“I only wish,” he said, “that I was twenty years younger. At the start of your career, unpopularity can be a great help. Pat Hastings made his name by defending a German businessman at a moment when the sinking of the
Lusitania
had raised anti- German feeling to hysterical heights. Excuse me.”
He listened to the telephone for some minutes, then said, “I don’t fancy dining in a draught. Why don’t we have dinner at my Club?”
The telephone seemed to agree with this. De Morgan said, “That was my wife. Someone has been throwing bricks through our dining-room window.”
“My witnesses,” said de Morgan, opening the proceedings on the following morning, “are being called with one object only. That the jury may be in a position, at the end of the day, to arrive at a balanced verdict. I trust that they will be allowed to give their evidence—” he glanced up at the gallery—”undisturbed.”
Sesolo’s promise had been fulfilled. By force or by fraud the gallery had been packed with fighting members of the Consortium. But they were not there alone. When they were allowed in they had found, to their surprise, a number of men already seated, at carefully spaced intervals, on the benches. They were all large and all had proved uncommunicative.
Dr. Thoroughgood, of the London Laboratory, opened for the defence. He explained that he had analysed both Paradol and Killblane, bought from shops. He agreed that the only difference between them was two per cent of parathion in the Killblane. He had also examined the black plastic bottle S.B.1 and had found it to be three-quarters full of neat Killblane.
He was followed by the Reverend Simon Ramsay who produced, with deep resentment, letters which his daughter had written to him from Africa. It appeared that when he had become nationally famous over the bail proceedings he had been much plagued by journalists and had incautiously revealed the existence of the letters to one of them.
“I much regret having done so,” he said. “And I am producing them under protest.”
“We appreciate that,” said de Morgan and proceeded to read a number of passages to the jury which fully bore out his statement about Dorothy’s affection for her mother and sisters-in-law.
The next witness was Sophie Burnett, a self-possessed girl of twelve, in neat school uniform. With a gap-toothed grin which entranced the Court she told them, in detail, about the nature ramble and treasure hunt which had resulted in her turning up the Killblane container from under a pile of leaves on Putney Common. The Attorney General, who knew that cross-examination of children was a self-defeating exercise, smiled at her and let her depart.
The next witness, a white-haired, rosy-cheeked man introduced himself as Charles Piggott. He had been, he explained, until five years ago, Clerk to the Oxford Magistrates. He had with him certain court records. These showed that, twenty-one years ago, one Charles Mullen, whom he identified as the present accused, had pleaded guilty to the theft of a book from Harmsworths, the Oxford booksellers. He had been bound over for one year.
Having produced this totally unexpected evidence, which had set the reporters’ pencils scurrying, he looked at the Attorney General, who could find no questions for him.
“What the hell’s he playing at?” he said to Wyvil.
“I think I’m beginning to see,” said Wyvil. “And I don’t like it.”
She liked the next one even less. It was Arthur Pauling, a partner in the firm of Pauling and Blackett, solicitors. He produced, with copies for all concerned, the Will of Jack Katanga.
“There are only two clauses, I think, that will interest you. The first is the one which called for cremation. A wish which could not, as you will have heard, be carried out. The other—” everyone had been reading fast and had got there ahead of him—”is a specific legacy of one thousand pounds to Anna Masai, known as Macheli. The residue of his estate goes to his wife.”
“Can you give us an estimate of what that residue will amount to?”
“It’s difficult to be precise. The unknown factor is the value of the copyright in his books. I should be surprised if his total estate, less liabilities, amounted to more than three thousand pounds.”
“So that Anna has been left a third of his estate. Can you suggest any reason for this beneficence?”
“We can only go by the Will. It says, ‘for the help she has been to me’.”
De Morgan sat down. The Attorney General could find no questions to ask him, either. The next witness was a cheerful-looking youngster who answered to the name of Hugh Marshment and identified photographs M.1-4 as having been taken by him. When Wyvil rose to cross-examine him, it was seen that she had, in her hand, a copy of the
Highgate Times and Journal.
