A Stroke of Bad Luck

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A Stroke of Bad Luck Page 9

by Diane Janes


  Dr Sutherland was called to the witness box next. He was the police surgeon who had examined what was left of poor old Freddie’s body after the fire and in so doing had discovered the shot gun pellets. Ernest recognised him from that awful Wednesday morning, when what was left of Fred had been lifted out of the ruined motor car, dumped onto a canvas stretcher, then covered by a tarpaulin and taken off to be examined in the barn. He kept his face as expressionless as possible, though he couldn’t help recalling that but for this wretched bloke’s thoroughness, the whole business might have been put down to a tragic accident and he wouldn’t be sitting here now.

  Dr Sutherland, perhaps mindful of the grieving widow and other family members, endeavoured to avoid going into too much gruesome detail, as he explained how he had found the shotgun pellets in and around what remained of Fred’s heart, and the shotgun wadding in what remained of his chest.

  ‘There can be no doubt whatsoever, Dr Sutherland, that the shot would have killed Frederick Morton?’ asked Mr Paley Scott.

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  Though this unequivocal evidence was helpful to the prosecution case, Dr Sutherland was unable to provide much more in the ways of clues which would throw any light on how Freddie had met his death. Yes he agreed, it was probable that the muzzle of the gun had been held close to Mr Morton’s chest, but obviously there were no tell-tale scorch marks to be seen, since the body had then been subjected to a much greater level of burning. No, he did not agree with P C Broadhead that the position in which the body had been found, with the torso lying across the front seats indicated that Mr Morton had been shot first and then dragged into the car before the fire was started. ‘During the course of a fire, a body which is in a sitting position may well fall forwards, or sideways, or the fire’s effect on objects around it may cause it to collapse into a quite different pose to that which it occupied when the fire started. In this case the legs had been almost completely destroyed and the body was therefore bound to have shifted somewhat.’

  Paley Scott got no further when he attempted to discover whether Fred had already been dead by the time the fire started, whether there was any evidence that he had attempted to defend himself, or whether Dr Sutherland could tell how long he had been dead, or at what time he had last eaten or drunk anything.

  ‘I am unable to assist you on this matter,’ Sutherland repeated. ‘Because the fire damaged the body to such an extent that all the evidence on these points was destroyed.’

  Aye, Ernest thought grimly. All the evidence bar the worst possible bit of it.

  When it was his turn to question the witness, Mr Streatfield, after a sip of his water, adopted a business like tone. ‘Now Dr Sutherland, you have told us that it was mere chance that the section of the body containing evidence of this single shot had survived the fire?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Would I be right in saying that if there had been additional shots, which had entered other parts of Mr Morton’s body – the parts which did not survive the fire so well – you would not have been able to find them?’

  ‘Well clearly, if a body part had perished in its entirety, there would be nothing left to examine.’

  ‘Precisely so. Which means that we cannot be certain that Mr Morton died as a result of only one shot, can we?’

  Dr Sutherland, who knew very well on whose side he was supposed to be batting, looked doubtful. ‘Had there been any more shots in close proximity to the heart, I believe that evidence of them would have survived.’

  ‘With due respect, Dr Sutherland, that is not what I asked you. Let me put his more simply. Can you absolutely rule out the possibility that the man who shot Frederick Morton on 5 or 6 September this year, fired more than one shot at his victim?’

  ‘I cannot absolutely rule that out, no.’

  ‘Now when a person is shot like that at close range, it would be usual for some of his blood to spray out from the wound immediately, isn’t that so?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘So we have a situation where Mr Frederick Morton has arrived home in his motor car. Someone was lying in wait for him, and that person shot him dead – either as he was still sitting in his motor car, or immediately after he got out of it. This happened in the close confines of the garage, which means that the assailant must have been standing pretty close to Mr Morton at the time?’

  ‘I never said that Mr Morton was shot whilst he was in the garage,’ Dr Sutherland put in quickly.

