Blue Blood

by Peter Tonkin

  ‘I can do it,’ said Richard.

  ‘Oh.’ A little crestfallen. ‘OK. I’ll lead the way. A little more sedately, this time I think.’

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this is the first crucial point of the prosecution’s case. Was Captain Mariner, because of his well-publicized expertise in the fields of maritime working and ship maintenance, specifically given responsibility for health and safety matters aboard Goodman Richard? We will be showing you evidence that he was given such responsibility, in the minutes of the meetings of the charity board itself, paragraphs actually countersigned by the Chairman of the Board himself. That will be Exhibit One contained in the Jury Bundle, My Lord, which will be passed to the jury at the appropriate moment...’

  ‘Thank you Mr Carver Carpenter, I see it. And, as you have broken the flow of your erudition precisely at the perfect moment, we will upon that point rise for the short adjournment. May I remind the jury that they should not discuss the case with anyone other than each other now or at any other stage of the proceeding, when they are outside the court-room itself. We resume at five minutes past two as usual. Officers, you may take the prisoner down. He has bail within the confines of the building.’

  They had found a little waiting room. Frances Bacon had arranged a light lunch there and no sooner had Richard arrived than Maggie appeared as well, all white wig, black robes and Opium. Richard sat, dully, neither his eyes nor his interest nor his appetite tempted by the cold chicken or the salads spread before him. ‘How do you think it’s going?’ asked Frances.

  ‘Early days,’ said Maggie, off-hand. ‘We’ll be shadow-boxing for some time yet. Any news from Jim?’

  ‘Nothing yet.’

  ‘Well, he’ll be in contact soon I’m sure. Richard. Richard!’

  ‘What? Oh, sorry. Miles away.’

  ‘I know. You have been all morning. And if I’ve noticed you can bet the jury has. Look, Richard, Carver Carpenter may be as dull as ditch water, but it’s your life he’s trying to destroy. Try and look as if you give a toss!’

  ‘Yes. Sorry, it’s just that...’

  ‘I know. Robin.’

  ‘It’s been hard.’

  ‘I know it has, Richard. But things will just get harder and harder still unless you wake your ideas up. And soon!’ As she spoke, she checked her watch and then she reached into her bag and pulled out a cellphone. She handed it to him and as if by magic it began to ring. He glanced up at the notice on the wall which said PLEASE TURN OFF YOUR PERSONAL PHONES. He keyed ANSWER and said, ‘Hi, darling, how’s things?’

  Robin was in the operating theatre so long that her father and stepmother were able to assimilate the news, organize themselves, pack up and drive down from their great house Cold Fell, north of Carlisle, on the Scottish borders, to be with Richard before she came out into intensive care. She lingered in intensive care for three weeks while Richard spent his time almost exclusively in St Thomas’. The only lengthy periods he spent away from the sterile area outside her room were those he spent with the children and - once - with Frances and Jim. The weeks in intensive care were followed by a month in a private room while the physiotherapists worked on her in a range of areas. Her facial muscles had been badly lacerated and required a lot of work to restore the vital immediacy of her usual expressions. And to do so - at her own insistence - without excessive scarring. Or, indeed, any visible scarring at all. This took more time still, but, she joked, with the grim, gritty humour that characterized her in extremis, that this was fortunate - it gave her hair a chance to return to the golden curls that had characterized it throughout her life so far. Luckily, the fire that had crisped her hair black had not damaged the scalp itself too badly.

  Towards the end of this time she was happy to see the twins - though she still looked a little like a stroke patient who was also receiving chemotherapy - with her face strangely immobile in places and her head swathed in a head dress. But she saw them seated in a chair for the physiotherapists had a great deal of work to do beyond the reconstruction of her facial muscles.

  Now, as she talked illegally to Richard - St Thomas’ communicating via satellite with the Old Bailey hardly more than a mile distant - Robin was working on getting back on her feet. Rather like someone who has lost both legs, she was building up her ability to walk - and had set herself a deadline within the fortnight. She would be walking - running, perhaps skipping - when the twins finished their summer term in ten days’ time. But in the meantime, the one place she could not be was in the court-room with Richard.

  ‘How’s it going, old thing?’ she asked.

