Evidence of the Accused

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘Right, sir.’

  He put the magazine down, stood up and crossed to the lately vacated barber’s chair, sat down in it. A clean white sheet was deftly whirled round him and the top ends tucked about his neck. ‘Trim, sir? Sides, back, and a little off the top?’

  ‘That’s the ticket.’

  ‘Not had a chance to have a cut recently, sir? Or maybe your hair grows quickly? Some people just can’t keep it from shooting up. There’s a gent comes in here every week and believe it or not, each time he comes you wouldn’t think he’d seen the inside of a hairdresser for a month or more.’

  Carron watched in the mirror as the electric clippers moved up and down the back of his neck.

  He liked having his hair cut. It was the one time in life when there was absolutely nothing to do but sit back and let someone else get on with the work. His pleasure was spoilt by the fact that this time was the exception.

  ‘Mr Tetley recommended me to come here,’ he said, cutting across a long story eventually designed to try to sell a well-known hair tonic.

  ‘Ah, yes, sir. Regular trim sides and top and singe.’

  ‘We got talking about horse racing. He was telling me you really know your horses.’

  ‘Not me, sir. Charles over there, giving a friction massage. Nothing finer for the scalp. You see, sir, the skin of the head has to breathe just like the skin on your hand and when there’s any dandruff the nostrils of the skin are clogged up. Now a friction massage clears away the dandruff and the roots of the hair can flourish. It’s like digging over a rose bed … Do your head a power of good, sir. After a certain age it’s a case of hair today and gone tomorrow.’

  ‘Does this chap study form?’

  The man sighed, put down the electric clippers, picked up comb and scissors, began to cut the hair on the top of Carron’s head. ‘He calls it studying form. Buys hundreds of papers on the subject and reads ’em by the hour. But I tell you straight, I’ve done as well as he ever has with nothing more ’n a pin. Picked out the winner of last year’s Derby that way, I did. Never put anything on it, of course. When I put money on a horse it tries to talk itself into being ground up for dogs’ meat.’

  ‘How does he make out with his betting?’

  ‘Charlie? If I told you how many times he’s had to borrow money from me to take enough back to the missus to pay for the housekeeping, you wouldn’t ask. You really wouldn’t … Bad bit of dandruff, here, sir.’

  ‘My friend, Tetley, seemed to think quite a bit of his tips.’

  ‘Then your friend Mr Tetley is a poorer man than what he started out as … Funny. Now you come to mention it, I seem to recollect Charlie saying he wasn’t responsible if people liked to put a hundred on when his tip wasn’t meant for more than a quid … But if that had anything to do with Mr Tetley, he wouldn’t think much of Charlie’s tips, would he? Now, sir, how’s that on top?’

  Carron stared at his reflection in the mirror. He had a childish longing to stick his tongue out at himself.

  *

  I pushed my typewriter to one side and massaged my fingers. One of the troubles of using only three fingers, two on the left hand, one on the right, was that by the end of the day they ached abominably. Even the ones I didn’t use — which never made sense to me.

  I wondered how the new book was coming on, but couldn’t decide. I had never been able to evaluate my own work. Just as well. I lit a cigarette. Articles for the next issue but two of Laws and Lawyers had begun to arrive. Among them had been two short stories by Bilbow, the Divorce Silk. Bilbow was a thumping good lawyer: he was an amazingly bad writer and I had always tactfully to reject everything he sent in. He became so annoyed by this the previous year that he complained to Sir Brian Tetley. When Sir Brian told me what had happened and asked if I couldn’t include at least one of the stories to keep Bilbow happy, I made no answer other than to give him the latest two to read. I heard no more from Sir Brian on that score.

  I flicked ash from the cigarette into the grate. From above came the quick scampering sound of a mouse crossing the attic. I’d tried to kill that mouse for the past three months. It knew its way about all types of traps and positively thrived on poison.

  The cigarette was finished and I threw the butt into the fire. It was time to move. I’d promised myself I’d go and see Mark. One always felt one had to help even though one knew there was really nothing anyone could do.

