A Matter for the Jury

by Peter Murphy

  After that, Billy became more cautious. He had to make sure to keep out of trouble for the next twelve months. So he abandoned his pursuit if the couple lived close to town, where he might encounter PC Willis again, and he did not lurk outside any more houses. He confined himself to following couples who walked a little way out of town. That was how he first found out about the Rosemary D.

  3

  The Rosemary D was moored at Holywell Fen, about a mile along the river from the bridge at St Ives. The fen behind the river was remote and treacherous, an expanse of marsh covered by reeds and clumps of rough grass, often cut off by the river mists; and a bend in the river to the north took the mooring behind some trees and away from the distant lights of the town. The Rosemary D had belonged to Ken and Rosemary Douglas, who were still something of a legend in St Ives. They had arrived in the town from London in 1959 with a great deal of money and a great deal of fanfare. They bought and renovated a large town house in the High Street. They also bought the Rosemary D. Rosemary became an active member of the Civic Society. Ken joined the Rotary Club and submitted an application for appointment as a magistrate.

  The Rosemary D was a Dutch houseboat. Her original name was De Grachtprinses. They found her berthed, apparently abandoned, on the Herengracht in Amsterdam. They fell in love with her, renamed her, and had her towed with enormous care to the Wash and up the river to St Ives. She was all of forty feet long, and had two sections – living quarters with a makeshift kitchen and a minute toilet forward, and sleeping quarters aft. Her exterior was painted in bright shades of red and green, with wispy harlequin figures in brown, silver and gold executing macabre dance moves, their arms and legs grotesquely hyper-extended along her sides. A number of hardy plants in large earthenware pots were strategically placed around the deck. Both the town house and the Rosemary D provided settings for extravagant parties, noted for the quantity and quality of food and drink. It was rumoured that more exotic substances were also available. There were whispered stories about scandalous goings on late into the night.

  Then, in 1962, the bubble burst. One morning in May, the town house was suddenly cleared out, and Ken and Rosemary Douglas left St Ives abruptly, never to be seen again. The police had uncovered the source of their money, and were seeking Ken and Rosemary’s help with their inquiries into a number of serious frauds. With the police and the bailiffs hot on their trail, they made good their escape to a warmer clime, a South American country which had not found it necessary to enter into an extradition treaty with the United Kingdom. Soon afterwards, the bailiffs put padlocks on both the house and the Rosemary D and it was generally assumed that both would be sold to satisfy the creditors. The house was indeed sold but, for whatever reason, whether through an oversight, a lack of energy, or a slow market in houseboats, the Rosemary D remained at her berth at Holywell Fen – deserted, locked, and apparently fated to begin a gradual decline.

  Enter the young courting couples of the surrounding countryside, from St Ives, Fenstanton, Hemingford Grey, Needingworth, Over, and Swavesey, who found the padlocks easy enough to pick, and began to make regular use of the Rosemary D for assignations forbidden to them in their parents’ houses. The Douglases had not had time to clear out the Rosemary D before fleeing the country, so the bed, bedding, chairs, kitchen table, glassware and cutlery remained in place. Word soon spread that an ideal spot for courting had been found and, in a remarkable show of social cooperation, a number of house rules developed and were generally obeyed. A length of rope daubed with red paint was to be left hanging from the door leading to the living quarters to show that they were occupied. No one was to occupy the boat for more than an hour, and at busy periods, forty-five minutes. The boat was to be kept reasonably clean and tidy (one couple regularly took the bedding away and returned it washed and dried) and all items brought on board were to be removed on leaving. The windows were to be closed. The padlocks were to be positioned so as to appear to be locked, but not actually locked. Above all, conversation about the venue was to be kept to a minimum, to reduce the chances of the bailiffs taking a renewed interest.

  Frank Gilliam found out about the Rosemary D from a friend at work. Frank was twenty-three, a management trainee at Lloyds Bank in St Ives, and over lunch one day he heard about her from Molly Smith, one of the tellers. Molly’s boyfriend, Sam, had taken her there several times, she confided. She did not go into great detail, but in hushed tones she confided to Frank that, the last time, something had gone a bit wrong, and she had spent almost two weeks worrying herself to death, and worrying Sam to death until, mercifully, her period arrived exactly on time. Frank was all ears.