  ‘Indeed not. My understanding is that you are unable to state where Mr Morton was at the fatal moment: whether he was standing or sitting, inside the car or out of it, am I right?’

  ‘That is correct, yes.’

  ‘Let us assume for a moment that Mr Morton’s assailant was awaiting him in the garage and shot him at close range. In those circumstances, would you expect some blood to be found, not only on the shot gun, but also on the assailant’s clothes?’

  ‘I should say that in those circumstances, if that was what occurred,’ the doctor said cautiously, ‘then it would be likely that some blood would get onto the assailant’s clothing.’

  ‘A considerable amount?’

  ‘A fair amount.’

  ‘Enough to be noticeable?’

  ‘Enough to be noticeable – if the gun was fired at close range, as you suggest.’

  ‘Thank you, Dr Sutherland. Now finally I want to ask you again about the likely time of death.’

  ‘I have already said that I cannot possibly estimate a time of death from the available remains.’ Dr Sutherland sounded almost irritated.

  Mr Streatfield on the other hand now sounded immensely pleased with himself, as he said, ‘Quite so, Dr Sutherland. So you can confirm that it is entirely possible that Frederick Morton was not shot during the night of Tuesday 5 September, either at or before eleven thirty, but could have been shot during the early hours of Wednesday 6 September, at half past midnight, or one o’clock, or two o’clock, or indeed at any point up until the garage was set alight in the early hours of the morning?’

  ‘I cannot say anything as to what time the shot was fired,’ said Dr Sutherland, sulkily.

  ‘Thank you, Dr Sutherland. No further questions.’

  Another doctor, Doctor Roche Lynch, came next. He was a ‘well known expert’, Ernest had learned. Apparently what this amounted to was that Dr Lynch was someone who appeared regularly in court, to give evidence against people who were accused of doing various things. He made a good living out of it, according to Mr Hyams.

  Dr Roche Lynch told the court that he had been provided with a shotgun taken from Saxton Grange and various items of clothing which had been taken from the prisoner following his arrest. The pile of folded clothing which had been lying on the central table alongside the motley collection of other objects, was offered for his inspection and he agreed that it represented the clothing which he had received for testing. He had thoroughly examined all these items for blood stains, he explained. He had found four spots of blood on the muzzle of the shotgun, but he was unable to say whose blood it was, or how it might have got there. As for Ernest’s clothes, the only blood he had found was a tiny amount on the toe cap of one boot. It was definitely human blood, but he could not say to whom it belonged. Finally there was a smear of blood on the lower left leg of Ernest’s trousers, but it was so small that there was insufficient to test whether it was human blood or not.

  ‘Well then that represents absolutely nothing,’ harrumphed the judge, whose patience had already been tried by the professor from Hull.

  ‘With respect, my lord, I think it has come from the trouser rubbing against the boot and is therefore likely to be human blood,’ the expert witness ventured.

  ‘Pah. It might have come from a rabbit, or anything. Any countryman may have a trace of blood on him from a whole variety of causes.’ Travers Humphreys was becomin
g more and more irritated with Dr Lynch.

  He can see that this Lynch is a crafty little weasel, Ernest thought. More interested in earning his fee by helping the prosecution, than he is in really getting at the truth. Paid experts. It was dirty money so far as he could see, with the whole charabanc load of them tailoring their evidence in the hopes of getting a man hanged.

  Ernest could sense that the old biddies were getting restless too. They were probably bored by all this technical stuff, experiments with microscopes and chemical tests. It was a complete anti-climax after the intimations of flirtation and adultery, which had come the day before. There was no titillation to be had in fragments of cut up wire or arguments about shot gun cartridges.

  At least the next witness presented a familiar face. Ernest watched as his old mate, Wally Wright, entered the court room and walked across to the witness box. Wally was appearing for the prosecution, but that did not stop him being a friend, and unlike so many of the ordinary witnesses, Wally did not seem overawed by his surroundings. Perhaps being a pub landlord had invested him with a little more confidence than the likes of Murray Stuart. Or maybe it was because Wally had no axe to grind and intended to tell it straight.