  I left the house after I’d put the guard before the fire, locked the front door. Two precautions that were quite unnecessary. The house was insured for more than anyone would pay for it and there was nothing in it worth stealing.

  I entered the shed, opened the door of the Old Girl by hitting it, and climbed in. The engine started at the first pull of the starter which was incredible if not unique. I drove out of the shed on to the road and saw our local policeman on his motor bike. He was very decent. Whenever we met on the roads he looked in the opposite direction and presumed my car had recently been passed as safe.

  There was a sharp wind cutting across the open land of the Marsh and the sheep were turning their rumps into it. The rushes in the undredged dykes whipped backwards and forwards, the overgrown blackthorn hedges vibrated. The hills of the mainland, as we called it, were partially obscured by rain. Certain landmarks were there, like the white Italian-styled house, but others were lost behind the wet.

  I passed the fields a Lincolnshire man had bought and in which he was growing bulbs. In springtime the flowers attracted sightseers from a long way away. That was why I didn’t like to see bulbs in the Marsh. The coastline was one ugly, jumbled, joyless holiday resort: I prayed the interior would never become equally polluted. Let it stay lonely, cold, almost treeless, home of the heron, plover, eel, hare, wild duck, and the finest sheep in the world.

  I crossed the Military Canal, climbed into the mainland, went through the village of Cortington. Here, inevitably, suburban bungalows and houses were being built. On the most fertile land, of course. More people who worked in Ashford and knew nothing about the countryside but hated it and treated it with disgusted contempt.

  Settle Court looked larger than it usually did because of some trick of light. No matter how much money I had, I’d never live in a house like that.

  Beryl Bishop let me in. Since Lindy had died, Beryl had worked in the house every day, all day. She had always liked Mark and now I suppose she thought in her odd mind that she was mothering him.

  Apples and Pears barked my arrival, greeted me as I entered the study. They were inherently friendly dogs and when they knew anyone as well as they knew me they treated me as though I were one of the family.

  ‘Hallo, John,’ said Mark.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind my coming along?’

  ‘Glad to have someone to talk to. Is it too early for a drink?’

  ‘Never too early.’

  ‘G and T?’

  ‘Please.’

  He stood up and walked across to the cocktail cabinet, hesitated imperceptibly before he opened the doors. Lindy had given him that cabinet three years before.

  He poured out drinks, returned to the armchair, and sat down after he’d handed me a glass. ‘Cheers.’

  I drank. Pears lay down as near to the fire as she thought safe, rolled over and warmed her stomach.

  ‘It’s a funny life,’ said Mark. ‘Not a week ago, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  He drank quickly. I noticed his right hand was shaking and wondered at the great self-restraint he was showing. Mark was the kind of man who would always save himself because he had been taught to revere self-restraint in all of its many shapes.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ I asked, fully knowing the inadequacy and futility of the question.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You know how I feel, don’t you, Mark? You’ll make use of me the moment anything crops up where I can be of the slightest help?’

  He looked across at me. ‘I know how you feel, John. I wish I could
say how I appreciate it.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t try.’

  He finished his drink. We both felt too near to our emotions to say anything for the moment.

  ‘Another?’

  I emptied my glass, passed it to him. He went to the cocktail cabinet and this time did not hesitate as he opened the doors. Apples watched his every movement as though she believed he was about to go out shooting and might leave her behind. No one could explain to her why Mark was at home so much and yet did not go out.

  We drank. Only one standard lamp was switched on and this was not so strong it overcame the flickering light from the fire which rippled up and down the ceiling. Dry sea, Lindy had always called it.

  I looked at my watch. ‘I suppose I ought to get back.’

  ‘I’m glad you called in, John. Don’t leave it too long before you do the same again.’

  I stood up and put my empty glass on one of the small tables. I looked at Mark. It was distressing to see how much a man could suffer.

  *

  ‘Are you Joe Parlour?’

