by Rachel Malik
Clearly they would need to make some arrangements. The judge offered Vanstone a drink and consulted briefly with the usher. The jurors would be found accommodation close by, and a clerk and a secretary could be sent to do any shopping that was required. Witnesses should be reassured that the trial would go ahead and any necessary variation of travel arrangements or other general expenses arising from the weather would be reimbursed.
Pleased with how things were developing, he sent the usher to arrange matters with the jurors, and invited the two barristers and the solicitors to join him for a whisky in his room.
After a couple of drinks, the mood lightened and a list of essentials was made. Walker, inspired by Vanstone, had the idea that they should kit themselves out with sou’westers and the like, and someone was even dispatched to phone Runcorn’s, the fly-fishing shop, to see what protection they could offer. The caretaker was instructed to improvise a ‘wet’ cloakroom in the downstairs hall. A young clerk was dispatched to the far end of the high street to pick up the wet-weather wear. Outside, the rain was now torrential. It bounded the vision at every point, like a great grey curtain. Meanwhile, down in the cells, the water lapped on the step where Rene had stood with the hapless Maureen, murkier than before.
15.
From Spinster to Widow
Weedkiller woman. Miss Rene Hargreaves, aged 55, was charged with the murder by poison of Ernest Massey, aged 82, a charge she vigorously denies.
Western Press
Miss Hargreaves, a small, slight woman with a grey Eton crop, stood throughout the day’s proceedings. Wearing trousers and a dark pullover, she followed events intently, though there were occasions when she appeared distressed. Prosecution counsel, Marcus Quillet, QC, laid out the case against her …
Daily Herald
Elsie awoke into the warmth of her room at the Eagle the following morning and listened: it was raining steadily. It was still deep dark outside – she thought it must be about five. She grappled with the flex and found and fiddled with the switch for the bedside light. Then she picked up her book, Death on the Line, and started to read. It was a good one: all the characters were stranded on a train because of a snow drift near the Lakes – more bad weather – and the passengers were being murdered. It was gory too: she had just passed page 70, but two had been done away with so far, one with a stocking, another with an antique paper knife. It wasn’t a patch on Murder on the Orient Express (which she adored), but it was good fun, as Rene liked to say, and it was pleasant reading quietly in the warmth with the rain doing its worst in the dark.
The rain didn’t sound like rain at all, she thought, more like wind – or no, a wind-machine: a wind-machine that kept blowing and blowing from the same point, never changing. As for the sound of water, you could only hear it at the edges: a sudden glug-sloush through the guttering, a stubborn drip-beat on to her window ledge – that was all. But it was the rain rather than the book that eventually won her attention, wind-machine or not, and once she saw that it was getting light, she got out of bed and went across to the window.
She quite exclaimed at what she saw: for overnight the square had become a lake. Road and pavement were now fully underwater – the kerb had gone. The trees seemed to be floating in the square. The ‘lake’ itself was grey and opaque, except where the street lamps left their sad yellow marks. In the garden at the centre of the square, the apple tree had become a bush – its trunk already covered by water – and the other trees had shrunk by a good foot. For some minutes, she simply watched the scene in pleasure – a wonderful pink shone through the mottled sky as the sun came up, and the room was so cosy and warm. Then she decided, all of a sudden, that she was going to go out for a walk. She hurried to get ready, wrapping her trousers tightly round her legs before she pulled on her big boots. She tied a belt over her coat to try and keep herself dry, tied a knot in her hair and crammed it under her mackintosh hat.
Downstairs, it was quiet. There was no one at the reception desk, and the porter who sometimes loitered by the doors was nowhere to be seen. From somewhere in the lounge a clock chimed six. Elsie pushed out of the heavy doors into the sound of the rain. She stood on the top step of the porch, which was still well clear of the water, and surveyed the scene. The early colour was nearly over, but it had left traces of light in the water. She went carefully down the hotel steps on to the pavement and felt the water rise and lap around her boots – it reached well over her ankles and the road would be a good deal deeper.