She said, “Tell us, Mr. Marshment, are you a player of volley-ball and do you,” she examined the paper, “perform for the Highside Harriers?”
“That’s right.”
“Then you will have been involved in the disagreeable incident when certain anti-apartheid enthusiasts broke up the game.”
“I’ll say I was involved. I got a black eye.”
“And this, no doubt, prejudiced you against anti-apartheid activities.”
“It may have prejudiced me. I don’t think it prejudiced my camera.”
“The camera cannot lie,” agreed Wyvil smoothly, “but the pictures which it takes can be carefully slanted.”
Since this was not a question Mr. Marshment wisely made no attempt to answer it.
“My last witness,” said de Morgan, “is Mrs. Prudence Queen.”
The judge looked at his watch. Not yet twelve o’clock. Excellent. They should finish that day.
“Mrs. Queen, I understand that you, your sister and your brother-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Walworth, live at No. 9 Boswell Road, Hammersmith, and were living there a little more than two years ago, when the Katangas were living at No. 7.”
“That’s right, sir, next-door neighbours. Very close. And what with helping them with jobs round the house, I was in and out most days.”
“Then I’d like to direct your attention to an incident which took place in June of the year in which the Katangas left Hammersmith. I am referring to the time when Mr Katanga accidentally swallowed a quantity of disinfectant.”
“That’s right, sir. The first we knew about it was when Mrs. Katanga came running out into the street. We’re not a posh neighbourhood. We don’t have our own garages. People who have cars park them on the far side of the road.”
“A most inconvenient habit for everyone else,” said the judge. “But please continue.”
“Well, sir, we saw her jump into the car and start grinding the self-starter. This went on and on. Being Saturday morning most people were at home and by this time a lot of them were looking out of their windows. One man shouted, ‘Have you switched on?’ Mrs. Katanga must have heard, because she did something and the car spluttered and then stopped. The man, who had come out into the street, said, ‘You must have oiled up the plugs grinding away like that. You’ll never start her now. If it’s urgent, I’d better take you.’ So in the end, she went round to the doctor’s in his car.”
“In the end,” said de Morgan thoughtfully. “How much time would you suggest she had wasted by messing about with the car instead of telephoning?”
“Might have been ten minutes. We all asked her why she didn’t telephone. She said she was too worried. Of course, it made people talk. That, and other things.”
“Other things?”
“Like him beating her.”
This produced a pin-drop silence. The judge had leaned forward, as though to hear the witness more clearly. He said, “Mr. de Morgan, I must ask you to ask your witness, please, to be quite explicit.”
“I will do so, my Lord, but did not wish to appear to lead her.”
But this was a witness who needed no prompting. She said, “Well, sir, living as you might say, right on top of them we couldn’t help hearing things.”
“What sort of things?”
“Like Mrs. Katanga, up in her bedroom, sobbing her heart out, poor soul. Mostly in the afternoon, that would be.”
“Was her husband at home?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Not having a regular job, he was often home afternoons.”
The gallery was seething, furious at what was being suggested. Frustrated by the fear of being thrown out if they gave the least expression to their fury.
“Anything else? Not to hear, not really. They kept the bedroom windows shut when this was going on. But we couldn’t help seeing things. Marks round her wrists, as though she’d been tied up. And once, I remember, we were in the chemist’s, waiting for the man to attend to us. Coming in first I’d grabbed the only chair, so I got up and offered it to her. She said, ‘No. Thank you, I’ll stand.’ Just as though—” the thought seemed to amuse Mrs. Queen—”she was a boy who’d been caned and was too sore to sit down.”
De Morgan said, “Thank you. No, you must stay where you are. I think my friend has some questions for you.”
When the Attorney General got up, it was clear that he was angry. Too angry to deal effectively with Mrs. Queen, thought Wyvil; though she added the rider – if such a feat were possible.
He said, “You have given us your name as Mrs. Queen. Might I ask if your husband is still alive?”
“I wouldn’t hardly call that a vital matter, sir. But in fact I never had a husband.”
“Then why do you call yourself Mrs. Queen?”
“It seemed more suitable at my age.”
