by Diane Janes
‘I asked Mr Hyams why we weren’t to give evidence after all and he said it’s on account of this barrister bloke.’
‘That’s right. You see Charlie, Mr Streatfield is the one what decides how best to run my case.’
‘I see.’ Charlie paused to think about it, as if he didn’t really see at all. ‘But surely Ernest, he must know that what we can swear to is important. It proves that Dolly Morton isn’t telling the truth about what happened in June – and if she isn’t telling the truth about that, then she probably isn’t telling the truth about a lot of other things too. Why, the jury must surely have known that! All that stuff about you hitting her and kicking her. Where were the bruises then, I should like to know, and why didn’t Freddie Morton ever notice them? Or any of her other fancy men, come to that.’
‘The jury will see right through all that,’ said Ernest, but he was suddenly aware that his voice lacked conviction. The jury were a mystery to him, an unknown quantity. The truth was that he did not know what they were thinking at all.
‘How about Kathleen Holmes then? She worked there for two years and could tell them a thing or two about Dolly Morton’s carryings on and she knew all about the ins and outs of it between you and her and all.’
‘Mr Hyams is still trying to find her.’
‘If only you could remember the name of the place where she went to,’ Charlie said.
‘Aye, well I didn’t take that much notice at the time. Cooks and house maids come and go. I mean I always got on all right with the lass, but I can’t say as we were ever all that friendly. Not so’s you’d write to one another or expect to keep in touch. Not with her moving down south.’
‘Perhaps if you was to advertise in the papers for her?’
‘Oh aye,’ Ernest said sarcastically. ‘I’ll just place a call to my stockbroker and rustle up the ready cash. Have you any idea what it costs to place an advertisement in the national newspapers?’
‘Sorry Ernest. I wasn’t thinking.’
‘That’s all right. Even if Mr Hyams doesn’t find her, we’ve right on our side, and that’s the main thing, isn’t it?’
‘Of course it is,’ Charlie agreed. ‘But even so, I think you should maybe have another word with that barrister of yours. See if you can’t persuade him to call us lot as witnesses.’
‘It’s almost time to go back up now,’ warned the taller of the two warders.
‘I’ll mention it to him again,’ Ernest promised. ‘Give Ma and the girls a hug for me, will you? Tell them to keep their chins up. And all the best to Dad – and Charlie—’ the four occupants of the cell had all risen to their feet by now and Charlie was already being ushered politely but firmly out of the door, ‘—give Ethel a kiss and tell her that her Daddy will soon be home to see her.’
‘I will Ernest. I will.’
Charlie disappeared down the corridor and Ernest found himself being walked back towards the stairs which led straight up into the dock. The court had already begun to look familiar. It seemed that everyone but him and the judge was already in his or her allotted place. Now it wanted only for the arrival of the ring master, he thought, before the show could recommence.
Chapter Six
Tuesday 12 December 1933
Leeds Town Hall, The Yorkshire Assizes
After the adjournment, the chief witness for the prosecution was back in the box. Ernest studied her closely, but Dolly showed no outward signs of discomfiture or distress. Her chin was tilted upward, her expression calm, her voice as level and confident as if she were the lady mayoress, presenting the prizes on speech day.
‘I’m going to move now to the evening and night of your husband’s death,’ said Mr Streatfield. ‘I think you have told us that when Brown initially returned to the farm that night, you were out in the yard, filling a bucket at the water trough?’
‘That is correct.’
‘So… Brown stopped the horsebox in the yard, got down from the driver’s seat and told you that he had brought back a cow, which had been turned away by one of your husband’s customers?’
‘No. He told me that much later.’
‘You are sure that he did not tell you immediately?’
‘Absolutely sure.’
‘Your husband was a cattle factor, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘And this involves leasing out cattle, and selling them over a period of time, by means of payment plans.’
‘It does.’
‘Your husband often repossessed cattle, did he not? Sometimes as many as fifty beasts at a time?’
‘I don’t know. My husband handled the business, not me.’
‘If a farmer couldn’t pay – even if he had paid all but the very last instalment – the cattle would be repossessed, wouldn’t they?’
‘I don’t know anything about that.’
‘Farmers sometimes came to Saxton Grange to complain about the way they had been treated, didn’t they?’
‘I have no idea. I knew nothing of that side of the business.’
‘But surely, Mrs Morton, you are a director of Cattle Factors? It says so here, on the company letterhead.’
‘I repeat that I knew almost nothing of the business.’
‘Your husband was a hard man, was he not? The sort of man who would make many enemies?’
‘He drove a good bargain.’
‘And he had made enemies?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Well,’ said Mr Streatfield, his voice deceptively kind. ‘Let us return to the evening of 5 September, when Ernest Brown returned with the unwanted cow. He stopped the horsebox and after some kind of brief conversation between you, you helped him get the cow into the mistal?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Ernest Brown says that you did.’
‘Then he is lying.’