Elsie set off carefully round the square. She kept close to the railings of the houses, her eyes on the waters below. Water could always be treacherous. The rain grew heavier; it pitter-pattered on her hat, running off the edges of its black shiny surface at all angles. A stream rose from somewhere close to the back of her neck and dripped cold and heavy down her spine; another ran heavily down her arm; a third made its way along the curve where her nose met her cheek before dripping down on to her chin. But she kept going, walked all the way round the square twice, the second time more briskly, never losing her rhythm or her balance. Then she made her way back to the hotel and pushed hard on the door.
The girl who was sitting at the reception looked up in surprise at the early and unexpected visitor: a tall, broad figure in a very long coat and a floppy black hat. It couldn’t be a new guest, the weather made that extremely unlikely, and it was too early for casual traffic for the dining room or the lounge. The visitor seemed quite at ease, standing on the mat, stamping vigorously and shaking out her greatcoat. The girl at the desk was just a little unnerved. But then the big dark figure took off the hat and made to wring it out and the receptionist realized it was the odd lady in number 20. She was here for the trial with that nice Mrs Cuff.
‘Oh, Miss Boston,’ she said.
Elsie looked up, clearly surprised, nodded very briefly and made quickly for the stairs.
It was after breakfast that Elsie asked Margaret if she wouldn’t mind fetching some of the newspapers from downstairs.
Elsie had known that there would be papers. Court cases were a staple of the locals, she read them herself; and though she took no interest in the national press, there was no reason why they would be any different. The newspapers would be upsetting: she would see Rene accused of murder (Margaret had worked hard to prepare her). Reading about Rene in the court and particularly about Ernest would be unpleasant and hurtful, but that didn’t mean she didn’t want to do it. She was desperate for news, news of Rene. Yesterday had been so dreadful: sitting by the window, the whole day spent indoors (Margaret had prevailed on her to keep inside), staring into the square, staring into the rain, fretting about Rene. Only when it got dark – and she was sure that the trial was over for the day – had she been able to calm down, drink some cold tea and read a part of her book.
Margaret had been wondering about the papers too.
‘Are you sure, Elsie?’
And Elsie nodded, so Margaret went down to fetch the papers from the lounge, so they could read them in the privacy of Elsie’s room.
Miss Hargreaves, a small, slight woman with a grey Eton crop, stood throughout the day’s proceedings. Wearing trousers and a dark pullover, she followed events intently, though there were occasions when she appeared distressed. Prosecution counsel, Marcus Quillet, QC, laid out the case against her …
For a moment, Elsie felt jealous, jealous of this unknown reporter who didn’t sign his name. He had seen Rene just yesterday, had spent the whole day with her in the courtroom.
‘Widow not spinster’ ran the headline.
‘Miss’ Hargreaves is not a spinster as she had previously claimed but the widow of a Manchester man, Alan Phillips, and the mother of their three children. Miss Hargreaves left her husband and children before the war. Mr Phillips died of tuberculosis, a year later.
Elsie paused uncomfortably at that chilly little history of names and places – it shone such a bright, interrogating light on Rene. Poor Rene, she had done so well to keep he
r married life private all these years – and now the reporter made her look like a liar. What would Margaret think when she found out that Rene had been married and run away, leaving her children, leaving her husband? What would Margaret think when she discovered that Rene was a widow but had never said anything about it – Margaret, who was a proper widow, with a widow’s pension. She looked up, cast her eyes quickly in Margaret’s direction, but she was busy reading.
Elsie read on:
Miss Hargreaves lives at Wheal Rock, an unmodernized cottage in a remote part of Cornwall, with her female companion, Miss Elsie Boston.
Elsie was brought up short by that: her name, which she hadn’t been expecting. And then another headline: ‘Vulnerable Companion’. She was getting confused now, the print under the headline was swimming. Outside, she could hear the rain and she listened to its dismal beat with some relief. Vulnerable Companion. She wanted to stop reading but her name summoned her on.
The court also heard from Dr Philip Evans, who was called to the remote cottage after Mr Massey’s death. Dr Evans explained that Miss Hargreaves had visited his surgery a few weeks earlier because she was concerned about the welfare of her friend, Miss Boston, who was struggling to cope with Mr Massey …
Elsie pressed her short, neatly cut nails into the newspaper and scratched against the soft, thin paper; a couple of shreds gave way silently, little flaps of skin. She turned the paper over briskly – now only the polished surface of the table could see. Then she tried to read about the thieving of milk and a horrible drowning.
