Death of a Wine Merchant (25 page)

‘So, Mr Nash, do you accept Plato’s distinctions between different sorts of knowledge? And would you accept that Randolph is dead is not in the same category of knowledge as Cosmo killed him?’

Willoughby Nash had seen too many courtroom dramas in his own city to fall into the trap of trading philosophical niceties with the lead counsel for the defence.

‘You can stick to Plato, Mr Pugh. I thought his works were boring and unintelligible when I had to read them at university. I thought Cosmo killed him, as I said, and I still do. You just had to look at him sitting in that chair with the gun in his hand and a faraway look in his eye to realize what was going on.’

Not even Plato, Pugh reflected, could change Willoughby Nash’s mind. He wondered if the man’s bombastic manner might put the jury off. Perhaps they wouldn’t want to be on the same side. He wondered if he could launch one last question that might show the man in the worst possible light. He was aware of the judge shuffling his papers and gathering up his collection of pencils great and small.

‘And what, Mr Nash,’ he asked, ‘do you think of the people who read the matter differently from yourself, who think that while it is perfectly possible that the defendant killed his brother, nonetheless we have no definite proof that he did so and therefore he should be given the benefit of the doubt?’

Willoughby Nash had had enough. Questions to his wife that lacked what he thought of as the proper respect. Some damn Greek philosopher dragged into the case to confuse things. Willoughby Nash knew perfectly well what he would have done if he had been a member of the jury of Athenian citizens who tried Socrates for corrupting the young. He would have voted for the prosecution, for the death penalty and the richly deserved glass of the fatal hemlock. He would, furthermore, have burnt all the books written by that man Plato as well if he could. The life of the nation’s young, he felt, would be better and happier without philosophy of any kind.

Out of the corner of his eye Pugh suddenly spotted a man in a dark blue coat slipping into the back of the court. Reinforcements were arriving and he hoped they were not
too late to save the day. Johnny Fitzgerald had come to the Old Bailey.

‘I think such people are fools.’ Willoughby Nash thought the court could do with a strong dose of common sense. He felt like making a derogatory reference to the suffragettes but found he couldn’t make the connection. ‘Let’s face facts. You find a man with a piece of your silver in his hand creeping out of your house. He is a burglar. Some footballer kicks the ball into the back of the net on a football field. That is a goal. You find a man holding a gun opposite his brother who is lying dead on the floor. He is a murderer. He should pay the penalty. Society must have rules or we should all descend into anarchy.’

Willoughby Nash stared defiantly at the jury. He glowered at Charles Augustus Pugh. The judge completed the tidying of his desk and the formation of his armada of pencils. They were to meet again, he reminded the court, on Monday morning at half past nine of the clock. With that he went to his rooms. Sir Jasper Bentinck smiled at Pugh and headed off to his modest home. Pugh and his junior headed for Gray’s Inn to confer with Johnny Fitzgerald.

Pugh hung his gown on the back of the door of his chambers. Then he opened a bottle of Aloxe Corton and handed a glass to Johnny Fizgerald.

‘Bought a case of this stuff the other day when I heard Powerscourt was invading Burgundy,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Not a very good day in court, I fear. Not necessarily bad, but I would say things were going more in Sir Jasper’s direction than in ours. Would you agree with that, young man?’

Richard Napier sipped appreciatively at his wine.

‘I think you’d have to say, sir, that they have built up a considerable first innings lead. Not that we can’t come back, mind you.’

‘You arrive, Johnny,’ Pugh looked across at Johnny who was now draped across a small sofa, ‘like that messenger chappie
who came from Marshal Blücher to tell Wellington that the Prussians were coming to help him at Waterloo. What news of Powerscourt?’

‘He should be here tomorrow,’ Johnny said, digging about in his inside pocket for Powerscourt’s pieces of paper. ‘He gave me this, for me to give to you with the main points he’s discovered over there.’

‘And what are the chief points?’ said Pugh, beginning to peruse the document.

‘It’s quite dramatic, really. We’ve found a man who swore he would kill Randolph Colville. He must be the fellow who checked into that hotel in Norfolk and set off for the wedding the next morning.’ Johnny took another pull at his Aloxe Corton. ‘And Randolph was a bigamist. He had another wife and another family tucked up in a pretty house near Beaune.’

‘A bigamist, did you say? A second wife? Like he was a Musselman or one of those Mormons from Utah? God bless my soul! I never heard of such a thing in all my years at the Bar. Pretty, was she, Number Two, I mean?’

‘I never saw her. I don’t think I heard Francis describe her one way or the other. Younger than Number One he said.’

‘Look here, Johnny, we need to think of the practicalities of the court,’ said Pugh, scratching his head and passing the first page over to his junior. ‘I don’t think Francis’s note is going to be admissible in evidence. You don’t suppose he has packed the two ladies into a railway carriage to confront the judge and Sir Jasper on Monday morning? No? Even then it would be the devil’s own job to have their evidence accepted.’

