‘Tell me, Mrs. Preller, were you surprised to hear that the turncoat, if one might use the word, was Lena Lourens? From everything you’ve told me and everything I’ve heard from Charles, this would seem to be the last thing she would have done, even if she had seen him where she says she saw him.’
‘Yes, it was. She worshipped him.’
‘And Mrs. Preller, too, as I understand it. That’s odd. And anything that’s odd must be turned over like a stone. Then we can see the worms.’
‘Everyone says she’s a bit soft in the head.’
‘Everyone? I don’t. Nor does Godlonton. We have had her examined. So has the Crown. She’s perfectly sane. Telling the truth, in spite of the fact that one may have lied before, does not constitute insanity. If this case was being heard by a jury, then of course we might get up to a few tricks, but to make a fool of a middle-aged coloured woman, who has decided to tell the truth about something that she knows will hurt people she loves, before a judge and two assessors would, in my opinion, be suicidal. No, we must get behind the wainscot of her mind, Mrs. Preller, and see what’s there: not fantasies, but facts.’
*
When Kate returned to Saxenburg, she found Dr. du Toit there. Mrs. Preller had had a fall earlier in the day and Smuts had called him. They talked in the drawing-room. The late afternoon was calm and the sea was deep navy-blue, the India Reef a thin white line.
‘How is Charles?’ he said.
‘Depressed.’
‘Naturally. But how is he physically?’
‘He’s thinner. He doesn’t like the food, but we’ve made arrangements to have some sent in.’
‘I’ve been meaning to go and see him, but how can I leave my patients?’ It was said with a note of querulous irritation and she wondered if Mrs. Preller had accused him of neglecting Charles.
‘It will be good to have him home again,’ he said.
‘You seem very sure he will be.’
‘Yes, I am. I’ve known him all his life. He couldn’t have done it. To think anything else is disloyal.’ She heard a note of reproof in his tone.
‘But if he didn’t do it, who did?’
‘Jonas, of course. Lena’s lying. These people always stick together against the whites. You’ll see, he’ll be found not guilty.’
‘But why would Lena lie? She loved him and she loved Mrs. Preller.’
‘Coloureds don’t know what love is.’
She felt her anger rise, but stifled it and asked after Mrs. Preller.
‘She’s only shaken up a bit. I’d like to get her into a nursing home for a month or two to keep her under supervision, but she’d never agree. You’re going to have to watch her. She might overdose again.’
She had given him a glass of sherry and she noticed a tremor in his hand as he raised it to his lips. Again she was struck by how he had aged. The silver mane of hair, of which he had been so proud, was rank and uncared for.
He was an old man. Smuts was an old man. Mrs. Preller was an old woman. Kate suddenly saw herself caught in this web of old age and old people, unable to break out of it; marooned in this place, caring for them and for the farm, and for a husband she did not love, until she grew old herself.
A little later, she went up to give Mrs. Preller the news about Charles. She was in bed and the paralysis on the one side of her face seemed more pronounced. She was drowsy and her speech was difficult to follow. Kate told her about her interview with Joshua Prescott. When she had finished, Mrs. Preller held her jaw with one hand and said laboriously, ‘If he is not careful, Lena will destroy us all.’
In her room later that evening, Kate wrote to Tom. My darling, she began. What am I to do? She read the sentence twice, then burnt the paper and crumbled the ash.
Chapter Five
Kate was having her breakfast of coffee and a roll on the verandah of the Cape Town flat. An early morning mist covered the city below her, with only the tops of the highest buildings showing. In half an hour it would be gone and the late summer sun would begin to roast the pavements.
She lit a cigarette and picked up the Cape Times and looked for the story she had so far tried to avoid. She found it leading an inside page, with a picture of Charles.
