‘A new government, Staddon? Then they may let Consuela live. In my country, a president spares all condemned prisoners when he takes up office.’
‘That’s not the practice here.’
‘But these people’ – he gestured round the bar – ‘say Labour are different from the rest.’
‘Perhaps. But in this way they may wish to seem exactly the same.’
What really worried me was that Labour might well prove even stauncher advocates of the death penalty than the Tories. Imprisoned strikers were likelier to engage their sympathy than Brazilian heiresses. If we were reduced to hoping they would be merciful, it would be a frail hope indeed.
Next morning, the few national newspapers to reach Fownhope were dominated by the political upheaval. Reports of Consuela’s trial were less prominent than they had been and, without Imry to interpret events for me, the effect Consuela’s testimony had had on the Court was impossible to gauge.
Rodrigo, the landlord told me, had gone out before dawn. When he returned in mid-morning, he ushered me into his room and closed the door before announcing that he had stolen a ladder from a barn and concealed it in undergrowth near a part of the Clouds Frome wall where he reckoned it would be easy to cross. It only remained now to confirm that Jacinta had received my letter and would act upon it. Then our preparations would be complete.
I drove into Hereford early in the afternoon, leaving Rodrigo at the inn. Well before three o’clock, I was standing in one of the passing-places on the Wye Bridge, leaning over the parapet to watch the turbulent river surge and foam round the cutwater beneath me. Soon, very soon, Hermione would arrive and with her the last moment when it would be possible to draw back from the brink.
Tuesday 22 January 1924
Politics is on everybody’s lips, relegating events at the Old Bailey to the status of a side-show. How strange that, as Consuela’s trial nears its climax, the outside world’s interest in it diminishes. It is as if all those who have most loudly demanded her conviction are suddenly embarrassed by their own vehemence. Even the lady of many hats absented herself today. She, like most other Londoners, is presumably more interested now in who may be kissing hands at Buckingham Palace than saying his piece at the Old Bailey.
What such people missed were the closing speeches of defending and prosecuting counsel. Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett bestrode the morning with two and a half hours of impassioned oratory, arguing that the evidence against his client remained wholly circumstantial and that significant elements in it had been swept away in the course of the trial. Banyard had testified that Consuela had in no sense instigated his purchase of Weed Out. She was, moreover, no better informed of its presence or composition than her husband. Gleasure had admitted that she had not tried to prevent him calling a doctor. Cathel Simpson had insisted that neither the arsenic nor the anonymous letters could have been in the bedroom drawer prior to 21 September. And Mr Jenkins the postmaster had cast doubt on the authenticity of those letters.
‘If the postmarks were faked, it was done in order to suggest that Mrs Caswell had received the letters when in fact she had not. If she did not receive them, the motive put forward by the prosecution to explain this crime is disproved. And, if that is disproved, so is the case against Mrs Caswell.’
The logic was impeccable, the presentation exemplary. Sir Henry has waited throughout the trial for a chance to display his talents untrammelled by contrary witnesses and today he seized it with aplomb. For as long as he was speaking, it was impossible to believe that anybody could resist his call for an acquittal. What, after all, was there to substantiate the charges but half-formed suspicions and questionable exhibits? The discovery of the arsenic and the letters is no longer as damning a piece of evidence as it once seemed. Without it, what remains but the coincidence that Consuela was alone in the drawing-room when Noyce delivered the tea-trolley?
Sir Henry handled the jury with magical ease. He did not challenge or insult them, but carried them along with him in a rigorous but beguiling voyage through the currents and undertows of the case. Nobody denied, he pointed out, that murder had been committed. But the jury should beware of mistaking evidence of murder with evidence of his client’s guilt. The one was abundant, the other entirely lacking. Nor was it for the defence to show who had committed the crime, merely that Mrs Caswell had not. And this, he contended, they had amply done.
