by Ann Granger
Did Oakley give any thought to his own return through that nightmare-
ANN GRANGER
inducing tunnel at the end of the day? What had been in his mind as he'd walked the short underground distance today? Had he been afraid? Not. it seemed, of anything Martha Button might say. What, then, confident? Why? Justice is notoriously blind. Did he trust in a clear conscience? Or in his own audacity to save his guilty neck?
Either way, he'd made an impression on the public benches, all right, especially on the fair sex represented there. Stanley transferred his gaze to Inspector Wood who'd taken the stand earlier. Wood was scowling at the witness. He's worried, thought Stanley, tapping the pencil on his notepad. He's depending on her.
The witness was taking the oath in a nervous but clear voice. Mr Taylor's opening questions were clearly designed to put her at ease and she had visibly relaxed by the time she'd begun to describe the events of the fatal evening.
'Poor Mrs Oakley had had a tooth pulled and was in terrible pain. It upset me just to see her suffer. Of course, it wasn't the only thing upsetting her.'
Mr Taylor leaned forward, his voice soft and coaxing. 'What do you mean by that?'
The witness responded in kind, tipping her upper half over the edge of the witness stand. She said in a hoarse whisper, 'There was Mr Oakley's behaviour.'
'You must speak up,' said the judge.
'What about his behaviour?' asked Taylor. 'You mean his behaviour that evening?'
'Oh no, sir. That evening he was all kindness. He rode to Bamford and fetched laudanum for her. He took it up to her himself on a tray. It was the least he could do, seeing as he'd been carrying on with that flighty girl, Daisy Joss—'
At this, counsel for the defence bounced to his feet. It was perhaps a pity that he was as small and round as his prosecuting confrere was tall and lean. 'Objection! This is not evidence, this is below stairs gossip!'
The witness took offence and retorted robustly, T don't gossip, sirs! It's plain fact and what's more, she wasn't the first.'
One or two on the public benches sniggered.
T shall over-rule the objection in this instance,' said the judge. 'You may continue, Mr Taylor. But the witness will remember she is giving evidence and must only tell us facts of which she is sure/
'That's what I'm doing, isn't it?' demanded the witness, nettled.
'Please go on, Mrs Button,' said Taylor hastily, obviously worried his
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prize witness was going to upset the judge.
Mrs Button regained composure and took up her tale. 'Mr Oakley ate alone in the dining room. Roast chicken,' she added, 'and a tapioca pudding.'
'I don't think we need to know what he ate, Mrs Button,' said the judge wearily. He'd met witnesses like this one before. First all nerves, then, when they got talking, you couldn't stop them and half of it was inadmissible or irrelevant. He glanced at the clock on the wall above the jury. He was to dine with the Lord Lieutenant that evening, and did not intend to let matters drift on. Garrulous servants were the very devil.
'Well, I'm telling you anyway,' countered Mrs Button, 'so you can see I remember the evening. It's not gone fuzzy in my memory. It never will. I'll remember every detail of that night to my dying day! After his dinner, he went off to the library to smoke his cigar. That was his habit. I supervised the skivvy as she washed the dishes, then I sent her off home. She lived nearby.'
'So who was in the house that night, after the skivvy left?' enquired Mr Taylor.
The mouse had disappeared. Stanley drew his feet up under his seat apprehensively.
Mrs Button was reeling off names. 'Mr and Mrs Oakley, sir. Myself. Lucy, one of the maids. I sent her up to bed straight after she'd cleared the dinner table because she'd been sniffling. She'd a bit of a cold. Jenny, the other maid, wasn't there because she'd been given permission to attend a family funeral and wasn't coming back till the next morning. Mr Hawkins, Mr Oakley's man, wasn't there that night either, because the master had sent him off to London on some business or other. The nursemaid, Daisy Joss, was up in the nursery with her charge. Watchett, the gardener, looked in during the evening to discuss vegetables and fruit. He told me what he'd got at its best in the garden and I told him what I should need in the morning. Then he left to go to his cottage. I locked up the back door and I set off to my own bed after I'd checked the downstairs doors and windows. It was about eleven o'clock.