  And Richard, suddenly alive and much like his old self - for the time being at least - answered with a laugh, ‘D’you know, I really don’t have the faintest idea...’

  Chapter 25: Whip Hand

  ‘Now, Dr Walton, in conclusion, let us just clarify some important aspects of your testimony for the jury. Why did Charles Lee designate Captain Mariner as the board member responsible for health and safety?’ Quentin Carver Carpenter assumed his habitual position, shoulders slightly hunched, hands grasping the edges of his gown. A really acute eye, like Maggie’s, might just have seen the beads of sweat running down his temples from beneath the front edge of his wig. The temperature in the claustrophobic court-room was approaching the mid 30s Celsius.

  ‘Well, sir, Mr Lee told me quite specifically, on more than one occasion, that he had concerns about the safety of Goodman Richard. But that he did not have the expertise to address such things himself. And that he had invited Captain Mariner to join us specifically to keep an eye on health and safety aboard.’ The sweating doctor frowned as he gave his evidence, seeming to be fighting to remember it, word for word, like a schoolboy in an oral test.

  ‘I see. And did Mr Lee tell you why he held such concerns?’

  ‘They began with the most recent report that the marine surveyor prepared for the insurers.’ The doctor relaxed a little - there had been hours of testimony so far - and tried to insert a personal aside: ‘I read the report myself and could see nothing in it; but I am not an expert of course.’ Carver Carpenter’s gathering frown and gimlet eye returned the doctor to his prepared evidence, in some confusion. ‘Mr Lee and Captain Jones both declared themselves less than satisfied however, and so Captain Mariner was invited on to the board. Mr Lee specifically told me yesterday-’

  ‘Dr Walton, if I may interrupt you there and ask you to consider what you have just said...’ snapped Carver Carpenter a little stridently, the beads of sweat running in gathering abundance.

  ‘What?’ The doctor seemed suddenly elderly, lost and confused. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘May I request that the last piece of testimony be read back to the witness, My Lord? As I informed the court on Friday the doctor is recovering from an illness contracted on his return from a holiday in Rome and he is not yet strong. He has been giving evidence since early this morning and I believe that even a rest at lunchtime has not really relieved his tiredness.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Carver Carpenter...’ Burgo-Blackstone would have said more - but restrained himself in time.

  ‘Mr Lee specifically told me yesterday...’ droned the voice of the Court shorthand writer.

  ‘Ah. Yes, I see. My apologies. My apologies, My Lord. What I should have said ... What I had meant to say, was that Mr Lee specifically told me at the time, that he was fortunate to be able to call upon Captain Mariner. His presence on the board with those responsibilities would put his mind to rest. That is to say, the Captain’s presence would put Mr Lee’s mind to rest...’ Dr Walton mopped his brow with a white handkerchief. As he did so, a ring gleamed on one of his fingers - a confection of gold and blue.

  ‘And those were Mr Lee’s specific words?’ pursued Carver Carpenter. “‘Put my mind at rest”?’

  ‘Yes, they were.’ The doctor put his handkerchief away.

  ‘And did it? Did Captain Mariner’s presence on the board put Mr Lee’s mind at rest?’

>   ‘No, sir. Captain Mariner never seemed to take his responsibilities seriously. He rarely attended meetings. Mr Lee expressed reservations at several meetings when the Captain was not present. He did not allow the early reservations to be minuted - the Captain was his friend and employer, he said. But he initialled the paragraphs that expressed specific concerns in later minutes.’

  ‘My Lord,’ Maggie was on her feet. ‘This is hearsay, My Lord.’

  ‘It seems so to me too,’ agreed Burgo-Blackstone. ‘But I will let it stand because of its context. Are you finished with the witness, Mr Carver Carpenter?’

  ‘I am, My Lord. Thank you, Dr Walton, that is all.’ Carver Carpenter sat.

  ‘But please stay where you are, Doctor,’ persisted Burgo-Blackstone. ‘I believe Mizz DaSilva wishes to ask a question or two.’

  Maggie DaSilva remained on her feet and turned to the fray.

  Robin Mariner leaned forward a little, all her considerable attention and acuity focused on the witness. A movement distracted her for an instant. It was Richard, also leaning forward, focused on the proceedings. Good, she thought.