‘BODY ON BEACH’ TRIAL OPENS AT SUPREME COURT
WEALTHY CAPE FARMER ACCUSED OF KILLING CHILDHOOD FRIEND
The trial opens today in the Supreme Court of Charles Augustus Preller, of Helmsdale, Cape Province, accused of murdering his childhood friend, Miriam Rose Sachs. Miss Sachs’ body was found on a lonely stretch of beach . . .
Kate’s eyes flicked swiftly over the formal details, which she knew so well. The story recalled the earlier inquests and the preparatory examination, and went on:
This is the most important murder case to be heard in the city for many years and is expected to last for at least a week.
The central figure, Charles Preller, is the son of a well-known family of ostrich farmers who own the Saxenburg Estate, said to be one of the largest feather farms in the world.
His father, ‘Boss’ Charles Preller, who was known at one time in rugby circles for his robust forward play, was said to be one of the richest men in the district when the feather boom was at its height before the war.
Since then the industry has been hard hit, but is picking up again.
Mr. Preller will be represented by Mr. Joshua Prescott, K.C., and Mr. Robert Smith, the Crown by Mr. C. J. Nel and Mr. T. de Beer. The case will be heard by Mr. Justice De Wet Fourie.
She read it again. It seemed remote in print, as though it was a story about a stranger. She had the impression of ‘the central figure’ as a different person from the depressed man she had seen in Roeland Street Gaol the day before.
She remembered him saying over and over, ‘They’re going to crucify me.’
‘They won’t. They can’t. Just tell them the truth, that’s what they’re trying to find out.’
‘You really believe that?’ The fleshy face was thinner, the cheeks slightly hollow, the smudges under the eyes were darker, and the eyes themselves seemed set farther back in his skull.
‘The truth! You really think that’s all they care about. Listen, the police were made to look like fools the first time, they’re not going to let it happen again.’
‘What the police think doesn’t matter. It’s what the judge and the assessors think that counts.’
‘Anyway, I don’t know if I’ll go into the box.’
‘Charles, there’s no one else who can testify for you! No one was with you – except Miriam, of course – and there’ll be no one to tell your side.’
He paced up and down the small room. ‘Jesus Christ, no one knows what it’s like!’ Then he began to cry. It was a soft, helpless sobbing.
She went towards him, to comfort him, but he turned away. She watched him, wondering. Was he putting on an act, or was it self-pity, or frustration at injustice? For the hundredth time, she wondered whether he had killed Miriam.
When she saw that he had stopped crying, she said, ‘What are you going to wear?’
‘Wear?’
‘In court tomorrow.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve got my dark suit.’
‘Wear that. I’ll buy you a new white shirt.’
He shrugged. ‘If you like.’
She bought him a shirt and a new tie, new underwear and socks, even a new white silk handkerchief for his jacket pocket. She was pleased to be doing something for him.
She finished her coffee and put on her coat and hat and walked down to Prescott’s office, through the public gardens. The mist had lifted, the sun was hot and the sprinklers were on. There was a smell of water on warm grass. Everything was hushed. People walked slowly. Everyone looked so normal, yet she knew there was no such thing as a normal life.
Prescott was wearing his black silk gown and looked a magisterial figure. There was something formidable about his size. She was glad he was on their side.
‘You’ve seen this, I su
ppose,’ he said, flicking a copy of the Cape Times. ‘A fair summary, I’d say.’
‘I thought it made Charles sound like a wealthy socialite.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Isn’t that precisely what he is?’ He offered her a Sen-Sen, but she shook her head. ‘That’s why there’s going to be a crush. Nothing the public likes more than to see wealth and privilege brought low.’ He paused, then went on, ‘We’ve had a bit of bad luck with the judge. De Wet Fourie is a staunch Calvinist. Still, he’s pretty fair, I’ll say that.’
‘What about the prosecutor?’
‘Nel’s a sound man. Not a flyer, but pretty sound. It’s going to be a good fight.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I think we’d better go.’
