A Capital Crime

by Laura Wilson

Chapter Thirty-One

  Listening to the judge’s summing-up the following day, Davies, dead-eyed, looked more like some sort of grotesque, outsized man-doll than a human being. Stratton wondered how much of the arcane language he understood. Behind him, the warder had stopped doodling and was alert, head on one side, rather in the manner of an attentive dog. Looking about him, Stratton thought that he was the only one whose focus had sharpened – compared to the previous afternoon the atmosphere in the court was calm, the silence no longer twanging with anticipation. No cut and thrust here – this was a formality, and it was going pretty much as they’d expected – Mr Justice Spencer, bless his ermine socks, was restating the case for the prosecution with as much, if not more, righteous ire, than Ronstadt. After insisting to the jury in no uncertain terms that Davies had ‘lied and lied and lied’, he told them, almost as an afterthought, that of course they had to make up their own minds about whether he was telling the truth. Stratton, scanning their twelve faces, decided that they’d done that already.

  ‘It’s in the bag,’ he said, as the jury, armed with copies of Davies’s statements, filed out of the court.

  ‘Seems so, sir,’ said Ballard.

  ‘I almost felt sorry for him …’ Stratton said. Now it was almost over, it was much easier to dismiss the nagging, unfocused worries that had been bedevilling him. They were, he told himself, a consequence of trying to do a good job, and nothing worse than anything he’d experienced with other cases. ‘Talk about a poisoned chalice,’ he added.

  ‘We didn’t need to worry about the stuff we never got straight, after all.’

  ‘Can’t dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s every time,’ said Stratton, easily. ‘Always one or two little mysteries. Still,’ he added, ‘the judge did everything but tell them to convict him.’

  ‘He convicted himself, sir. The jury won’t have believed him any more than we did.’

  When, after only forty more minutes, they were told that the jury were about to return, Stratton knew they’d been right about the conviction. As he followed Ballard into the courtroom, he tried to stabilise himself, mentally, against the conflicting rush of emotions that he remembered all too clearly from the handful of capital cases he’d worked on. There was something horribly primitive about the soaring sense of triumph that overcame him, but it was, at least, undermined by his shame for feeling it and blunted by his pity and sorrow for Davies’s victims – who were, after all, going to be given some form of revenge. Not of course, that it would do them any good, but all the same … Still, Stratton supposed, feeling those things was better than being indifferent, because that would mean one didn’t care.

  ‘Members of the jury,’ intoned Mr Justice Spencer, ‘are you agreed upon your verdict?’

  The foreman, a dapper individual who looked as if he might work in a gents’ outfitters, stood up. ‘We are.’

  ‘Do you find the prisoner, John Wilfred Davies, guilty or not guilty of the murder of Judy Davies?’

  There was a second’s silence and Stratton felt a tightness grip his chest, as if a collective intake of breath had robbed the air of oxygen, and then the foreman said, ‘Guilty.’

  A hastily stifled cry came from the gallery. Davies’s mother, thought Stratton. In the dock, Davies who’d been standing with his head bowed, jerked like a marionette being twitched into life on invisible strings, his face as taut as a mask.

  ‘You find him guilty and that is the verdict of you all?’

  ‘It is.’`

  ‘John Wilfred Davies, you stand convicted of murder. Have you anything to say why the court shall not give you judgement of death according to the law?’

  Davies’s expression did not change, but his voice quavered as he said, ‘No, sir.’

  An usher, as sombre and reverent as if he were serving at an altar, laid the black square on Mr Justice Spencer’s head and, backing slowly away, returned to his seat. Get on with it, for God’s sake, thought Stratton. He’d seen this before, a couple of times, and it never got any better. There was something terrible about the way that the ceremony of it all, the pauses, the sheer theatricality, cloaked desire for retribution and the sheer barbarism of putting a man to death, no matter how much he deserved it. Turning it into a spectacle like this was sickening, and the repulsed fascination he felt about it disgusted him.

