by Alec Waugh
“When I take action,” he told Bradshaw, “I take strong action. I had Boyeur arrested on a charge of inciting to riot. But from what I have heard since, I believe that we can make out a case for incitement to kill. I shall discuss it this afternoon with the Attorney General, the head of police and one or two of our notables. Julian Fleury and Humphrey Norman for example. Personally I should like to see Boyeur tried on a charge of murder.”
“May I state that, sir, as your opinion, or is that off the record?”
The Governor hesitated, then committed himself. “Yes, you can express that as my personal opinion. If the evidence is as strong as I think it is, I shall advise—no, I shall urge the Attorney General to prosecute.”
Bradshaw reported the conversation word for word. Such was the Governor’s wish, he wrote, but whether the Governor’s wish was to be granted was another matter. The situation was impossibly entangled by personal relations.
“I will make no attempt to assess probabilities,” he wrote. “I will content myself with a bare statement of certain facts. The Governor’s son is engaged to be married to Jocelyn Fleury, the sister of the dead man. The Attorney General’s sister is engaged to be married to David Boyeur. Humphrey Norman, one of the counselors whom the Governor proposes to consult, is chairman of the Tourist Board and chief shareholder in the St. James Hotel; it is in his personal interest that an example should be set that will reassure the tourist. He was also Maxwell Fleury’s father-in-law. Four months ago the name of his other daughter Mavis was linked with that of the Governor’s son. This correspondent reported a curious scene that took place between the two outside the courthouse when Mavis Norman angrily shook away young Templeton’s arm. The Governor’s A.D.C. has been conducting for four months an intrigue with a young colored shop girl who obtained, through his influence presumably, a post in the G.H. secretariat. This girl, before she became Archer’s mistress, had been for two years Boyeur’s mistress. It may be presumed that this girl discarded Boyeur because the A.D.C. was white. It would be hard to find a situation in which the personal relationships were more entangled. High affairs of state are as often as not determined by the personal equation. As to the eventual outcome of the present situation in Santa Marta, anyone’s guess is as good as this correspondent’s.”
And that was that, thought Bradshaw. Santa Marta was a closed chapter now: tomorrow at this time he would be high above the Caribbean, on his way “to fame and fortune.”
2
In the Governor’s study, in the house high upon the hill, five men were at the moment deliberating the issue that had formed the subject of Bradshaw’s article. In addition to the Governor there were Whittingham and Grainger Morris, Humphrey Norman and Julian Fleury. The constable from Belfontaine was recapitulating his evidence. Whittingham set the questions.
“Could you hear what David Boyeur said in his speech to the crowd before Maxwell Fleury interrupted him?”
“Not the actual words, sir, but the general argument.” The constable gave the gist of the speech.
“Was it very violent?”
“Mr. Boyeur is always violent.”
“Was the crowd excited?”
“The crowd is always excited when Mr. Boyeur speaks.”
“Was the crowd more excited than usual?”
The constable shook his head. No, on the whole he did not think so.
“Were you yourself watching all the time?”
The constable shook his head. No, he had stayed inside his office, listening. He had not come out of his office till Mr. Maxwell Fleury had made his interruption.
“How did you know he had interrupted?”
“I heard another voice shouting Mr. Boyeur down.”
“So that until Maxwell Fleury made his interruption, you can give no evidence on anything that happened. You saw nothing. You only heard what Boyeur said and how the crowd received him?”
Yes that was so, the constable admitted.
“But after the interruption you saw everything?”
“Yes, I saw everything.”
“How long was the table?”
“It was an ordinary issue table, borrowed from the station.”
“How far apart did the two men stand?”
“As far apart as they could stand.”
“Three, four feet?”
“About that.”
“And what did Maxwell Fleury say?”
“He told the crowd that they were idle, sneaking, good-for-nothings; that they ought to be slaves.”
“And the crowd got angry?”
