A Matter for the Jury

by Peter Murphy

  Mrs Doyce smiled.

  ‘I don’t think she has ever taken it off,’ she replied, ‘except perhaps to have her bath or go to bed. She wears it everywhere she goes. She adored her grandmother, and she adores this cross and chain. She has been asking when she can have it back. I tell her, “when the case is over”, but she is very distressed. She…’

  She began to cry again.

  ‘My Lord, I have nothing further,’ Pilkington said. ‘May this be Exhibit Five?’

  ‘Exhibit Five,’ the judge confirmed.

  ‘No questions, my Lord,’ Hardcastle said, hardly rising from his seat.

  * * *

  ‘My Lord, I now recall PC Willis. I don’t know whether your Lordship or my learned friend requires him to be re-sworn?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Hardcastle replied immediately.

  Willis duly took the oath.

  ‘Officer,’ Pilkington began, ‘you have already told the jury about your discovery of the body of Frank Gilliam on board the Rosemary D, and about your observing that Jennifer Doyce was alive and having her transported to Addenbrookes. I want now to ask you about one or two other matters. Firstly, on the morning of the 30 of January, with Detective Superintendent Arnold and Detective Sergeant Phillips, did you go to the lock keeper’s house at Fenstanton?’

  Willis turned towards the judge. ‘If I may refer to my notebook, my Lord?’

  ‘When did you make your notes?’ Pilkington asked.

  ‘On my return to St Ives police station, about an hour later, my Lord. The events of the morning were fresh in my memory.’

  Pilkington glanced at Martin Hardcastle.

  ‘Did he make them on his own, or with the other officers?’ Hardcastle whispered.

  ‘Did you make your notes on your own, or with the other officers?’ Pilkington asked.

  ‘I made them on my own,’ Willis replied.

  Hardcastle nodded.

  ‘Then you may refer to your notes, officer.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Yes, I did go the Fenstanton lock keeper’s house on that morning.’

  ‘Whose house is that?’

  ‘The accused, William Cottage, lives there, sir, together with his sister, Miss Eve Cottage.’

  ‘What was your purpose in going to Mr Cottage’s home on that morning?’

  ‘We wished to question him regarding this case, sir.’

  ‘I see. Was Mr Cottage at home when you arrived at the house?’

  ‘No, sir. He arrived about twenty minutes after we did.

  ‘Was anyone at the house when you arrived?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Miss Eve Cottage. We identified ourselves as police officers and told her that we wished to speak to her brother. She said he would be back before too long, and invited us into the house to wait.’

  ‘Yes,’ Pilkington said. ‘While you were waiting, did you notice anything in particular about Miss Cottage’s appearance?’

  ‘I did, sir.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I noticed that she was wearing a heavy gold cross and chain.’

  ‘And why was that of interest to you?’

  ‘I was aware that a piece of jewellery of that description was alleged to have been stolen during the events on board the Rosemary D on the night of 25 January, sir. I had been shown a photograph of the item in question, which I believe was taken for insurance purposes.’

  ‘With the usher’s assistance, officer, please look at Exhibit Five.’

  Willis nodded instantly as Paul approached him with the cross and chain.

  ‘That is the piece I saw Miss Cottage wearing, sir.’

  ‘Thank you. What did you do when you saw it?’

  ‘Detective Superintendent Arnold questioned her about how she had come by the piece, sir. She said…’

  Hardcastle was already half way to his feet when Pilkington interrupted Willis.

  ‘We can’t have what Miss Cottage said, officer. But, yes or no, did she give Superintendent Arnold an explanation for having it?’

  ‘Yes, she did, sir.’

  ‘What did you do next?’

  ‘Superintendent Arnold explained that he had reason to believe that the cross and chain belonged to someone else, and asked her to surrender it to him, which she did without objection, sir.’

  ‘Did anything else happen on that morning?’

  Willis turned over a page of his notebook.

  ‘Yes, sir. Shortly afterwards, Mr Cottage returned home, and after a brief conversation Detective Inspector Phillips arrested him on suspicion of larceny.’

  Pilkington surveyed his own notes for several moments.

  ‘I will deal with the arrest with Superintendent Arnold and Inspector Phillips,’ he said. ‘But if my learned friend has any questions about that, are you prepared to answer them now?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Willis replied.