If there was a flaw in Sir Henry’s brilliance, it was its impermanence. It dazzled but did not endure. When he sat down, nobody could doubt that he had done as well for Consuela as any advocate could. But the jury has yet to hear a lengthy speech from the prosecution. And an even lengthier summing-up by the judge is promised for tomorrow. Will the force of Sir Henry’s argument endure in their minds? Will his words – or Talbot’s and Mr Justice Stillingfleet’s – be at the front of their thoughts when they are asked to reach their verdict?
Talbot’s closing speech occupied the afternoon and never at any point threatened to rival Sir Henry’s for gusto and persuasiveness. Its virtues were altogether more attritional, reflected in the way he reverted at intervals to certain themes he was determined the jury should not forget. The evidence was circumstantial, but where poisoning was concerned how could it be otherwise? Nobody was going to consume – or allow somebody else to consume – a poisoned drink if they had seen it poisoned. The doubts raised by the defence about the authenticity of the letters were wholly spurious. And Consuela’s carelessness in leaving the letters and the arsenic where they could easily be found was all of a piece with her arrogant refusal to believe that the crime could ever be traced to her. Above all, Talbot emphasized, the jury should ask themselves this: how could the events of 9 September be explained other than by Consuela’s guilt? Nobody else present at the tea party had any reason to harm Victor. Nobody else had the means at their disposal to do him harm. And nobody else had the chance to put those means into effect. For those reasons alone they should find the accused guilty on both counts.
In Talbot’s depiction, Consuela is a clever and ruthless murderess motivated by a jealous determination to ensure that, if her husband no longer loves her, he will be made to suffer the ultimate penalty for seeking affection elsewhere. It was with this gross caricature as firmly planted in the jury’s minds as he could contrive that he rested the prosecution case. Tomorrow, we shall surely know whether he has been successful.
This evening, dining alone here at my club, I overheard two of our crustier old members deploring the advent of a Labour government in apocalyptic tones. England will never be the same again; from this blow society cannot hope to recover; it is the result of giving women the vote; and the new Prime Minister, Ramsey MacDonald, is a pacifist.
Will it be so very different, I wonder? The sun will still rise of a morning, the rain will fall, the mills will grind and the laws of England, humane or not, will be enforced. When these two old men were young, hangings were open-air events, spectacles for public entertainment. Now they are performed behind closed doors, shielded from the curious world. But their brutality remains. And the only measure of change in this country of ours that seems at this moment to mean anything to me is whether such brutality is to be visited upon the accused in the case of Rex versus Caswell.
Hermione was exactly on time. She looked calmer and more confident than I felt, but her part in our conspiracy, of course, was over; mine had yet to begin. Mindful of the need for caution, we began walking towards the southern side of the bridge, talking as we went.
‘All went well, Mr Staddon. I encountered no difficulty in visiting Jacinta yesterday.’
‘How did she seem?’
‘Worried sick about her mother, as you would expect. But she was greatly encouraged by your letter. Miss Roebuck left us alone, so she was able to read it in my presence.’
‘And will she be able to do what we’ve asked her to do?’
‘Nothing will prevent her. She is a brave girl, as you must know.’
‘Yes,�
� I said, avoiding her gaze. ‘I do know.’
We reached the end of the bridge, pulled up and turned to look at each other. Hermione smiled. ‘I shall return to Fern Lodge now,’ she said, ‘and await further developments as if I do not expect there to be any.’
‘That would be as well.’
‘It only remains for me to wish you luck.’ She leaned closer. ‘Go carefully, young man. Go very carefully. You will need to. Of that I am certain.’
I watched her start back across the bridge, then headed towards the side-street where I had left the car. I walked fast, eager to put behind me an unworthy thought that had flashed across my mind at Hermione’s words. Was I glad – or secretly sorry – that nothing now stood in our way?
Chapter Sixteen
WE LEFT THE Green Man while there were still enough customers in the bar to distract the landlord’s attention. A short drive along deserted lanes took us up into the wooded hills behind Clouds Frome. There we pulled the car off the road and waited as patiently as we could for midnight to come and go. The night was cold and still, a pale three-quarters moon drifting in and out of a ragged cloud-rack. Silence of an intensity only the countryside in winter can contrive lay all about us and neither of us made any attempt to break it. Instead, we sipped by turns from Rodrigo’s hipflask, heard the church clock in Mordiford strike twelve, let another half hour slowly elapse, then started for the house.
