by Diane Janes
‘Surely, if you were such a good friend to Mr Morton as you now say that you were,’ Mr Paley Scott’s question slid snake-like towards the witness box, ready to ensnare him, ‘then it was your duty to prevent him from leaving the premises again in such a state?’
‘I was not in a position to prevent Mr Morton from doing anything. That would have been far in excess of my duties.’
‘But surely, if you had prevented your master from leaving in circumstances where he might have become involved in an accident, or lost his licence for drunken driving, he would have been the first to thank you for it, in the morning?’
‘I very much doubt it.’
‘And you say that you never heard the car go out again.’
‘No, I didn’t hear it go out again.’
‘And of course, we know now that it didn’t go out again. You know Mr Morton did not leave the premises again, don’t you?’
Ernest sensed the trap and sidestepped at once. ‘I don’t know it at all.’
‘Are you saying that Mr Morton did go out again?’
‘I am saying that I did not hear him go out again, so I don’t know whether he did or not.’
‘And yet Mrs Morton and Miss Houseman have told the court that you told them that Mr Morton had gone out again.’
‘They are mistaken.’
‘You are denying that you used those words?’
‘I did not use those words.’
‘Have you any idea who killed Mr Morton?’
‘No.’
‘Have you thought about who might have cut the telephone wires?’
‘No.’
‘But surely, you have been under arrest for eight or nine weeks now, isn’t it? And if you did not commit these acts, then someone else must have done and you must surely have given some thought to who that person is?’
‘No.’
‘Somebody shot Mr Morton. Now is it perhaps your idea that some lover of Mrs Morton, who disliked her husband, might have come to the farm that night, cut the telephone wires, shot her husband and then set fire to the place?’
‘I have no idea what happened.’
‘But that might have been what happened? It’s a reasonable idea, is it not? It might have happened that way?’
Ernest spoke reluctantly. He had been seemingly hours in the witness box by now and had never felt so weary. A hard day’s work on the farm had never taken such a toll as standing before these folk in their bat-black cloaks, answering question after question. ‘I suppose that might have been what happened.’
‘You are such a person are you not?’ Paley Scott’s silky persuasiveness gave way to something verging on triumphant. ‘You did love Mrs Morton. You were her lover, were you not?’
‘Not by that time, no.’
The judge, who had been quietly noting the questions and replies, now leaned forward and enquired, almost as of a friend: ‘Did you ever love her?’
Ernest considered this carefully for a moment, before replying. ‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘But you were jealous,’ Mr Paley Scot persisted. ’You disliked her associating with other men.’
‘No, that is not so.’
The prosecuting barrister made another of his periodic leaps from one subject to another. ‘What time was it, when you got the gun from the kitchen?’
‘I’m not sure. Probably about nine o’clock.’
‘Why is it that the women did not see you take the gun from the cupboard?’
‘They were not in the kitchen the whole time.’
‘Why was the gun outside for such a long time?’
‘By the time I had fetched it out, the rats were no longer in sight. Rats don’t sit around waiting to be shot at.’
‘Can you explain why the women only heard one shot, when you say that you fired two?’
‘No. I assume they are mistaken.’
‘But if you fired one shot in the yard, then another in the mistal, which opens off the yard, those shots would have been clearly audible in the kitchen?’
Ernest said nothing.
‘Whereas it is not always possible to hear a shot when it is fired in the garage, is it? Superintendent Blacker and one of his men experimented by firing a shot gun several times in the garage, and not all those shots were audible in the house, were they?’
‘I have no idea. I had already been arrested by then.’
‘So if you had fired one shot in the garage, the women might not have heard it in the house?’
‘I did not fire a shot anywhere near the garage. I fired one shot in the mistal and the other in the yard.’
‘I believe you told us that you left the dog, a Great Dane, tied up in its kennel that night?’
‘I did.’
‘Did you hear the dog bark at all, that night? To give warning of the approach of a stranger, perhaps?’
‘I never heard the dog bark any night. It didn’t bark very often at all, probably because it was used to hearing small noises made by the horses and cattle moving about and such like.’
‘I’d like to return to the matter of the telephone,’ said Mr Paley Scot, whose interest in the instrument in question was apparently boundless. ‘You have heard witness after witness testify to the fact that a telephone call was made to Saxton Grange at twenty minutes to ten that evening, and yet you have said that you did not hear the telephone ring at all that night.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘How can you explain that?’
‘If I was out in the mistal, I wouldn’t hear the telephone bell ring in the drawing room, and I probably wouldn’t hear it if I was up in the attic, either.’
‘Mrs Morton has told the court that you should not have gone up to the attic without permission.’
‘That’s news to me. I had been up there plenty of times before without seeking permission, to fetch down harnesses and such like when they were needed, and nothing had ever been said about it.’
‘And it was during this problem you were experiencing with one of the horses, that you needed to borrow a knife from the kitchen.’
‘Yes.’
‘Quite a coincidence, isn’t it? You are outside with a knife, cutting a piece of rope, just at exactly the same time as someone else must have been outside, with a knife, cutting the telephone wires?’