  As usual, Mr Paley Scott went first, guiding Wally through what had happened on the day of 5 September. Yes, Wally agreed, Ernest had arrived at his pub, the Malt Shovel in Tadcaster, at around midday or probably just after, and asked Wally if he fancied joining him on a run out to Greetland in the horse box: an offer to which Wally had readily agreed. They had stopped at the Junction Inn at Heckmondwike for a bite of lunch, then gone on to the farm at Greetland, where Ernest had made his abortive attempt to deliver Mr Morton’s cow. There had been a bit of a hold up there, Wally said, and then they had driven home, stopping for a couple of pints at another hostelry along the way and finally getting back to the Malt Shovel, at between eight o’clock to a quarter past eight.

  ‘And here Brown dropped you off?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did he get down from the lorry and come into the inn?’

  ‘No, he stayed in the cab and once I’d got down, he said he’d see me later and drove straight back in the direction of Saxton Grange.’

  None of Wally Wright’s evidence was a source of dispute and Mr Streatfield contented himself with just a couple of questions.

  ‘As someone who knew Ernest Brown well, Mr Wright, how would you describe his mood that day?’

  ‘He was in good spirits, laughing and joking like.’

  ‘Right up until he left you at the Malt Shovel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You mentioned that when he dropped you back at the inn, he said that he would see you later. Is it the case, Mr Wright, that Ernest Brown had arranged to come back, in order to give a lift to a friend of your wife’s, later that evening?’

  ‘Yes. Mrs Littlewood, a friend of my wife’s, had come to visit and Ernest – that is Mr Brown – had promised to give her a lift into Leeds, later that evening, so that she could catch a bus from there, back to her home.’

  ‘So you definitely expected the defendant, Ernest Brown, to return to your inn, later that same evening?’

  ‘Yes, sir. That is correct.’

  ‘But Ernest Brown did not come back?’

  ‘No sir. Ernest did not come back.’

  After Wally it was the turn of Annie Littlewood to enter the witness box and take the oath. Was she a friend of Mrs Wright, Mr Paley Scott wanted to know.

  ‘I am. And of Mr Wright too.’

  ‘Quite so. Now tell me Mrs Littlewood, were you visiting Mrs Wright at the Malt Shovel public house in Tadcaster on 5 September?’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘You live at some distance from there I believe?’

  ‘I do. I live at Heckmondwike.’

  ‘Had you made any arrangements for getting back home from the Malt Shovel that evening?’

  ‘I had.’ Mrs Littlewood pursed her lips, as if these thwarted arrangements still rankled with her in some way.

  ‘Can you kindly tell the court how you had planned to get home that evening?’

  ‘It had been arranged earlier in the day that Mr Brown would give me a lift into Leeds, where I could get a bus back to Heckmondwike.’

  ‘The jury may not be familiar with the transport arrangements in that part of the East Riding, Mrs Littlewood, so perhaps you could explain the significance of obtaining a lift into Leeds.’

  Mrs Littlewood nodded, turning her attention more directly to the jury before she spoke. ‘There’s no direct bus from Tadcaster to Heckmondwike, so you have to change in Leeds, but the last bus from Tadcaster to Leeds leaves at about half six. If you can get a lift into Leeds after that bus has gone, it means that you can stay longer in Tadcaster and get a much later bus back to Heckmondwike.’

  ‘So it had definitely been arranged that the man in the dock, Ernest Brown, would drive you into Leeds to catch this later bus?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But that did not occur, did it? Will you kindly tell the court what actually happened?’

