’re something like sixty years out of date.’

  Pope belched gently. He looked at me over the rim of his glass. ‘You’re convinced your loyalty lies with them. You might be able to ’elp me but you’re going to keep silent even though what you could say would do no one any harm … Yet you’re a lawyer so you owes a duty to the law. And there’s another thing. A third duty you owe.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘Mrs Cheesman.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘You owe her a duty to see the truth’s told.’

  ‘I admire your tenacity, Superintendent. First you try to persuade me there was no friendship, then you rely on it.’

  ‘Think what does the best good to Cheesman and Tetley.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘If I say Mrs Cheesman was murdered — would you believe either of them did it?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then since you’re so friendly with ’em, you’ll want to ’elp ’em. If they didn’t do it, the truth can’t hurt ’em … I want nothing but the truth. I’m here solely to sort out the truths and the more I have the better I can sort ’em out.’

  I laughed.

  ‘What’s amusing?’ He looked hurt by my levity.

  ‘The blatant way in which you change tracks.’ I finished my beer and still felt thirsty. There was the beer left which I had earlier thought would see me through the rest of the week. In the flush of my dry throat I offered them a third drink. Pope acted as though no less would have satisfied the laws of hospitality.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Pope as he began on the third beer. After a couple of prolonged swallows he put the glass down on the arm of the sofa. ‘D’you see what I’m driving at?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And the reasons what lie behind my words?’

  ‘I don’t know I’d use the word reasons.’

  ‘Help me to help your friends. What you tell me will almost certainly be valueless. But a bit more of the real picture is there … Where did ’e borrow the money from that he used to furnish the house?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what I know,’ I said, ‘because I can see some reason in some of your words. Tetley lent him the money.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Hundreds: thousands?’

  ‘Just don’t know.’

  Pope finished his beer. ‘Who’d’ve thought they owed money?’ It was as though he’d always believed it was only the poor who borrowed.

  I prodded the fire into giving more heat, added a log and some coal. There must have been a heavy frost outside.

  ‘Glad you’ve been kind enough to tell us what you have done, Mr Waring.’ He leaned forward and his furry face suggested he was smiling triumphantly although his mouth was not. ‘Don’t expect you knew Mrs Cheesman was covered under a life policy?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Ten thousand quid. It’s a lot to be insured for, isn’t it?’

  CHAPTER VI

  Detective Dykes rang at the front door of Settle Court. He waited a few seconds, rang again.

  The door opened and Beryl Bishop, apron askew, lank hair in massive confusion, face dirty, nose threatening to drip, stared at him. ‘Couldn’t come right away because of the cooking.’

  ‘I’d like a word with Mr Cheesman.’

  ‘Another policeman?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why don’t you leave him alone? Poor bloke, broken-’earted, and all you does is worry, worry.’ She reached up with her right hand and pushed up from her forehead some of the strands of hair. ‘It’s enough to send a bloke round the bend.’

  ‘I won’t be any longer than I have to be.’

  He stepped inside. ‘How’s he taking it?’

  ‘How would you? … In the study. Been sitting there since breakfast. Dogs is worrying ’im to take ’em out shooting, but no. I said, why don’t you go out shooting? He looked at me with a terrible expression and said: “If I’d not gone shooting last Saturday she’d still be alive.” … Makes you think, don’t it?’

  Dykes followed her along the hall into the wide section. As he walked across to the study door which she indicated with a wave of her strangely shaped hand his gaze flicked across to the spot where the body had lain. He knocked on the door. Immediately, dogs inside began to bark.

  ‘Yes?’

  He entered. Cheesman was smoking and the ash-tray by his side was filled with butts. Apples and Pears, standing up and facing the door, were quietened.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, sir.’

  ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘I’m afraid we want a drop of your blood, sir.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To check that it wasn’t your blood we found on the landing, sir.’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t.’

  ‘No, sir, but you know how it is. We have to do as much to make certain of the innocence of some as we do to prove the guilt of others.’

  ‘Do you? I wouldn’t know. I sit here and tell myself that if I hadn’t gone shooting, Lindy would still be alive. It’s strange, isn’t it, how it’s always the very small thi
ngs that affect us the hardest? Things like going out shooting as you’ve done every other Saturday in the season without any effect whatsoever.’ He reached out his right hand and stroked Apples on the head. Immediately, Pears pushed her nose forward determined to receive her share of attention.