*
There was a crowd on the steps of the Supreme Court building, spilling out into the street and holding up traffic. Prescott took Kate’s arm. ‘If they see us, we’ll never get through.’ He led her through a side door and into a small, flagged courtyard, then by another door into No. 1 court.
It was smaller than she had imagined from the size of the building, not much bigger than the one in Helmsdale, but the ceilings were high and the wood panelling was light instead of dark. It gave an airy impression. But that was only an impression, for already it was packed, and the heat was solid. Everywhere, people were fanning themselves. Heads turned in her direction. There had been no picture of her in the newspapers, but her presence with Prescott was enough: there was a stirring as people whispered to each other. She was glad she was wearing a hat with a veil.
Prescott showed her to a seat on a bench behind him and he and his junior began untying ribbons and releasing papers and talking in low voices. At the other end of the bench she saw the team for the Crown. Nel was middle-aged, with a small Van Dyck beard shot with grey, and wore rimless spectacles. She saw Prescott walk over and put his hand on the prosecutor’s shoulder. He said something and they both chuckled.
She felt outraged that he should have such contact with someone she considered their enemy. But more than outrage, she felt isolated and vulnerable. She looked around the court-room, but saw no familiar faces. This was an audience of strangers come for entertainment. Smuts had stayed at Saxenburg to keep the farm going, and he and Dr. du Toit were looking after Mrs. Preller. Duggie and Lena and Jerry – even Jerry’s face would have been welcome – were witnesses and were waiting outside the court-room.
She became aware that someone was talking to her. She turned and saw, sitting next to her, a man in his forties, untidily dressed in a white drill suit. His hair was curly and stood out from his head in a shaggy mass.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you said,’ she said.
‘You’re Mrs. Preller, aren’t you?’ His accent was English and when she did not reply he added, ‘My name’s Guy Bedford. I’m the correspondent of the London Chronicle.’
‘I don’t give interviews.’
His round face broke into an infectious smile. ‘I haven’t come to interview you. I’ve been told to come – ordered to come, by a friend of mine, and of yours.’
‘Tom!’
‘Yes. He wrote and said he thought you might need moral support. I’m not very good at supporting things and my morals have sometimes been called into question, but I’ll do the best I can. He said I was to give you . . .’ He smiled again, ‘. . . his best regards.’
At that moment, they brought her husband up from the cells below the court-room. She thought he looked well in his dark suit, new shirt and tie. But his face was dead white and, as he turned to where she sat, she could see the dark hollows of his eyes. She smiled, but he did not seem to notice her. He was searching for Prescott, who had returned to his seat.
‘All rise in court!’ an usher called, and Mr. Justice De Wet Fourie entered with his two assessors.
Until that moment, Charles had been the focus of attention. Now all eyes turned to the judge in his black gown. He was a small man, below medium height, with a lined face which gave the impression of being dry and dusty. But his eyes were a piercing light blue. His face was set in what appeared to be an expression of permanent irritation. The court settled, but he took a few minutes longer. He shuffled his papers until he was satisfied with their arrangement, then placed his pad precisely where he wanted it; took out a large fountain-pen and placed it next to the pad. The two assessors, seemed in awe of him and quickly settled down, their faces turned expectantly towards him. At last he was ready. He unscrewed the top of the fountain-pen and nodded at the Clerk of the Court. The case of the Crown v. Charles Augustus Preller had begun.
Like most cases of its kind, it began slowly. In a sense, it was like some behemoth that had to be started into movement, which could only be achieved with much careful, slow effort. Kate had only ever been to one court case, the one in which Duggie had been involved, and that had been a rough-and-tumble sort of affair, with drunks and petty thieves and prostitutes queueing to get into the dock; a kind of justice factory. This was the other extreme. Details which Kate thought were self-evident were picked over again and again. They were looked at and opened up and examined until, in the heat, her concentration began to waver, and even boredom set in. The most dramatic event of the morning was when one of the ushers brought a small chair for Charles.