We were both carrying electric torches. Rodrigo, in addition, had the car-rug slung over his shoulder and, as I knew but had not cared to confirm, a knife concealed in one of his pockets. He led the way down a grassy track he had reconnoitred earlier. A mile of cautious descent brought us to the eastern wall of Clouds Frome, ten feet of ivy-swathed brick with nothing visible beyond. Already, I was in danger of losing my bearings. But Rodrigo knew exactly where we were. Within minutes, he had located the ladder, hidden in a bank of ferns.
We propped it against the wall and Rodrigo climbed up with the rug. This he folded thickly and draped like a saddle over the top of the wall as protection against the broken glass. Then he signalled for me to follow. Once I had joined him, he pulled the ladder up after me, swung it round as if it were no heavier than a feather and lowered it to the other side. I descended first, then Rodrigo threw down the rug and followed.
At the foot of the wall, we paused to catch our breath. We were on sloping ground, roughly grassed and sparsely dotted with shrubs and bushes. Based on our point of entry, I reckoned we were now some way to the south of the kitchen garden, with the eastern limit of the orchard directly ahead of us and the house about half a mile away on a north-westerly bearing, its outline obscured by the wooded hills behind it. The only way to confirm this, it seemed to me, was to locate the kitchen-garden wall and follow it to its south-western corner. It had been agreed beforehand that Rodrigo would not quibble with my navigation once we were inside the grounds. True to his word, he trailed faithfully behind me, carrying the ladder in one hand and the rug in the other as I headed up the slope.
A fleeting appearance by the moon revealed the kitchen-garden wall before we reached it. Encouraged by this success, I altered course to the left, hoping to reach the south-western corner more quickly. That would give me an exact appreciation of our whereabouts relative to the house. From there, I knew, a path led round the boundary of the orchard to steps that ascended to the lawn east of the pergola. And from there the nursery window was directly accessible.
I could not hear Rodrigo behind me, though whenever I looked back he was there, ten yards to the rear, the ladder tilted in his hand like the lance of a knight. The only sound that reached me was my own breathing and the swishing of my feet through the lank grass. Already, a chilly dampness had penetrated my shoes. But there was dampness of another kind on my face. One half of my brain was content to calculate distance and topography, whilst the other struggled to keep a host of irrational fears at bay. The moonlight was faint and shifting, as disturbing in its way as the impenetrable blackness that had swallowed most of our surroundings. The kitchen-garden wall reappeared a few yards ahead and, only a few more yards beyond, ended abruptly. We had found the south-western corner.
I turned it confidently, expecting to feel the texture of the grass alter beneath my feet as I stepped onto the path. But I never did. There was a sound in the darkness to my right, a sound at once heavy, rushing and panting. Then, with a growl that was almost a bark, it launched itself at me. It was the guard-dog, as huge and strong as I had dreaded it might be. It leapt and, in one movement, flung me back against the wall with its forepaws. The breath shot out of me. Winded and utterly terrified, I cowered away, but the beast was standing as tall as me, its legs against my chest, its teeth bared, its throat spitting phlegm. I could see moonlight glistening on its fangs, could feel the heat of its breath against my face.
Then, as quickly as it was upon me, it was gone. Rodrigo charged and grasped it about the shoulders, throwing himself to the ground and carrying the dog with him. For a second, they were just a wrestling, snarling tangle in the darkness at my feet. Then Rodrigo gained the hold he wanted. He was behind the dog, his legs scissored round it to immobilize its lower limbs. His right arm was round the animal’s throat, his left hand forcing its muzzle down against his arm to prevent it barking.
‘The knife!’ he said as loudly as he dared. ‘Take the knife from my pocket and—’ The dog bucked and strained. Rodrigo’s grip weakened for an instant, then was restored. ‘Take the knife and kill it!’