  ‘Nice dogs, sir.’

  ‘I like them. They seem to help a bit, too, having them round me like this.’

  Dykes shifted uneasily from one foot to another. He hated his job when it forced him to intrude in another’s grief. ‘About that blood, sir.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Could you come into Ashford, sir? Won’t take a second.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as possible.’

  ‘I’ll come now. It makes no difference.’ He stood up, ran his hand through his hair. ‘I’ll just go upstairs and try to find my coat. She always used to put them away and I’m only just beginning to find out where … ’

  Dykes watched the other leave, accompanied by the dogs.

  *

  Sir Brian Tetley was a small man with a lean and long face and a prominent nose which many erroneously thought pointed to Semitic origins. His hair was receding but he covered up the fact by allowing what was left to grow long and then sweeping it back over the bald patches. His voice was medium-pitched, inclined to go a trifle too high when he became excited. He owed his success at the Bar to three things: an ability mentally to digest a vast assortment of facts and from them extract the essentials: an easy manner which convinced juries and even judges that he knew what he was talking about: a long-standing friendship with partners in some of the biggest London firms of solicitors.

  He sighed as he opened his instructions in the case of Welby Metal Construction Company against Rickman and Holdings (1929) Limited. The correspondence alone was three and a half inches deep.

  His wife looked at the clock. ‘It’s getting on toward supper-time, Brian. Leave that work.’

  ‘Can’t, dear. It’s up for hearing the beginning of next week and I’ve been so busy this is the first time I’ve had a chance to look at the papers.’

  ‘You really must start easing up on the work.’

  ‘I only wish I could.’ He yawned. ‘Did I tell you I saw Thomas at lunch-time?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ate at the Inn and he was there. Asked me if I’d ever thought about going on the Bench.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘He pointed out there’ll be a vacancy in the middle of next year.’

  ‘Was it a hint you might be offered the position?’

  ‘Hard to say. Thomas began to waffle and hurriedly explained he’d only asked because he wondered — but he might have been sent to sound me out. I don’t quite know, though, how it’d square with my never having accepted a recordership. These days, they usually seem to prefer someone who’s done his stint as a recorder: in the Queen’s Bench Division, anyway.’

  ‘You’ve been offered a recordership, though.’

  ‘And been too busy to accept … To go on the Bench would mean a fairly considerable loss of income.’

  ‘What’s the use of all the money you’re making now? You never seem to be able to get away to enjoy spending what the Government leaves you.’

  He stared at the fire.

  They heard the ringing of the front-door bell. This was followed by the sound of the Belgian girl’s shoes clacking on the hall floor.

  ‘Who the devil’s this?’ muttered Sir Brian Tetley. ‘What an hour to call! Ten to one it’s the Smiths. Run out of drink and come here to see what we’ll offer them.’

  ‘One of these days, Brian, they’ll hear what you say about them.’

  ‘Might prevent their calling so often.’

  The Belgian girl opened the door of the sitting-room. ‘Mr Entwistle says he should like to speak with you, sir.’

  ‘Good God, what a name!’

  ‘Hush, dear,’ replied his wife. ‘Did he say what he wanted, Anne-Marie?’

  ‘Mr Stuart.’

  ‘Ask him to come in here, will you, please?’ Sir Brian began to read his instructions. The Belgian girl showed Entwistle into the room. He was tall and thin and good-looking except for the scar to the right of his mouth which had the unfortunate effect of making it seem as though he were leering.

  Sir Brian Tetley looked up from his reading. ‘Very sorry to bother you at this time, Sir Brian. My name’s Detective Entwistle.’

  ‘Detective?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I really wanted to speak to your son but I couldn’t quite make the young lady understand that.’

  ‘She’s Belgian,’ explained Lady Tetley. ‘She can become very confused.’

  ‘What did you want to see my son about?’ asked Sir Brian.

  ‘A few routine questions, sir.’

  ‘He lives in London during the week. He has a flat up there.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but London reported he wasn’t there today or the earlier part of tonight so we wondered if he’d come down to see you?’

  ‘I don’t know where he is. Possibly staying with one of his friends.’