  Straightening his back, the judge turned to the dock and spoke. ‘John Wilfred Davies, the jury have found you guilty of wilful murder and the sentence of the court upon you is that you be taken from this place to a lawful prison, and thence to a place of execution, and there you suffer death by hanging, and that your body be buried within the precincts of the prison in which you shall have been last confined before your execution, and may the Lord have mercy upon your soul.’

  Stratton saw Davies take a deep breath, as though preparing for a dive, and close his eyes. Startled by a sudden, harsh sob from the other side of the court, he turned to look and saw that Backhouse, head in hands, was weeping.

  Emerging into the street, Stratton and Ballard were distracted from their conversation by shouts just ahead of them. Moving quickly to the site of the disturbance, they heard a female voice: ‘Murderer! You’ve killed my son!’

  It was Mrs Davies. No longer small and neat, she was shrill and vengeful, eyes popping and fists clenched in rage, and yelling at the top of her voice with a hatred so palpable that everyone close was backing out of range. She was screaming at Backhouse who, vacant with shock, was staring at her. Just as Stratton and Ballard reached the pair of them, Edna Backhouse, goaded from her habitual meekness, sprang in front of her husband and, handbag clutched in front of her like a shield, shouted into the other woman’s face, ‘Don’t you dare say that! He’s a good man!’

  As Ballard moved forward to take Mrs Davies’s arm and lead her away, Backhouse caught sight of Stratton and registering, through pink-rimmed eyes, who he was looking at, gave the discreet, complacent smile of one firmly re-established on the moral high ground.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Doris gazed at the dish of meagre-looking chops. ‘Tuppence off the meat ration – again,’ she said, wistfully. ‘I do wish they’d end it.’

  ‘Plenty of greens, anyway,’ said Donald, nodding approvingly at the khaki-coloured mound of spring cabbage, which was all that Stratton’s allotment was capable of producing in such a relentlessly wet April as this one.

  ‘Nature’s policemen, those,’ said Reg, helping himself. ‘Shouldn’t eat too much meat, anyway. Bungs you up.’

  In order to forestall any enquiry as to the state of everyone’s bowels – Reg, who’d recently taken to studying the ‘Home Doctor’ book and now fancied himself an expert, was quite capable of it and he could see the fear in Lilian’s eyes – Stratton turned to Doris and said, ‘You decided to go to the Festival, then, when it opens?’

  Before she could reply, Donald said, ‘The whole thing’s irresponsible, if you ask me. Eleven million pounds on a bloody carnival—’

  ‘Don!’ Doris glared at him.

  ‘Sorry, love, but that’s what it is. Eleven million quid on that when there’s people still need homes to live in – the government must want their heads seeing to.’

  Stratton, who’d momentarily forgotten Don’s feelings about the Festival of Britain in his attempt to steer Reg away from bowel movements, said mildly, ‘Well, now we’ve got the thing, it might make a nice day out for the girls. I know Monica’s keen, aren’t you, love?’

  Monica, her mouth full, nodded enthusiastically. Swallowing, she said, ‘Madeleine wants to go, too.’

  ‘Waste of money, if you ask me,’ grumbled Don.

  ‘Ted didn’t ask you, he asked me,’ said Doris. ‘And I want to go, too. I’d say we could all do with a day out.’

  ‘Well, I shall certainly be attending,’ said Reg, making it sound as if the aldermen of London were going to turn out en masse to greet him. ‘I think it’s a very good thing all round – “a tonic to the nation”
as it’s been said.’

  ‘Opium for the nation, more like it,’ muttered Don.

  ‘Well I, for one, will be very interested to see these new scientific developments they’ve been talking about. It’s important to keep abreast of these things.’

  After a brief pause, during which Doris looked daggers at Don and Stratton kept his eyes firmly on his plate so as not to have to look at him at all, Monica said, ‘What about you, Dad? Can you come?’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ Stratton grinned at her. At least he got on with one of his children, he thought – Pete, taciturn and sullen throughout most of his Christmas visit, had hardly written since. ‘If you’re sure you want your old Dad tagging along, that is …’ Monica made a face at him. ‘Now things have calmed down a bit at work, I should think—’

  ‘Oh, Dad, I nearly forgot … Was this your man?’ Monica produced a folded sheet of newspaper from her pocket and passed it across the table to Stratton.

