‘Mr “Nosey Parker” Spong? Saw the whole thing through a pair of strong opera glasses? Yes, I’ve read it.’
‘Odd he never went to the police straight away.’
‘The whole timetable’s odd. The police and the insurance company accept her story of an accident. Colossus Mercantile pays out, she collects her two hundred thousand, calls herself a widow, marries Mr Jason, a retired accountant, buys a small house in Cricklewood and then …’
‘The long-lost brother turns up from New Zealand.’
‘Mr Chad Bateman. Hungry for his brother’s estate which our client won’t get if she’s a murderess. So he disputes the insurance payment and starts inquiries. Advertises for the long-lost birdwatcher and puts together a case.’
‘Puts together far too good a case for my liking.’
A silence fell between us, and somewhere in East Anglia I said,
‘Featherstone?’
‘Yes, Horace?’
‘I get the feeling sometimes that you don’t like me very much.’
‘Now, whatever could have given you that idea?’ My learned leader looked pained.
‘We don’t see eye to eye always on the running of Chambers. I find your cross-examination feeble and your politics anaemic and I don’t mind saying so. I do ask you, however, to win this case. If you don’t I may be in for a very rough time indeed from She Who Must Be Obeyed. She doesn’t like having her old school chums convicted of murder.’
‘You’ve got to help me, Horace.’ The man looked positively desperate, so I gave my learned leader the benefit of a full account of my conversation with the habitués of the Crab and Lobster on the day I broke into my diet. When I had finished, Featherstone didn’t look any more cheerful.
‘Does that tell us anything?’
‘Oh yes. Three things to be precise.’
‘What on earth?’
‘That the Batemans never had a cross word. That Jackie’s second husband doesn’t like visitors and that Barney Bateman won the regatta five times.’
‘I don’t see how that helps.’
‘You’re right. It doesn’t help at all.’
‘Now who’s being depressing, Horace?’
‘I know,’ I told him perfectly frankly. ‘I find the whole business very depressing indeed.’
In due course, I found myself sitting in the ancient, panelled Norfolk courtroom, in a place of importance behind my undecided leader, with a jury of solid East Anglian citizens and old Piers Craxton, a reasonably polite Judge, sent to try us. Our opponent was a jovial local silk named Gerald Gaunt who, being for the prosecution and with a strongish case, looked a great deal less gloomy than the nervous artificial silk in front of me. The witness-box was occupied by a figure familiar to me from my visit to Shenstone, the birdwatcher whom I had last seen surveying the North Sea with a pair of strong field glasses. Without his balaclava helmet, he looked older and slightly less dotty than when I had first seen him.
‘Your name is Henry Arthur Spong?’ Gaunt asked the ornithologist in the witness-box.
‘Yes it is.’
‘Do you remember being out very early one morning in July two years ago?’
‘Tell him not to bloody well lead!’ I whispered in a vain attempt to keep my learned leader on his toes.
‘Ssh, Rumpole. I don’t like to interrupt. It creates a bad impression.’ Featherstone sounded deeply embarrassed.
‘Creates a damn sight worse impression to let him lead the witness.’
‘I remember it clearly. It was quite light at 6 a.m. and the date was July the 6th,’ Mr Spong intruded on our private dialogue.
‘How can he remember that?’ I whispered to Guthrie Featherstone, and Mr Spong supplied the answer.
‘I wrote a note in my diary. I saw a number of kittiwake and gannets and I thought I saw a Mediterranean shearwater. I have all that noted down in my birdwatcher’s diary. I was looking out to sea through a pair of powerful field glasses.’
‘Did you happen to spot a boat?’ Gaunt asked and I prodded Featherstone again.
‘Don’t let him lead!’
‘Please, Rumpole! Leave it to me.’
‘Mr Spong. Out of deference to my learned friend’s learned junior, I will frame the question in a non-leading form.’ Gerald Gaunt raised a titter in Court. ‘Did you see anything unusual?’
‘Yes.’ Spong clearly knew what he was being asked about. ‘I saw a boat.’
