A Prisoner of Birth

by Jeffrey Archer

  Danny looked up at the public gallery and smiled at Beth, who was sitting in her usual place next to his mother. Sarah Davenport was seated at the end of the front row, her head bowed. On counsel’s bench Mr Pearson was chatting to his junior. He looked more relaxed than at any time during the trial; but then today he would only be a spectator, not a participant.

  The only empty seats to be found in the well of the courtroom were at the far end of counsel’s bench awaiting the entrance of Alex Redmayne and his junior. Two extra policemen had been stationed on the door to explain to latecomers that only those on official business could now be accommodated in the courtroom.

  Danny sat in the centre of the dock, the best seat in the house. This was one performance for which he would like to have read the script before the curtain went up.

  There was a babble of anticipation in the room as everyone awaited the four remaining participants who still had to make their entrance. At five minutes to ten, a policeman opened the courtroom door and a hush fell over the assembled gathering as those who had been unable to find a seat stood aside to allow Alex Redmayne and his junior to make their way to counsel’s bench.

  This morning Sir Matthew made no pretence of slumping in a corner and closing his eyes. He didn’t even sit down. He stood bolt upright and looked around the courtroom. It was many years since he’d appeared as an advocate in any court. Once he’d found his bearings, he unfolded a small wooden stand that his wife had retrieved from the loft the night before, and which hadn’t seen service for a decade. He placed it on the desk in front of him, and from his bag he removed a sheaf of papers on which he had written in his neat hand the questions Spencer Craig had spent all night trying to anticipate. Finally he handed Alex two photographs that they both knew could decide the fate of Danny Cartwright.

  Only after everything was in place did Sir Matthew turn and smile at his old adversary. ‘Good morning, Arnold,’ he said. ‘I do hope that we won’t be troubling you too much today.’

  Pearson returned the smile. ‘A sentiment with which I am fully able to concur,’ he said. ‘In fact, I’m going to break the habit of a lifetime, Matthew, and wish you luck, despite the fact I have never once during all my years at the Bar wanted my opponent to win. Today is the exception.’

  Sir Matthew gave a slight bow. ‘I will do my best to fulfil your wishes.’ He then sat down, closed his eyes and began to compose himself.

  Alex busied himself preparing documents, transcripts, photographs and other miscellaneous material in neat piles so that when his father shot out his right hand, like an Olympic relay runner, the baton would be passed instantly.

  The noise of uninvolved chatter ceased when Mr Justice Hackett made his entrance. He ambled across to the three chairs on the centre of the stage, attempting to give an impression that nothing untoward was about to take place in the court that morning.

  Having amply filled the centre chair, he spent longer than usual arranging his pens and checking his notebook while he waited for the jury to take their places.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said once they had settled, the tone of his voice rather avuncular. ‘Members of the jury, the first witness today will be Mr Spencer Craig QC. You will recall his name being raised during the cross-examination of Sir Hugo Moncrieff. Mr Craig does not appear as a witness for either the prosecution or the defence, but has been subpoenaed to attend this court, meaning that he does not do so willingly. You must remember that your only duty is to decide if the evidence Mr Craig presents has any bearing on the case being tried in this court, namely, did the defendant unlawfully escape from custody? On that count, and that count alone, you will be asked to deliver your verdict.’

  Mr Justice Hackett beamed down at the jury before turning his attention to junior counsel. ‘Sir Matthew,’ he said, ‘are you ready to call the witness?’

  Matthew Redmayne rose slowly from his place. ‘I am indeed, my lord,’ he responded, but did not do so. He poured himself a glass of water, then placed a pair of spectacles on the end of his nose, and finally opened his red leather folder. Having satisfied himself that he was ready for the encounter, he said, ‘I call Mr Spencer Craig,’ his words sounding like a death knell.

  A policeman stepped out into the corridor and bellowed, ‘Mr Spencer Craig!’

  Everyone’s attention was now focused on the courtroom door as they awaited the entrance of the final witness. A moment later, Spencer Craig, dressed in his legal garb, strode into the courtroom as if it was just another day in the life of a busy advocate.

