A Stroke of Bad Luck

by Diane Janes

  Anyway, I didn’t put the Essex away, I went to my hut and sat on the bed for a bit, trying to think things out. I still couldn’t decide what to do for the best, so I went back to the kitchen and the three of us carried on like there was nothing unusual going on, and I kept on hoping and hoping that Ann Houseman would go up to bed, so that I could talk to Dolly on her own. I was thinking that maybe I could get her to see reason – to call the police in, but perhaps tell them that there had been some sort of accident, with Fred getting shot by mistake, but then I could see as how that wouldn’t work, because of the lies that had already been told in front of Ann Houseman.

  Two or three times I signalled to Dolly to send the lass up to bed, but of course Dolly took no notice. I even brought the dog into the kitchen, because I knew that Ann was scared of that big dog, but she still stuck to Dolly like glue. At half past eleven, I went outside and rolled the Essex down to the garage, without turning on the engine. I was hoping that they wouldn’t have heard it in the kitchen, as without the engine it’s only tyres on the gravel, and of course I’d supposedly put it down in the garage a good half hour or so beforehand, but of course they did hear it and when I came back into the kitchen, Dolly said, cheeky as you like, ‘Was that Mr Morton?’

  I guessed what she wanted me to do, so I said, ‘Yes, but he’s going out again.’ It was a daft thing to say, but on the spur of the moment it was the only excuse I could think of for why he wouldn’t come bowling into the kitchen any minute.

  Not long afterwards, I went outside again to stoke up the boiler and when I came back into the kitchen, I found that both the women had gone upstairs. I’d seen Dolly looking out of the bathroom window, so I knew that she had seen me come in. I waited in the kitchen for a while, but she didn’t come downstairs, so eventually I went back to my hut and lay on my bed without getting undressed, wondering what I should do. I never went back into the house again that night, whatever silly ideas Dolly may have put into Ann Houseman’s head.

  Eventually, I decided to do what she’d asked. I couldn’t bring your brother back to life and though I was angry with Dolly, I didn’t see as there was anything to be gained from my little girl losing both Fred and her mother, and maybe being brought up by folk that didn’t really love or care for her as a mother would. In the early hours, when I was sure that the two women would be asleep, I slipped out to the garage, unscrewed the petrol tanks so that the fuel all drained onto the garage floor and then I set the place alight. I went back to my hut and gave it a few minutes to get going, because I knew that as soon as the horses caught a whiff of the smoke, they would start to stamp and call, and I was going to say that that’s what woke me, but even before that happened, something gave a bang, so I was able to blame that for waking me instead.

  I shouted to raise the household like we’d agreed, but little did I know, they had been awake all along. I was expecting Dolly to come and help with the animals as she’d promised, but there was no sign of her, so I got all the stock out by myself and then I went into the house and tried the telephone, but I couldn’t get through. If I had known it was only because the wires to the house were cut, I would have got the key to the office and telephoned the fire brigade from there, but of course I didn’t know anything about the wires being cut just then.

  Taking a knife to those wires was a damn silly thing to do, because there was no way that could have happened accidentally, and even if the pellets in Fred’s body hadn’t survived as they did, it would have been obvious that skulduggery was afoot, the minute someone noticed those damaged wires.

  Next time I saw Dolly she was on the drive of the house, and of course she was playing her part, giving out orders about fighting the fire and so on. There was PC Broadhead and Murray Stuart and a whole crowd of people dashing about all over the place and so it wasn’t until next morning at about half past nine, that she was able to speak with me privately on my own again.

  ‘They’re all saying it was an accident,’ she said. She seemed really pleased with herself. ‘You just stick to knowing nothing, and I’ll see you’re all right. They can’t touch you for anything,’ she said. Just then your father’s motor car turned in at the gate and her expression turned vexed. ‘Damn,’ she said. ‘I wish they hadn’t seen us talking together like this.’

  I couldn’t understand what was bothering her as there was nothing odd about her being seen talking to an employee on her own the drive. Anyway, I could see she didn’t want me there, so I went off and got busy elsewhere. Fire or no fire, there was beasts to be fed and all of the usual jobs, to say nothing of the mess that had been made of everything by the fire itself.

  PC Broadhead had ridden to the farm on his bike and as soon as he got there, he asked me when I’d first realised that the fire had started and so forth, and I’d given him my story about the noise waking me up, and about getting the stock out and going for help, and he’d seemed satisfied enough, so when the superintendent asked me to go with him to the police station at Tadcaster the next day to make a statement, I thought they just wanted to know more about how the fire had started, and with me living on the premises, I was the natural person to ask. I was shocked when they arrested me for murdering Fred, but I did as I’d promised Dolly and stuck to my story, and of course, you know the rest.

  At the trial, I could hardly believe some of the things Dolly said, but though it upset me, I still didn’t think I would be found guilty of something that I hadn’t done, and I kept my promise to say nothing for the sake of the child.