‘I was just coming to that,’ said Johnny, staring hard at his glass, ‘Francis was hoping to get signed statements out of both of them, witnessed by some local lawyer and looking as official as possible. That’s why he’s coming back a bit later than me.’

‘That’s something,’ said Pugh. ‘You say Francis is coming back tomorrow? If not then, Sunday?’ He scribbled something on a piece of paper. ‘I’ve just got one of these telephone
machines. Perhaps he could ring me as soon as he gets back and we can arrange to meet. I’m going to have to rethink my entire plan of campaign. It’s as if some kind person at the War Office has sent you another fifteen thousand troops the day before a battle, but you’ve no idea how reliable they’re going to be. Now then, young man,’ he turned to his junior, ‘I’m afraid we’re working late, you and I. Can you see if you can find some precedents for the late admission of evidence and the various procedures that have to be gone through? If Sir Jasper decides to cut up rough we may not be able to use any of this. God knows what the judge will make of it. He’s not an adventurous man, Mr Justice Black. If we can find a precedent it’ll be easier for him.’

‘Does it matter how long ago it was, sir?’ Richard Napier was collecting his notebook for a long vigil in the Gray’s Inn Library.

‘Well, don’t go as far back as the trial of bloody Socrates,’ said Pugh, recalling his junior’s suggestion that afternoon. ‘Anything modern should do.’

As Johnny Fitzgerald took his leave of the lawyers he glanced at the bottle. In the middle of the label it said ‘Corton – Charlemagne, Grand Cru.’ And above that in a slightly larger typeface was the legend, ‘Hospices de Beaune’.

Powerscourt and Lady Lucy didn’t reach London on Saturday. They still hadn’t reached London by six o’clock on Sunday evening. By that stage Charles Augustus Pugh had rung the telephone exchange three times to check that his line was working. He had called on the Powerscourts’ house in Markham Square at four o’clock in the afternoon only to be told that the master and mistress had not returned. At last, a few minutes before seven, Pugh’s telephone rang. It was Powerscourt. He, Pugh, would set out for Chelsea immediately.

‘My God, Powerscourt, you look as though you’ve been in the wars,’ said Pugh, inspecting his friend at the top of the staircase to the drawing room.

‘I’m fine now,’ said Powerscourt with a smile, ‘last rites not needed for a while yet.’

‘Well,’ said Pugh, ‘you must tell me the whole story when we’ve got more time.’

‘I’ll buy you lunch. How’s that? Now then, these are the French documents, my friend,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Lucy translated them while we were waiting for the train in Paris. The local lawyer thought it would help if he got the Mayor’s signature as well. They look as though you could get married or buried with them they’ve got so many stamps on the page.’

Pugh read them very fast. ‘I’ll get them typed up first thing in the morning. That junior of mine is rather an expert with
the typewriters though he doesn’t advertise the fact in case he’s turned into a glorified clerk. It’s amazing what you can do with a philosophy degree these days. But I think we need something more. We need a signature from some responsible person here to say the translation’s accurate and can be relied on.’

‘Lucy’s word not good enough?’ said Powerscourt.

‘Lady Lucy’s word is good enough for anything,’ said Pugh loyally, ‘we just need something the prosecution can’t argue with.’

‘French Ambassador?’ suggested Powerscourt. ‘I’ve met the fellow a couple of times.’

‘He’s foreign,’ Pugh put in. ‘Juries don’t like foreign.’

‘How about Rosebery?’ asked Lady Lucy. ‘He’s a former Prime Minister, after all.’

‘How’s his French?’ said Pugh.

‘Don’t think it matters much about his French, actually,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘It’s very good but the prosecution won’t want to cross-examine a man of his eminence, former Foreign Secretary and all that. Would you like me to drop him a note?’

‘Please do,’ said Pugh. ‘Now then, I want to hear what you think. It seems to me that all this stuff about bigamy isn’t going to wash in court. As far as we know, the Colvilles on this side of the Channel don’t know about the extra wife down there among the vineyards. Johnny Fitzgerald told me he didn’t find a hint of bigamy when he poured drinks down the Colville servants in St John’s Wood and Pangbourne, fishing for gossip about the family row. I don’t think I can just put one of the Colville women in the witness box and start asking them about bigamy. The judge wouldn’t allow the question. So I think we have to go with the sergeant. That is, if we are even allowed the sergeant.’

‘What do you mean, Pugh, no sergeant?’ asked Powerscourt. Was it for this that he had gone to France to be chased round a hospital floating in wine, tied on to a terrifying
pressoir
and locked up in a French lunatic asylum?