  ‘Actually,’ Pilkington continued, ‘there is one other matter. I think there is no dispute about it. In September 1961, was there an occasion when you arrested the accused, William Cottage, for indecent exposure near a house in St Ives?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Did you observe that offence being committed?’

  ‘I did, sir.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘Mr Cottage was hiding in some bushes outside the house and was masturbating while he watched a young lady getting undressed in an upstairs room of the house, sir.’

  ‘Thank you. Officer, was there any aspect of the incident you found unusual?’

  ‘There was, sir. As I approached, Mr Cottage appeared not to notice me. I was able to get within touching distance before he saw me. I distinctly heard him humming or singing a tune.’

  ‘Indeed. Did you recognise the tune?’

  ‘I did, sir. It was the Lincolnshire Poacher.’

  ‘What happened after you arrested Mr Cottage?’

  ‘I took him to St Ives police station, sir. He was detained overnight. The following morning he appeared before the magistrates and pleaded guilty to indecent exposure. He was conditionally discharged for twelve months.’

  ‘Has Mr Cottage been convicted of any other offence?’

  ‘No, sir, he has not.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, officer, wait there, please.’

  * * *

  Martin Hardcastle glanced at the jury with the suggestion of a smile, as if to confide in them, a calculated intimacy. ‘You know what’s coming, don’t you? We have been down this road together before.’

  ‘Are you a musical man, officer?’

  Willis laughed briefly. ‘No, sir, not at all.’

  Another glance towards the jury.

  ‘Really? You disappoint me. You sound as though you might be a useful baritone. No singing in the police choir, for instance?’

  ‘I don’t think there is any such thing in Huntingdonshire, sir.’

  ‘Oh? What a pity. Well, perhaps the church choir, then? No…? Well, regardless, you said that when you arrested Mr Cottage in 1961 he was humming or singing the Lincolnshire Poacher?’

  ‘That is correct, sir.’

  ‘Well, which was it? Was he humming or singing?’

  Willis puffed out his cheeks and exhaled heavily.

  ‘I really can’t recall, sir. It has been more than two years.’

  ‘But you do recall after two years that it was the Lincolnshire Poacher?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Even though you are not a musical man?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So we don’t know whether you recognised the words or the tune, do we?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Hardcastle paused. Seeing Andrew Pilkington ready to spring to his feet, he extended a hand in his direction.

  ‘No reason to be concern
ed. I am not going to risk the ire of his Lordship or my learned friend by asking you to sing it – or even to hum it, for that matter.’

  Willis ventured a weak smile. ‘I am relieved to hear that, sir.’

  ‘Yes, I am sure you are. It’s a rather convenient memory to have in the context of this case, isn’t it?’

  Now Pilkington was on his feet.

  ‘Really, my Lord, that is quite improper. My learned friend knows better…’

  But Hardcastle had already resumed his seat and evidently had no intention of insisting on an answer. Mr Justice Lancaster did not intervene.

  ‘My Lord,’ Andrew Pilkington said, once Willis had left the courtroom. ‘The Crown’s next witness is Jennifer Doyce. I am sure your Lordship will appreciate that we want to complete her evidence in one day, rather than keep her waiting this afternoon and having to come back tomorrow. So I have not asked her to be here this afternoon. I have taken the liberty, after consulting with Dr Walker, of asking them both to be present for 10.30 tomorrow morning. I hope that will meet with your Lordship’s approval.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ the judge replied.

  ‘I have no other evidence to call today,’ Pilkington said.

  The judge smiled at the jury.

  ‘Then that is all for today. Please be back in time to resume at 10.30 tomorrow morning, members of the jury.’

  * * *

  ‘Well, I thought that went as well as we could have hoped this afternoon, Mr Cottage,’ Martin Hardcastle said.

  The team had once more gathered outside the small cell at the back of Court 1 and had, as usual, only a few minutes before the prison officers took Billy Cottage back to Bedford for the night.

  ‘What did you think?’

  Billy nodded. He did not really know what to think, but if his main barrister thought it had gone well, then that was a good sign. He did not understand why. The mention of his previous conviction had unnerved him, and so had the repeated references to the Lincolnshire Poacher. Every time the song was mentioned, the words ran through his head like some kind of endless tape he was powerless to control. The words stayed in his mind. It was almost as if he could form no other thought while they were there. Once or twice, he had felt that he might just blurt them out, start singing aloud, right there in the courtroom. He knew how mad that would be, but once or twice he was not sure that he could stop himself. The urge was particularly strong during the moments when he thought Martin Hardcastle was going to invite a witness to sing. How could he avoid joining in? That thought unleashed another train of thought. What would happen when his turn came to give evidence, when he had to speak in court? Would he be able to control the words then? And what about Eve? What would she say when the prosecuting barrister asked her hard questions? What might she tell him? And that brought back the spectre of being hanged.

