The Queen v. Karl Mullen

by Michael Gilbert

  With the tit-bit of the trial ahead of them none of the papers felt like letting the matter go. Recalling a previous conversation, the News Editor of the Sentinel said to his number two, “We couldn’t see that it would develop in just this way, but it’s top class news now, no question. We’ll still have to steer clear of the rights and wrongs of the case, but we can say what we like about Mullen’s conduct.”

  “Lovely,” said his number two. “I was thinking of something on the lines of ‘a South African snake whose final wriggle has landed him with his head in a noose’.”

  The Orange Consortium were more interested in deeds than in words. Andrew Mkeba said to Boyo Sesolo, “When it reaches the Old Bailey, how many of your men do you think you can put on the streets?”

  “Real fighters? People who mean business? Possibly two hundred. If this shit gets a life sentence they’ll be there to cheer. If by any chance he shouldn’t get all he deserves, then they could show their disapproval, couldn’t they?”

  “How exactly?”

  “Leave it to me,” said Boyo. “We’ll think up something pretty dramatic.”

  22

  On Monday, January 7th, after a shortened Christmas vacation, the Bar resumed business. The Courts had not yet reopened and this gave the Attorney General and his devil an opportunity for an in-depth study of the Mullen papers.

  Two hours of this was more than enough for Eileen. Her brain worked faster than the Attorney General’s. Restoring the witness statements and other documents to her own copy of the brief and re-swathing it in white tape, she said, “I hear that Mullen has been moved to the hospital wing at Brixton. The only visitor he’s been allowed so far is the resident psychiatrist.”

  “I don’t suppose he got much out of him.”

  “He got nothing. Except a few well-chosen insults and a lot of obscenity.”

  “He’s his own worst enemy,” said the Attorney General. He was still busy with his own papers, arranging and rearranging them. “I think we’ve put together a pretty solid case.”

  “The defence can peck at it,” agreed Eileen, “but they won’t pull it down.”

  “Nothing’s certain in the law. And it’s bad tactics to assume that you’re in for an easy ride. De Morgan will make every possible point, but there’s one thing he can’t get over or round. His client tried to bolt. It would have been an admission of defeat in itself – but by trying to leave his sureties in the lurch he’s lost any shred of sympathy from the jury.” When Eileen said nothing, he added, “You agree with that, I’m sure.”

  She said, “Oddly enough, that’s the only aspect of the case that worries me. Given a solid, intelligent, middle-of-the-road jury who will listen to evidence and are capable of understanding it, we should get home every time. But I can’t help thinking of these two sureties.”

  “The newspaper man and the padre?”

  “Right. No doubt the journalist did it for publicity and the clergyman because he loathed Katanga, but does either reason really add up to a chance of losing five thousand pounds – a chance which nearly came off?”

  “So?”

  “In my book, they were fanatics. And this is the sort of case that breeds fanatics. Get two or three on the jury and little matters like proof and logic are going by the board.”

  The Attorney General said, “I see what you mean. I think I’d better have a word with my clerk.”

  Mr. Messenger was the oldest, and richest, member of the Chambers. Since there was no retiring age for barristers’ clerks it was felt to be on the cards that he would celebrate his hundredth birthday in harness. No one would have dreamed of suggesting his removal. He was far too valuable. He knew, personally, everyone connected with the administration of the law in London. Most of them he had first met as schoolboys. It would have seemed perfectly natural – though he would never have taken such a liberty – had he addressed the Lord Chief Justice as ‘Shrimp’, his school nickname.

  He listened carefully to what the Attorney General had to say. He had a great respect for Sir Humphrey Belling, not only as head of Chambers, but as a staunch upholder of the right in law and politics.

  He said, “I’ll have a word with the clerk at the Bailey. Youngish, of course—” Mr. Messenger meant that he was under fifty—”but quite a sound man. The first thing is to make certain that the panel for your Court is drawn from Plumstead and Dulwich. Not from Lambeth and Hackney. You might imagine that Lambeth would be reliable, with its ecclesiastical connection, and so it was once, but I’m afraid it’s gone sadly downhill lately. Then you’ll have them all vetted by the C.R.O., the Special Branch and the Anti-terrorist Squad.”