“Very angry. They waved their arms.”
“Did any of them have cutlasses?”
“Yes, sir, several.”
“Do you remember which men had cutlasses?”
No, he could not remember.
“So that you cannot say that it must have been one out of ten or twelve men who had cutlasses?”
No, he could not say that.
“What about Boyeur? How did he take Fleury’s interruption?”
“He got very angry.”
“What did he do?”
“He interrupts Mr. Fleury. He shouts him down. He says that Mr. Maxwell Fleury is one of the enemy.”
“Did he threaten Maxwell Fleury?”
No, the constable could not say that he had done that.
“What happened then? Did Maxwell Fleury interrupt again?”
“Yes and called him names; an upstart, a no-good fellow. And then Mr. Maxwell Fleury leans forward to Mr. Boyeur and says something I can’t hear; and—”
“What’s that? Something you can’t hear. Was that the first thing you couldn’t hear?”
“Yes, up to then each shouts, but this time Mr. Fleury leans forward and whispers something. And then Mr. Boyeur punches Mr. Maxwell, and Mr. Maxwell falls back into the crowd. And that’s the last thing that I do see, the table is in the way. There is a lot of shouting and something seems to be happening, and then the noise begins to quiet and then there isn’t any noise at all, and the people in front are pushing back to get away and those in the back are trying to push in front. And then I think I had better go and see what happens, and …”
“Please wait a moment. What was David Boyeur doing all this time?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Nothing?”
“He stand on the table all the time.”
“Didn’t he try and stop what was happening?”
“No, sir, I don’t think so.”
“Did he stand there, silent? That’s not like him. Didn’t he shout out anything?”
“Yes, sir, he shout something.”
“What did he shout?”
“I can’t tell, sir, there is so much noise.”
“Now listen, Simpson, this is very important. You heard practically everything else that was said. But this one thing you could not hear.”
“There was much more noise then, sir. I never hear so much noise. Everybody shouting.”
Grainger intervened.
“I see your point perfectly. You cannot be absolutely certain of what you heard, so you prefer to say nothing. You are afraid of bearing false testimony, that’s it, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. That is it.”
“And if you were in a court of law, giving evidence on oath, you would be quite right to say that you did not hear what Mr. Boyeur said. But you are not in a court of law, you are not giving evidence on oath. You are simply telling us unofficially what you saw and what you think you heard. What you think you heard may be of great value, because we can check by it something that someone else may have thought they heard. By comparing four or five different versions we may discover what Mr. Boyeur actually said. You see my point?”
“Yes, sir, I see your point.”
“Then I think you should tell us what you think you heard. And I give you my word that what you say now will not be quoted against you in a court of law. We want you to tell us what you think you heard for our own information. You s
ee my point?”
“Yes, sir, I see.”
“Then what did you think you heard?”
Again the constable hesitated.
“You understand, sir, I cannot be sure.”
“Yes, yes, we understand.”
“Well then, I think he said, sir, ‘Let him have it, boys.’ ”
There was a gasp from Humphrey Norman. The Governor glanced at Julian Fleury. There was no expresion on Julian Fleury’s face. It was firm and set, with the lips closed tightly. Grainger looked across at Whittingham and nodded. It was the colonel’s turn.
“When you reached the meeting, what was Boyeur doing?”
“Staring at the corpse, sir.”
“He’d stayed on the table all the time?”
“Yes, sir, all the time.”
“Did he say anything?”
“‘They’ve killed him,’ that’s all he said. He kept repeating it. He was dazed. He stood there staring. I asked him who had done it. He shook his head. ‘They’ve killed him,’ he kept on saying that, ‘They’ve killed him.’”
“Were there a number of men there too?”
“Yes, and childun.”
“What were they doing?”
“Staring at the corpse.”
“You’ve got their names?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You questioned them?”
“Not one by one. I had no time: so much to do, to ring you up, sir. Take photographs before it was dark. I had no one to help me.”