‘Well,’ said Pugh, leaving his chair and draping himself over the Powerscourt mantelpiece, ‘I’ve never been in a murder trial with evidence this late before. I’m not absolutely sure about the procedure. I should have brought young Napier with me. He’s very hot on procedure, probably reads it up in bed last thing at night in his best pyjamas after a blast of Aristotle. Never mind. This is what I think happens. I have to inform the judge and the prosecution team that the defence have fresh evidence they would like to submit, even at this late hour. Grovel grovel grovel. I would be most grateful for your considered opinions as you can fit into five minutes. Then the judge can do one of two things. He can clear the court, tell everybody including the jury to come back in an hour or something like that. We carry on the argument from our normal positions. Or, if he feels he wants his home comforts, bigger pencils, softer chairs in the case of Mr Justice Black, he takes Sir Jasper’s team and my team back to his rooms to discuss the matter.’

‘And what,’ asked Powerscourt, ‘is the argument about?’

‘Basically, it’s about whether to admit the new evidence or not,’ said Pugh. ‘We’re in Sir Jasper’s hands, really. If he says this is most improper, these statements have no value, there are no real witnesses for me to cross-examine in the normal way, why are the two women not here, then that will bear heavily with the judge. He can either throw it out, or insist that the two witnesses appear in his court by such and such a date. If he follows the strict letter of the law and the proper procedures we might fare rather badly.’

‘Could we launch an appeal, if they won’t admit our evidence and Cosmo is convicted?’ said Lady Lucy, who disliked losing as much as her husband.

‘Don’t even think about appeals at this stage, Lady Lucy. One thing at a time.’

‘Which way do you think Sir Jasper will jump, Pugh?’ said Powerscourt.

‘I wish I knew,’ said Pugh. ‘If he wants to win the case very badly then he’ll be very difficult and it will be hard for the judge to admit our new evidence. We’ll just have to wait until the morning.’

‘Do you think Francis will have to give evidence?’

‘He might well have to,’ said Pugh. ‘White shirts, highly polished black shoes the order of the day. Nothing fancy. Nothing to irritate the bloody judge.’

Powerscourt left Markham Square early the next morning for a last-minute conference with Pugh. The court was due to sit at nine thirty. Lady Lucy had promised herself one important task involving the twins’ hair when Rhys, the Powerscourt butler, made his normal apologetic shuffle into the room, holding a letter in his hand.

‘This just came in the post, my lady. From France. I thought it might be important, my lady.’

‘Hold on a minute while I look at it,’ said Lady Lucy, glancing anxiously at the clock which showed the hour of five past nine.

‘Dear Lord Powerscourt,’ she read, translating as she went, ‘I hope your journey back to London was uneventful. In all the turmoil about my husband and his sad end I forgot to tell you one thing. I don’t know if it’s important or not but I felt I should let you know. I tried to contact you at the railway station before you left but your train had gone. I wrote to the other wife, the one in England, to tell her her husband had a French wife living as well as an English one. The letter should have reached her about ten days before the fateful wedding. The letter from the English wife I found in Jean Pierre’s pocket was written on headed notepaper so I had the address. The schoolmaster wrote it in English for me. What he must think of us all! I asked her what she wanted to do with her husband. I said I was perfectly happy to keep him if she didn’t mind. He is so happy in Burgundy with his wines. I have had no reply. Yours etc.’

‘My God,’ said Lady Lucy. ‘You have done well, Rhys, this
changes everything. Now then, can you get me a cab right away? And a driver who knows the back routes to the Old Bailey? There is hardly any time left.’

It was ten past nine when the cab set forth from Chelsea. Lady Lucy was thinking hard as the vehicle swung out of Markham Square and into the King’s Road. Rhys had done well again, she felt. This was not one of those ponderous cabs capable of taking four people at a time. It was a two-seater, more like a fly or a phaeton, and the young man driving it seemed to know his business.

‘What time do you have to be at the Old Bailey, Lady P?’ he shouted back to her through the glass panels separating driver from passenger.

Lady Lucy couldn’t help smiling. Nobody had called her Lady P in years.

‘Half past nine,’ she said. ‘It’s very important.’

‘Christ,’ said the young man, swearing violently at a couple of pedestrians who threatened to hold them up. ‘I’m going to try the Embankment route,’ he yelled, turning at full speed into Sloane Street and down towards the river. ‘I checked with one or two of the other drivers,’ he said, ‘and they all said it’s very crowded further north.’

Lady Lucy thought she could see things clearly now for the first time since her involvement in this case began. She remembered hearing about the great family row at the Colvilles shortly before the wedding. The letter from France must have arrived by then. Accusations, recriminations, cries of betrayal. And Randolph? What did he say to his tormentors? Maybe by now he had simply run out of lies. They had just passed the Royal Hospital Chelsea, one or two aged pensioners in their red coats wandering down towards the Thames, and the driver had performed another hair-raising manoeuvre with supreme skill. At what point Randolph had decided to kill himself Lady Lucy could only guess. It was now eighteen minutes past nine. Maybe I should always travel across London like this, she thought, in a graceful little
vehicle with Jehu himself come back from the dead to take the reins.

