Fog of Doubt (26 page)

‘I was afraid to,' whispered Melissa.

‘Why should you have been afraid?'

‘Well, I … Well, you see, I had an alibi, but they couldn't find him, so I thought they would think I was alone in the house when the man was killed.'

‘Is it true there were two other people in the house?'

‘They didn't make any difference as far as the murder was concerned. They were both upstairs.'

‘You saw the body and you thought you might be accused?'

‘Yes,' said Melissa wearily.

‘But—you said, didn't you? at the Magistrate's court, that you'd never met this man, that you'd never set eyes on him. Why should you think anyone would suspect you of murdering him?'

(A thin, small hand like a bird's claw, covering her own hand with its bony grasp.… ‘
When
was it you were in Brussels, Melissa, eh?') Melissa improvised desperately. ‘I was—I was protecting someone else.'

‘All right, well, we won't have any names mentioned in court,' said Counsel, hastily. ‘Afterwards you'll be able to inform the police and they can take what steps they like. You said nothing, because you were protecting someone else. At the expense of the accused here—Dr. Edwards?'

‘Dr. Edwards wouldn't have minded. He's always doing things for people. And I knew he'd sympathize with anyone killing Raoul Vernet because he thought that Raoul Vernet had seduced Rosie. And besides, of course, I never thought it would come to this.…' She looked round the court, at the man in the dock, at the judge in his scarlet robe, at the magpies in their black gowns and curled white wigs. ‘You don't sort of think in the beginning that people will
really
be accused and
really
go to prison; you never think for a moment that there's
really
any danger of them being found guilty when they haven't done the thing at all.…'

The judge leaned forward. ‘Now, er—(what is the witness's name? Miss Weeks?)—Miss Weeks, you know, we mustn't have what we call “comment” in court. We have been patient with you, but you must try to confine yourself to answering the questions, and just keep calm. Nobody is accusing you of anything, nobody here will accuse you of anything. You say you told these—untruths—to protect a third person. That is enough, for the present, about that third person; the police can deal with that later, if need be. You have given us your reason for concealing the truth; now all we want is for you to convince us that your second story
is
the truth.' He waved a hand towards Mr. Dragon. ‘Just answer the questions, and as briefly as you can.'

But Melissa heard not a word of it. She stood with her hands pressing down on the ledge of the witness-box, her shoulders hunched, her head hanging forward, her bright hair sweeping across her eyes, and gave herself up to an hysteria of terror. They don't believe me.… They'll say I did it.… I can never prove anything.… All these lies.… She was protecting someone.… She was protecting someone.… Someone that Tedward would have offered his life to protect.… Counsel put a question and she lifted her head and stared across at him with terrible, burning eyes. Her mouth would not work, her lips would not obey her, her tongue was pressed against her teeth, her jaw had begun to chatter again in a rigor of helplessness, and she stared and stared and, ignoring interruptions from judge and counsel and woman attendant alike, gibbered out that they could just ask Matilda Evans, that was all.… Just ask her if she had not been Raoul Vernet's mistress, just ask her if she had not said on the telephone that very day, that very day that he was murdered, something about making love to her, something about not being able to make love to her; ask her if she had not said that she was disappointed, ask her if he had not said that perhaps they could do that too but now he had to talk business or something like that.… ‘I was listening,' said Melissa, sobbing and gibbering, brushing aside interruption and protest, ‘I was listening on the extension, I didn't put back the receiver, I heard it all.…' Ask her,
ask
her if he had not told her that night that he had been Rosie's lover, ask her if it was not she who had murdered him out of jealousy.… ‘She was alone with him.… She got rid of everyone else.…
She
put that note there to get her husband out of the way, anyone could see that.… And the telephone call, she could have done the telephone call; perhaps she didn't really mean to kill him, perhaps she just hit him.… And she never could bear the sight of blood, she couldn't bear people in pain, she wouldn't just leave him there.…' She swayed and gibbered and suddenly pitched forward in a dead faint, and hung like a rag doll, with dangling arms, over the wall of the box; and into the moment of quiet that followed the sudden cessation of the shrill, gabbling voice, another voice cried out, from high above their heads: ‘It's not true! It's all lies! She killed him herself—she told me so!'

