Up ahead of me, Tom's counsel was now anxiously talking to his solicitor sitting in the row in front of him. Corcoran had obviously not appeared. The counsel rose to his feet and asked Snipe if the court would be minded to grant a short adjournment. Snipe was plainly not in such a charitable mood. He pointed out in acerbic terms that he had only allowed cross-examination on the entries in Edward's diary on the strict understanding that the individual in question, Corcoran, would be called by the defence. He saw no reason, if the witness was available, why he should not now be brought into court. Tom's counsel could offer no explanation for his absence. His application was refused by Snipe with unashamed enthusiasm. He then ordered that the usher should call out for Corcoran in case he was in the vicinity of the court. There was no response.
On that disastrous note the case for the defendant came to an abrupt end. The triumph envisaged by calling Corcoran had now turned into unmitigated disaster.
Chapter 17
That afternoon, the respective counsels made their closing speeches to the jury. Scott, on behalf of the prosecution, began by analysing the evidence coldly and clinically without displaying the slightest trace of emotion or passion. He delivered his speech without once appearing to look at a note and you could sense that he was gradually persuading the jury that whichever way they approached it, all the evidence pointed inexorably in one direction: the guilt of the accused, and therefore his just conviction for murder.
The jury now with him, Scott began to quicken the pace, cynically and rhetorically destroying Tom's defence. There was, he pointed out, ample motive and opportunity. Just as hell knows no fury like a woman scorned, who was to know what terrible deeds might be committed by an otherwise sensible and upright man driven by jealousy or despair? He poured scorn on Tom's attempts to answer the evidence against him. Asked about his whereabouts on the night Edward Pryde had disappeared, Tom answered that he was asleep, having passed out in the dark corner of the car park of a public house. How convenient! Pressed about the discovery of his footprints at the scene of the crime, he claimed feebly they must belong to someone else. Questioned about the petrol on his clothes, he explained it away as the result of an accident that same evening when filling up his car. Finally, when challenged about the incriminating contents of one of his letters to his lover, he is driven to claiming that there is a page missing.
By contrast, Scott argued, the attempt by the defendant to blacken the deceased's good name had deservedly failed. There was no sign of the mysterious Mr Corcoran who was going to tell the court what an evil blackmailer Edward Pryde was, and no doubt thereby seek to implant in the minds of the jury the notion that the world was a better place without him and that many people other than the defendant had a motive for wanting him dead. At the end of the day, urged Scott, it was simply a case of balancing facts, damning when considered in their entirety, against the word and demeanour of the accused in the witness box. There could be only one conclusion.
Tom's counsel, Fenton, earned his fee that afternoon. Reminding the jury throughout of their duty to convict only if they were certain beyond reasonable doubt, he proceeded to expose the truly circumstantial nature of the prosecution case. There was, he reminded the jury, no witness who had seen Tom follow Edward from the pub, no witness, even, who had seen them together after they had left the saloon bar just past closing time. It might well be that Tom had the opportunity to kill Edward Pryde, but so did hundreds if not thousands of other people. It was argued fiercely on behalf of the Crown that the accused alone had the necessary motive. What was that motive when analysed? An apparent desire to remove the obstacle between himself and marriage to Victoria Pryde. Was that, Fenton asked, really likely? His client had freely and frankly admitted everything from the outset, when questioned by the police about his affair with Victoria. He had told the court how he had accepted that so long as Edward refused to give Victoria a divorce, their love was impossible. It was Edward who had become aggressive and made a scene. If the prosecution case were seriously suggesting this was murder, Tom must have gone to that pub with a preconceived plan for disposing of his so-called enemy. And if that was so, why would he have been so clumsy as to have spilt petrol on his clothing when committing the murder? Or if he did spill the petrol, why didn't he then destroy the suit he was wearing? Instead, he freely handed it over to the police when they began their investigation. Would he really have been so naive as to have left that petrol can in a box at his own stable when he could have thrown it away in the undergrowth, or into a river where it would almost certainly never have been discovered? His client, he invited the jury to conclude, was a decent and honourable man who unfortunately had become involved with a married woman. That was not a crime in our society. He had accepted that the affair had no future and as far as he was concerned, that was an end to the matter. As for the incriminating letters, they were nothing of the sort. He invited the jury when they retired to read through the whole bundle and see for themselves that they contained the sentiments of a decent man who was sincerely in love. Why should the accused and Victoria Pryde not be telling the truth when they had both said that a crucial page was missing? After all, they were the only two people who really knew, and no explanation had been offered by the prosecution as to just exactly how those letters had come into the police's possession. Who was to say that a page had not become detached or gone missing by accident? It would be unrealistic and a cruel injustice to convict a man and condemn him to a life sentence where such a doubt existed.
It was, he continued, the duty of the jury to take into account the unblemished character of Tom Radcliffe, a man with no previous convictions and against whom nothing could be said to suggest he had a tendency to violence. Their decision had to be based, not on emotion or prejudice or morality, but on a detached and reasoned assessment of the evidence. That could lead to only one result: a verdict of not guilty.