  “Of course.”

  “So far as the final selection goes—”

  “I don’t want any men with long hair or girls with short hair. In fact, I’d be happier without any girls at all.”

  “But a few middle-aged women.”

  “Oh certainly. We don’t want to be accused of sex discrimination.”

  “I think that sort of thing can best be attended to when the jury cards are handed out. If the clerk knows what you want, it’s surprising how the cards seem to be arranged in the appropriate order.”

  “Do you think he will be helpful?”

  “I had an idea about that, sir. The head-clerkship at the R.C.J, is falling vacant this summer. If I were to suggest to him that you would support his application—”

  “It’s not in my gift,” said the Attorney General.

  “No, sir. But a candidate with your support would be almost certain of the post.”

  The Attorney General saw the force of this. The head-clerkship at the Royal Courts of Justice was a plum. Its holder often finished up with a knighthood.

  He said, “I have no objection, as long as the suggestion is not supposed to come from me.”

  “Certainly not,” said Mr. Messenger. “That would be most improper.”

  “You look worried, Andrew,” said Captain Hartshorn. “Why? Are you nervous because everything seems to be going too well?”

  “Not really,” said Mkeba. “Though it’s the sort of situation that drives you to look round for snags. No. It’s you I was worried about. Suppose you were run over by a bus.”

  “It might happen. Though I’m a very careful pedestrian.”

  “What I mean is, you keep too much to yourself.”

  “A weakness bred into sergeant-majors. They hear so many secrets, that they have to learn to keep their mouths buttoned. Were you thinking of anything in particular?”

  “I was thinking of Mrs. Queen. Do you realise that you’ve never explained to anyone why you wanted her watched - or why you thought she was important?”

  “No,” said Hartshorn. “I haven’t. All right. You’ve made your point. About the bus, I mean. So I’ll tell you. But it’s on the strict understanding that it goes no further.”

  “Of course.”

  “Very well. Mrs. Queen was first mentioned to me more than two years ago, when Katanga was still living in Hammersmith. We were, of course, in close touch with each other and when he came to see me one day he said that he regarded Mrs. Queen – his exact words – as a very dangerous woman. He was a bit shy of explaining exactly what he meant. All he would say was that she had been spreading stories about him. I gather he actually wanted some of Sesolo’s troops to beat her up. Of course, I said ‘No.’”

  “Of course.”

  “It would have been stupid and worse than stupid. If an attack had been made on Mrs. Queen her stories would have become infinitely more damaging. No. What I did was to move him. I got hold of that house in Putney from one of our well-wishers and I thought that was the end of the matter. Then, when the bookshop incident occurred – and it became clear that Katanga was the one vital witness – I told them to keep an eye on him, but on no account to threaten Mrs. Queen.”

  “A watching brief.”

  “Exactly. However, when I was told about that journalist, Tamplin, going to see her, I did say
that they could close up on her a bit. If she noticed what they were doing, it might make her think twice if she contemplated mischief.”

  “So the Queen is now in balk,” said Mkeba, who appeared to be confusing chess and billiards.

  “And will stay there until the trial’s over,” said Hartshorn firmly.

  “We’re set down,” said de Morgan, “for Monday, January 14th. And, provisionally, we’ve been allotted the rest of the week, which is generous, as the Crown witness list is not a long one and ours is even shorter.”

  On this occasion John Benson was there with Roger. He said, “You must understand that, as a firm, we are somewhat inexperienced in this sort of thing. Don’t misunderstand me. We’ve taken it on and we’re fully behind you, from the senior partner down to the office boy, who has already lost a tooth in defence of our client. But when it comes to technicalities, we’re totally in your hands. And Mr. Bull’s hands, of course.”