Mr. Justice Rivett thought that perhaps, if it suited counsel, this might be an opportune moment to adjourn for lunch?

Inspector Cockrill said a word here and a word there and minions moved unobtrusively away—the habit of authority is strong and the habit of obedience to recognized authority: it was not till later that it occurred to any of them that he had no right to be giving orders there. He said a word to Charlesworth. ‘You'll be a miracle worker if you can,' said Charlesworth. ‘I'm for the high jump anyway, I should think.' Up in the gallery the crowd milled and chattered about an excited boy with a white face and rumpled, curly hair; in the body of the court, Melissa forgotten, everyone stood to stare. In the dock, the prison officers recollected themselves and hurriedly took Tedward's arms and bundled him below; through the glass screen that runs round the sides and back of the dock, he caught Matilda's eye as she eagerly strove to attract his attention, and smiled at her and shrugged a ‘lord knows what it all means!' and, still smiling, disappeared from sight. Cockie came up to her and took her arm. ‘Cockie! That
bitch
of a girl! Did you
hear
what she said?'

‘
I
heard,' said Cockie. His bright eyes smiled at her with a mischievous delight. ‘That'll teach you to flirt with nasty foreigners, my girl.'

‘She did take that call … Thomas, darling, you do realize how the conversation went?'

‘I know your little ways,' said Thomas. ‘Let it be a lesson to you, as Cockie says.'

They shoved their way towards the door through the crowd whom the ushers were vainly trying to shoosh out of court. ‘And that man in the gallery, Cockie, what on earth did he mean, “she told me herself”? Was it Stanislas? I couldn't see properly. But could it have been?'

‘Never mind all that now,' said Cockie. ‘You go and get your lunch. Thomas, take her along. I'll have to stay here, but I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll take the old lady off your hands; I can fix something for her here. You'll only get her over-excited and upset, and I don't suppose his lordship will put up with any more hysterics.'

Matilda stopped dead in her tracks?' ‘She surely won't have to give evidence now?'

‘She's next. Go
on.
'

Matilda resumed her slow progress. ‘But Cockie, they won't go on with all this? I mean, they
must
let Tedward go
now?
'

‘My dear Matilda, this is a murder trial. You swear in a jury, the jury's got to give a verdict, and they can't do that without hearing the evidence, at least. What do you think happens? the judge just pops up and says, “Well, what do you know, boys?—let's call it a day.”'

‘They do sometimes stop trials in the middle,' said Thomas, fighting along in their wake.

‘Not where everything's in a muddle like this. He'll round off the evidence and get a formal verdict; he'll have to. And if you two don't get a move on, you won't be here to see it, because you won't be back from lunch.'

They squeezed out of the door with the crowd and fanned out on to the broad landing. Gran had disappeared from her bench in the corner. ‘I've borrowed a room,' said Cockie. ‘I'll look after her. There'll be too much gossip and fuss in the restaurants.' He left them and started up the broad stairway; leaning over to call out, ‘They'll take care of Melissa here; don't worry about
her.
'

‘I won't,' said Matilda grimly, calling back.

Detective Inspector Cockrill might be able to ‘borrow a room' in the Central Criminal Courts, but Chief Inspector Charlesworth had no such luck. He pinned his victim into a corner of a corridor and conducted his interview there. Mr. Granger, the solicitor who had been handed on to Tedward with much of the rest of the backwash from Thomas Evans' abortive trial, had been invited to stand by in the interests of his client. Sergeant Bedd was also present. ‘Well, now, my lad,' said Charlesworth, ‘what's all this?'

Damien spreadeagled himself in his corner in a vivid impersonation of a (Minority) Stag at Bay. ‘I'd better warn you first that I'm a Communist.'

‘O.K. so you're a Communist,' said Charlesworth. ‘What's your name?'

‘And as a Communist I do
not
think much of the British Police.'

‘As a Communist, I don't suppose you think very much of the British. Now—your name and address.'

Sergeant Bedd licked the end of his ball-pointed pen; old Charles had given it to him last Christmas and he had to use it, but he never could get used to the damn thing not being a pencil. He wrote down the name in his notebook—Damien Jones; and a Kilburn address.

‘All right,' said Charlesworth. ‘What have you got to tell me?'