I was certainly moved and I thought several members of the jury were too. It was now up to Snipe to sum up fairly and that task was adjourned until the following day.
* * *
No one who heard the Honourable Mr Justice Snipe would have been under any illusion as to what he considered the proper verdict. Of course, he was careful not to give any obvious indication of bias or make any statement blatantly prejudicial to Tom, but he was clever enough to review the evidence in a way which could lead any reasonable person to only one conclusion. By setting out in some detail the background to the murder – the development of our relationship, the secret and furtive sexual encounters, the gradual realisation by Tom that he could never marry me so long as Edward was alive – he planted the seed of motive firmly in the jury's mind. From there it easily and swiftly grew into opportunity. So much, he said, hinged on the accused's explanation of how he spent the night of the disappearance. Was he telling the truth when he said he must have passed out in his car after leaving the pub, or was that a highly convenient explanation fabricated to cover up for what he had really being doing? It was, of course, a matter solely for the jury as the arbiters of fact, but did they not think it a trifle curious that two or three pints of beer should have had such an effect on the accused? And so Snipe went on turning the screw a little more with each comment. Finally at three o'clock he sent the jury out to reach their verdict. It was like waiting for the result of a stewards' enquiry, only this time the outcome would be far more serious. When the jury returned, they all sat down and then the Foreman was asked to rise. An insignificant little man of about forty-five, balding and with glasses, rose hesitantly to his feet.
'Members of the jury, are you agreed on your verdict?' asked the Associate, solemnly.
'We are,' answered the Foreman.
'Do you find the defendant guilty, or not guilty?'
'Guilty,' came the firm, almost defiant response.
For a brief moment I felt nothing as the realisation of what I'd just heard sank in. I looked across the court at Tom and as our eyes met I burst into tears. He w
as white with shock and looked totally bewildered. I suddenly felt very sick and faint and struggled to keep control of myself as Snipe began to speak. He wasn't content just to commit Tom to imprisonment with a recommendation that he serve at least twenty years; he insisted on adding a few well-chosen sanctimonious words of reprobation:
'Tom Radcliffe, you have been found guilty, and rightly so in my view, of the murder of Edward Pryde. You have by your gross and callous act deprived a fine man of the rest of his natural life, and a young boy of the joy of knowing his father. This grotesque act of violence was born out of your betrayal of the Christian values which our society holds dear. Having coveted and seduced the wife of another man, you then proceeded to take his life when you could not have your own way and marry her. May God forgive you.'
As the police officers symbolically closed in on him in the dock, Tom twisted round and shook his head at me in disbelief. My first instinct was to get up and rush towards him, to tell him not to abandon hope. Alert as ever, Amy restrained me while Tom kept trying to say something across the court.
'What is it?' I asked Amy, unable to understand or read his lips.
She put her arm around me. 'Simply that he loves you.'
As I left the court in tears, a pack of journalists descended on me, asking for my comments. All I could say was that I still believed in Tom's innocence and that I would spare no expense or time in trying to bring the true culprit or culprits to justice.
* * *
Amy drove me back that evening to Ralph's yard. Neither of us could believe what had happened and only the references to the verdict on the radio news brought home the cold inescapable truth. We both realised that we would not help Tom by sitting at home and wailing; some form of battle plan was needed. Tom's lawyers were going to lodge an appeal and that would probably not be heard for three to four months. In the meantime, we were going to alert the police to Corcoran's disappearance and try and persuade Inspector Wilkinson that there was a possible link between it and Edward's death. Judging by past performance, there wasn't much room for optimism. No doubt Inspector Wilkinson was busy congratulating himself on a job well done and further enquiries would only delay his letter of commendation from the Lord Chief Justice.
Ralph had gone away for a week's holiday and his house was deserted. Amy was reluctant to let me stay in my cottage on my own, but I insisted. Now that Tom had been convicted, maybe my life was no longer in danger, and anyway I couldn't have round the clock protection. I had to try and live normally from now on. I intended to spend the summer holidays with my mother and then, at the end of August, when I had completely recovered from my injuries, return to Lambourn and put the cottage on the market. Amy refused to drive off until she had checked that there was nobody in the house. She opened all the doors to the bedrooms and looked inside and pronounced me safe.
By eleven o'clock I was ready to go to bed. I laboriously climbed the stairs and went along to my bedroom. The door was open and I closed it behind me before walking over to the chest of drawers beside my bed to take out a clean nightdress. I undressed and turned to go to the bathroom. It was then I saw it. Pinned by a knife against the back of the door was Edward's yellow racing jacket, the knife's blade smeared with blood. I was more angry than frightened and walked over and removed the knife. Stuck to the tip of the blade was a cutting from the Sportsman - the declaration of Edward's death – only this time the letter S had been added in black ink to the word MR. The message was inescapable. I had no intention of hanging around. Clasping the knife Firmly, I ran down the stairs, as fast as my injured leg would let me, to the car I had borrowed from my mother after the crash. I was in no real condition to drive because of my leg but nothing would have prevented me from leaving at that moment. I somehow managed to negotiate the roads to Wincanton, though with less than my usual skill, and keeping a constant watch in the rear mirror. As soon as I arrived at my mother's house, I collapsed into her arms.