“Yes, yes, I know. And you did your job extremely well. I’m very pleased with you. You didn’t question the group individually. You asked them as a group who had done this. What did they say?”
“They say they didn’t know. They couldn’t see. They were at the back. The men at the front all gone away.”
Whittingham and Grainger exchanged a glance. They could picture the scene. Boyeur on the table, dazed, and the men and children in a half circle gazing at the corpse with a fascinated, frightened horror. Maxwell Fleury lying face downward, his arms spread out, the trickle of blood congealing in the dust, and the daylight fading fast. How could you get evidence? There were fingerprints on Maxwell’s coat and on his shirt: someone had caught him by the shirt and collar. But even if they fingerprinted the whole island, and how could they do that, what would they have proved? That such and such men had been there at that moment. That was all. It did not even prove that they had struck him. It only proved that they were witnesses, or might have been witnesses.
Who had swung that cutlass? That was the vital fact and how was that to be discovered? Boyeur might know. But Boyeur would not dare reveal it. The man would assert inevitably in his defense that he had been instigated, incited by his leader. “Let him have it, boys.” Neither Whittingham nor Grainger had the slightest doubt that the constable had heard correctly. Boyeur in his own interests must stay silent. They would get nothing out of him. They would never find the killer. But a charge of incitement to murder against Boyeur might be maintained.
“You have told us,” Grainger said, “that Maxwell Fleury leant forward and spoke in a low voice to Boyeur. The next thing that happened was the blow struck by Boyeur that knocked Fleury into the crowd. Was that the only blow that Boyeur struck?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Before that happened had there been any threatening gestures made by either party? Had Fleury clenched his fists or framed up as though he meant to fight?”
“No, sir.”
“Did you ask any of the men in the crowd if they heard what Fleury whispered to Boyeur?”
“No, sir…. Well, I no remember….there was so much—”
“I know, I know. It’s not important, but when you get back to the village see if you can clear up that point. It might be of interest. Up to that point there had been no sign of a fight, you say.”
“No, sir.”
“But young Fleury never struck at Boyeur.”
It was Norman who interjected that. “Boyeur struck at a man who had not attacked him, who was off his guard, who was not even threatening to attack him. That is the main point.”
A few more questions were asked, then the constable was dismissed.
“I trust,” the Governor said to him, “you do not think because we have asked you all these questions that we are in any way criticizing you. Your conduct has been exemplary. It has been more than that. You acted with intelligence and initiative; it will appear upon the record.”
As the door closed behind the constable, Templeton turned to the advisors.
“Now, gentlemen, I should like to hear your opinions. Julian?” Julian Fleury shook his head.
“I’ve nothing to say. My son is dead. Justice must take its course.”
“Mr. Norman?”
Norman had a great deal to say. An incident like this, following on Carson’s murder and the publicity which it had received in the American papers would do an incalculable amount of harm to the tourist trade. Look how much harm had been done to Grenada by those mild riots, which had entailed no loss of life, and little of property. Young Fleury’s death following upon Carson’s would give American and Canadian tourists the idea that a white man was not safe here. There was only one way in which that impression could be dispersed. Drastic action must be taken to show that authority had been reestablished.
“We must set an example,” he insisted. “We have entertained a number of journalists here for ten days, at considerable expense. Instead of having them say the kind of thing that we want said, they will write sensational ‘we guessed it all along’ articles. Santa Marta has barely been in the news till this last four months. Now it will be associated in everybody’s mind with crime and pillage. It will be considered a place to avoid. Pan American will reconsider their plan to make a stop here and that is of prime importance to us. It may take us years to live down this damage. Our only chance of reinstating ourselves in the good graces of the world is by setting a disciplinary example. Boyeur is responsible and Boyeur must be dealt with as a criminal.”