  Frank was a handsome young man – almost six feet tall and fairly slim, with light brown hair and eyes. He had been going out with Jennifer Doyce for about two months. Jennifer was a couple of years younger than Frank, a slight girl of medium height, with black hair and blue-grey eyes. She also lived in St Ives, but was training as a librarian in Huntingdon. Their outings were confined to the weekends, and consisted of visits to cafés, pubs, or the cinema. Jennifer was by no means unwilling, but opportunities for physical intimacy were few and far between. Both Frank and Jennifer still lived at home with their parents and, when he walked her home, it was usually too cold for anything more than a brief kiss and a suggestive fondle. At the cinema, with their coats over their laps, she would use her hand to good effect. But then there was the problem of concealing the inevitable stains from his mother. And Jennifer did not feel comfortable enough in the cinema to let him do anything similar for her.

  Frank was ready for more; and he was prepared. On his last visit to the barber, he had summoned up his courage sufficiently to buy a packet of three condoms.

  ‘Will there be anything else, sir?’ Geoffrey, the barber, inquired as usual, taking his half crown and depositing it in the till.

  Geoffrey had been asking the same question of Frank for at least two years. In theory, he might have been referring to shaving cream or razor blades. But the context always suggested otherwise. The question was asked with a knowing grin, and an upward glance towards the condoms, which were kept on a high shelf, almost invisible unless you knew exactly where to look, to avoid any shock or offence to older customers or mothers bringing in their young sons for their short back and sides. It always made Frank feel horribly awkward. When he replied, ‘No, I’m fine, thank you,’ he would try to give the impression of a man who was already provided for, though he felt sure that Geoffrey saw straight through him. But on this occasion Frank was determined to overcome his self-consciousness.

  ‘Yes, actually, a packet of the…’ He allowed the sentence to die, unfinished, in the air.

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Geoffrey looked around quickly. There was only one customer waiting, a youngish man immersed in the sports pages of the Daily Mirror. No danger of scandal. He quickly mounted a small stool kept behind the till for the purpose, and swiftly removed one packet, which almost immediately disappeared into an anonymous brown paper bag.

  ‘There you go, sir,’ he said quietly. ‘That will be another half crown.’

  ‘Good luck, sir,’ he added in a confidential whisper as Frank left. ‘Pop in any time if you need some more.’

  So Frank was all set. All he needed to do now was to tell Jennifer about the Rosemary D.

  4

  25 January

  They decided to go to the Oliver Cromwell for a drink to settle their nerves, and to warm themselves up a bit, before setting out for their big adventure. They arrived at 9.45. The Oliver Cromwell was a basic locals’ pub in Wellington Street, a stone’s throw from the historic Quay and the ancient bridge which spans the Great Ouse at St Ives. It was an overwhelmingly male establishment. Few women drank there – perhaps the occasional widow sitting on her own in a corner of the snug – it was very different from the new, more glitzy town-centre pubs where women, even women on their own, were no longer so unusual. Jennifer turned one
or two heads when they entered. But they did not much care about that. They needed a drink, and the Oliver Cromwell was convenient. It would be a short walk to the end of Wellington Street, then a right turn on to Priory Road, leading, through a metal turnstile gate, to the seemingly endless expanse of meadow which formed the bank of the river until you reached the fen.

  The decision to pay a visit to the Rosemary D that Saturday night had been taken. Both knew what it meant, and both knew there would be no turning back. Separately, they had taken advice in advance of the occasion. Frank’s elder brother Jim, who was independent and living in a flat of his own, showed him how to prepare and put on a condom. Jennifer’s elder sister, Marion, who was married, warned her not to expect too much of the first time, and gave her tips on reviving him for the second session which, she assured Jennifer, would be far better. Jennifer did not tell Marion about the Rosemary D. It was not exactly the setting she had imagined for her first time. But things were as they were; she genuinely liked Frank; and a comfortable boat on the river seemed romantic enough. She put on her smartest blouse and skirt, and a new warm cardigan against the cold and, as always, she wore around her neck the large gold cross and chain her grandmother had given her when she was confirmed.