‘I don’t know anything about when the telephone wires were cut.’
‘And this episode with the head collar, out in the stables, wasn’t this also when you cut your thumb?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you not mention cutting your thumb, when you went back to the kitchen?’
‘It wasn’t worth mentioning. It was only a trivial thing – a little nick. I didn’t even notice that I’d done it, until a few minutes afterwards.’
‘And you did not mention the problem with the horse which had broken its head collar either, did you? Why was that?’
‘It wasn’t a problem.’ Ernest favoured his tormentor with the countryman’s look of contempt for the sort of man to whom a lively horse in a darkened stable might well have presented a problem. ‘I didn’t mention it, because I didn’t think they would be interested.’
‘You have told the court that the women did not appear to you to be nervous that night. Do you still stand by that statement?’
‘I do.’
‘You are telling us that neither Miss Houseman, nor Mrs Morton appeared nervous to you at all?’
‘That’s correct. Mrs Morton was sat sewing. I don’t think anybody would be sat there sewing, if they were nervous.’
‘Why did you ask Miss Houseman to go out of the room, so that you could talk to Mrs Morton alone?’
‘I wanted to tell Mrs Morton about the cow. It was a business matter which had nothing to do with Miss Houseman.’
&nb
sp; ‘Really?’ Mr Paley Scot paused, to chuckle theatrically. ‘You wanted Miss Houseman to leave you alone, in order to talk about a cow? Was this your idea of a secret business matter?’
Ernest did not waver. ‘Yes.’
The judge leaned forward slightly, as he always did, when about to interrupt. ‘Do you really mean that?’
‘Well the cow was not a secret,’ Ernest said carefully. ‘But Mrs Morton was a director of the firm and I wouldn’t want to discuss any business matters in front of Miss Houseman. She was new at the farm and had nothing to do with the business, so far as I knew.’
‘Why did you tell Miss Houseman that it would be better for her if she left the room?’
‘I don’t believe I said anything of the sort.’
‘Can you explain why Miss Houseman and Mrs Morton say that they both heard you use those words?’
‘I think they must have either misheard, or misunderstood.’
‘Why do you think Miss Houseman refused to leave the room?’
‘I supposed that she didn’t want to leave the jam.’
‘And why did she ask you to give her the shot gun?’
‘I have no idea. I offered it to her when she asked for it, but she declined to take it, so I carried on cleaning it and then I put it away.’
‘Are you seriously trying to tell this court that you could not see that these two women were terrified of you?’
‘They were not terrified.’
‘Were you not playing a part, in order to keep them terrified?’
‘No.’
‘Was there not something outside that you were determined that they should not see?’
‘No. I did nothing to stop them from going outside. If I had wanted to keep them in the house, I should not have left them alone. As it was, I was going in and out the whole time and they were free to do the same.’
‘So you continue to insist that there was nothing unusual in the women’s behaviour at all that night?’
Ernest remained silent. It was becoming a conscious effort not to sway on his feet.
Mr Paley Scot pursued the point relentlessly. ‘Can you think of any reason why these two women did not undress, when they went upstairs to bed that night?’
‘No.’
‘Or why they did not retire to bed, but stayed awake, watching the yard?’
‘No.’
‘Quite a mystery, isn’t it?’
When Ernest said nothing, Paley Scott tried a different question: ‘Have you ever had a quarrel with Miss Houseman?’
‘No. I hardly know the young woman.’
‘So as far as you know, she is an ordinary, truthful, young woman?’
‘As I said, I hardly know the young lady.’
‘No more questions, my lord.’
In spite of his fatigue, Ernest galvanised his legs into action and walked smartly back from the witness stand to the dock. He was damned if he would let that poncy bugger in the wig get the better of him.
Chapter Twelve
Thursday 14 December 1933
Leeds, Yorkshire
The Black Maria jerked to a standstill, held up again by the late afternoon traffic. From his position on the hard bench seat, Ernest could see very little of the passing world through the high barred windows, but he guessed that perhaps a tram had stopped ahead of them, or else maybe there was some other obstruction in the road ahead. He knew that they had stopped opposite a poulterer’s shop, because he could see the game birds hung up outside, still in their feathers, and just above them, the start of the shop sign, PRE, in swirly gold writing, the letters edged with black against a dark blue or green background – hard to tell which by the light thrown onto it from a nearby street lamp. He did not know Leeds well enough to recognise which street they were on, though he was now familiar enough with the journey to be aware that they were still nearer to the Town Hall than to the jail. He felt the prison van edge forward another couple of yards, then stop again. The view from the window changed to a sooty brick wall, unrelieved by anything except a drainpipe.
‘Did you ever love her?’
The judge’s question came back to him unexpectedly. A funny thing for him to ask, Ernest thought. A dried up old stick like that asking about love. He’d thought about it before he gave his answer, because he wanted to play fair. He had certainly told Dolly that he loved her, because that was what women expected and wanted to hear, when you held them in your arms, but he very much doubted that she had ever really believed him. Dolly had known what she wanted and so had he. It had not been love.
