Harry Stenson’s trial lasted a month and attracted wide coverage in the newspapers and on the wireless. It had everything they could want: upper class scandal, spies, tragic lovers and several murders. Every revelation and scrap of evidence was greeted by gasps in the courtroom and headlines in the papers.
I was called to the stand twice. The first time lasted a day and a half whilst I was questioned by both sides on every aspect of my investigations. Ten days later I was called again to contradict a version, proposed by the defence, of Stenson’s movements at the time of Billy’s death. Everyone knew it was just a last ditch attempt to salvage something from the trial but I was able to link the severed fingers, Stenson’s muddy return to the house and his bloody, burned clothing in the garden. My testimony on this point was clear, well-reasoned and, I believe, put the final nail in his coffin.
Sawyer was called once, to confirm the early part of the case and I must say that for a young officer he acquitted himself well in the courtroom.
Throughout the trial, Harry Stenson remained true to his story he was innocent of the killings. He admitted his guilt regarding his long fraud, pleading it had started unintentionally and, in the confusion of a battlefield hospital, he’d been mistaken for Arthur Barleigh because he’d picked up his dead friend’s identity tags. He’d been badly injured and shell-shocked so let the mistake continue after he returned home. With Arthur’s parents and closest friends out of the picture, Isabelle was the only one who knew Barleigh and Stenson well enough to spot the deception. She blackmailed him into marrying her, fulfilling her desire to find an affluent husband, and he was trapped. The “charade” referred to by Alice Brown had started, sowing the seeds of hatred which were to bloom in late September, twenty years later.
Now he was waiting to be hanged, convicted of the murders of his wife, Tom Barleigh and Jenny Bamford. The jury found him guilty of manslaughter in the case of Billy Sharp because the evidence of premeditation wasn’t adequate to secure a murder conviction. But the killing of the others was sufficient to attract the death sentence.
When he was sent down I couldn’t tell if he was surprised or relieved. Living a lie for so many years takes its toll. As he was being led out of the courtroom he looked in my direction and gave me the briefest of nods, acknowledging that I’d beaten him.
The evening I’d watched Elizabeth leave, I’d chased over the footbridge to find Spencer but he’d disappeared into the night when I reached the other platform. Due to the arrest of Stenson, it was the middle of the next afternoon before I managed to speak to the Special Branch man on the phone. I demanded to know why he was still following me but he was dismissive, saying he couldn’t leave any ends untied while a case was still open. It was tedious but still had to be done. I have to say this struck a chord with me.
I asked him where he was with Haleson’s prosecution but he didn’t add much more than was in the newspaper reports. Here was a man who was certainly adept at playing his cards close to his chest and he continued to rise in my estimation.
‘I’ve a little news for you about your uncle, old man. Mitchell seems to have come up trumps.’
‘Where is he? Is he safe?’
‘I understand he’s still in Bremen. As for being safe, that’s a whole other question. Mitchell’s boys found him and his family still living over his shop, surviving but very frightened. All the Jews in the area have been told they should be making plans to move back to the country from which they came. And I don’t think Hitler’s just giving them friendly advice. All the signs are they’re going to be forced out, whether they want to go or not.’
‘Can you help get him out? Get the family over to England, I mean?’
‘No can do, old boy. Mitchell’s top priority is to keep his own chaps secure. They’re all undercover and would be in deep trouble if detected. Best he can do is to transmit messages in or out. We’ve managed to inform your uncle you’re anxious about him, but that’s as far as we can go.’
I thanked Spencer and asked he passed my gratitude on to Mitchell. He said he’d let me have any further news he received.
My father was ecstatic to hear Gideon was still in relative safety but was alarmed when I explained my informant had suggested it may not last too long. I tried to comfort him, saying I was sure everything would be all right. These reassurances sounded hollow, even to me. He was no fool and, from first-hand experience, he understood how these things might end when the whole might of the State was focused against the Jewish community.
He asked me about how I was getting on with the young woman I’d mentioned when I’d last seen him. I lied to him, telling him everything was fine, and he returned to our earlier conversation.
‘You’ll need to decide where you’re going with your faith if this becomes more serious, Jacob. Marriages between Jews and Gentiles can only work when husband and wife are secure in their own religion, and understanding of their partner’s. If either of you is unsure then a wedge will come between you, especially when children arrive.’
I told him I didn’t really want to discuss it, that I didn’t know what the future held for me with Elizabeth, that I was giving thought to what he’d said before but still hadn’t worked it out. He continued to press and I became tetchy. We parted politely although not on the best of terms. He was worried about my well-being and, as far as he was concerned, I could only be really happy if I acknowledged my faith and returned to the fold. I also knew this wouldn’t be an easy path to follow even if I did decide to try.
Two weeks later, in early November, a letter arrived for my father from Uncle Gideon. Hitler’s gangs of thugs were everywhere in Germany and Jews were being regularly abused on the street but the family was safe for now. The letter ended with the hope that they would make their way to Switzerland or England in the near future.