  Craig stepped into the witness box, picked up the Bible and, facing the jury, delivered the oath in a firm and confident manner. He knew that it was they, and they alone, who would decide his fate. He handed the Bible back to the usher, and turned to face Sir Matthew.

  ‘Mr Craig,’ Sir Matthew began in a quiet, lulling tone, as if it was his desire to assist the witness in every possible way. ‘Would you be kind enough to state your name and address for the record?’

  ‘Spencer Craig, forty-three Hambledon Terrace, London SW3.’

  ‘And your occupation?’

  ‘I am a barrister at law and a Queen’s Counsel.’

  ‘So there is no need for me to remind such an eminent member of the legal profession of the significance of the oath, or the authority of this court.’

  ‘No need at all, Sir Matthew,’ replied Craig, ‘although you appear to have done so.’

  ‘Mr Craig, when did you first discover that Sir Nicholas Moncrieff was in fact Mr Daniel Cartwright?’

  ‘A friend of mine who had been at school with Sir Nicholas bumped into him at the Dorchester Hotel. He soon realized that the man was an impostor.’

  Alex placed a tick in the first box. Craig had clearly anticipated his father’s first question, and delivered a well-prepared answer.

  ‘And why should this friend decide to inform you, in particular, of this remarkable discovery?’

  ‘He didn’t, Sir Matthew; it simply arose in conversation over dinner one night.’

  Another tick.

  ‘Then what was it that caused you to take a gigantic leap in the dark and come to the conclusion that the man posing as Sir Nicholas Moncrieff was in fact Daniel Cartwright?’

  ‘I didn’t for some time,’ said Craig, ‘not until I was introduced to the supposed Sir Nicholas at the theatre one evening and was shocked by the similarity in looks, if not in manner, between him and Cartwright.’

  ‘Was that the moment when you decided to contact Chief Inspector Fuller and alert him to your misgivings?’

  ‘No. I felt that would have been irresponsible, so I first made contact with a member of the Moncrieff family in case, as you have suggested, I was taking a gigantic leap in the dark.’

  Alex placed another tick on the list of questions. So far, his father hadn’t laid a glove on Craig.

  ‘Which member of the family did you contact?’ asked Sir Matthew, knowing only too well.

  ‘Mr Hugo Moncrieff, Sir Nicholas’s uncle, who informed me that his nephew had not been in touch with him since the day he’d been released from prison some two years before, which only added to my suspicions.’

  ‘Was that when you reported those suspicions to Chief Inspector Fuller?’

  ‘No, I still felt I needed more concrete evidence.’

  ‘But the chief inspector could have relieved you of that burden, Mr Craig. I am at a loss to understand why a busy professional gentleman like yourself chose to remain involved?’

  ‘As I’ve already explained, Sir Matthew, I felt it was my responsibility to make sure that I wasn’t wasting the police’s time.’

  ‘How very public-spirited of you.’ Craig ignored Sir Matthew’s barbed comment, and smiled at the jury. ‘But I’m bound to ask,’ added Sir Matthew, ‘who it was that alerted you to the possible advantages of being able to prove that the man posing as Sir Nicholas Moncrieff was in fact an impostor?’

  ‘The advantages?’

  ‘Yes, the adv
antages, Mr Craig.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow you,’ said Craig. Alex placed the first cross on his list. The witness was clearly playing for time.

  ‘Then allow me to assist you,’ said Sir Matthew. He put out his right hand and Alex handed him a single sheet of paper. Sir Matthew ran his eye slowly down the page, giving Craig time to wonder just what bombshells it could possibly contain.

  ‘Would I be right in suggesting, Mr Craig,’ said Sir Matthew, ‘that if you were able to prove that it was Nicholas Moncrieff and not Danny Cartwright who committed suicide while in Belmarsh prison, Mr Hugo Moncrieff would not only inherit the family title, but a vast fortune to go with it.’

  ‘I was not aware of that at the time,’ said Craig, not flinching.

  ‘So you were acting with entirely altruistic motives?’

  ‘Yes, I was, sir, as well as the desire to see a dangerous and violent criminal locked up.’