‘Elsie, are you cold? You look cold, can I get you something?’ Margaret was watching her, she looked concerned.
Elsie spoke up as best she could: ‘Oh Margaret, would you take the newspapers away now? I have such a headache, I don’t think I can read any more.’
‘Of course.’ Margaret gathered the papers together quickly. ‘Can I get you an aspirin?’
‘What?’
‘An aspirin for your head. I have some in my wash-bag next door.’
‘Oh, that’s very kind, but I have some. It must be all this reading – and I woke terribly early. I may lie down.’
When Margaret had gone, Elsie took an aspirin, lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. Her head was pounding but she knew the tablet wouldn’t help: it wasn’t that kind of pain.
It was quarter to nine.
In the lobby of the court, yesterday’s skating rink had been replaced with a pair of heavy, jute mats which were holding up well so far. To one side of the wide cloakroom counter, the floor had been lined with thick layers of newspaper and there was already quite a collection of umbrellas and boots and galoshes. The Water Authority had promised to arrive by eleven to pump out the basement – the flooding had nearly reached the first landing of the staircase and showed no sign of slowing. The caretaker stood by with his mop at the ready; he had a young washer-up from the staff canteen to help him, armed with another mop and a sack full of rags. The boy had been told to keep his eyes on the two buckets, which were steadily filling with a quick drip, drip from the cracks in the ceiling above. Luckily these were over by the barred side door. Ventilation was poor and the damp atmosphere held on to every smell: there was a heady whiff of breakfast fry and strong sweet tea, fresh tobacco and late-night booze along with the tang of various chemical compounds: mothballs and Coty, Camay and hair oil.
There were noticeably fewer nerves than yesterday, and fewer people, but the overall effect was brighter, noisier, as everyone coped with the weather and soldiered on.
Walker and Quillet arrived punctually, having made good progress through rain and flood. They cut quite a dash in their different ways. Thomas Walker made the more dramatic picture: striding through the lobby, tall and broad, he wore braced, dark green waders, with a voluminous matching coat and hat – all purchased enthusiastically from Runcorn’s Fly Fishing. He looked even less like a solicitor and perfectly at ease, joking with the cloakroom attendant as she struggled to attach his waders to the hanger. Beside him, Marcus Quillet looked unremarkable with his gumboots, short waterproof jacket and large umbrella. But when he eased out of his outerwear, revealing a suit untouched by the weather, his neat, dry appearance seemed little short of magical. Both men paused to talk to Patrick Clifford, whose cold was much worse, and the three men made their way upstairs. The men and woman of the press had done their best to equip themselves for the weather with more limited funds and most of them had invested in cheap umbrellas.
Overall, the judge should have been pleased with the execution of his plans; all arrangements had been made: hotel rooms booked and umbrellas purchased for the jurors, various calls made to reassure witnesses that the trial was going ahead and that any extra expenses incurred directly ‘or indirectly’ from the weather would be honoured. There were a couple of little confusions, it was true. Two witnesses for the defence had turned up in error to the courtroom today. The first of these was Major Veesey from St Keverne, bluff and gruff but not disgruntled to discover that he wouldn’t be needed till tomorrow. He had only met Miss Hargreaves twice but had been happy to stand as a character witness. He hoped he could do something to help – clearly there had been a terrible mistake. Dressed to attention, in his best tweed, he was rather looking forward to seeing Miss Boston, though he fully appreciated the circumstances were inauspicious. If all went well, he had hopes of asking her if she would come back to his garden. Over by the desk, in one of the few chairs provided, was another familiar face: Leo Hargreaves, brother of the accused, professional magician and all-purpose bad penny. He looked much older – partly the effect of his clumsily dyed hair – but just as sly and hopeful. He lingered in the lobby for a good hour after discovering his mistake.