  Martin smiled politely. De Morgan said, “Very well. There are three matters we have to decide. The first is indeed a technical one. From the witnesses the Crown are calling it’s clear that they are relying on the bookshop incident as proof of motive. It would be open to us to object. To say that they are attempting to bring in a previous conviction – and that, of course, is something that’s never allowed.”

  Benson said, “Surely they’ll maintain that it wasn’t a conviction.”

  “Nevertheless we could criticise it as an attempt to smear Mullen by dragging in a previous charge. I don’t think we should succeed in excluding it altogether and I’m inclined to think it would be better to save it, if I find it necessary to refer to it at all, for comment in my closing.”

  “Besides which,” said Martin, “every member of the jury will know all about it anyway.”

  “Probably. The next point is whether we put Mullen in the box. If he runs true to form he will antagonise everyone – Bench, Bar and jury. As defender, I’d be much happier if the Criminal Evidence Act, 1898, had never got into the statute book. Nine prisoners in ten convict themselves out of their own mouths. On the other hand, it can be extremely dangerous not to call him. It makes the jury say to themselves, ‘What’s he got to hide?’ It’s particularly difficult in this case, but my feeling, at the moment, is to keep him out of the box.”

  “From the way he performed in the police court,” said Roger, “I couldn’t agree with you more.”

  “Which brings me to my last and most important point. The girl, Anna. The difficulty here is that we simply don’t know what she’s going to say. Her evidence on committal was cleverly kept down to the statement that she was in the next room during the vital half-hour. She does say that the partition between the two rooms was very thin, so that she knew that Mullen was there and could hear if he moved about. You can imagine the Attorney General picking up this point and saying, ‘Do you think you could elaborate a little on that, Miss Macheli?’”

  “And then she can say what she likes.”

  “Within reason.”

  Silence descended on the room. It was broken by Benson, who said, “You must excuse my ignorance of the etiquette in these matters, if I ask you a question which perhaps I shouldn’t. Do you think there’s any real chance of an acquittal?”

  De Morgan said, with a smile, “That’s very like the question that doctors dislike answering, when a wife says to them, ‘Is my husband going to die?’ All they can do is to weigh comfort against truth. The best answer I can give you is this. You no doubt remember the famous comment made by one of my predecessors, that the Devil himself knoweth not the mind of man. If I knew the minds of the twelve men and women in the jury box, I could answer your question.”

  When the solicitors had gone, Martin said, “You sidestepped that very neatly. Now perhaps you could tell me what you really think.”

  De Morgan suspended an irritable search for his favourite pipe, which seemed to have strayed, and said, “It’s a David and Goliath situation, isn’t it? The Crown has a truly formidable set of backers. No question about that. They’ve got the government machine, which has equipped them with a top pathologist and an eminent scientist, with all the resources of the Aldermaston laboratory behind them. They’ve got the police, both the Metropolitan Force and the Special Branch. And a well-organised clique from north London, possibly the most dangerous because they are the most unscrupulous. All backed by the massive weight of public opinion.”

  “Even the Church militant,” said Martin gloomily. “They’ve rallied in support of the rector of Ucklebury Cross.”

  “Right. And who have we got? A firm of solicitors who admit that they know next to nothing about criminal work. They’ll do their damnedest, I’m sure, but enthusiasm is no substitute for experience. Oh yes, and one north London newspaper.”

  “And nine schoolboys,” said Martin. “Roger Sherman tells me that his son organised a debate at St. Paul’s on the lines of ‘fair play for Mullen’. Ninety-four boys voted against him, but he did get eight on his side.”

  Back in the office, Benson said, “It looks as though we’re in for a hiding.”

  “It looks that way,” agreed Roger. “Though I have an idea which might go some way towards levelling the odds.”

  “Out with it,” said Benson.

  An odd result of the crisis was that he was now almost the keener of the two.

  “De Morgan said – and I’m sure he’s right – that in a case like this it’s no good sitting back and scoring debating points. We’ve got to attack. And, as far as I can see, we’ve only one possible weapon – the unknown Mrs. Queen. We could afford to buy her evidence. No shortage of money now.”