  A pal of mine what was in Leeds Town Hall on the last day of the trial was standing close by where Dolly and her father were sitting, when word of the verdict reached them. He told me that she showed nothing at all, when she heard it. ‘You might have been a complete stranger that she’d never even met, for all the notice she took,’ he said.

  I have told the governor all of this today and written some of it down for him, though in not so much detail as I have to you, because he was in a hurry to catch the London train. He seems to think that it might make a difference to what happens, but I think it is probably too late now.

  I don’t suppose you will receive this letter until tomorrow, but at least now you will know all of it Miss Morton, and will be able to tell your father too. It upset me to think that he would believe it was me that done it, because he recommended me to Fred and always thought well of me until now. I also told my mother and sister the truth of it all, when they came to see me for the last time, this afternoon.(I have told them too of the way you have come to visit me and signed the petition and written a letter and all, and they think very well of you and thank you for it.)

  Thank you again for coming to see me, and I hope you will join my family in saying a prayer for me.

  Yours faithfully

  Ernest Brown

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Monday 5 February 1934

  The Home Office, Whitehall, London

  ‘Well gentlemen, I must say that this is a singular state of affairs.’

  In spite of its being a strictly informal meeting, the Director of Public Prosecutions, Sir Edward Tindal Atkinson, had naturally assumed leadership of the trio. After an indifferent lunch of Brown Windsor soup, roast leg of lamb and apple pie, Tindal Atkinson, together with Mr Paley Scott, and Mr Welsby his junior counsel, had been ushered to a small private sitting room which had been set aside for their deliberations, and handed them the thin brown envelope conveyed in such haste from Leeds.

  The meal had been a convivial affair, not in the least overshadowed by the serious deliberations which they were about to undertake, their conversation laced with anecdotes of a humorous nature and gossip regarding various friends and rivals at the top of the profession, for Sir Edward was good company, in spite of his turned down mouth and almost constant expression of melancholy. Mindful of the staff who waited at table and their instructions to maintain the highest levels of confide
ntiality, the three men had steered the conversation well away from anything even remotely connected to the Morton murder case, and only now that they were alone, with the slender, plain brown envelope containing no more than a dozen sheets of foolscap paper, did their talk turn to the reason which had unexpectedly brought them together.

  ‘It is of course highly unusual to take into account something which has appeared so very late in the day and has not been subjected to the full scrutiny of proper court proceedings,’ Sir Edward continued. ‘Of course, we must not forget that a man’s life hangs in the balance here and that we are all instruments in the process of justice. We must also bear in mind that it is extremely dangerous to even consider overturning a legal verdict, which has been properly arrived at, after due process has been followed. To undertake such a course would undoubtedly lead many people to question the validity of the original verdict, and quite possibly shake the confidence of the general public in the normal legal system, and such a course should therefore not be embarked upon lightly. As we know only too well, there are always a minority of agitators who like nothing better than to seize upon the slightest doubt in any case, in order to further their own agenda.’

  ‘Indeed yes.’ Mr Paley Scott nodded. ‘Not for nothing has it sometimes been said that it may be better for the occasional innocent man to languish in jail, than for the whole edifice of British justice to be called into question.’

  ‘I have to say,’ the Director of Public Prosecutions continued, ‘that although my opinion in this matter has been sought, I feel that I know relatively little of the case, save what I remember reading in briefings at the time – as you may recall, for various reasons, I was not directly involved and of course, time has passed and one does not memorise every detail. There is obviously no time for a full re-reading of the evidence given at trial, as Sir John Gilmour requires an answer from us this afternoon, and I will therefore be forced to rely heavily upon you gentlemen for guidance.’

  Mr Paley Scott made a mental note that the rumours he had heard about Tindal Atkinson were evidently true. He had never sought the office which he now occupied and had gained a reputation as a man whose main preoccupation was not to be wrong-footed. Aloud he said, ‘While I obviously recall a good deal about the matter, and I have brought with me the notes which I made at the time in order to aid my examination and summing up, I have to confess that some of the finer points of detail may now escape me. It is almost two months since I have had to fully focus on the case and I have of course read numerous other briefs since then.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ Tindal Atkinson nodded sympathetically. ‘We can only endeavour to do our best in the somewhat trying circumstances with which we are confronted.’

  ‘I gather that there is no question of postponing the execution in order to give us a little more time.’ Mr Welsby, the most junior member of the gathering put in.

  ‘There is no possibility of that,’ said Sir Edward firmly. ‘The date has already been put back twice, amid much protest, and if it were to be put back again there would have to be some public explanation given out for this further delay and the Home Secretary naturally does not want to go down that road.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Mr Paley Scott’s tone was brisk. ‘After all, we don’t want every condemned man perpetually delaying the business by coming up with a different story at the last minute. In addition I regret to say that I cannot devote the entire day to the problem, as I have a pressing engagement at four thirty this afternoon.’

  ‘I am sure this the matter is not going to detain us overlong,’ said Tindal Atkinson. ‘The new account of the affair appears to be quite brief.’