  Frank went to the bar and ordered a pint and a half of bitter. Billy Cottage served him and then watched as they sat together at a table by the fireplace, holding hands, but talking very little.

  The landlord called for last orders at 10.30. They took a few minutes to finish their drinks. Frank checked his pocket for the condoms for the fiftieth time that evening. They put on their coats and hats and left the pub. The night was bitterly cold, but they had anticipated this, and had warm coats, scarves and gloves. There was no question of undressing very much on the boat – it would be far too cold. That was a drawback. But on the other hand, the coldness of the night was likely to discourage potential rivals for the boat from venturing out. Indeed, they had every expectation of being the only visitors. They might be able to stay for longer than an hour, if the cold was not too much for them. They walked briskly towards the meadow. Billy Cottage left the Oliver Cromwell almost immediately and followed, keeping a safe distance behind.

  At the end of Priory Road Mavis Brown was preparing to lock up the corner shop for the night. The shop faced into town down Wellington Street. Mavis was just nineteen, and the shop belonged to her widowed father. She lived with him in the flat upstairs and worked alongside him in the shop. They sold newspapers, magazines, sweets, cigarettes and tobacco and a small selection of groceries and household items. The shop was not officially open at that late hour on a Saturday. Mavis had been doing some stock-taking over the weekend and had worked later than she had intended. But she saw Frank and Jennifer peering in through the lighted window and, being a kind and helpful girl, she took the trouble to open up long enough to sell them two packets of Woodbines. Billy Cottage paused until they emerged from the shop and continued walking. Mavis was just about to switch the lights off and go upstairs when Billy passed the shop. She did not know him, but she was at the large shop window and could not help seeing him. There was a street light on the corner. She had a clear view. She noticed that, despite the cold, he had his raincoat open. He was wearing a dark jacket and a red and white checked shirt. He had a dark woollen hat on his head. His heavy brown shoes looked as though they had not been cleaned for a long time. She even heard him singing in a cheerful tone.

  When I was bound apprentice in famous Lincolnshire,

  Full well I served my master for nigh on seven years…

  Mavis probably wouldn’t have paid much attention to that, except that she was sure she had heard the same song just the other day. There had been a folk music concert on the radio just before bedtime. She had listened to it with her father over their cups of cocoa. A singer called Steve Benbow had performed that same song. Billy walked on. As she switched off the lights Mavis glanced at the clock on the wall at the back of the shop. The time was 10.45.

  5

  27 January

  At 8.30 on Monday morning it was still barely light. The morning was grey and cheerless and the day seemed destined to be every bit as cold as the five that had preceded it. But it would have taken more than a little cold weather to keep Archie Knights and Bouncer at home. Archie had retired from the former Suffolk Regiment with the rank of major three years before, and getting up early was a habit he had been unable to shake off. He had been awake since 5.30, although on this morning he had allowed himself the indulgence of a cup of tea and an attempt, only partially successful, on the Times crossword before calling his golden retriever for their daily walk. Archie pulled on his wellingtons, and man and dog set out for the river bank at a brisk pace.

  Archie passed the Rosemary D during his walk two or three times a week. He had met Ken and Rosemary Douglas socially once or twice, and he had heard the rumours about the parties on the boat. But that was history now, and when the police started to take an interest in them his wife had instructed him to disapprove of the Douglases and their parties. Usually, he gave the Rosemary D no more than a passing glance, wondering vaguely when someone would either come and occupy her or tow her away before she started to deteriorate. But on this morning he stopped abruptly alongside. This was partly because he noticed that the door leading down to the quarters was not firmly closed as usual, but was ajar; and partly because Bouncer had stopped and was making an unfamiliar soft whining noise. After hesitating for some time, Archie made his way carefully on to the small, muddy wooden dock. He approached the boat, put one foot up on the deck and called out.

  ‘Hello. Anyone aboard?’

  There was no reply. Bouncer was still whining and was straining at the leash, trying to turn Archie around, as if he wanted to leave.