Charles Augustus Pugh was on edge that morning. He had smoked two cheroots in his chambers before they set off for the court. His young man Richard Napier had rings under his eyes from long hours spent in the Gray’s Inn Library searching for precedents. All three were wearing immaculate white shirts and polished black shoes. Just before they reached the Old Bailey Pugh stopped suddenly and waved his arms violently in the morning air.

‘My friends,’ he said, putting an arm round each of his companions, ‘there will be no half measures today. Either we shall succeed beyond our wildest dreams and Cosmo Colville will walk a free man tonight. Or the judge will throw our documents in the bin and the unfortunate Cosmo will be a day closer to the hangman and the rope. There can be no middle way. But come, my friends, let us be of good cheer. England expects that every man this day will do his duty.’ With that Pugh laughed his enormous laugh and led them into Court Number Two of the Old Bailey.

Lady Lucy’s driver had overtaken everything he could on his madcap journey through the streets of London. They were just past Westminster Bridge now, Whitehall and Horse Guards Parade a street away to their left. It was twenty-three minutes past nine. Lady Lucy could hear the cabbie muttering to himself about the traffic around Charing Cross.

‘If they didn’t have those bloody trains, Lady P, they wouldn’t have so much bloody traffic,’ he yelled, pulling out to overtake an omnibus, ‘stands to reason.’

‘Are we going to make it?’ Lady Lucy shouted through the noise.

‘Get clean through Charing Cross and we might just do it,’ said the cabbie cheerfully.

‘Whoops,’ he yelled, pulling sharply on his brakes as an old-fashioned four-seater stopped suddenly in front of him. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

Lady Lucy was wondering about Randolph Colville’s last hours. Presumably he had taken the gun with him to the wedding. Maybe it was the sight of all those people at the reception who would shortly learn of his shame and his disgrace that pushed him over the edge. At least he had waited for his son to get married. Poor man, she thought, as the cabbie let out a shout of triumph after negotiating the perils of Charing Cross. Poor Randolph, blowing his brains out in that remote bedroom while the champagne flowed and the oysters were being carried up from the kitchens down below. The driver carried on up the Embankment and up Middle Temple Lane to the Strand. Fleet Street now and the passing of Temple Bar, gateway to the City of London. Twenty-seven minutes past nine. Lady Lucy could see St Paul’s and its dome, towering over London like the Colossus towered over Rhodes in ancient times. She checked the letter was still in her bag and ran through her translation once again.

The court was very full that morning. Society ladies jostled with the gentlemen of the press as they settled in their seats. Powerscourt wondered if Pugh had tipped them off. Sir Jasper made another of his little bows to the defence team. Pugh had told him as soon as he saw him of his fresh evidence and his proposal to ask the court to consider allowing it. He handed Sir Jasper his copy of the relevant papers and sent another copy to the judge. It was twenty-eight minutes past nine.

Then disaster struck Lady Lucy’s mission of mercy. A cart had overturned in the middle of the road at the bottom of Ludgate
Hill. Barrels were lying about all over the street. Porters and policemen were trying to restore order.

‘Damn!’ said the cabbie. ‘I think we’ve had it, Lady P. I’m going to have to turn into these side streets. One large vehicle coming the other way and you can get stuck for half an hour.’ He turned round at full speed, the little machine tilting over like a yacht turning in a stiff breeze, and then he shot right into Farringdon Road.

In Court Two the day had an unusual beginning. Mr Justice Black sent word that the jury were to be kept in the jury room. There was, the judge informed them, a question of law which had to be settled. A couple of minutes later Mr Justice Black sent word that he wished to see both legal teams and their supporters in his rooms. The Clerk of the Court told the witnesses and the spectators and the journalists that the court was adjourned until eleven o’clock.

The cabbie had turned into the Old Bailey at last. They were only three minutes late. Lady Lucy pressed an enormous sum of money into the cabbie’s hand.

‘Run for it, Lady P!’ he shouted. ‘Good luck!’

Lady Lucy made her way through the throng of people who appeared to be leaving rather than entering the courtroom. She could just see Charles Augustus Pugh about to exit through a side door.

‘Mr Pugh!’ she shouted. ‘Stop a moment! There’s more evidence.’ She was now almost at his side, waving the letter in her hand. ‘This letter came from France this morning. It’s from the French wife. She wrote to the English wife before that great row they had, telling Mrs Colville, English version, that she, Madame Drouhin, was Madame Colville, French version. Sometime before the wedding it would have been.’