  ‘Well, I had my tea with Mrs Wright and then Mr Wright was dropped off at the front door, and he came inside and said that Ernest Brown would be back within half an hour or so with his boss’s motor car, and would run me into Leeds, only time went on and on and he never turned up.’ Mrs Littlewood paused, glancing somewhat resentfully towards the man in the dock, then back to Mr Paley Scott, who nodded encouragingly. ‘We were starting to get a bit vexed like,’ she continued. ‘Wally – that is Mr Wright – said that it was cutting it a bit fine and not like Ernest to let folk down. We thought that maybe something had happened up at the farm, with one of the horses or something, but of course there would have been no way of him letting us know that, because there’s no telephone at the Malt Shovel. Anyway Mr Wright has the telephone number of Saxton Grange, so he wrote it on a piece of paper for me and I went to the telephone booth in the Market Place – Mr Wright would have gone himself, only he had customers and couldn’t leave the bar – and I got through to the telephone exchange and asked for the number on the paper, but there was no reply.’

  ‘And this was at what time, Mrs Littlewood?’ interposed the judge.

  ‘At about ten o’clock, sir.’

  ‘This would be the much later call already referred to by the telephone operator, Miss Morris of the Tadcaster exchange, my lord,’ said the ever-helpful Paley Scott.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Paley Scott.’ Travers Humphreys nodded gravely. ‘Please continue, Mrs Littlewood.’

  She regarded him doubtfully. ‘I’m not sure that there is anything else to say, my lord.’

  ‘Perhaps you could tell the court how in fact you did get home,’ suggested Mr Paley Scott.

  ‘Well, I didn’t. Not that night. Mr and Mrs Wright had to make up a bed for me, in their spare room and then I got the bus home the next morning.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Littlewood, I have no further questions.’

  ‘I have no questions for this witness, my lord,’ said Mr Streatfield.

  Mrs Littlewood was allowed to stand down and her place was taken by yet another familiar face who was also the keeper of licensed premises – in this case the Old George Hotel, at Garforth Bridge. As Maria Jackson took the stand, she stole a look at Ernest and he nodded in acknowledgement, as politely as if they’d seen one another across a crowded street. She had a nervous look about her, he noted, and was clearly not sure whether she ought to crack a smile at him or not. A woman anxious to do the right thing, trying to give of her best in a difficult set of circumstances.

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Jackson agreed, in answer to the initial questions from Mr Paley Scott, she had known the late Frederick Morton fairly well and Ernest Brown too. They had both been regular customers at her pub.

  ‘Did you see either of these men on Tuesday
5 September?’ asked Mr Paley Scott,

  Ernest had already fallen into the rhythm of the procedure for extracting information, but he observed that Maria Jackson appeared momentarily puzzled at being asked a question by someone who knew the answer perfectly well already. So she hesitated, and then as if falling in with the rules of some new game, replied, ‘Yes, I saw Mr Morton. He called in twice that day.’

  ‘And at what time did these visits take place?’

  ‘The first time it was at about one o’clock in the afternoon, though I can’t place the time exactly, and then he came in again at about quarter to six.’

  ‘How long was Mr Morton there on each occasion?’

  ‘Well, when he came in at lunch time it was just for a quick pint. He was in and out, so to speak. He was there a bit longer in the evening. He had two glasses of my best bitter, while he was stood at the bar, talking.’

  ‘Was he talking with you?’

  ‘He was. There were no other customers standing at the bar just then.’

  ‘Can you remember what the two of you talked about?’

  Mrs Jackson paused, as if considering. ‘It was just an ordinary chat, not about anything in particular.’

  ‘And how did Mr Morton seem to you? Did he seem worried, concerned, upset in any way?’

  ‘Mr Morton was just his usual self. He was perfectly happy.’

  ‘And what time did he leave?’

  ‘It was seven o’clock, give or take five minutes.’

  ‘Was he sober?’

  ‘As a judge. Oops sorry, my lord.’ Mrs Jackson recovered herself quickly. ‘He was perfectly sober.’

  ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘He said he was going home.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Jackson. No further questions.’

  Mr Streatfield favoured the witness with a smile. ‘Tell me, Mrs Jackson. Have you often seen Mr Morton and the defendant, Ernest Brown drinking together, in your pub?’

  ‘Oh yes. Often.’

  ‘How did they seem to you?’

  ‘Like good friends.’

 

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