‘Ernest Brown says that you helped him with the cow and that is how you came to be in the mistal. Whereas you say that he took hold of you, when you were alongside the horse trough and dragged you into the mistal.’
‘That is correct.’
‘But the mistal is on the other side of the farm yard to the trough. It’s a matter of maybe twenty yards. Are you saying that he dragged you all the way across the farm yard?’
‘Yes.’ Dolly’s voice was quietly determined.
‘He did this in full view of the house, where Ann Houseman might be watching from any of the windows?’
‘Yes.’
‘This man was so bold that he dragged the mistress of the house across the full width of the farm yard, in full view of the house – and in particular of the kitchen window, where Miss Houseman was most likely to be, at that time of day?’
In the face of the defence barrister’s sarcastic incredulity, Dorothy Morton’s voice carried a quiet authority. ‘That is correct.’
‘Is it true that the floor of the mistal was slippery?’
‘Not exceptionally.’
‘And that you slipped over accidentally?’
‘No.’
‘Didn’t Brown tell you that he wanted to get finished with his chores quickly that evening, as he intended going out again?’
‘I don’t remember him saying that.’
‘Now, when you shouted for Miss Houseman and she came out into the yard, to see if you had called her, can you explain why you then denied having shouted her name?’
‘I was afraid of Brown.’
‘I see. This terrible fear you had of Brown,’ Mr Streatfield lingered over the words, as if pondering them afresh. ‘So you could not say anything to Miss Houseman whilst you were still out in the yard, within his hearing. But surely, once you and Miss Houseman had gone into the house, leaving Brown out in the barn, you could have told her then, about this incident in the mistal, where you say that Brown attack
ed you?’
‘I told her about it later on.’
‘Later on? Later on that same evening?’
‘No.’
‘Then when?’
‘I told her the following morning.’
‘But you were alone with Miss Houseman many times during the course of that night, why wait until the next morning to tell her?’
‘I did not tell her until the next morning.’
‘Yes, we know that.’ Mr Streatfield attempted to press the point, but Dorothy Morton continued to respond with quiet determination. She had been terrified of Brown, she said, and this it seemed, gave ample excuse for any behaviour which might appear less than rational.
Next Mr Streatfield asked her again about the sound of cars coming down the drive. Yes, Dorothy agreed, she and Ann had been within earshot of the drive during the entire evening, and no, they had not heard any vehicle come down towards the garage until the wheels which had ground past at around eleven thirty that night. Nor had they heard any shots, save the lone volley which had been fired by Ernest Brown, close to the kitchen window at around nine thirty.
In the public gallery, the old biddies fidgeted and shrugged. They had heard all this already. It had been thoroughly gone into by Mr Paley Scott. It was overly warm inside the court room, for those still wearing their winter coats and hats. Here and there a head began to nod, though some of them perked up a bit, when Dolly was again asked to describe how she and her companion had fled into the dining room, on hearing the shot from the yard.
‘Why did you run into the dining room and hide under the table?’ asked Mr Streatfield. Was there the faintest edge of sarcasm in his voice? Did he perhaps think, as some of the other observers must surely have done, that this witness who stood, confident and unflinching in the face of his interrogation, did not look much like the sort of hysterical woman who would dive under a dining table at the first sign of trouble?
‘We were terrified,’ the witness replied patiently. ‘We thought that Brown might kill us.’
‘I see.’ Mr Streatfield nodded, as if grateful for this elucidation. ‘There was a telephone call, was there not, during the course of the evening?’
‘Yes. Miss Houseman took the call. It was someone wanting to speak to my husband on a matter of business.’
‘So at around nine forty or so that night, after you had heard Brown using the gun in the yard and had become convinced that he was going to kill you, you knew that the telephone was in full working order?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why then did you not take advantage of this call to seek some help? Or simply pick up the telephone and speak to the exchange at any time?’
‘I dared not raise the alarm with the exchange as Brown could have been listening, either in the kitchen or else standing just outside the drawing room window.’
‘But surely, either you, or Miss Houseman, could have got to the telephone for a moment or two, at some point during the evening?’
‘No. We were constantly afraid of what Brown might do. When he wasn’t in the kitchen with us, he could have been listening outside.’
‘How about later on, when Brown had left the house and you and Miss Houseman had gone upstairs? You had no way of knowing that the telephone wires had been cut, had you? Why not creep downstairs then, and raise the alarm?’
‘I have already told you, we were constantly in terror of meeting Brown.’
‘The Essex motor car had been left at the top of the drive, had it not, when Miss Houseman brought the jam pan back to the farm?’
‘That is correct.’
‘So the car was standing alongside the road for the better part of the evening. Did it never occur to you to make your escape from Brown, using the car?’
‘There would not have been time.’
‘Then there is the matter of the knife. You have sworn that you saw Brown take the game knife – that is a knife with a white handle – out from the kitchen drawer?’