I crouched beside him and tried to open his jacket, but it was fastened and the buttons were out of reach beneath the dog’s back. I had to twist my hand in past his collar, with the dog’s head only a few inches from mine, its eyes rolling, its jaws foaming.
‘Depressa! Depressa!’
My stretching fingers found the handle, tugged at it, lost it momentarily, then found it again and pulled it out. It was a heavy weapon about ten inches in length, with a wooden handle and a leather sheath. When I slid the sheath off, it was to expose a thick double-edged blade.
‘Do it now, Staddon! I cannot … I cannot hold this brute much longer.’
I reversed my grasp on the knife, raised it to strike, then hesitated. Where should I strike? How? Even though I knew the act was necessary, its commission seemed beyond me.
‘Slit its throat! Quickly!’
‘Its throat? My God, I can’t—’
‘Then give the knife to me!’ He was grimacing with the effort of continued restraint. ‘If you cannot do it, I can!’
I thrust the knife into his right hand with a kind of dumb eagerness and turned away, too late to miss the dull flash of the blade as he closed his fingers round the handle. There was a single thump like a rug being beaten, a horrible tearing note half-hidden by the hissing of Rodrigo’s breath, a low gurgling growl, a frenzied scrabbling, then a brief silence. When I looked back, the dog lay limp and lifeless.
Rodrigo struggled to his feet, stooped to wipe the blade clean against the grass, then took the sheath from my hand, slid the knife back into it and replaced it in his pocket.
‘I … I’m sorry,’ I murmured. ‘I just couldn’t … couldn’t bring myself to …’
‘Keep your apologies for later, Staddon! I do not want to hear them now.’
‘But—’
‘Fique quieto! Forget the dog. It died without making a noise. That is all that matters. Now, get us to the house!’
I hurried ahead, found the path and began to walk along it as quickly and steadily as I could, aware that the trembling in my hands was slowly abating, the hammering of my heart subsiding. I thanked God there had been no daylight by which to see what Rodrigo had done and winced with shame at the memory of how little I had helped him. I wondered if there was much blood on him, or any on me, wondered what, in the morning, I would think about this night’s work.
So preoccupied was I that I did not notice the outline of the house looming above me, more densely black even than the sky
behind it. I reached the foot of the steps without realizing it, stumbled against the lowest tread and fell up them.
‘What is wrong?’
‘Nothing. These steps lead up to a lawn behind the house.’
‘Then go on, Staddon. What are you waiting for?’
I turned and hastened up the steps, through a gap in the beech-hedge at the top and so out onto the lawn. Now the rear of the house was clearly visible beyond the ornamental garden. The ground-floor windows were blank and shuttered. As for those on the first floor … Yes, there was the Catherine wheel window of the nursery, looking, at this range, as firmly closed as the rest. I was gaping up at it when Rodrigo appeared behind me.
‘That is it?’ he whispered, following the line of my gaze.
‘Yes.’
‘Is it open?’
‘Don’t worry. Jacinta won’t have let us down.’
‘I hope you are right.’
‘Wait here while I cross the garden. Follow when I signal.’
I moved as swiftly and silently as I could across the lawn, clambered over the low stone wall separating it from the ornamental garden, then steered a path between the rosebushes and the fountain to the terrace running past the ground-floor windows. Now the nursery was directly above me. Peering up, I could see that its window was indeed ajar. I turned and waved to Rodrigo.
A few minutes later, we had succeeded in propping the ladder beneath the curving sill of the Catherine wheel. Rodrigo held it fast while I began to climb. I paused at each rung, determined to make no sound that might raise the alarm. The ascent seemed to last an absurdly long time. I remembered the pleasure I had taken from designing this fenestral conceit, remembered the coy explanation I had given Consuela of its purpose, one blazing afternoon in the summer of 1909 as we sat in camp-chairs on what was now the lawn. ‘It will supply a circular view of a circular world, Mrs Caswell, for the son or daughter you and Mr Caswell will one day—’ I reached the top and there, as a dim reflection in the glass, met myself fifteen years later, peering in like the intruder I had always been.
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