He spoke for a dozen minutes. The Governor listened, nodding his head from time to time; as a junior officer, after a tactical exercise he had listened to sergeants and corporals explaining the reasons for their actions. He had rarely interrupted. He had let them talk themselves out. He followed that technique now. He waited till Norman was about to cover the same ground for the fourth time, then without interruption, he amplified Norman’s arguments.
“That’s a very interesting point of view. That’s something we must not lose sight of. A dollar shortage is one of the Empire’s greatest problems. We must do all we can here to save dollars, and to make dollars. The tourist revenue is of great importance. You are absolutely right, Mr. Norman. At the same time the Attorney General will, I am sure, remind us that expediency plays no part in the demands of justice. We must govern this island in terms of its laws, even if the carrying out of those laws is opposed to our immediate interests. I would like now to ask Colonel Whittingham this question, do you consider that on the evidence you and your police can collect you will have a case that you can present to the Attorney General strong enough to warrant a prosecution on a charge of murder?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Then in that case, Mr. Morris?”
Grainger hesitated. There was so much that he had to say and at the same time so little. He could have talked on the pro’s and con’s of the case for an hour, but the issue was, in fact, a very simple one: a question of alternatives.
“There’s one thing that puzzles me,” he said. “Perhaps Mr. Fleury could help me in it. I have been back here in Santa Marta for only a few months: there’s a great deal that I do not know about the personal relations existing between the various members of the community. I don’t know what are the roots of the quarrels and friendships that determine social life here, therefore I don’t recognize the danger signal. I am liable to make a false diagnosis. It has become quite clear for example that there was gen
uine ill feeling between these young men. I don’t know what is the cause of it, I wish I knew what it was. Perhaps Mr. Fleury knows.”
Julian Fleury looked surprised.
“Why do you say that? They hardly knew each other. What points of contact had they? They didn’t play games together. My son’s game was tennis, Boyeur is a cricketer. There’s never been any rivalry between them in any field. Why should there have been ill will between them?”
Grainger gave his reasons. He spoke of Boyeur’s demonstration at Maxwell’s election meeting. He spoke of the Leg. Co. meeting.
“On that occasion, sir, Maxwell Fleury deliberately goaded Boyeur.”
“How can you say that?” This came from Fleury. Grainger addressed the chair.
“Is your Excellency aware of the precise sting in the remark of Fleury’s that drew Boyeur to his feet?”
“I’d like you to give me your interpretation of it.”
“I can give you the facts, sir. You have working in your secretariat a girl called Margot Seaton.”
“I have. She is a cousin of David Boyeur.”
“Did she say that? I doubt it very much. But she was without any doubt Boyeur’s mistress for two years. She is now the mistress of your A.D.C. Boyeur is very touchy about having been supplanted by a white man.”
The Governor smiled. He had been taken off his guard; but he was accustomed to shocks. He was not going to show he had been.
“This is news to me,” he said. “They always say, don’t they, that a husband is the last person to learn of his wife’s indiscretions.”
The young scamp, he thought; getting his girl invited to that dance. It was at that dance that she had angled her post upon his staff. She had managed that herself. She must be quite a person. He did not know that Archer had it in him.
“At the Leg. Co. meeting,” Grainger was continuing, “there was deliberate provocation. A few days ago they nearly came to blows in the club.”
“I hadn’t heard of that,” said Fleury.
Grainger recounted the incident.
“There was very definite bad blood between the two,” he said. “There’s this too to be considered. What was young Fleury doing at that meeting? It’s most unusual for a man in his position to go to that kind of meeting. It’s below his dignity. And if he did go, why did he interfere? You may say he went there as a counselor to document himself on the temper of the crowd, and Boyeur’s general behavior. But why did he interfere? It was unlike him. It was, I repeat, beneath his dignity. It must have been a personal thing. That’s why I want to know what he whispered to Boyeur. A great deal hinges upon that. How much was Boyeur provoked? I’d like to know the whole back history of those two.”