‘Yes.’
Ernest noticed that one of the jurymen was gazing intently at the oak table in the well of the court, where the white handled knife lay alongside the various other exhibits; the plans of the farm, the album of photographs, a shotgun, a length of rope, and another black-handled knife.
‘You are prepared to swear that Brown took a knife with a white handle outside, even though you have told us that the kitchen was then in darkness, except for a single paraffin lamp?’
‘The lamp gave a very good level of light. It was definitely the game knife, which has a white handle.’
Mr Streatfield changed tack abruptly. ‘Did you not think it strange that your husband had not returned home for his supper?’
‘It was not unusual for him to come in more than two or three hours after he had said he would be home.’
‘But presumably it was unusual for him to come home so late and then to go straight out again?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you not think to ask Brown why your husband was going out again?’
‘No. My husband would not have told Brown where he was going, as he would have thought it none of his business.’
‘When you heard the car coming down the drive, you believed it to be your husband coming home, did you not?’
‘Yes.’
‘You must have been very relieved. Why didn’t you run out onto the drive at once, to solicit his help?’
‘We were afraid of meeting Brown outside, with the gun.’
‘But you have already told us that Brown had cleaned the gun and put it away in the kitchen cupboard.’
‘Well we were afraid of meeting him outside at all, with anything… in any circumstances.’
‘But your husband was coming down the drive and you believed yourself to be in considerable peril. Surely you would naturally have rushed outside to attract his attention?’
‘We did not think of it.’
‘After all, you could not be sure that your husband would leave his car in the garage and then come into the kitchen, could you?’
‘Well,’ Dolly hesitated. ‘I’m not sure that I understand what you mean.’
‘It was not unknown for your husband to fall asleep at the wheel of his car, and spend the night in the garage, was it?’
‘It had occurred once or twice,’ she conceded reluctantly.
‘So in order to be sure that your husband would come to your aid, it would have been best to have gone out into the yard, and attracted his attention?’ A pause. ‘Particularly if you suspected that he had spent the larger part of his evening in a local public house?’
‘I had no way of knowing where he had spent his evening. I believed him to be out on business.’
‘Very well. Now you say that after you had gone upstairs, you looked out of the window and saw Brown, as you put it, “creeping about the yard” and that you saw him re-enter the kitchen, after you had gone up to bed.’
‘I have already said so, yes.’
‘Doesn’t Brown have some chores to do, last thing at night? Doesn’t he have to cross the yard to stoke up the boiler? And if he should decide to fetch his jacket from the kitchen, or obtain a glass of water, or eat the supper which had been left out for him on the kitchen table, wouldn’t he have to enter the kitchen, to accomplish any of those things?’
‘Yes, but that isn’t what he was doing.’
‘I put it to you, Mrs Morton that from your position, locked in the bathroom, it would hardly be possible for you to see what Ernest Brown was doing in the kitchen.’
Ernest wondered if the jury had noticed the momentary glint of annoyance in Dolly’s eyes.
On receiving no reply from the witness, Mr Streatfield moved on again. ‘Tell me, is Saxton Grange an old house, Mrs Morton?’
‘I suppose so.’ She seemed thrown by the question.
&n
bsp; ‘Isn’t it well over a hundred years old?’
‘I have no idea how old it is.’
‘But like most old houses, the floorboards tend to creak, do they not?’
‘Yes.’
‘So it would be a common thing to hear the woodwork creaking at night, whether there was anyone moving about inside or not?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘And the cistern in the attic is also prone to making noises, I think? While you were hiding in the bathroom and later when you were with Miss Houseman, you never actually looked out onto the landing to see if it really was Brown, moving about and causing these noises, did you?’
‘No, but…’
‘Thank you, Mrs Morton. I want to return now to the shotgun, which was normally kept in the kitchen cupboard, was it not? Firstly, perhaps you can tell me whether or not you yourself can handle a gun?’
‘I have shot rabbits. I am not an expert.’
‘But even in your youth, you had a gun of your own, isn’t that so?’
‘Yes.’
‘So unlike Miss Houseman, you are not nervous of handling a gun?’
‘No.’
‘When the defendant had finished cleaning the gun that night, you say that he put it back into the cupboard?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was the gun loaded?’
‘No.’
‘Where was the ammunition kept?’
‘In the same cupboard.’
‘Was the cupboard kept locked?’
‘No.’
‘Was there anything to prevent any member of the household – or indeed anyone at all who entered the kitchen – from getting hold of the gun and the cartridges?’
‘Nothing at all.’
Mr Streatfield allowed the assembled listeners to consider the point, while he took another drink from his water glass. Dorothy Morton continued to give him her full attention, seemingly determined to look nowhere in court but at the defending counsel.
‘There was a bang, was there not, just before you went to the window and saw that the garage was on fire?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it a sound like a gunshot?’
‘No, not at all. It was more of a dull thud. I believe it was associated with the fire.’