The public benches were silent, hanging on every word. Could hear a pin drop wrote Stanley in his notebook.
Taylor was asking, 'And had you seen any more of Mr Oakley?'
Mrs Button shook her head. 'No, I hadn't seen him but I had heard him in the hall and going up the main stairs. I supposed he was going to bed. That would've been a little before ten.'
'You are sure of the time? Take care. This is important.'
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Oh, I'm sure, sir,' replied the witness. "I took notice of it by the kitchen clock because he didn't usually go up so early.'
'Did he not, indeed?' asked Taylor rhetorically for the sake of the jury. To Mrs Button, he said, T see. So you set off to bed? By what route?'
T went up the backstairs, sir. On the first floor, the stairs come out by Mrs Oakley's room. It's what we called the turret room.' At this point the witness began to show signs of distress. 'As I was just turning to go up the next flight to the top floor, where I had my room - oh, I can hardly speak of it. It brings it all back! I heard a dreadful noise. It curdled my blood and that's a fact. I'll never forget it, never!'
'Compose yourself, Mrs Button,' urged Mr Taylor. 'Can you describe this noise?'
Mrs Button knew her moment had come. She drew herself up. 'It was a shriek, sir, like a soul damned!'
There were gasps of horror and anticipation from the public. The Reuter's man was scribbling furiously. Prosecution, thought Stanley, looked like the cat that had got the canary. Defence was fidgeting with his papers. Inspector Wood was watching intently. Only the accused man sat impassive, as disdainful as ever.
'And what,' purred Mr Taylor, 'did you do next, Mrs Button? After you had heard a shriek?'
'Why, sir, I ran to Mrs Oakley's door. I could hear her making a strange gurgling and gasping. I threw open the door and then, sir, I saw a dreadful sight. I pray I never see another such. The mistress lay on the floor in her nightgown and it was all ablaze! She was twisting and writhing on the carpet, the flames were crackling ... She held out her hand towards me, poor soul, as if she couldn't speak. She couldn't seem to draw breath. I saw the lamp lay on the floor broken. She must have fallen and brought it down. And her hair, sirs, her hair. It just burst into flame and fizzed and was gone like a firework.'
Mrs Button began to cry and several ladies among the public joined in.
The judge picked up his gavel and struck the bench. 'The court understands your distress, Mrs Button, but you must pull yourself together. Please go on.'
Subdued, the witness told them how she had seized the coverlet from the bed and thrown it over the burning woman to quench the flames. 'She was in dreadful pain, the skin peeling from her arms. But she couldn't speak. I believe she would've done if she could. She hadn't the breath
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left. I wasn't surprised. There was a dreadful smell in the room, burnt flesh and hair and something like garlic, really strong.'
'You are familiar with the smell of garlic?' interposed Mr Taylor.
Mrs Button assured him she was. She had once had a place where the lady of the house had been French and insisted she, Mrs Button, use the stuff to spoil her good English cooking. T went to throw open the window. I could hardly breathe myself for the nasty smell of it and my head was beginning to ache just by being there.'
Mr Taylor, his manner nicely balanced between satisfaction and decent horror, turned towards the jury. 'You could hardly breathe yourself. I beg the gentlemen of the jury will note these words.'
The jury tri
ed to look like men noting important evidence. Some managed it better than others. One of them, Stanley recognised him as a local grocer, was looking a little sick.
'What else did you notice, Mrs Button?'
The witness raised a gloved hand and jabbed her forefinger at the court in emphasis. 'Now, that was an odd thing. There was a sort of pot lying on the floor by the mistress, a common thing, and some bits of metal, metal rods. Not the sort of things you'd expect to see in a lady's bedroom. Nor was any of it there normally - that I can tell you!'