  ‘I imagine it was composed in some haste,’ said Mr Welsby. ‘From what I have been told, the prisoner was only given a very limited time to produce something on paper.’

  ‘Well obviously. At least it will be in the fellow’s own words, and not translated into police-ese,’ remarked Mr Paley Scott. ‘I was proceeding in a south easterly direction along the highway, and all that kind of nonsense.’

  ‘Before we actually turn our attention to reading what the man has to say, perhaps you gentlemen could give me your opinion of him – as a man?’ suggested the DPP.

  ‘Certainly.’ Paley Scott jumped in immediately. ‘From official records he emerged as something of a bad lot. In his youth he’d been birched for theft and later on he appeared several times in the police courts for being drunk and disorderly.’

  ‘Nothing of a criminal nature in more recent years?’

  ‘No. Though he had also deserted from the army towards the end of his service.’

  ‘That would also have been some years ago, I suppose?’

  ‘About 1919 from what I can remember.’

  ‘What of his general demeanour?’

  ‘Insolent sort of fellow, I thought. It appeared that the victim, Frederick Morton, thought pretty well of him, but there – all the while he was enjoying the fellow’s company in the local pub, the chap was making free with Morton’s wife, behind his back.’

  Sir Edward laughed. ‘It doesn’t sound as if Mr Frederick Morton was a terribly good judge of character does it?’

  ‘Neither in his choice of servants, nor in his choice of wife,’ quipped Welsby and all three men laughed again.

  ‘So essentially we are not really talking about a man who might well agree to tell lies at his own cost, in order to protect a lady’s honour, eh?’

  ‘If you mean, Sir Edward, is Ernest Brown an officer and a gentleman, then I think the answer is without a doubt that he is not.’

  ‘Very well then, with this in mind, let us see what he has to say.’

  The room fell silent as each of them turned their attention to the statement provided by the prisoner. It had been typed up in the governor’s office by John Wilton, prior to the governor catching the train to London. Sir Edward Tindal Atkinson had the benefit of the original, while the other two men made do with carbon copies, which had been made with slightly smudgy purple ink and produced on tissue thin, flimsy paper, which whispered in protest at the slightest touch.

  It was not a long document. As they had rightly surmised, Ernest Brown had been working very much against the clock to produce it, and it contained only the bare bones of his story.

  ‘You know the case better than I, of course,’ Tindal Atkinson said, when it was clear that all three men had finished reading. ‘But it seems somewhat preposterous that a lady like Mrs Morton – for all that she is a somewhat flighty woman – would go about cutting her own telephone wires, still less shooting her husband for apparently no reason at all. It makes the woman sound as if she’s off her head. She’s not, I suppose?’ he added, by way of an afterthought.

  ‘On the contrary, Mrs Morton always appeared to be an extremely level headed woman. She showed great composure throughout.’

  ‘If I may put in a word,’ said Mr Welsby. ‘It seems to me that certain fundamental points should not be ignored. Frederick Morton was shot and the only person seen handling a gun at the farm that night was Ernest Brown. The telephone wires were sawed apart with a knife, and again we find Ernest Brown taking a knife outside at the vital time when this must have occurred. Finally the garage was set alight at a time when Mrs Morton and her companion had each other in plain view. Again this can only have been the act of Ernest Brown.’

  ‘Unless you believe Mr Streatfield’s theory of a phantom lover,’ Paley Scott put in with a chuckle.

  ‘Phantom lover?’ queried Tindal Atkinson.

  ‘Just a desperate idea thrown into the melting pot by the defence counsel.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said the DPP, who didn’t, but decided that it was better to let the point go.

  ‘There is also the testimony of Mrs Morton’s companion,’ Mr Welsby said. ‘It appears to corroborate Mrs Morton and thoroughly incriminate Brown. There is no suggestion in this ne
w story that she was in some way complicit in the murder, and she had no motive whatsoever to involve herself in the murder of her employer. What reason had the girl to lie?’

  ‘For me,’ said Paley Scott, ‘the biggest single problem with Brown’s latest story is that Frederick Morton cannot possibly have been lying dead at Saxton Grange when Brown arrived there at a quarter past eight, because the man was seen arriving at a public house in Peckfield at precisely the same time. I have it here in my notes,’ he flicked through until he found the relevant page, then read aloud: ‘Cawood of the Boot and Shoe Inn testified that Frederick Morton arrived at the Boot and Shoe at around quarter past eight and left there about half an hour later. If that is correct, then Brown cannot possibly be telling the truth.’

  ‘The witness only estimated the time, but a witness is hardly going to be a whole hour out,’ Welsby put in. ‘And while one can believe that Brown might have initially lied in order to protect Mrs Morton, it is hardly likely that a man of his type would go on doing so, even to the point of being executed for a crime he did not commit.’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Sir Edward. ‘I hardly think we need to detain ourselves any longer over this matter. I suggest that since you have a pressing engagement Mr Paley Scott, I will convey our unanimous views to Sir John Gilmour in person. I am sure that I can speak for the Home Secretary in thanking you both for your valuable time.’