Talbot’s exposition was a model of dispassionate clarity, or so it seemed. He spoke slowly and without recourse to oratorical devices. And yet, increasingly as I listened to him, I became suspicious of what I heard. He is a handsome, intelligent, supremely self-confident man, heavy-lidded and with enough shadow about his chin to warrant shaving twice a day. There is withal a swagger about him, a drawl, a languid air halfway between boredom and disgust. Precise, correct, calm and measured, he nonetheless gives me the impression that he considers the whole business of prosecution to be beneath him; that nothing in this case or the people involved in it merits more than his passing attention.
He looked often at Consuela as he spoke, especially when reading the letters, hoping, I suppose, to shame her into some revealing reaction. If so, he hoped in vain. But still he looked, enjoying, it seemed to me, the power he had over her.
Talbot’s peroration straddled the luncheon adjournment and ended with the jury visibly swayed by the force and logic of what he had said. For the last half hour he scarcely shifted his gaze from them, dangling in his left hand as he spoke exhibit A – a small blue-paper twist of arsenious oxide – whilst his right hand rested lightly on exhibits B, C and D – the three anonymous letters.
‘It will be shown that nobody other than the accused had any reason to wish Victor Caswell dead. It will be shown that nobody other than the accused had the means or the opportunity during the afternoon of the ninth of September to bring about his death. And it will be shown that of her carefully planned and ruthlessly executed attempt to murder her husband Rosemary Caswell was the tragic and wholly innocent victim.’
After that, there was time for only one witness: Dr William Stringfellow. A robust straightforward medical man, as free of pretension as he was of prejudice, he was entrusted by Talbot to one of his juniors. He gave a thorough account of his three patients’ identical symptoms and of the particular severity of them in Rosemary Caswell’s case. He described his failure to save Rosemary and his growing suspicion that arsenic was responsible. He concluded with his decision to seek a specialist’s opinion. There seemed no room for doubt in anything that he said. Indeed, Sir Henry evidently thought the same, for he waived his right to cross-examination.
It was now just after a quarter to four. The next witness, Talbot announced, was to be Sir Bernard Spilsbury, the eminent Home Office pathologist. It would be undesirable, Talbot claimed, for Sir Bernard to commence his testimony only for it to be suspended overnight. With this the judge concurred. And so, anti-climactically, the day’s proceedings drew to a close.
Tuesday 15 January 1924
Already, familiarity is breeding acceptance. The same scenes awaited me at the Old Bailey this morning as they did yesterday, but their power to shock and repel me had faded. Almost to a man, the same cast had assembled in Number One Court. Even the lady in the pink toque was there again, though now the toque had given way to a flower-pot hat with a prominent feather. The judge’s cold was no better, Talbot’s demeanour not a whit less self-assured. And Consuela Caswell still gazed expressionlessly from the dock like an innocent tied to the stake as the pyre is built around her.
I have read of Sir Bernard Spilsbury in so many newspaper reports of trials that I felt I had seen him before even though I had not. Tall, lean and sombre, grey of face and manner, he carried with him such a high degree of certainty, based upon his legendary experience, that it seemed Talbot was not so much questioning him as inviting him to present a lecture. The court attended to his words like the most obedient of classes. Debate was discouraged, doubt entirely forbidden. Not that there was room for either. Sir Bernard’s unequivocal conclusion was that Rosemary, Victor and Marjorie Caswell had all consumed arsenic on the afternoon of 9 September 1923. The aggregate quantity involved could easily have killed all three. Once more, Sir Henry refrained from cross-examination.
During Sir Bernard’s arid and painstaking explanation of post mortem findings and analytical techniques, I noticed that the seats between the jury-box and the press-benches were no longer exclusively occupied by stolid policemen. Another of the curious qualities of Mountford’s design then became apparent to me. People could slip into or out of the court without attracting any attention to themselves. So it was that I found myself looking at Victor, Mortimer and Marjorie Caswell for the first time.