Mrs Button announced the last words defiantly and paused as if waiting to see if anyone would take up the challenge. When no one did, she continued on a slightly disappointed note, 'Anyhow, I hadn't got time to worry about any of that then. I hurried to fetch the master. He made like he was very upset, of course, when he saw her lying there. He told me to run down to the stables and tell Riley, that's the groom, to ride for Dr Perkins. So that's what I did. When I came back, Mr Oakley said Mrs Oakley was dead and I do believe she was. He asked me to sit with her while he went to get dressed, before the doctor came. So he went out and I sat there. It was then I saw the pot and metal rods had gone. It's my belief he slipped it all into the pockets of his dressing gown. It had big pockets, plenty of room.'
Little defence counsel rocketed to his feet. 'Oh, objection, m'lud! This is a conclusion drawn by the witness and surely inadmissible!'
The witness didn't wait for the judge's ruling on the point. Combatively she snapped, 'Well, all I know is, it was all there when Mr Oakley came in and it wasn't when he left, and / didn't take it!'
Now, on his way home, Wood recalled his second visit to Fourways House with Sergeant Patterson, when they'd gone there to arrest Oakley.
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The expression on the man's face when he'd realised what was happening to him. was etched into Wood's memory. Disbelief, anger and then -scorn. Yes. scorn. Perhaps it was the memory of those scornful dark eyes which worried Wood most of all.
It had grown dark because it was still early in the year. The gaslighter was making his rounds, leaving a trail of bright lights in his wake. The air was heavy with the sulphurous tang of smoke, the warm odour of horse manure and the clammy touch of evening mist. Yet there were still plenty of people in the streets. Grocers and butchers had kept their shops open, hoping to lure in the last-minute shoppers, the returning office-worker, the improvident housewife.
Newsboys ran about with the evening editions. The Bamford Gazette had brought out a special. Wood bought one, scanned the trial report briefly, and stuck it in his pocket to read at leisure later. It had been written by that chap Huxtable. The reporter was by way of being a regular obstacle in Wood's path, hopping out in front of him to ask for comments on every subject under the sun. Tomorrow the nationals would carry the story and he'd have to worry about more than Huxtable.
He put the key in the door of his modest end-of-terrace home in Station Road and tried, as always, to turn it quietly. But Emily heard him. Before he had the door fully open, she'd darted from the kitchen where she was busy preparing his supper, ready to help him off with his coat and exclaim over damp rainspots on the nap of his bowler hat.
T knew you would be late,' she said, cutting short his apology.
'Has the supper spoiled?' asked Wood, sniffing the enticing scents from the kitchen.
'No, I made a steak pie because I could keep it warm.' She was divesting him of his ulster as she spoke and bore it away to hang it up in the hall where warm air wafting from the kitchen would dry it.
'Steak pie,' said Wood, unwinding his muffler. 'My favourite.'
They both smiled. Whatever she cooked for him, he always claimed it was his favourite dish. It was a private joke between them. She was twenty-three and had cared for him for six years now, since the death of his wife. She should by rights be in her own home, looking after husband and children, not here with him. But it wasn't just filial loyalty which kept her here and the smile reminded him.
One half of her face lit up, the pretty half. The scarred half grimaced. She'd been the prettiest of children until the dreadful day when her full skirts had swung into the flames of the open fire. There were other scars on her body but no one could see those.
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The facial scars couldn't be hidden. So Emily hid. She hid here in this house and had her whole life here. In vain he assured her there would be someone out there, beyond the front door, who would see behind the scars to the loving and capable person whose heart was unscarred. But Emily hadn't the courage to risk rejection. She stayed here, sallying forth once a week to do the shopping, and once on a Sunday morning to attend the local Wesleyan chapel, on both occasions veiled like a widow.
As a result, she'd become an object of curiosity and mystery in the neighbourhood, and accounts of her disfigurement were exaggerated.
They always ate in the kitchen at Wood's insistence. He saw no reason for untidying the tiny dining room and giving her the work of tidying it up again. He was allowed to do nothing. He would happily have lent a hand around the house, unlike most men, but she was adamant. This house was her domain, her life. Outside it, he was in his world. Inside it, he was in hers.
When they were seated at the kitchen table, she asked, as she doled out his portion of pie, 'How did it go today, Father?'
She knew about the Oakley case because he was accustomed to discuss things with his daughter. Usually he toned down the violence and unpleasant detail. This time that had been difficult.