  ‘Reading The Times now, are we?’ asked Reg. ‘Very clever.’

  ‘Somebody had it at the studio, and I asked if I could take the cutting.’ Stratton unfolded the sheet and saw:

  MURDERER HANGED

  John Wilfred Davies, 25, lorry driver, of Paradise Street, Euston, London W.C., was executed yesterday at Pentonville for the murder of Judy, his 14-month-old daughter, on November 10, 1950. Davies was sentenced to death at the Central Criminal Court on February 13.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that was him.’ He’d known it was going to happen, but since he’d heard that Davies’s appeal had failed, he’d been trying not to think about it, and especially not about Davies’s mother. It was all too easy to imagine the woman’s pitiful hope of a reprieve, and how she must have felt when that had failed, as the inexorable days, and then the minutes, ticked away towards the bag on the head, the yank on the lever, the sudden drop … He pushed away the remains of his lunch.

  ‘Aren’t you going to finish that?’ asked Reg, leaning forward, fork poised to spear the remaining bits of meat.

  Stratton shook his head. ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘Let’s have a look at the cutting,’ said Don. ‘Nasty … Looks like he got what he deserved.’ The piece of newspaper was handed around until, to Stratton’s relief, Doris announced that hanging wasn’t a suitable subject for the dinner table and removed it.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ said Monica, as they walked up to the allotment together after lunch. He hadn’t been looking for company but she’d volunteered to help him carry some flowerpots.

  ‘What for, love?’

  ‘That cutting about your murderer. I was trying to change the subject because I thought Uncle Reg and Uncle Don were going to have a row. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘You didn’t, love.’

  ‘Dad, I could see your face.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose …’

  ‘But he did do it, Dad, didn’t he?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He did it.’

  ‘Why? Who would kill a baby?’

  ‘We never got to the bottom of that. Davies was a pretty simple creature – it’s hard to understand how these people’s minds work.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s vile. He must have been horrible.’

  But he wasn’t, thought Stratton. In many ways, he was rather likeable. ‘Let’s talk about something else, love, shall we? What are you up to at work?’

  ‘I started work on a new picture this week – The Belle of Bow. It’s a comedy, but I don’t think it’s going to be very good. It’s got the wrong people in it.’

  ‘Who’s that, then?’

  ‘Donald Colgate. He’s very good at brooding and smouldering and slapping women, but he can’t do jokey stuff at all. He says the lines as if he doesn’t understand why they’re supposed to be funny. It’s driving Mr Carleton mad. He’s the director. Oh, and your friend is working on it, too. They’re getting married.’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘Mrs Calthrop and Mr Carleton.’ As she spoke, Stratton went cold, the unexpectedness of it jolting him like an icy shower. ‘Nobody’s meant to know they’re engaged, but of course everyone does, and the whole studio’s been talking about them for weeks, because Mrs Calthrop isn’t divorced from Mr Calthrop yet.’ Monica talked on, about other people in the film’s crew, but Stratton barely heard her. For Christ’s sake, he told himself. Stop being ridiculous. What do you care about Diana Calthrop? It’s not as if you’ll ever see her again – and even if she wasn’t going to marry this other chap, she’d hardly look at you, would she?

  It was an enormous relief when, on reaching the allotment, Monica took off back home and left him to his thoughts and – despite what he’d been telling himself – his disappointment.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  James Carleton nodded at the row of slot machines on the promenade. ‘That’s how much we see of the outside world,’ he said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Diana.

  Linking arms with her, he said, ‘I mean, my darling, that film directors have a very narrow view of things. The studio isolates us and we don’t see everyday life.’

  ‘You’re seeing it now. All this.’ Diana waved a hand at the fountains and bandstand and the people dancing with the neon shining behind them in the inky twilight waters of the Thames.