They were as Geoff had led me to expect: guarded, upright, clannish yet contrasting. Victor was the fleshier, better-looking brother, Mortimer the grimmer, altogether more cautious one. Strangely, however, it was Victor who seemed least at his ease, stroking his moustache, scratching his brow and looking anywhere but up at the dock. Not that he need have worried. Consuela gave no indication that she was even aware of his presence. Marjorie meanwhile gazed about with proud severity, one eyebrow raised, as if the cleanliness of the furniture had failed to satisfy her. There was a suppressed shrewishness about the line of her mouth, a hint of the virago beneath the provincial modesty.
Mortimer Caswell was Talbot’s next witness, handed over, like Dr Stringfellow, to the care of a junior. He spoke with sombre decisiveness of his daughter’s illness and death, with no sign of emotion, but enough buttoned-up sincerity to arouse general sympathy. In response to an intervention by the judge, who chose this moment to mention that he had an eighteen-year-old daughter, Mortimer said: ‘You will understand, then, my lord, that it is difficult to express in words the grief caused by such a loss.’ His reticence seemed both natural and admirable. Sensitive to the mood of the court, Sir Henry once more abstained from cross-examination.
After lunch, Marjorie entered the witness-box. The condolent hush that had attended her husband’s testimony now intensified. Talbot drew her out quite shamelessly on the poignancy of her loss – Rosemary’s engaging personality, her energy, her charm, her intelligence, all cut off so tragically on the brink of womanhood. Then he took her carefully through the tea party at Clouds Frome – who sat where, who consumed what, who came, who went. Exhibits E and F – a sugar-bowl and a small silver spoon – were submitted and identified by Marjorie. She confirmed that Rosemary had been the first to take sugar from the bowl – ‘three spoonfuls as usual; she had a sweet tooth.’ Then she described the onset of her illness and her desolation at her daughter’s death. By the time Talbot had finished with her, pity was universal: the lady in the flower-pot hat had been obliged to dab at her cheeks with a handkerchief. I wondered if Sir Henry would yet again leave well alone.
But he did not. The robed and wigged leviathan rose from his seat just before half past three and commenced, more adroitly than could have been foreseen, to shift the emphasis from pathos to probability. Had Consuela seemed angry, preoccupied, nervous, disconcerted even, by their unexpected arrival? Had she betrayed herself in any way, however slight, during the tea party? If not, what was one to think of her? That she was completely heartless – or completely innocent? Wisely, it seemed to me, Marjorie declined to express an opinion. Consuela had always been a mystery to her, inscrutable to such a degree that every explanation of her conduct was equally plausible. If Sir Henry had hoped to detect any malice towards Consuela in this hard-bitten but persuasive woman, the day was to end for him in disappointment.
Wednesday 16 January 1924
The bizarrerie of the Old Bailey now seems almost normal. I knew this would happen, of course, but had under-estimated my susceptibility: I thought it would take longer than three days. The judge’s cold has advanced apace. He blows his nose less, but speaks as if there were a peg on the end of it. And the lady of many hats is now affecting a turquoise pill-box. All else is unaltered.
The stolid policemen this morning acquired names and voices. Chief Inspector Wright described setting off for Hereford in the wake of Spilsbury’s detection of arsenic and following an impeccable strand of logic to the sugar-bowl at Clouds Frome, then instituting the search of the house that had yielded exhibits A, B, C and D. His assessment of the accused was that of a straightforward but determin
ed detective. The evidence pointed unwaveringly to her guilt and the subtleties of her character did not concern him. At Sir Henry’s prompting, he admitted that Consuela’s protestation of her innocence had survived many hours of interrogation. But that did not surprise him. ‘It’s often been my experience in murder cases that the murderer genuinely believes he or she is innocent.’ This, he clearly believed, was just one more example.
Superintendent Weaver of the Herefordshire Constabulary told much the same tale. He had co-operated fully with his Scotland Yard colleague and they had traced the crime to its only possible source. Officers under his command had carried out the search of Clouds Frome. When confronted with the arsenic and letters, the accused had denied all knowledge of them. But she had offered no explanation of their presence in her room. Why, asked Sir Henry, would she have made no effort to destroy them? Because she had not expected such a thorough search, riposted Weaver, and because she needed the arsenic for a second attempt on her husband’s life. This last was retracted at Sir Henry’s insistence, being pure supposition, but was it, I wondered, retracted from the jury’s minds?