‘Surprise, surprise!’ I whispered to Featherstone, who tried not to hear me.
‘I noticed it because …’
‘Yes. Tell us why you noticed it.’ Gaunt encouraged the birdwatcher.
‘There were two people standing up in it. One, I thought, was a man. He had a red beard. The other was a woman.’
‘What did they appear to be doing?’
‘I would say, struggling together. I couldn’t see all that clearly.’
‘And then?’
‘Then the man seemed to fall from the side of the boat.’ Gaunt, as any good barrister would, allowed a substantial pause for that to sink in, and then he asked,
‘Tell me, Mr Spong. Was there any wind at the time?’
‘No wind at all. No. It had been gusty a little earlier, but at the time the man fell from the boat it was perfectly calm.’ It wasn’t a helpful answer, being clean contrary to our client’s instructions.
‘And after he fell?’
‘The woman waited for about five minutes.’
‘She didn’t dive in after him?’
‘No.’
I saw the Judge make a note and the jury looked at the woman in the dock with no particular sympathy.
‘What did she do then?’
‘She deliberately upset the boat.’
During Gaunt’s next and even longer pause, not only the Judge but the reporters were writing hard and the jury looked even less friendly.
‘What do you mean by that, exactly?’
‘She stood on the side and then swung herself out, pulling on the side ropes. She seemed to me to capsize the boat deliberately.’
‘And after it had capsized?’
‘She went into the water, of course. Then I saw her clinging to the boat.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Well, I thought she might be in some danger, so I bicycled off to telephone the police.’
‘To the harbour?’
‘Yes. The harbour office was locked up. It was so early you see. It took me some time to wake anyone in the cottages.’
‘Thank you, Mr Spong.’
Gaunt sat down, clearly delighted with his witness and Guthrie Featherstone rose to cross-examine. Tall and distinguished, at least he managed to look like a barrister.
‘Mr Spong,’ he started, in his smoothest voice. ‘You knocked up a Mr Newbold in one of the cottages?’
‘Yes, I did. I banged on the door, and he put his head out of the window.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘I asked him to phone the police and tell them that there was a woman in trouble with a boat.’
‘You didn’t tell him anything else you’d seen?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘And having told Mr Newbold that a woman was in trouble with a boat, you got on your bicycle and rode away?’
‘Yes. That is correct.’
Not a bad exchange, for Featherstone. I whispered my instructions to him.
‘Leave it there.’
‘What?’ Guthrie whispered back, turning his head away from the witness.
‘Don’t give him a chance to explain! Comment on it later, to the jury.’
The trouble with leaders is that they won’t take their learned junior’s advice. Featherstone couldn’t resist trying to gild the lily.
‘Why didn’t you tell Mr Newbold or the police the whole story? About the struggle in the boat and so on?’
‘Well, sir. I thought I saw a Mediterranean shearwater, which would be extremely interesting so far out of its ter
ritory. I got on my bike to follow its flight, but when I spotted it later from the cliffs, it was a great shearwater, which is interesting enough.’
I sighed with resignation. From a dedicated birdwatcher, the answer was totally convincing.
‘Mr Spong. Did you think sighting shearwaters was more important than a possible murder?’ Featherstone asked with carefully simulated anger and incredulity.
‘Yes, of course I did.’
Of course he did. The jury could recognize a man dedicated to his single interest in life.
‘In fact, you only came forward when Mr Chad Bateman arrived from New Zealand and advertised for you?’
‘That is correct.’
‘How much did he get paid?’ I whispered the question ferociously to my leader’s back.
‘Did you get paid for your information?’ At least Featherstone obeyed orders, sometimes.
‘I was given no money.’
‘Thank you, Mr Spong.’ My leader folded his silk gown about him and prepared to subside, but I stimulated him into a final question.
‘Don’t sit down! Ask him what he got apart from money,’ I whispered, and my leader uncoiled himself. After a pause which made it look as though he’d thought of the question himself he said,
‘Just one thing. Did you get rewarded in any other way?’