  “All right,” said Benson. “I’m inclined to agree. But I’d rather someone else made the approach. If we put him in funds, wouldn’t that reporter do it for us?”

  “Fred Tamplin? Yes. He’s a forritsome lad. I’ll ask him.”

  “And there is one other thing we might do. It’s not my idea, it’s my wife’s.” He explained what she had suggested.

  “First-class,” said Roger. “Even if they don’t turn anything up, it can’t do any harm.”

  “Subject, then, to those two points, I think we can get the brief into something like final shape. We shall need a formal proof of evidence from Dr. Thoroughgood—”

  It was nearly nine o’clock when Roger got home. He had been held up, not only by the work in the office but by the fog which had come up at teatime and had been thickening ever since. Over a late supper he explained to Harriet what they had been doing.

  “Tamplin’s going out there now. He thinks this fog will be helpful if he has to side-step anyone who’s watching. He’ll have a report for me before we go to bed.”

  After supper they sat up talking resolutely about other things and waiting for the telephone. It rang at eleven o’clock. Roger picked up the receiver, said, “Sherman here,” and listened for some time. Then he said, “Of course. I’ll come straightaway.”

  Harriet said, “Not Tamplin?”

  “That was Bart’s Hospital. Tamplin’s in the emergency surgical ward. A hit-and-run driver went over him. He insists on talking to me before they put him under. They’ll hold off for thirty minutes, but no longer.”

  “Then I’d better drive,” said Harriet. “I’m better in fog than you, and I can be finding somewhere to park whilst you’re finding your way in.”

  Twenty-two minutes later she eased the car down Smithfield Street and drew up in front of the hospital. She seemed, thought Roger, as he got his breath back, to have an instinct for trouble split seconds before it happened and she had certainly driven much faster than he would have dared. He jumped out and plunged into the dark fortress.

  Here he found Fred Tamplin. His head was swathed in bandages which left only his mouth and eyes visible. His right leg was attached to a contraption of wire and wheels. The surgeon was standing, watch in hand, on the far side of the bed.

  Tamplin said, “Not much time for talk.” He was concent
rating his bruised mind and shattered wits on what had to be said. “Never reached Mrs. Queen. Had a bit of luck though. Found that a man I play rugger with, name of Ian Malcolmson, had the house that backed on Mrs. Queen’s. His garden runs down to her garden, you understand?”

  Roger nodded.

  “He said I could go through his house and reach Mrs. Queen that way. His wife’s a bitch, but she’s usually out between eight and nine. Some committee. So that’s what I’d fixed to do. If you’re taking it on, mention my name.”

  Roger saw the surgeon’s hand move and got up. He said, “I’ll be off. I’m sure you’ll pull through all right.” He doubted whether anything he said would penetrate the bandages, but Fred seemed to understand him.

  When they got home, he said, “I can’t go tonight. It’s much too late. I’ll try it tomorrow night at half past eight. I only hope the fog holds.”

  Harriet said nothing, but he realised that it was not the sort of silence that implied consent. Finally she said, “Do you really think it was an accident?”

  “No, I don’t. People don’t go blinding down a side street in a fog. It was a deliberate attempt by the Orange boys to stop him talking to Mrs. Queen.”

  “That’s what I thought. I don’t want you brought home on a stretcher. Why don’t you go to the police? Tell them that Mrs. Queen is a possible witness, who’s being threatened.”

  “You don’t understand,” said Roger. “The police aren’t on our side. They’re against us. If I told them the whole story they’d insist on coming along with me. First they’d try to bully Mrs. Queen. Then they’d insist on getting a statement from her. Which is the last thing we want. She’s our secret weapon. If she’s going to be any use, she’s got to be fired at the right time, not before. And totally untampered with.”

  Harriet still seemed doubtful. In the end she said, “Let’s leave it. If it’s a clear night, you won’t have a chance. If it’s foggy, you might.”

  “Right,” said Roger. “D-day will be postponed until the weather is favourable. Does that satisfy you?”