There had, it transpired, been something of a hiatus where the search of Consuela’s bedroom was concerned. Consuela’s maid had objected to a man handling her mistress’s clothing and effects. A policewoman had therefore been summoned from Hereford. This redoubtable creature, W.P.C. Griffiths, was the next witness. She described finding the three letters at the back of an underwear drawer, held together by a rubber band. She had handed them immediately to Chief Inspector Wright. The blue-paper twist of arsenic was in the same drawer, ‘concealed’ (a word which Sir Henry did not challenge) within a pair of silk cami-knickers.
There were some sniggers in the public gallery at this, instantly subdued by a glare from Mr Justice Stillingfleet. I glanced at Consuela, thinking that of all the revelations she would have to endure this would be the one most likely to discompose her. But not so. She stared straight ahead, marmoreally unaffected.
A drab but impressively qualified graphologist followed. He seemed disposed to educate us all in the complexities of his science, but was at length persuaded to make his point, which was actually a simple one. The anonymous letters had been written in a disguised hand, probably by a right-handed male. Asked by Sir Henry whether poison-pen letters were not more normally written by women, he abruptly decided that his expertise had reached its limit, but the suggestion in itself was useful for the defence. It seemed to me about the only encouragement they could take from the day.
Thursday 17 January 1924
A parade of the Caswells’ servants filled today and will spill over into tomorrow. For the most part, they seemed touchingly reluctant to blacken their mistress’s name, but their answers to the prosecution’s questions achieved exactly that result. Sir Henry left his juniors to rescue what they could from the wreckage. Mr Justice Stillingfleet was gruff and subdued. The lady of many hats favoured a maroon cloche that was definitely too young for her. And Consuela remained enigmatically aloof.
The first witness was Albert Banyard, gardener, countryman and nobody’s fool. He identified exhibit G – a tin of Weed Out – as identical to one he had purchased from a chemist in Hereford early in the spring of 1923. He thought Mr and Mrs Caswell probably both knew of its acquisition. He agreed anybody could have removed some of the contents without him noticing. And he said all of this with a surly touch of sarcasm that clearly annoyed Talbot and once earned a rebuke from the judge. But Talbot’s principal gain from his testimony – confirmation that Mrs Caswell took a keener interest in the garden (and, by implication, methods of weed control) than did Mr Caswell – was more or less offset by Banyard’s firmness on another point: it was Mr Caswell’s complaints about weeds that had prompted him to buy Weed Out in the first place.
Mabel Glynn, the kitchenmaid who had prepared tea on 9 September, was as nervous as she was guileless. She was treated gently by all concerned. Her testimony seemed to rule out any tampering with the sugar before it left the kitchen.
Frederick Noyce, the footman who had delivered tea to the drawing-room, was scarcely much older than Mabel Glynn, but considerably more self-assured. His most telling statement was that Consuela had been alone in the room when he brought the tea-trolley in and had still been alone when he left. Thus her opportunity to poison the sugar was established beyond doubt. The defence made no attempt to challenge it, but did ask Noyce if he had answered the house telephone in the course of the afternoon. He said he had not. Unlike, I suspect, most onlookers, I knew the purpose of this question – and that it would be repeated to other witnesses.
Horace Danby, butler to the Caswells, was required by the prosecution to do little more than confirm the duties and movements of the domestic staff on 9 September. He seemed a typical example of his office, pompous in some of his answers, humble in others. Like Noyce, he assured the defence that he had not answered the telephone that afternoon. Forsyth, who was cross-examining him, then opened a new avenue of enquiry by asking if he was aware of any extra-marital liaison on his master’s part. This Danby strenuously denied.
Prudence Moore, the Caswells’ cook, a notably thin woman for one of her calling, led the court minutely through food storage and preparation procedures in the kitchen at Clouds Frome. It was hard to believe they were as meticulously followed as she claimed, but the object of the exercise as far as the prosecution was concerned – focusing suspicion on the drawing-room and its sole occupant – was at length achieved.