He had always known that what they were doing was wrong. They had both been married to other people when it began, but the Devil had put temptation in his way and when it came in the form of Dolly Morton, offering herself on a plate, as it were, he had never even considered resisting. He had never had a woman like Dolly, smelling of expensive soap, and wearing silk drawers.
It had been a big mistake to ever become involved with her, of course he realised that now. They were different, women of her class – they played by different rules. He had known from the first that she would not stay faithful to him alone, guessing that she not only had an intimate relationship with her own husband, but also with other lovers too. He hadn’t troubled over much about that. It was not as if he had expected their affair to last forever, in fact he had always assumed that Dolly would lose interest in him, sooner or later. He represented what a woman like her would refer to as ‘a fling’. Besides which, after Mary had been dead a little while, he had begun to think that perhaps it would be nice to marry again and he had made up his mind that if he found the right girl and settled down with her, he would play it straight from then on. He liked the idea of a steady marriage and a proper home. Bachelorhood was over-rated. He was only thirty five and no man wants to end his days living on his Jack Jones in a converted chicken shed.
He had started a bit of a flirtation with young Joan Fletcher in Towton, but as soon as Dolly got to hear of it, she had raised Cain. He had not expected her to be so jealous. After that he had transferred his affections to Ada, the nice young widow who ran a tobacconist shop in Tadcaster. She’d lost her husband to an accident on a farm out Church Fenton way, and had a young lad about the same age as Ethel. He’d taken to calling in at the shop regularly and had stopped to chat to her a few times and given her the kind of looks that let a lass know that a man is interested. She’d not given any sign that this was unwelcome, but matters had gone no further, by the time that he was arrested.
Mr Hyams had suggested bringing these women into court, to testify to his interest in them. It would prove that he was no longer obsessed by Dolly Morton, he had said. Ernest had growled back that he had never been obsessed with Dolly Morton in the first place, and had flatly refused to have his solicitor approach either woman, for they were both respectable and if their names got mixed up in the case folk would only talk. It wasn’t fair to drag them into something like this and besides which there had been little enough that either of them could have said. It was not as if he’d been seriously courting them.
Of course it had been a mistake to tell Dolly that he had been taking an interest in another woman, however innocently. She had taken it as a personal insult – him thinking that he might so much as look at a farm labourer’s widow, after he’d had her! It had been an even bigger mistake to mention that perhaps, in time, he could find a cottage nearby and make a home there for himself, with a new young wife, and Ethel brought out to join them in the country. Dolly hadn’t liked the sound of that at all and sharp words had been exchanged. It was all right for her to keep a string of stallions at her beck and call, but she’d soon got jealous when she thought that his attentions were straying elsewhere.
Ernest was so lost in thought that when the van moved off again, he almost slid off his narrow wooden seat and onto the floor. Whatever the hold-up
it had been resolved and the vehicle began its steady crawl through the streets again. As he watched the buildings go by, Ernest thought back over the proceedings of the day. He had put up a good show in the witness box, Mr Hyams had told him. Mr Hyams seemed sure that he would get off. Well of course he would. They couldn’t disprove anything that he’d said. The ordeal – probably some form of divine punishment for the undoubtedly bad things which he had done in the past – would soon be over. Tomorrow the jury would hear the final speeches from both sides and then the judge’s summing up, and after that they would give their verdict and it would all be over. That’s what Mr Hyams said.
The sight of those birds, strung up with their necks wrung and their heads lolling came back into his mind. It was not an omen, he told himself, because he didn’t believe in omens and anyway providing that those fellows on the jury had been listening carefully to everything, they would see that there wasn’t enough evidence against him to hang a cat.
Chapter Thirteen
Friday 15 December 1933
Leeds Town Hall, The Yorkshire Assizes
Mr Streatfield addressed the jury in the calm, clear tone of a man who asks of them no more than that they be reasonable. There was no doubt he said, that someone had shot Mr Frederick Morton, and it seemed highly likely that this same person who had shot the master of Saxton Grange, was also the person who had cut the telephone wires and set fire to the garage. The prosecution would have them believe that this person was his client, Ernest Brown.
‘It is the task of the prosecution to bring this crime home to Ernest Brown, but this they have most assuredly failed to do. Proof is needed, gentleman, proof beyond reasonable doubt, that it was Ernest Brown who fired the fatal shot, Ernest Brown who cut the telephone wires and Ernest Brown who set fire to the garage.’
As he allowed his words to settle in the air, Mr Streatfield moved a little closer to the jury, creating an almost confidential air. ‘You have heard the witness, Mr Cawood, telling you that Frederick Morton left his mother’s inn at around a quarter to nine on the night of Tuesday 5 September. In spite of much diligent enquiry by the Yorkshire constabulary, no one knows where Mr Morton went after that. All three of the witnesses who were at the farm that night, Mrs Morton, Miss Houseman and Ernest Brown himself, have told you that no one arrived at the farm by motor car until approximately half past eleven, and Ernest Brown has told you that the person who arrived at half past eleven was Mr Morton.