  ‘It’s all right, boy,’ Archie reassured him. ‘Someone probably left it unlocked by mistake.’

  He tried to peer through the opening, but it was too narrow, and he could see no light inside. The window curtains were closed.

  ‘Come on, Bouncer, we’ll just take a quick look.’

  He stepped fully on to the deck, pulling the unwilling Bouncer behind him, and gingerly approached the door. He knocked.

  ‘Anyone home?’ he called again. ‘Can I come in?’

  No reply. He pushed the door open. There was just enough light for him to see. There was no one in the living quarters, and everything seemed in order, except for a single chair overturned on his left. But there was a smell hanging in the air. He closed his eyes. It was a smell which brought to mind his days in combat as a captain in North Africa and Italy. There was no mistaking it. Dreading what he now knew he was going to find, he trod quietly towards the sleeping quarters. The door was open. One look, even in the dim light, was enough. He turned and ran hell for leather for the door, for fresh air and daylight. The horror of what he had seen did not hit him fully until he had jumped back from the dock on to the river bank. He turned slowly back to look at the boat, one hand over his mouth, breathing heavily. He felt sick.

  ‘Oh, my dear God,’ he muttered. Bouncer had sat down on the grass, his head against Archie’s leg, quiet now. Archie breathed deeply several times to ward off the nausea. There was no time for that. He forced himself to concentrate and pulled sharply on the leash.

  ‘Come on, boy,’ he said. ‘We have to go and find Constable Willis.’

  * * *

  In Sergeant Livermore’s absence on leave, PC Willis was the ranking officer at St Ives police station. Only PC Hawthorne, who had been with the force less than three months, was available to assist him. As he ordered Hawthorne to summon up the one river boat the force had at its disposal, Willis had the uncomfortable sensation of leaving the citizens of St Ives at the mercy of whatever burglars and other assorted malefactors might be disposed to ply their trade early on a Monday morning, with the police station temporarily unattended except for Sylvia, the civilian rece
ptionist.

  But there was nothing to be done about it. What Archie Knights had told him needed immediate attention, and once he was sure of what he was dealing with, Sylvia was going to have to call Huntingdon and Cambridge and get CID officers involved. Meanwhile, he and Hawthorne would have to cordon off and secure the scene and make preliminary notes. There would be hell to pay if everything was not in order when CID arrived, and Willis had no intention of allowing that to happen. The river boat was kept at Bert’s boatyard, just out of town to the east. The force had no specialist marine officer and, if Bert was out, any investigation had to wait until he returned. Fortunately, on this occasion Bert was in the office and answered the phone as soon as it rang. Within a few minutes he had collected the officers and conveyed them to Holywell Fen at full throttle. On approach, he throttled back and expertly pulled up alongside the Rosemary D. As soon as Bert had tied off the lines to secure the boat in place, Willis and Hawthorne clambered aboard.

  The scene was too much for young PC Hawthorne. He turned and ran back through the living quarters to the side of the boat, where he vomited violently over the side. Willis felt queasy himself, but he put a handkerchief over his mouth, and slowly, with infinite care, made his way around to his right until he was able to pull open the nearest window curtain. He would gladly have opened a window to let in some fresh air, but his training prevailed. CID would call that contaminating the scene. With the benefit of daylight he saw the details of the scene clearly for the first time. There were two victims, one male, one female. The male was straight ahead of him on the floor, to the right of the bed. He appeared to have several serious head wounds, which must have been inflicted, Willis thought, with great force and using a heavy object. There was a lot of blood all over his clothes and on the floor. The female was lying on the bed. She also appeared to have head wounds. Her skirt had been pushed up; her knickers were around her ankles. Her genitals were fully exposed. Willis shook his head. He was about to look around for a murder weapon, when he looked again at the girl’s face. He bent down and seized her wrist, feeling for a pulse, watching her face carefully. Then he dropped her wrist, turned and ran the full length of the Rosemary D, shouting Hawthorne’s name loudly as he ran. Once on deck, he tore Hawthorne away from the side, as he was still wiping his mouth.