The afternoon session drew to a close with an account by John Gleasure, Victor Caswell’s valet, of his master’s illness on the evening of 9 September. He delivered the second critical blow of the day to the defence by stating that Consuela had disregarded his suggestion that a doctor should be called. Gleasure’s cross-examination was held over until tomorrow, which promises to be a make-or-break day for the defence. Soon – very soon – they must start to make up ground. Otherwise, I sense, all will be lost.
Friday 18 January 1924
Clearly I was not alone in anticipating a raising of the stakes today. The queue for the public gallery was longer and noisier than on any previous morning, despite last night being cold and damp. A form of cameraderie has evolved in the crowd, which I find even more appalling than the ghoulish eagerness by which it was gripped at the start of the week.
In court, the lady of many hats celebrated the heightened atmosphere by appearing in a wide-awake creation more suitable for Ascot than the Old Bailey. Mr Justice Stillingfleet looked as if he was shaking off his cold at last. And Talbot wore a smirk of supreme confidence. Only Consuela seemed immune to the expectant mood. She has met the challenge of her captive role in these proceedings with a defiance amounting almost to indifference. Perhaps she hopes to defeat her accusers simply by ignoring them. Or perhaps to lose even a fraction of her self-control would be to lose all of it. Whatever the explanation, she sat today in the dock as she has sat every day: grave of face, austere of dress, impervious of manner.
Sir Henry rose to conduct Gleasure’s cross-examination, his lethargy of yesterday shrugged off like an unwanted garment. Had Gleasure taken any telephone calls for his master during the afternoon of 9 September? No. Had he really urged Consuela to summon a doctor that evening? Yes. Very well, then: why had he not insisted on summoning one? Because it was not his place to do so. Had he, perhaps, agreed with Consuela that one was not needed? No. He had deferred to his mistress’s judgement. But surely a valet has only a master, not a mistress. Victor was conscious, after all. What had he told Gleasure to do? Mr Caswell was a man who made no concessions to illness. He had assumed he would be fully recovered by morning. He had not told Gleasure to do anything. In other words, he, like his wife, had seen no need to call a doctor? That, agreed Gleasure, was one way of putting it.
With this modest victory under his belt, Sir Henry altered tack. Did Gleasure believe his master had been pursuing an affair with another woman? No. Did that mean he was sur
e he had not been? Yes. Did Gleasure believe his master was happily married? Somewhat hesitantly, yes. Did that hesitancy mean he thought the marriage was not as happy as it had once been? Yes, Gleasure supposed it did. To what did he ascribe this deterioration? It was not his place to speculate. Sir Henry pressed. Talbot objected. Mr Justice Stillingfleet demurred. And Gleasure reluctantly said that he thought the Caswells’ religious and racial differences had become more pronounced as they had grown older. It was an opinion that endeared him to nobody, but it sounded horribly plausible. And it ensured that Sir Henry’s first unveiled assault on the prosecution case ended inconclusively.
But this was only the overture to the day’s proceedings, as we realized when Talbot called his last witness: Victor Caswell. Since his first appearance in court on Tuesday, he and Consuela have scarcely glanced at each other and the pattern was not broken today. Consuela stared straight ahead throughout. Victor looked only at his interlocutor. I could almost have imagined they had agreed on this arrangement beforehand, though in truth they cannot have met since Consuela’s arrest on 21 September – very nearly four months ago.
Talbot led Victor quietly through the events of 9 September and their aftermath. They were like two men of the world discussing a regrettable political development. And with their mood the judge seemed entirely in tune. He nodded in encouragement, he almost purred with understanding. Even if I had not known all that Geoff had told me about Victor Caswell, his testimony would have disturbed me, not because of what he said but because of the way he was treated. He was an urbane English gentleman vexed by a hot-blooded and vengeful Brazilian wife. That, at all events, was what we were evidently intended to conclude. As for infidelity, his simple denial was, of course, to be accepted without reservation. And, if any member of the jury thought a husband testifying against his wife was not quite cricket, Mr Justice Stillingfleet was there to set him right. ‘The court is sympathetic to Mr Caswell’s difficult position. To give evidence in this case is obviously painful, but it is also his duty, which I am glad to see him discharging with dignity.’
Take No Farewell - Retail Page 34