‘I've got something to give you,' said Damien. He fished in the bulging pocket of his mackintosh and lugged out a large brown shoe which he stuffed under one arm, heaving up his shoulder to get at the other pocket and extract its fellow. Charlesworth took them gingerly and turned them over and looked at them carefully. ‘What's this?'

‘It's a pair of shoes,' said Damien savagely.

‘Who do they belong to?'

‘They belong to a Mr. Hervey,' said Damien. ‘He lives in my mother's boarding house; or, as
she
would say, he's a paying guest.' He put on a fancy voice for this contemptible confession of snobbery.

‘I see,' said Charlesworth. ‘And what have Mr. Hervey's shoes got to do with Raoul Vernet's murder?'

‘They've got his blood all over them,' said Damien.

Charlesworth turned them over again and looked at their soles. They were new shoes, but they had been worn and fairly recently; indeed, one would have thought them still rather damp after yesterday's light rain. ‘
I
don't see any blood on them.'

‘There's none to see,' said Damien. ‘I've wiped it all off. But you'll find it's there. There are always traces left, aren't there? In the seams and things.'

Charlesworth handed the shoes to Bedd. ‘Do something or other with them. Now, look here, Jones, let me get this thing straight. These shoes belong to a Mr. Hervey who lodges in your mother's house. They were, at one time at any rate, stained with the blood of this murdered man, Raoul Vernet. And it was you who wiped away the blood?'

‘Yes,' said Damien. ‘You see it was me who got it on.'

Back in the witness-box, restored to a sort of nightmare calm, Melissa recanted right, left and centre and, lifting her white face to the gallery, said that now that—now that other people that all this time she had been so loyally protecting, had tried to shelter behind her skirts, now she would tell the truth and the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help her God indeed! Unaware that Damien was still pinned in his corner and far out of hearing, she poured out the story of that dreadful night. Nobody stopped her, nobody checked her; she was a witness in the course of giving evidence, she had a right to be heard, and judge and counsel exchanged glances and shrugged their shoulders and gave it up. The whole thing was like Bedlam already and it might as well run its course; the police officers concerned, would doubtless be hearing all about it in due time, it was possible that the Director of Public Prosecutions might address a few remarks to his staff; but meanwhile, you couldn't stop a trial on the grounds that it had been inadequately prepared, and the only thing to do was to concentrate on trying to keep its lunacies within the limits of procedure laid down by the law. So Melissa, her white face lifted to the gallery, lived once again through the night of Raoul Vernet's death, and forgot to whisper, forgot to stumble, forgot to hide behind her curtain of curly hair; forgot the black cap and the scarlet robe, forgot the white wigs and black gowns, forgot the jury, forgot the spectators, forgot the shorthand writer below her, scribbling away, scribbling away, scribbling away.…

It had all been Rosie's fault, the whole thing was her fault, everything beastly was always Rosie's fault. She went through her world so gay, so lighthearted, dancing through fields of flowers on delicious bare feet, and everyone stopped to watch her and felt the better for seeing her, and thought, how enchanting, how heart-warming, how sweet! And nobody stopped to see how under the fat, white feet the flowers were broken and bruised; and nobody paused to consider whose flowers they were. So many of them had been Melissa's flowers: silly little wild flowers of hopes or illusions, crushed out of existence by the capering, careless feet. And then had come Stanislas, and Rosie had been away in Switzerland and everything had been so safe and wonderful. Rosie, it was true, had capped the story of Stanislas, mysterious background and all, with her doings in Geneva; but Melissa would rather have had a date with Stanislas, thanks, than with a Maternity Hospital, and Melissa had had a date with Stanislas for that Tuesday night. There had turned out to be a bit of a fog, it was true, but Stanislas wasn't going to be put off by mere fog. In perfect confidence that he would call for her as arranged, she had dressed herself up (‘Do wear that green thing of yours, my dear; I like my women to wear green …'), and decided on the
other
green thing, and changed, and been ready again, and changed back again, and at half-past seven was feverishly putting a different feather in her hat and waiting for his knock at the basement door. She heard Rosie fumble her way down the steps from the front door and, cursing, wrestle with the latch of the gate. She thought, well, if Rosie can go out in it, he'll get here all right. Rosie's faltering footsteps died away, muffled in fog. There was no other sound.