  ‘We’ll soon find him, sir. Very sorry to have bothered you.’ He turned. ‘Please don’t bother to worry anyone, I can find the way out.’ He left the room.

  ‘You ought to have seen him out,’ said Lady Tetley suddenly. ‘Who’s to know whether he was a detective, or not? You never asked for his warrant card. He may have come to steal our silver.’

  ‘Most of it’s in the bank.’

  ‘I still shouldn’t like to lose what we have here.’

  ‘He was a detective.’

  She studied his drawn face. ‘You’re worried.’

  ‘I’m no more worried than you are but neither of us has admitted to anything.’ He stood up, began to pace a short stretch of the floor. ‘We’re scared stiff because Stuart is in the middle of the Cheesman affair.’

  ‘You think people are willing to believe he had something to do with it, don’t you?’

  ‘Not willing: they’re eager. The papers haven’t left them in much doubt. The only question is, who? Stuart or Mark?’

  ‘That’s an exaggeration. It’s not even certain Lindy was murdered.’

  ‘The police have no doubts.’

  ‘But Stuart couldn’t … ’

  ‘We’re his parents. What about the millions of readers who believe whatever they read?’

  ‘Do you think Mark … killed Lindy?’

  ‘How the devil should I know, Clarry?’

  ‘There’s no need to shout.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘I suppose for days now you’ve been sitting down pretending to work but in reality worrying yourself sick over the whole business?’

  ‘I’ve been worrying, yes.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Stuart?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why haven’t you? Are you scared?’

  ‘Why should I be?’

  ‘Because he might tell you he killed the girl.’

  He stopped pacing the floor. ‘You’ve no right to say that. It’s a filthy suggestion.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it be better, Brian, to admit the truth?’

  He sat down, angrily pushed to one side all the papers in Welby Metal Construction Company against Rickman and Holdings (1929) Limited. ‘Stuart couldn’t kill.’

  ‘He saw a lot of the Cheesmans, didn’t he?’

  ‘A great deal.’

  ‘Who was it he liked the more? Mark or Lindy?’

  He stood up again, began to pace the same length of floor he had before. ‘You’re suggesting an affair between Stuart and Lindy?’

  ‘It’s possible. Young people don’t see life as strictly as we used to. If we ever did.’

  ‘Stuart’s not the type to carry on an affair with his best friend’s wife.’

  ‘Any man’s the type, given the right circumstances. Lindy was very attractive, Brian.’

  ‘I never thought so.’

  ‘Until this happ
ened, you couldn’t speak sufficiently highly of her.’

  ‘Are you going to claim I had an affair with her?’

  ‘I’m merely pointing out that your judgement is hopelessly clouded now because of your fears for Stuart. Lindy was a charming young thing, without a brain in that pretty head, and as vindictive as a cobra.’

  ‘You’re making nonsense out of your own words.’

  ‘On the contrary. She always attracted the men because she made herself so beautifully helpless. But hear her talk when she wasn’t putting on an act, hear her with only her own sex around, and you’d realise that underneath she could be a pure-bred bitch.’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t use that word.’

  ‘I can think of none other which correctly and adequately describes the late Lindy Cheesman,’ replied Lady Tetley.

  *

  Detective Carron jumped off the bus before it came to a halt. A man in city suit bumped into him, apologised, hurried on, burrowing deep inside the collar of his coat as he tried to escape the effects of the sleety drizzle. Carron looked at the traffic that choked Fleet Street, the continuous and numberless throng of pedestrians that rhythmically pulsated in either direction, the dirt …

  He looked about him for the hairdressing salon. To his right was a sign at first floor level naming Lugino, and which, with the aid of a painted image of a clenched fist and outstretched forefinger, directed him into a passage that ran down the side of a tobacconist. At the end of the passage was a second sign and a flight of stairs that was dark, dirty, and peculiarly smelly.

  He climbed the stairs. He was astonished to discover as he entered the barber’s shop on the right of the landing that it was clean, neat, tidy.

  The three chairs were occupied. The nearest white-coated assistant ceased cutting hair for a moment as he suggested with a wave of his hand that Carron sat down and waited in one of the shabby but still serviceable arm-chairs.

  He looked through an old copy of Punch, tried hard to smile at the cartoons, and failed. He’d been trying to laugh at or with Punch for years. His failure always made him feel slightly un-English.