'As well as could be expected,' he answered. 'The woman Button gave her evidence confidently enough and it is no longer my concern, my dear!' He immediately destroyed this fine statement with, T watched Oakley. He sits there with a superior look on his face. He's going to make a fool of the lot of us. I feel it in my bones.'
'This isn't like you,' she chided.
'No, it isn't. I'm well aware that the matter is in the hands of the lawyers. But it happens to a policeman, my dear, that every so often he comes across a villain he particularly wants to nail. I want William Oakley. I've wrestled with my conscience over this sincerely enough even to satisfy that minister of yours. But the truth is, I believe him a devious, clever, calculating, cold-blooded killer. I want to hear that Guilty verdict, of course I do. I admit it. There!'
Afraid he sounded too ferocious, he stopped and smiled apologetically. 'Listen to me, I sound a monster myself. Take no notice of me, Emily.'
She had stopped eating and was pushing a piece of piecrust round the plate with her fork. Her eyes fixed on it, she said, 'It's because of me, isn't it? It's because of this.' She touched the scarred side of her face. 'It's because Mrs Oakley burned that you want him so much.' She looked up as she finished speaking and her candid blue eyes stared into his.
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For a moment he was silent with shock. Was she right? It seemed so obvious when she said it, and yet he wasn't aware of that being his reason. Did she understand him so much better than he understood himself?
After a moment he managed to say, 'No, Emmy, it's not personal. Not in that way. I feel it here,' he tapped his chest, 'and here,' he tapped his head. 'But in court it'll come down to whether the jury believes the testimony of that housekeeper. Either way, I can contribute no more to the matter.'
Stanley Huxtable lived in lodgings. His landlady was a woman of strong teetotal principles and an uncanny ability to detect even a single bottle of porter brought into the house. She allowed no card games, no music (other than communal hymn-singing), and no visitors. It was Stanley's habit, therefore, to spend his evening in the public houses of the town. Not to get drunk, that would have put at risk not only his lodging but his place on the Gazette. Just, he told anyone interested, to see a jolly face or two and have a bit of cheery conversation.
Tonight he was settled in the corner of The George with a pint of porter, a pork pie and a pickled egg. No journalist he'd ever come across ate sensible meals. They never had the
time or opportunity.
He was just tucking into the pork pie when he heard a voice.
'Mind if I do?'
It was the Reuter's man. Without waiting for Stanley's reply, he seated himself at the table and set down his own pork pie and whisky and water.
They ate and drank in companionable silence for a while. Then the Reuter's man observed, 'That woman, Button, she did pretty well for the Crown. If she goes on like that, she'll hang him.'
'See what Defence makes of his cross-examination,' said Stanley. 'Bet you a pint here tomorrow night, she comes apart at the seams.'
'You're on,' said the Reuter's man.
Stanley wiped his lips with the back of his hand. 'I'd have thought you'd have been putting up in Oxford.'
The Reuter's man chuckled and shook his head. 'Nobody knows the fellow in Oxford, do they, eh? That's why they're hearing the case there. Won't pick up any titbits about his private life, see. This is his stamping ground here in Bamford. I expect you know a tale or two about him, eh?'
'Not really,' said Stanley. It wasn't altogether true, but if the man from the international press agency wanted information, let him wear out his boot leather like everyone else.
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'Bit of a swell,' opined the Reuter's man.
Stanley was prepared to agree: William Oakley was a real toff. But even toffs had been known to murder the missus, he pointed out. As men of the world, who'd seen it all, the two journalists nodded
sagely.
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least, after you warned me, I made sure he didn't get to kiss my hand. Yuk!'
Listening to her as she spoke, Meredith was suddenly visited by one of those irrelevant thoughts which pop into one's head at all the wrong moments. She found herself wondering how long Juliet's schoolgirl looks would last and how she'd age. She couldn't keep that braided hairstyle for ever. She was blessed with a beautiful complexion and that always helped. Somehow, it was impossible to imagine Juliet old. Meredith dragged her mind back to the topic in hand.