  ‘That’s me. Known from coast to coast of Kent as Honest Joe Parlour. Never welshed on no one, and why? I really likes to pay out. Satisfied customers mean more customers. Only one little thing, though. It’s cash unless I knows you, and I don’t know you until we’ve been working together for a little while. Don’t take offence, will you?’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘It’s like this why I stick to that rule. When I was learning the trade, as you might say, I was Honest Joe even then but some of the customers played it a bit sharp. Opened up credit accounts and went the bundle. If they won they came round with their tongues hanging out and I was in peril of having to sell up the missus and kids, bless their little hearts I love ’em, if I was going to meet me just debts like an honest man. But if they lost? They vanished quicker ’n nudists on visitors’ day. Left me almost without a living. So that’s why I says, cash until we know each other, and afterwards I don’t say no to a banker’s reference or two. Makes everything so much more tidy. Now, what’s it to be? A thousand on Sunday Rise?’ Honest Joe Parlour roared with laughter.

  ‘I’m Detective Dykes.’

  ‘You … That wasn’t fair, that really wasn’t. I play it straight and you do a thing like this. You ought to have said who you was right away. Gestapo methods, that’s what you used, and I tell you this country don’t hold with such things. I’ve got clients in tall places: one word from me and you’ll be out on your neck playing the fiddle in Piccadilly.’

  Dykes blew his nose, replaced the handkerchief in his trouser pocket. ‘No need to get so hot under the collar.’

  ‘I like that! You act the serpent from the garden of Eden and then tells me to stay all calm and collected. What d’you think the prime minister would say if he was to know about what his policemen do? I’m honest, I am, and it fair upsets me to meet people what don’t lead a straight life.’

  ‘Nothing more than a few questions.’

  ‘I ain’t saying anything.’

  ‘Concerning one of your clients, not you.’

  ‘I’ll guard me client’s business with me tongue and you can cut it out before I’ll say a word.’

  ‘Does the name of Stuart Tetley mean anything to you?’

  ‘Come about him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s a different mess of broth … There’s a time for fixed lips and a time for a wobbling chin. Whenever I remember him I think about signing the pledge and taking up the cultivation of tomatoes.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s like this. I know the dashing Mr Tetley. Great one for the horses. Backs ’em like a gentleman ought. Started with me maybe five years ago with a tenner here and a tenner there. Won sometimes, lost sometimes. Then he got more ambitious because he said a friend of his had come in with him. Moved the bets up to a fifty, a hundred.’

  ‘The name of the friend?’

  ‘Now how d’you expect me to know a thing like that? … Tetley began to lose more often than he won and his money became bigger. I knew him well, like, by this time and never thought twice about giving him credit. After all, his position meant he was good for a load. Then one day I scratched me head and stopped to reckon up how much he owes me. Eight hundred and fifty quid. Took me breath away, I’ll admit to that any day of the week. Next time I saw him I asked for cash for all that was owing. He said him and his friend knew their luck was about to change so how about another little bet. Like the big, generous, kind-hearted, man I am, I let him have it. I tell you, I’m too softhearted for this sort of business. Too soft-hearted altogether. Next thing I knew, he owes me a thousand and fifty. That’s big money. That’s the kind of money makes me wonder how I keep honest. I told him things had come to the cross-roads and this was it. With a gentleman’s laugh he offers me double or quits on a horse running at evens. He was a right mug — that nag shouldn’t have been near evens: couldn’t have won if they’d filled it up with soda-water so it became jet-propelled. But I was sporting and big-hearted … He owed me two thousand one hundred. It was real time for payment. He put me off again, said his friend owed him money and just as soon as it was paid, he’d see me done right. I waited, consoling myself with Christian patience, knowing that if you’re going to be kind-hearted in this vicious world you’re going to suffer. Nothing happened. I got back to Mr Tetley and just put on the screws a little. A bloke’s got to live and two thousand one hundred helps a man a long way along. Nothing happened. I was surprised and disgusted. Being an honest man myself, I didn’t like to find a gentleman dishonest. I was forced to act, I was. I saw Mr Tetley and I said: “You’re a barrister so you don’t want no stink or they’d sling you out of your barristering. That being so, let’s talk turkey. If I get paid bloody quick that’s how I want it: if I don’t, I squawk. If you don’t borrow the necessary from that rich old man of yours who wouldn’t want to see his only son in trouble, I’ll whisper in the ear of the Lord High Chancellor and see what he has to say about a gentleman what owes an honest bookmaker two thousand one hundred quid.” So he says to me: “Wait just a bit and I’ll find the money.” … I’m still waiting. Me honest Christian patience is taking a terrible beating.’