The courtroom seemed darker this morning, though all the lights were on, and the atmosphere was stale – some of the smell from below had carried upwards. Young Colin Mackenzie from the Western Herald was sitting with the other reporters in the press gallery, notebook at the ready; his long legs were already uncomfortable. The benches were narrow and pew-like and the whole courtroom had a top-coat of church.
Rene took her place in the dock. Avoiding the press, she glanced carefully around the public gallery. She recognized various people she had seen yesterday. The woman in the green silk hat was sitting in the same place, the hat just as bright, the jacket just as smart. She was reading when Rene came in, but after a few moments she looked up and the two of them exchanged the faintest nod of acknowledgement – she was familiar from somewhere, it was the strangest thing. The courtroom felt colder that morning. The room itself reminded her of the register office where she and Alan had got married, the same heavy panelling. That room had had no windows either. She could hear the rain here though, somewhere nearby. Looking up, she saw a balcony above the press gallery which she hadn’t noticed yesterday; she was relieved to see that it was empty – she didn’t like the idea of people sitting there, watching her from above. She looked further up at the ceiling and traced a crack that ran all the way to the door. Another one, deeper, and fractured by tributaries, ran from the door to just above the judge’s bench.
The morning was given to a series of sober-suited professionals, witnesses for the prosecution. The first to appear was the pathologist, Maurice Vanstone. Vanstone had conducted the post-mortem examination and concluded that Massey had died of sodium chlorate poisoning. He had also identified traces of sodium chlorate in a glass and a mug that Massey regularly used.
Was there any chance of another cause or contributing cause? Quillet asked.
No.
Quillet persevered: he didn’t want to make things easy for the defence.
‘It was well known that Mr Massey was a heavy drinker. Could this not have contributed to his death?’
In Vanstone’s opinion, no. The examination certainly revealed signs of alcoholic degeneration, but these were not nearly so extensive as might be expected given his reported intake of alcohol. Mr Massey’s drinking wasn’t doing
him any good, but it didn’t kill him. Indeed, Mr Massey was in pretty strong health, all things considered. Sodium chlorate poison killed him, the post-mortem confirmed it.
How was this administered?
In small quantities over a relatively prolonged period – possibly weeks.
And how could he know this?
Sodium chlorate was almost uniquely unpalatable in anything other than the smallest quantities.
Quillet asked him to elaborate.
In the interests of the case, Vanstone had tried a home experiment: he had put a dessertspoon of sodium chlorate in a cup of tea, mixed it carefully and tasted – very gingerly. He had done the same with the other beverages that Mr Massey consumed regularly and pronounced the mixtures in all cases to be undrinkable. From this he concluded that Mr Massey had been poisoned ‘little and often’, as he put it, over some time. This was of course a common method in poisoning, when the killer had the opportunity to interfere with the preparation of consumables. When questioned by Clifford, Vanstone was willing to concede that Massey’s sense of taste could well have degenerated somewhat on account of his age, but he insisted that Massey could not have consumed a significant quantity of sodium chlorate on one occasion, in error. It was simply too unpalatable.
(In his experiments, Vanstone never considered adding more than a couple of teaspoons of sugar to his sodium chlorate mix. Though both Rene and Elsie had described the sugar frenzies in their police statements, Massey’s marked predilection for all things sweet was virtually ignored.)
Rene remembered the photographs of the shed, the tin of sodium chlorate, the padlocks, the mouse traps, the fat coils of rope. And then into her nose crept a smell she would never forget, an odd, eye-blinking smell that misted ever so gently into her lungs. It was the smell of the Free Library, or rather the smell of the old hospital, the smell of operations. Except that Mr Vanstone wasn’t a surgeon and Uncle hadn’t had an operation, not of that kind. She shivered. Mr Clifford stood up and began his questioning. Mr Kemps, the solicitor, had been very impressed by Mr Clifford. He had called him your barrister and sometimes your man: He’s a good defender, your man. Rene did not feel remotely proprietary towards him and he certainly didn’t seem very interested in her. They had only met briefly for the first time the day before: ‘Chin up,’ he had said, ‘don’t worry.’ Watching him now, Rene found it odd to think that he was asking these questions and making all this fuss on her behalf. He was very like Quillet, except for the handkerchief and the thick throat.