“But it was a lie?”
“If you wish to call it so.” There was a flush along the top of her cheeks. Does he realise, thought Roger, that he’s handling a Mills bomb and has just withdrawn the pin?
“Very well. Now as to the extraordinary story you’ve told us. You said ‘we noticed’ and ‘we heard’. Were the other people your sister and brother-in-law?”
“Yes, sir. Other people too, sometimes.”
“Then why are they not here supporting your extraordinary – I nearly said ridiculous – statements?”
“Well, sir, I did suggest it to our lawyer. But he said, ‘No, just give them the plain facts yourself. If you bring along other people to tell the same story the lawyer on the other side will only try to make you contradict each other.’”
The laugh which this produced did nothing to calm down the Attorney General. Wyvil had her hand within inches of his sleeve. She knew that he was about to make the fatal mistake of asking a question at large, without any idea of what the answer would be. He said, “You’ve given us an unconvincing account of marks on Mrs. Katanga’s wrists which might have been caused in many ways and a story of her not accepting the offer of a seat – natural, surely, as you were a much older woman. Was that all you saw?”
“Well, sir, once when they hadn’t drawn the bedroom curtains right across, we did see that he’d tied her to the end of the bed.” Before the Attorney General could make any comment, she added, in her most reasonable tones, “You know how it is, sir. When a man’s wife gets a bit older and she doesn’t set him off like she used to, he does things to her – spanks her or ties her up – just to work himself up. Of course, I suppose that being a bachelor you mightn’t understand about things like that.”
Looking down on the Court, the judge could see that some of the people were shocked, but more were trying not to laugh. He said to the official shorthand writer, “That last comment will
not
form part of your report.” And to the Attorney General, “Please proceed.”
“I can see no object, my Lord, in prolonging this farce.”
“In that case, since I understand that this is the final defence witness – no re-examination? Very well, Mr. Attorney, the floor is yours.”
It was twenty past twelve and the Attorney General had been hoping for the respite of a lunch interval to gather his thoughts together. Discussing matters with Wyvil on the previous evening he had said, “If ever there was a case in which the old rule would have operated more fairly, I mean the rule which gave the Crown the last word, it’s this one. I’ve still no real idea what line de Morgan’s going to take.” And when Wyvil had pointed out that it would be the judge who had the last word he had growled, “Old Hollebrow is getting near retirement. He doesn’t want to be guyed by the Court of Appeal. He’ll keep a foot on both sides of the fence, you’ll see.”
He now demonstrated his professionalism by moving smoothly into the attack. “I imagine, members of the jury, that you were as amazed as I was by the last witness, both at what she said and
why
she said it. Why, in the world, should we have had to listen to a supposed account of the late Jack Katanga’s relations with his wife? An account which, being dead, he can no longer contradict. It is not he who is on trial.
“The object, and the only object of these proceedings, is to determine whether the accused murdered Mr. Katanga.”
Motive, means, opportunity. They had heard it all before, but it did no harm to have it hammered out again. He made an excellent point about the fingerprints. He said, “As you have heard from Dr. Summerson, although there were, as would be expected, numerous and over-lapping examples of the deceased’s fingerprints on the
handle
of the bougie, there was only one clear set on the jar itself. No doubt they came there when he moved the jar out and used the bougie – with such fatal results – that day. But why only
one
set? Surely because the murderer, when he added paraquat to the oil, had been careful to wipe the jar in case he had left prints of his own on it. And who would be more likely to take such a precaution than an experienced policeman?”
He made another good point, about the Will (“Sprung on us at the last moment, like much of the defence evidence.”) “No one when making a Will assumes that he is going to die the next day. The deceased was at the start of what looked like being a very successful career. By the time he died a thousand pounds might not be a third – might not even be a thirtieth – of his estate.”
Roger could find only one fault in the speech. It went on a little too long. As the time passed one matter was exercising the minds of the jury to the exclusion of all others. When were they going to get their lunch? It was a quarter past one when the Attorney General concluded his careful summary and it was twenty past two when de Morgan rose to address them. His opening was unexpected.