  ‘Can I ask you something, Mr Hardcastle?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘When will I be giving evidence?’

  Martin knew that Ben and Barratt had both answered that same question more than once. It struck him that Cottage could not quite come to terms with it.

  ‘Not tomorrow. Very likely the day after. We’ve got Jennifer Doyce tomorrow, then Superintendent Arnold and Inspector Phillips. They are going to take some time. Don’t be anxious about it. We will have the chance to talk to you before you give evidence. For now, let’s worry about the prosecution’s case. We have made some progress, and we may be able to make more tomorrow. One step at a time.’

  Cottage nodded. There was a silence.

  ‘Do I have to give evidence? Does Eve have to?’

  Martin looked to his right and saw Barratt raise his eyebrows in apparent frustration.

  ‘Yes. I think you will have to,’ he replied. ‘So will your sister. This is not a case where I can invite the judge to stop the case at the close of the prosecution case, so it will go to the jury. You have an alibi, but the only way we can put that before the jury is for you and Eve to give evidence about it. These were brutal crimes, Mr Cottage, and there is some evidence against you. The jury will need a basis to find you not guilty, and it is our job to provide it to them. Mr Schroeder and I are persuasive fellows, but even we can’t persuade anyone without evidence.’

  He looked directly at Ben.

  ‘I agree,’ Ben said at once. ‘The jury needs to hear from you. They need to hear your side of the case.’

  ‘Can I do it without Eve having to say anything?’

  Martin shrugged.

  ‘You could. But obviously the jury would want to know why Eve had not come to support you when she was at home at the relevant time. It would not look good.’

  The answers took away the spark of light which had briefly ignited in the mind of Billy Cottage. The spectre returned. He turned his back and walked to his seat at the back of the cell, waiting for the words to return.

  Success to every gentleman that lives in Lincolnshire, Success to every poacher that wants to sell a hare, Bad luck to every gamekeeper that will not sell his deer, Oh, ’tis my delight on a shiny night in the season of the year.

  41

  ‘How did your training go this afternoon?’

  John smiled. ‘Very well, sir, thank you. I took a knock to the ankle in the game last week and I wasn’t sure how long I would last, but I came through fine.’

  ‘So you will be fit for the weekend?’

  ‘Looks like it, sir.’

  ‘Good.’

  John had left the tray with his dinner on the small table by the window of Martin Hardcastle’s room. The steak and kidney pie was still on the menu and there was a bottle of the house vin ordinaire to wash it down. Martin settled the white napkin, lifted the metal dish cover, and looked doubtfully at the food on his plate. It did not look particularly appetising; certainly nothing to write home about, but then again, he was in the country, and what could you expect? This wasn’t London.

  ‘Ring down if you fancy a pudding, sir,’ John said. ‘It’s apple crumble tonight. Not bad.’

  ‘I will,’ Martin replied. ‘Did you manage to get…?’

  ‘In your dressing table, sir, middle drawer. I thought I wouldn’t leave it out. You never know. One of the girls might come in to pull down the bed covers and, between you and me, sir, you can’t always trust them not to gossip.’

  Martin smiled as he handed John a note.

  ‘Good man. Keep the change.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ John said, with a bright smile. ‘Will there be anything else?’

  ‘I’ll ring if there is,’ Martin replied.

  He locked the door as soon as John had left. He opened the middle drawer of the dresser, took out the bottle of Bell’s, and placed it on the table behind his dinner tray. John was a bright lad, he reflected, and dependable. Not many lads of his age would have thought of doing that. He would put in a good word for him with the manager of the hotel. He deserved a leg up. He placed a finger on top of the bottle of whisky. Reward time was drawing near, and he had earned his reward today. But he would have to eat something first. He contemplated the steak and kidney pie for some time. Unappetising as it looked, it was a long time since his lunchtime sandwich, and he was hungry. The wine had been opened, and he poured himself a large glass. With the help of the wine he managed to force down most of the pie, with some dry mashed potatoes barely relieved by a thick brown gravy, and some overcooked green beans. He replaced his knife and fork on the tray. He could have eaten something more but, after some thought, he decided that he could not face the apple crumble. He lifted the wine bottle from the tray, replaced the metal cover over the plate, carried the tray to the door, and set the tray on the floor just outside. He hung the ‘Do not Disturb’ sign on the door handle, closed and locked the door. It was a signal to himself that the day was over, that he did not have to deal with anyone until the next morning, that
he had some time for himself. He could feel confident that he would spend the remainder of the evening without any further intrusion.