* * *
The damage I'd done my right leg by driving meant that I was confined to bed for the next three weeks and at least that gave me a welcome opportunity to see my son, and a sense of security against whoever out there was stalking me. I valued every moment of Freddie's company; with Edward's parents threatening to take him away, I felt that I was under notice of execution. Any thought I may have had that Tom's conviction would mark the end of the attacks on my life had now been dispelled, and I determined to get myself some concrete protection. There was a maniac at large and I was very much on his hit list.
I used the period of my confinement to regain my strength and determination. Tom was allowed to receive letters in prison and I wrote to him regularly, urging him not to give up hope. Unfortunately, I didn't have much concrete news to offer him.
Despite all her efforts, Amy had made no headway in finding out what had happened to Corcoran. The staff at the hotel were unable to be specific about when he had last been seen and the police were unenthusiastic to the point of lethargy in their attempts to trace his movements. As far as they were concerned, the file on the Edward Pryde case was firmly closed. Corcoran, it seemed, had disappeared back into the shadows from which he had so briefly emerged, taking with him Tom's best chance of an acquittal.
It was Amy's idea that we should go and confront Brennan. Attack, she reasoned, was the best form of defence, and as my solicitor she could always volunteer to show him Corcoran's statement and ask him to comment on it. The worst he could do was kick us out of his house. After my experiences on the race track, I didn't share her confidence in his good nature, and finally reconciled myself to getting hold of some sort of firearm, however illegal. It proved easier than I expected. A quiet word with James Thackeray and one of his numerous 'contacts' produced a small revolver – no questions asked. James had been sufficiently shaken by my story of the blood-stained knife to overcome any qualms about aiding and abetting my attempt to protect myself. We didn't tell Amy.
I managed to find out that the Irishman had recently moved to a village just outside Newbury and was living there with his girlfriend. There was very little National Hunt racing on and he was spending his mornings schooling horses for one or two local trainers. We decided to call in unannounced early one Tuesday evening.
To say Brennan was displeased to see us was an understatement. He tried to slam the door in our faces, but I managed to wedge my walking stick inside and with great reluctance he agreed to let us come in. It is a curious sensation, facing a man whom you suspect to be a murderer. But the gun in my handbag was very reassuring. Brennan, belligerent as ever, went straight on the attack himself:
'What the hell do you mean, coming to my home uninvited?' His girlfriend now appeared from the kitchen and she was treated to a mouthful of abuse as the jockey waved her away.
'We won't be long,' said Amy. 'We want you to read this, please.' She thrust Corcoran's statement into his hands. The Irishman took it reluctantly and turned his back on us as he read it. It seemed to take him forever. When he had finished he walked into the kitchen and returned, smirking and clutching a newspaper cutting.
'So your Mr Corcoran says he saw me that evening at the pub and I was following your late husband?'
'That's right. What were you doing that night then, Brennan?'
He laughed. 'Have a look at this, my darlings.' He shoved the cutting at me. It was a photograph of Brennan and a number of other jockeys in dinner jackets, captioned 'Top jockeys celebrate at Racing Club dinner in aid of charity'.
'Do you see the date?'
It was the night that Edward had disappeared.
'Nothing personal, but if you ask me, this fellow Corcoran has taken you for a bigger ride than any horse has ever done, and that's saying something.'
* * *
As we returned to the car, Amy put her arm around me. 'I think the time has come when we really have to put this into the hands of professionals. Neither of us has the time to try and track down Corcoran and you really have to pick up the piec
es of your life; you owe that much to Freddie. What do you think?'
Reluctantly, I agreed. Tom's lawyers were prepared to make unlimited funds available to track down Corcoran. But until he had been found there was no likelihood of any appeal succeeding. Even then, that didn't mean my safety would be assured. Hadn't I been declared dead, just like Edward?
Chapter 18
I had planned to return to Lambourn some time in the middle of July. The doctors had given me the all clear to start riding again and I had been getting myself fit by running but I wanted to have at least a couple of weeks' riding work on some flat horses so that I would be a hundred per cent fit for the start of the season at the beginning of August.
The news on the Corcoran front was bitterly disappointing. Private detectives had been unable to locate any trace of him whatsoever either in England or in Ireland. He had literally disappeared into thin air. In my last letter to Tom I had not been able to think of any good news to give him. All of the horses had now left his yard and, except for the head lad, all of the staff had gone as well. Tom had decided not to let Jamie Brown go until he was certain that there was no chance of his release, but as time went on, the chances of that happening seemed to become ever more remote. The only consolation as far as I was concerned was that during the past six weeks not one attempt had been made on my life. Something must have happened; something that I didn't know about to make whoever wanted me dead change his or her mind. I still kept the gun, though, just in case.
Declared Dead Page 21