  ‘When was this last promise to pay made?’

  ‘Two weeks ago today. He promised he’d soon be paying me yet nothing’s happened. It’s a rough life for an honest man and sometimes I think I ought to harden my heart a little.’

  CHAPTER VII

  Sir Brian Tetley looked at the woman in the witness-box which was on the other side of the well of the court. He studied her face for several seconds, then looked down at his brief spread out before him. Behind him, someone repeatedly coughed loudly and used a handkerchief to try to throttle the noise. Mr Justice Redley took off his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose. The Associate lifted up his wig and scratched his head. The shorthand writer massaged the fingers of his right hand.

  ‘You say you did not see the crash?’ asked Sir Brian for the second time.

  The woman witness nervously ran her fingers along the lapels of the coat she was wearing. She understood the pause between the first and second time the question had been put to have deep hidden meanings of menace to herself if she did not modify her answer — an answer made because she so desperately did not wish to be unfair or to cause trouble to anyone.

  She looked at the judge. His eyes were closed and he might have been sleeping. ‘I … I did see a bit of it,’ she mumbled at length.

  Sir Brian silently thanked the gods. She was his witness and in her proof she had said she saw the course of the accident from beginning to end. Her evidence strongly favoured the defence. In the witness-box she had suddenly gone back on what she’d said before and her evidence threatened to be useless and because she was his witness he could not attack her and remind her of her original story. However, the old trick of a pregnant silence — a phrase that never failed to amuse him — had won the day.


  ‘Will you tell the court, please, exactly what part of the accident you saw?’ he asked.

  ‘I was walking along the road towards the bus stop because I was catching the bus into Lewis to do some shopping.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘Just before I reached the bus stop I looked up the road and saw the cars.’

  ‘May we be quite clear on this point? To which cars are you referring?’

  ‘The one overtaking the other.’

  ‘Would you by any chance know what make of car either of these was?’

  ‘One was a new Ford Anglia like my husband’s: I wouldn’t know what the other was.’

  ‘Please continue.’

  ‘The overtaking car swung right out across the road and began to accelerate. Just then a lorry came round the corner from the other way. The overtaking car had to brake heavily and seemed to go into a skid. The next second it hit the Anglia and the two cars were pushed into the side of the road where one of them rolled over … It was terrible, absolutely terrible.’

  ‘I’m sure it was … Now, Mrs Brasher, may we go back to the vital moment of overtaking? From what you’ve said, it would seem as though the overtaking car was too near the corner when it overtook?’

  Opposing counsel, a junior, stood up. ‘And from what my learned friend has just said it would seem as though he is giving the evidence.’

  The judge opened his eyes, replaced his spectacles, looked up at the people in the public gallery, spoke to counsel. ‘Possibly, Sir Brian, you might have phrased that question in a slightly less leading manner.’

  ‘As you please, my Lord … Mrs Brasher, how far from the corner was the second car when it began to overtake the Anglia?’

  ‘I … I couldn’t really say. I’m not very good at judging distances.’

  ‘It is very difficult, isn’t it? If you can’t give an accurate figure perhaps you would give us an opinion based on your long experience as a driver? Would you say that when the car began to overtake it had plenty of room ahead in which to complete the manoeuvre?’