  He had left his briefcase on the bed. He now opened it and took out his blue barrister’s notebook. Moving to the wardrobe he took a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket, and settled back down at his table. He opened the notebook and wrote a heading in bold letters. ‘Cross of Jennifer Doyce’. He underlined it for effect, once, then twice. He had gone over this cross-examination in his mind many times, but now the time had come to focus his thoughts and decide exactly what line to take. He re-filled his wine glass. He had to be gentle, no doubt about that. Jennifer was a victim, and the jury was bound to feel for her. Martin would have pounded her without a second thought, victim or not, if the case required it, but the case did not require it. Billy Cottage could afford to have nothing but sympathy for Jennifer Doyce. She had been savagely beaten and raped by someone other than Billy, and he could condemn that brutality just like any other half way decent member of society. What was important – essential even – was that Jennifer had been raped, and that the rape must appear to the jury to be the central event of the night of the 25 January – the prime, if not the sole reason, for the killing of Frank Gilliam.

  Although it seemed bizarre, it was essential for both judge and jury to keep the rape in the forefront of their minds, and to push the gold cross and chain to the back. If convicted of murder, Billy would get the death penalty if he had killed in the course or furtherance of theft, but life imprisonment if he killed in order to rape. Martin drained his wine glass. It was a strange universe in which that could be true, but you could only play the hand you were dealt, and in some ways it made his task easier. There was no reason to be anything other than kind to Jennifer Doyce – as long as he could get her to concede the possibility that she was mistaken about the Lincolnshire Poacher. That was the problem. He was about to write something, but suddenly put his pen down on the table. He had done well today with Mavis Brown. It had been an unexpected break. What if he could re-think the problem?

  The thought focused his eyes on the bottle of Bell’s. The thoughts which were creeping into his mind demanded a real drink. He replaced the cork in the wine bottle. Somewhere between half and three-quarters empty, he noted. That was respectable enough. He would leave it on the table, as a record of his official drinking for the evening. He twisted the top of the whisky bottle sharply, and unscrewed it. There was a clean tumbler on the dressing table. He poured a glassful and allowed it to swirl in the glass before taking an appreciative sip. The familiar feeling of warmth and reassurance ran through his body as he settled in his chair. What was he thinking? Had something shifted today? Was he being too pessimistic? He had started the trial with the assumption that nothing could be salvaged except life imprisonment rather than a death sentence. The evidence against Billy Cottage was circumstantial, but it was compelling. To have a chance of achieving more, he had to undermine three pieces of evidence: the blood-stained fingerprint; the Lincolnshire Poacher; and the gold cross and chain. He had already undermined the fingerprint. The prosecution’s forensic officer had been forced to concede that it could not be dated. The Lincolnshire Poacher was a deadly detail which no jury was likely to write off as a coincidence, but he had made progress today. If Jennifer Doyce could be challenged as he had challenged Mavis Brown and PC Willis, the case was suddenly looking rather different – there might be some doubt. There was a chance – apart from the gold cross and chain; apart from the one aspect of the case he needed to go away. But Cottage’s frantic and contradictory efforts to explain away the cross and chain to Detective Superintendent Arnold were not credible. The jury had not heard all that yet, but they would soon. There was no obvious way around that. But he had raised a question about whether the mark on Jennifer’s neck was necessarily the result of the cross and chain being removed forcibly from her body. Was she wearing that piece of jewellery at the time of the attack? Her mother thought that she wore it all the time, but had she worn it that night? She had intended to yield her virginity to Frank Gilliam on board the Rosemary D. Would she have taken her grandmother’s memory to bed with her that night? Might she have taken it off before they started, perhaps even before she boarded the boat? In which case, might it have been lost, just as Billy Cottage claimed? Jennifer would not want to admit that, but the point could be made. If that worked, the prospect of the death sentence began to recede.