Dyer asked me over to his office for a celebratory drink on the day Stenson was sentenced. He offered me whisky from the desk drawer but I stuck with the tea I’d brought in with me. We chatted for a while and he spoke of his plans for retirement, saying I should think about going for Superintendent when he left. I laughed it off, telling him I was too young and, anyway, I still preferred investigating crimes to a desk job. Though I was laughing I was certain I couldn’t stay in this mire of death and deceit forever. Sometime, perhaps in the not too distant future, I’d come to welcome Dyer’s suggestion.
On the way out of the building I bumped into Terry Gleeson.
‘Lucky result there, Given.’
‘Thanks, nice of you to say so.’
‘Not bad for a Jew-boy.’
They tell me it will be some time before his nose mends.
Epilogue
Extract from The Daily Telegraph, 11th November 1938: Krystallnacht
An officially countenanced pogrom of unparalleled brutality and ferocity swept Germany today. Beginning in the early hours of this morning and continuing far into tonight, it puts the final seal to the outlawry of German Jewry.
Mob law ruled in Berlin throughout this afternoon and evening and hordes of hooligans indulged in an orgy of destruction. I have seen several anti-Jewish outbreaks in Germany during the last five years, but never anything as nauseating as this.
Racial hatred and hysteria seemed to have taken complete hold of otherwise decent people. I saw fashionably dressed women clapping their hands and screaming with glee, while respectable middle-class mothers held up their babies to see the “fun.”
Women who remonstrated with children who were running away with toys from a wrecked Jewish shop were spat on and attacked by the mob.
The fashionable shopping centre of the capital has been reduced to a shambles, with the streets littered with the wreckage of sacked Jewish shops and offices. No attempt was made by the police to restrain the rioters.
*****
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A NOTE TO THE READER
Dear Reader,
If you’ve got this far I suspect you’ve actually finished the book, unless you’ve inadvertently landed on this page whilst searching for how the story ended. If the former, I hope you enjoyed it, if the latter then you’ll perhaps come back later when you have finished.
It’s odd where inspiration for characters and plots come from. Inspector James Given began life as an 18th century Coroner’s clerk and only leapt forward 150 years when a plot emerged from an unlikely source. James was conceived in a creative writing group and I liked his voice so had written a few scenes, though hadn’t a clue where he was going. When I took a visit to a garden in the West of Ireland and was told the true story of suicide and murder at the heart of this novel I asked: ‘what if it didn’t happen that way?’ The ideas developed from there. More than one reader has expressed the view that the story is far-fetched, and then been shocked to learn the true facts (see the Historical Notes below).
Although I lived in Ireland at the time of writing the novel I had previously lived in Warwickshire much longer so it was more natural for me to set it there. The real deaths took place in September 1938 and this provided a historical backdrop where James Given’s heritage became particularly relevant.
I love to hear from readers, so please contact me through my Facebook page or send me a message through Twitter. You can also see my latest news on my website and sign up for notifications.
Reviews are so important to authors, and if you enjoyed the novel I would be grateful if you could spare a few minutes to post a review on Amazon and/or Goodreads.
Thanks for reading!
Charlie Garratt
HISTORICAL NOTES
In April 1938 a young British army officer, William McClintock, fell from his horse and fractured his neck, resulting in serious paralysis. Later he returned to his parents’ home in Donegal, Ireland, and a new date in September was set for his marriage to a Devonshire girl, Helen Macworth. His mother strongly disapproved of the marriage.
The day before the wedding, William was left out in the garden writing a letter to his aunt. His mother arrived in the garden, armed, and shot him in the head. She was discovered later near a tool shed, where she’d shot herself, also in the head. His bride-to-be distraught at finding her fiancé was dead, shot herself with his rifle, dying an hour later of her injury.
A very quick inquest was held on the night of the deaths and the bodies were laid to rest on the day the wedding would have taken place. Helen was buried in her wedding dress along with her bridal bouquet and her pet dog, which was put to sleep.
You can read about the tragedy here:
http://www.stjohnstonandcarrigans.com/carriganstragedy.html
Krystallnacht (Night of Broken Glass) was a night of violence against Jews on 9-10 November 1938. It was orchestrated by German paramilitary troops.
The Spanish Civil War was fought between 1936 and 1939. Republicans supporting the elected Government resisted a revolt by Nationalists. It is often seen as a precursor to the Second World War and both sides received support from other countries sympathetic to their cause. Tens of thousands of soldiers from outside Spain participated in the conflict, primarily on the Republican side.
Edward Frederick Lindley Wood, 1st Earl of Halifax, was styled Viscount Halifax from 1934 until 1944. He was UK Foreign Secretary between 1938 and 1940, and one of the architects of the policy of appeasement of Adolf Hitler in 1936–38, working closely with Neville Chamberlain.
Robert Dudley, 1st Earl of Leicester, was a favourite of Queen Elizabeth I with a seat at Kenilworth Castle, Warwickshire. He organised a spectacular three week festival for her visit to the castle in 1575.
Vimto is a soft drink sold in the UK, originally marketed as a health drink then later as a cordial.
ALSO BY CHARLIE GARRATT
A Pretty Folly
Published by Sapere Books.
11 Bank Chambers, Hornsey, London, N8 7NN,
United Kingdom
saperebooks.com
Copyright © Charlie Garratt, 2015
Charlie Garratt has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publishers.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events, other than those clearly in the public domain, are either the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales are purely coincidental.
eBook ISBN: 9781913028626
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