‘I was offered a holiday in New Zealand,’ Spong admitted.
‘By the deceased’s brother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you intend to take it?’
‘Oh yes.’ And Spong turned to the jury with a look of radiant honesty. ‘There are some extremely interesting birds in New Zealand. But I must make this clear. It hasn’t made the slightest difference to my telling the truth in this Court.’
I looked at the jury. I knew one thing beyond reasonable doubt. They believed the birdwatcher.
‘Yes, thank you, Mr Spong.’ Featherstone was finally able to sit down and turn to me for some whispered reassurance.
‘It was a disaster, old darling,’ I told him, but admitted, ‘not entirely your fault.’
Later, Featherstone had another opportunity to practise the art of cross-examination on the police officer-in-charge of the case.
‘Inspector Salter. The body of Barney Bateman was never recovered?’ he asked. Well, at least it was a safe question, the answer to which was not in dispute.
‘No, sir.’ The Inspector, who looked as though he enjoyed fishing from his own small boat, had no trouble in agreeing.
‘Is that not an unusual factor, in this somewhat unusual case?’ Featherstone soldiered on, more or less harmlessly.
‘Not really, sir.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘There are particularly strong currents off Shenstone, sir. We have warnings put up to swimmers. Unfortunately, there have been many drowning accidents where bodies have never been recovered.’
‘Did you say “accidents”, Inspector?’
‘Oh Featherstone, my old sweetheart. Don’t try to be too brilliant,’ I whispered, I hoped inaudibly. ‘Just plod, Featherstone. It suits your style far better.’
‘We have had bodies lost in accidents, yes, sir,’ Inspector Salter answered carefully. ‘I’m by no means suggesting that this was an accident. In fact, the view of the police is that it was deliberate.’
The Judge interrupted mercifully to spare Featherstone embarrassment.
‘Yes. Thank you, Inspector Salter. I’m sure we all understand what the police are suggesting here.’
‘If your Lordship pleases.’ There was another rustle of silk as Featherstone sat. I had warned him. He should plod, just plod, and never attempt brilliance.
During the luncheon break we went to see our client in the cells.
‘Mrs Jason. I’m sure it’s a nerve-racking business, giving evidence on a charge of murder.’ Featherstone was doing his best to prepare our client for the ordeal to come. But Jackie gave him a far too cheerful smile.
‘I’ve been in cross-Channel races with Barney. And round Land’s End in a force-nine gale which took away our mast in the pitch dark. I don’t see that Mr Gaunt’s questions are going to frighten me.’
‘There’s just one thing.’ I thought I ought to insert a word of warning. ‘I think the jury are going to believe the birdwatcher. It would be nice if we didn’t have to quarrel with too much of his evidence.’
‘What do you mean, it would be nice?’ Jackie looked at me impatiently. ‘That man Spong was talking absolute nonsense.’
‘Well, for instance, he said that you were standing up in the boat together? Now, what could you have been doing – other than fighting, of course?’
‘I don’t know.’ Jackie frowned. ‘What could we have been doing?’
‘Well, perhaps,’ I made a suggestion, ‘kissing each other goodbye?’
‘That’s ridiculous! Why on earth did you say that? Anyway,’ she looked at Featherstone, ‘who’ll be asking me the questions in Court?’
‘I shall, Mrs Jason,’ he reassured her, ‘as your leading Counsel. Mr Rumpole won’t be asking you any questions at all.’
Our client looked as if the news came to her as a considerable relief. Featherstone’s questions would be like a gentle following breeze, and Rumpole’s awkward voice would not be heard. However, I had to warn her, and said,
‘Gerald Gaunt’s going to ask you some questions for the prosecution as well. You should be prepared for that, otherwise they’re going to strike you like a force-nine gale amidships.’
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Jason.’ Featherstone poured his well-oiled voice on the choppy waters of our conference. ‘I’m sure you’ll be more than a match for the prosecuting Counsel. Now, let’s go through your proof again, shall we?’