  ‘I will be coming to the dangerous and violent criminal who should be locked up in a moment, Mr Craig, but before then, allow me to ask you when your acute sense of public service was overcome by the possibility of making a quick buck?’

  ‘Sir Matthew,’ interrupted the judge, ‘that is hardly the sort of language I expect from junior counsel when addressing a QC.’

  ‘I apologize, m’lord. I will rephrase my question. Mr Craig, when did you first become aware of the chance of making several million pounds from a piece of information you had picked up from a friend over dinner?’

  ‘When Sir Hugo invited me to act on his behalf in a private capacity.’

  Alex placed another tick against another anticipated question, although he knew Craig was lying.

  ‘Mr Craig, do you consider it ethical for a QC to charge twenty-five per cent of a man’s inheritance in exchange for a piece of second-hand information?’

  ‘It is now quite common, Sir Matthew, for barristers to be paid on results,’ said Craig calmly. ‘I realize the practice has only been introduced since your day, so perhaps I should point out that I did not charge a fee or any expenses, and that had my suspicions been proved wrong I would have wasted a considerable amount of my time and money.’

  Sir Matthew smiled at him. ‘Then you will be delighted to learn, Mr Craig, that the altruistic side of your nature has won the day.’ Craig didn’t rise to Sir Matthew’s barb, although he was desperate to find out what he meant by it. Sir Matthew took his time before he added, ‘As you may be aware, the court has recently been informed by Mr Fraser Munro, the late Sir Nicholas Moncrieff ’s solicitor, that his client bequeathed his entire estate to his close friend Mr Danny Cartwright. So you have, as you feared might be the case, wasted a considerable amount of your time and money. But despite my client’s good fortune, let me assure you, Mr Craig, that I shall not be charging him twenty-five per cent of his inheritance for my services.’

  ‘Nor should you,’ snapped Craig angrily, ‘as he’ll be spending at least the next twenty-five years in prison, and will therefore have to wait an awfully long time before he can benefit from this unexpected windfall.’

  ‘I may be wrong, Mr Craig,’ said Sir Matthew quietly, ‘but I have a feeling that it will be the jury who makes that decision, and not you.’

  ‘I may be wrong, Sir Matthew, but I think you’ll find that a jury has already made that decision some time ago.’

  ‘Which brings me neatly on to your meeting with Chief Inspector Fuller, which you were so keen that nobody should find out about.’ Craig looked as if he was about to respond, then clearly thought better of it, and allowed Sir Matthew to continue. ‘The chief inspector, being a conscientious officer, informed the court that he would require a little more proof than photographs revealing a close similarity between the two men before he could consider making an arrest. In an answer to one of my leader’s questions, he confirmed that you supplied him with that proof.’

  Sir Matthew knew that he was taking a risk. Had Craig responded by saying that he had no idea what he was talking about, and that he had simply passed on his suspicions to the chief inspector and left him to decide if any action should be taken, Sir Matthew had no follow-up question. He would then have to move on to a different subject, and Craig would have realized that he had merely been on a fishing expedition – and had landed nothing. But Craig did not respond immediately, which gave Sir Matthew the confidence to take an even bigger risk. He turned to Alex and said, in a voice loud enough for Craig to hear, ‘Let me have those photographs of Cartwright running along the Embankment, the ones that show the scar.’

  Alex handed his father two large photographs.

  After a long pause Craig said, ‘I may have told the chief inspector that if the man living in The Boltons had a scar on his left thigh, just above the knee, that would prove that he was in fact Danny Cartwright.’

  The look on Alex’s face revealed nothing, although he could hear his heart beating.

  ‘And did you then hand over some photographs to the chief inspector to prove your point?’

  ‘I may have done,’ admitted Craig.

  ‘Perhaps if you were to see copies of the photographs they might refresh your memory?’ suggested Sir Matthew, thrusting them towards him. The biggest risk of all.

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Craig.

  ‘I would like to see the photographs,’ said the judge, ‘and I suspect the jury would as well, Sir Matthew.’ Alex turned to see that several members of the jury were nodding.