  ‘It’s a show, my darling. The Festival of Britain is simply a vast advertisement for things we can’t have because we’re exporting them all.’

  ‘But it’s lovely all the same. And as far as things are concerned, we’re luckier than most.’

  ‘Well, I am, because you’re going to marry me. Not sure it’s such a fortunate arrangement from your point of view, having to put up with me for the rest of your life … But you’re right about the things – you’ve done wonders with your new home. I’d no idea you had such a practical streak.’

  ‘Neither did I.’ Diana had spent every spare moment since she’d moved into her flat in redecorating; discovering, and revelling in, skills that she’d had absolutely no idea she possessed. Finding no wallpaper or paint to her liking in the shops, she’d taken to pestering the studio’s technical department for advice, and soon learnt how to mix up the colours she wanted and how to apply them. Once she’d persuaded the painters and carpenters that she was serious, they’d been very helpful, even lending her a brown overall which she wore over an old summer dress. Wearing sandals, her face, hands and bare legs flecked with paint, she’d spent whole evenings transforming the place into somewhere bright and welcoming. It was so much nicer than James’s cramped rooms that they’d decided to make it their home after they were married.

  ‘And you’ve got a good eye,’ said James. ‘You could be a designer if you were trained up a bit.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Don’t look so surprised. Do you remember when you said you weren’t intelligent enough for me and I said you were but you just didn’t know it?’

  Diana nodded.

  ‘Well, this is the same sort of thing.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Diana. ‘But when you’re happy you feel as if you could do anything, don’t you? And I’ve got lots more ideas from looking around today.’

  ‘Darling …’ James pulled her into his arms. ‘At this rate, you’re going to run out of house. I don’t suppose they’ve got any vacancies in the Design Department right at the moment, but we could find out. I’d hate to lose you, but …’

  ‘But you’ve got me at home.’

  ‘That’s true. And as long as you fetch my slippers and bring me drinks I shan’t mind. Well, well, well …’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Over there – your little friend from the Make-up Department.’

  Following his gaze, Diana saw Monica and, following just behind – she blinked, but it was, it really was – Inspector Edward Stratton.

  ‘Must be her father,’ said James. ‘They obviously haven’t seen us, so let’s—’

  ‘No, please,’ said Diana, delighted. ‘I
know him.’

  ‘Do you? How?’

  ‘Tell you later.’ As she called out to Monica, Diana decided to tell James she’d met Stratton when her handbag had been pinched in the blackout. That was plausible enough – it must have happened to lots of people.

  As they came towards her, she thought that, apart from a few grey hairs, Edward had hardly changed at all. The same impression of strength and calm, the broad shoulders and strong face, the broken nose and the wonderfully kind eyes … They really were the nicest eyes, she thought disloyally, of anyone she’d ever met. Realising that she was staring, she hastily stepped forward and made introductions. After a spot of handshaking and awkward remarks about it being unexpected and so on, no-one seemed to know quite what to say until James started talking about the Dome of Discovery, which they all agreed was wonderful.

  When they parted a few minutes later – Edward saying gruffly, ‘Mustn’t detain you’ – James said, ‘Another conquest, I see. Father as well as daughter. You obviously made quite an impression on him – and he on you, judging from the way you were looking at each other.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, darling.’ Diana could feel that she was starting to blush, although, she told herself sharply, there was no reason for it. I shouldn’t have called out to Monica, she thought. I should have let them go past us. ‘In fact,’ she added, hastily, ‘I’m surprised he remembered me at all. We only met because—’

  ‘I suppose you must have come across quite a few policemen during the war,’ said James, matter-of-factly. ‘Oh, don’t look so alarmed – I’m not going to ask questions. I guessed you must have been a spy as soon as I met your friends the Andersons.’

  ‘What nonsense! Jock’s a civil servant, and I certainly wasn’t—’

  James laughed. ‘Oh, it’s all right. But even if you weren’t exactly a spy, I know you can’t talk about it, whatever it was. Woman of mystery …’ He swung round to face her and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Just adds to the attraction, my darling.’