But there was a strange fascination in what was taking place. The same people were assembling as had assembled for the first and second inquests. Some were a little fatter, some a little thinner, some a little greyer.
Sergeant Van Blerk went on the stand to describe what had occurred after the body had been found. This was where Kate would have given her evidence had she been in the country when the preparatory examination had taken place. She realised now how little of importance she would have had to tell.
The morning was taken up with such details and with an expert from the Cape Agulhas lighthouse, who had studied the tides and the currents in the Helmsdale area for the past twenty years as part of his passion for the exact placing of the wrecks. Both Nel and Prescott examined him exhaustively, quibbling over this and that, until Kate saw signs of impatience on the Bench. The Judge began to rearrange his papers with little, jerky movements. Finally, he burst out: ‘Really, Mr. Prescott, we must get on!’
‘I shall not detain the witness much longer, m’lord,’ Prescott said imperturbably, and went on with his questioning in the same laborious and measured manner. Kate had the impression that he was trying to show that the body might have been placed in the water some distance away from Saxenburg, perhaps in another direction completely, perhaps from the beach at Helmsdale, and had floated from there to the pool.
She sat through that long, hot day, as the story began to reveal itself. Sometimes she had to convince herself that they were actually talking about a part of her own life, about Miriam, about Saxenburg Cove, about Helmsdale. Everything sounded one remove from reality. When the hearing was adjourned, she was as exhausted as if she had been in the box all day herself.
Prescott, Smith and Godlonton were deep in conversation as the courtroom cleared. She had almost forgotten the man beside her, but when he said, ‘May I run you home?’ she was grateful.
When they reached the flat, he accepted her invitation to come in, and they had tea on the verandah. He was engaging company, and she questioned him eagerly about Tom. He had been on the Morning Post before joining the Chronicle and the two men had several times been on assignments together, including trips to Singapore and Tokyo. She wanted to know all the details. She wanted to know everything he knew about Tom.
Finally he said, ‘Tom would never forgive me if I left you to your own devices tonight. Have supper with us. I’ll phone my wife. She’s half expecting you anyway.’
She wavered for only a moment. She had been dreading the lonely evening.
The Bedfords lived in a rambling old villa with what seemed like dozens of untidy rooms and small passageways. Jenny Bedford was large and friendly, the mother of three small children. It was bedtime when K
ate arrived and she was simply absorbed by the children and their mother as a familiar part of the ritual. She helped in the bathing and the putting to bed, and while Jenny went off to see about supper, she read the children a story. They were entranced by her Edinburgh accent. When she had finished, they wanted another, and another. ‘They’d never let you go,’ Guy said, coming to remove her. The three adults sat on the flagged verandah that faced the mountain, and ate off their laps.
‘Sorry to inflict the kids on you,’ Guy said, as he was taking her home.
‘I loved it.’
And she had. As she lay in bed that night she thought: this is how Tom and I could live.
*
The second and third days of the trial were taken up by the medical evidence of old Dr. Richards and Professor Fleischman. It became apparent how Richards had bungled his job, and Prescott struck. Until then he had seemed almost too benign in his cross-examination. Now he was brutal, and Dr. Richards left the stand looking humiliated and angry.
Fleischman was altogether different. Kate remembered him immediately, the stooping figure, head thrust forward, the huge bald head, the thin, lined face, the tufts of hair above the ears, and the disdain that played around the thin lips.
He spoke quietly as Nel took him through the evidence. Every detail was carefully explored in greater detail than by the coroner at the second inquest. It seemed to Kate that the prosecutor was determined to leave no line of questioning open to Prescott.
But when Prescott did haul his huge body to its feet he seemed to ignore the fact that Nel had been examining the witness at all. He went over much of the same ground, and Kate saw the judge begin to rearrange his papers. And then, in the afternoon, as the court was in a state of hot somnolence, the line of Prescott’s inquiry became clear.
‘Now we come to the sexual aspects of the case.’
The Sea Cave Page 31