In the course of time, Featherstone steered Jackie through her examination-in-chief, more or less smoothly. At least he managed to avoid the hidden rocks and shallows, but more by ignoring their existence and hoping for the best than by expert navigation. Finally, he had to sit down and leave her unprotected and without an anchor, to the mercy of such winds as might be drummed up by the cross-examination of our learned friend, Mr Gerald Gaunt, QC, who rose, and started off with a gentle courtesy which was deceptive.
‘Mrs Jason. Your husband was a swimmer?’
‘Barney could swim, yes. The point was,’ Jackie answered confidently, ‘we were too far out to swim ashore.’
‘Oh, I quite agree,’ Gaunt smiled at her. ‘And he always said, didn’t he, that it was far safer to cling to the wreckage and wait to be picked up than attempt a long and exhausting swim against the current?’
‘Any experienced sailor would tell you that.’ Jackie spoke to him as to a novice yachtsman.
‘And that’s exactly what you did?’
‘Yes,’ Jackie admitted.
‘Why didn’t your husband?’
‘As I told you. He must have been stunned by the boom as we went about.’
Gaunt nodded and then produced a document from his pile of papers.
‘I have here the account which you gave to the insurance company at the time. You said “the accident took place between the eighth and ninth marker buoys of the regatta course”.’
‘Yes.’
‘Halfway between?’
‘About that.’
‘With the wind from the quarter it was on that morning, you could have sailed between those two points without going about at all, could you not?’
The healthy-looking woman in the witness-box seemed somewhat taken aback by his expertise. After a small hesitation she said,
‘Perhaps we could.’
‘Then why didn’t you?’ Gaunt was no longer smiling.
‘Perhaps we’re not all as clever as you, Mr Gaunt. Perhaps Barney made a mistake.’
‘Made a mistake?’ Gaunt looked extravagantly puzzled. ‘On a course where he’d raced and won five times?’
Jackie Jason was proving to be the worst kind of witness. She was over emphatic, touchy
and had treated the question as an insult. I could see the jury starting to lose faith in her defence.
‘Anyway, you’ve never been out from Shenstone on the regatta course.’ She raised her voice, making matters a good deal worse. ‘I don’t know what you know about it, Mr Gaunt!’
‘Mrs Jason!’ the Judge warned her. ‘Just confine yourself to answering the questions. Mr Gaunt is merely doing his duty with his usual ability.’
‘Mrs Jason.’ Gaunt was quiet and courteous again. ‘Did you tell your husband you’d taken out this large life insurance?’
The jury were looking hard at my client, as she did her best to avoid the question.
‘I didn’t tell him the exact amount. I ran our business affairs.’
‘Which were in a terrible mess, weren’t they?’
‘Not terrible, no.’ She answered cautiously, and our opponent fished out another devastating document.
‘I have here the certified accounts for the shop, Father Neptune’s Boutique, which you ran in Shenstone. Had a petition in bankruptcy been filed by one of your suppliers?’
‘You seem to know all about it.’ Again, the answer sounded angry and defensive.
‘Oh yes, I do.’ Gaunt assured her, cheerfully. ‘And were the mortgage repayments considerably overdue on your cottage at Shenstone-on-Sea?’
‘We only needed a bit of luck to pay off our debts.’
‘And the “bit of luck” was your husband’s death, wasn’t it?’
It was a cruel question, but I knew her answer chilled the hearts of the jury. It came coldly, and after a long pause.
‘I suppose it came at the right moment, from the business point of view.’
‘I thought that she stood up to that reasonably well.’
Featherstone and I were removing the fancy dress in the local robing room and he turned to me, once again, for a reassurance that I failed to give.
‘It was a disaster,’ I said. ‘Can’t wait to chat. I’m off to London.’
‘London?’ Featherstone looked perplexed. ‘We could have had dinner together and discussed my final speech.’
‘Before your final speech, we ought to discuss whom we’re going to call as a witness.’
‘Witness? Have we got a witness?’
But I was on my way to the door.
The Collected Stories of Rumpole Page 22