  ‘Certainly, m’lord,’ said Sir Matthew. Alex handed a pile of photographs to the usher, who gave two to the judge before distributing the remainder to the jury, to Pearson and finally to the witness.

  Craig stared at the photos in disbelief. They were not the ones Gerald Payne had taken when Cartwright had been out on his evening run. If he had not admitted to knowing about the scar the defence would have crumbled, and the jury would have been none the wiser. He realized that Sir Matthew had landed a blow, but he was still on his feet, and would not fall for a sucker punch a second time.

  ‘My lord,’ said Sir Matthew, ‘you will see the scar that the witness referred to is on Mr Cartwright’s left thigh, just above the knee. It has faded with the passing of time, but still remains clear to the naked eye.’ He turned his attention back to the witness. ‘You will recall, Mr Craig, that Chief Inspector Fuller stated under oath that this was the evidence on which he relied before taking the decision to arrest my client.’ Craig made no attempt to contradict him. Sir Matthew didn’t press him, as he felt the point had been well established. He paused, to allow the jury more time to study the photographs, as he needed the scar to be indelibly fixed in their minds before he asked a question that he was confident Craig could not have anticipated.

  ‘When did you first phone Chief Inspector Fuller?’

  Once again there was a silence, as Craig, like everyone else in the court other than Alex, tried to work out the significance of the question.

  ‘I’m not sure I understand,’ he replied eventually.

  ‘Then allow me to refresh your memory, Mr Craig. You phoned Chief Inspector Fuller on October twenty-third last year, the day before you met him at an undisclosed location to hand over the photographs showing Danny Cartwright’s scar. But when was the first occasion you came into contact with him?’

  Craig tried to think of some way he could avoid answering Sir Matthew’s question. He looked towards the judge, hoping for guidance. He received none.

  ‘He was the policeman who turned up at the Dunlop Arms when I called 999 after I had witnessed Danny Cartwright stabbing his friend to death,’ he eventually managed.

  ‘His friend,’ said Sir Matthew quickly, getting it on the record before the judge could intervene. Alex smiled at his father’s ingenuity.

  Mr Justice Hackett frowned. He knew he could no longer prevent Sir Matthew pursuing the question of the original trial now that Craig himself had unwittingly brought the subject into play. ‘His friend,’ repeated Sir Matthew lookin
g at the jury. He expected Arnold Pearson to leap up and cut him short, but there was no movement from the other end of counsel’s bench.

  ‘That’s how Bernard Wilson was described in the court transcript,’ said Craig with confidence.

  ‘Indeed he was,’ said Sir Matthew, ‘and I shall be referring to that transcript later. But for now I would like to return to Chief Inspector Fuller. On the first occasion you met him, following the death of Bernard Wilson, you made a statement.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘In fact, Mr Craig, you ended up making three statements: the first, thirty-seven minutes after the stabbing had taken place; the second, which you wrote later that night because you couldn’t sleep; and a third seven months later, when you appeared in the witness box at Danny Cartwright’s trial. I am in possession of all three of those statements, and I must admit, Mr Craig, that they are admirably consistent.’ Craig didn’t comment as he waited for the sting in the tail. ‘However, what I am puzzled by is the scar on Danny Cartwright’s left leg because you said in your first statement – ’ Alex handed his father a single sheet of paper, from which he read – ‘I saw Cartwright pick up the knife from the bar and follow the woman and the other man out into the alley. A few moments later I heard a scream. That was when I ran out into the alley and saw Cartwright stabbing Wilson in the chest again and again. I then returned to the bar and immediately phoned the police.’ Sir Matthew looked up. ‘Do you wish to make any amendments to that statement?’

  ‘No,’ said Craig firmly, ‘that is exactly what happened.’

  ‘Well, not quite exactly,’ said Mr Redmayne, ‘because police records show that you made your call at eleven twenty-three, so one is bound to ask what you were doing between—’

  ‘Sir Matthew,’ interrupted the judge, surprised that Pearson hadn’t leapt to his feet to intervene, but remained resolutely seated in his place, arms folded. ‘Are you able to show that this line of questioning is relevant, remembering that the only offence left on the charge sheet concerns your client escaping from custody?’