  It was Monday, 8th July, the first day Robin was able to attend, though she was only there for an hour or two of the afternoon session, then back to the hospital and into the physiotherapist’s hands. But it seemed that Maggie had been correct when she said that - even for an hour; even in a wheelchair - Robin’s presence would make all the difference to Richard.

  The first few days had been taken up with Carver Carpenter’s opening address, and then with the evidence given by the experts on wind, weather, and rescue in the Western Approaches. Under the conditions and upon the day when Goodman Richard was lost, and when - most pointedly - Captain James Jones and three senior officers had also been lost. Lost, presumed drowned at the recent inquest.

  But, by all accounts, Robin had missed little - for the evidence had been as Maggie had predicted. Yes, things were bad enough to catch a good few weekend sailors out and over-stretch the services. But they weren’t really bad enough to put at risk a properly crewed and well-maintained vessel. Even a four-masted square rigger. She had been badly sailed, therefore, badly maintained, improperly rigged and weakly masted.

  More than that they’d never know for she was far too deep to recover. Beneath the mountainous fangs of the Wolf Rock Reef...

  Friday had begun Dr Walton’s evidence, but the man had been plainly unwell, and so the court had risen early - just at lunch in fact - to give the witness, and the jury, some respite. But now they were coming to the meat of the prosecution’s first main contention: that if the vessel was badly looked after, then that was Richard’s fault. Something that Maggie was all set to question, whether the witness be hale and hearty - or as close to death’s door as Robin herself had been.

  ‘Dr Walton, I suggest to you that, rather than recollecting conversations with Mr Lee word for word, you are in fact inventing and interpreting. That you are reporting, in your own words, conversations that never actually took place verbatim but which you feel reflect something of Mr Lee’s thoughts upon the matter. That you have constantly presented hearsay as fact.’

  ‘No. That’s not true. These were real conversations as I remember them, word for word.’ The doctor looked around the court like a startled animal. After the sedate, gentlemen’s club procedures of Carver Carpenter’s examination in chief, Maggie’s cross-examination clearly came as a surprise.

  ‘I see. Remember, please, that these are conversations that took place over a two-year period which ended a year ago when Mr Lee actually vanished from the face of the earth.’

  ‘Yes. That is correct.’

  ‘And you haven’t seen him or talked to him since?’

  ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Not yesterday? You did say yesterday, did you not?’

  ‘No. That was a slip of the tongue. I...’

  ‘Of course. I apologize if I sounded brusque. I was just clarifying matters for the jury. You see, my client has no recollection of Mr Lee ever discussing these matters with him. He had no idea that there was any specific area for which he was responsible. He believed that, like Miss Helen Levin, whose testimony we will hear later when she arrives from Hollywood, his place was merely to raise the profile of the charity and to raise what further funds he could through his business and professional contacts. Dr Walton, you and Mr Lee, in the face of the disaster that in fact overtook your bankrupt charity’s only asset, have in fact concocted a farrago of fictional conversations and doctored records to try and shift responsibility away from yourselves.’

  ‘That is not the case. Charles told me ... Mr Lee and I had many conversations that were exactly, word for word, as I have reported them.’ ‘Word for word?’

  ‘I have already said so!’

  ‘You certainly seem to have a remarkable memory, Doctor.’

  ‘There is a lot of memory-work in my profession. One needs to know one’s patients, their illnesses and medications-’

  ‘Quite. I well understand. I wonder, Doctor, whether you could tell me the name of the hotel in Rome where you spent your most recent holiday?’

  ‘Well, I don’t quite see-’

  ‘Indulge me, Doctor, please.’ Maggie’s tone became almost velvety.

  ‘Really, My Lord-’ Carver Carpenter half-rose fussily - ‘I fail to see the relevance of this...’

  Burgo-Blackstone nodded emphatically. ‘I believe I agree, Mr Carver Carpenter. Mizz DaSilva-’

  But Dr Walton answered, loudly and forcefully. ‘The Hotel Milan. Yes. That’s right. It was the Hotel Milan, near the Coliseum.’

  ‘I’m afraid my information suggests that your amazing memory may have failed you, sir. In this regard at least. In actual fact it was the Hotel Miami where you stayed, Dr Walton.’

  ‘Oh. If you say so. But I must observe that the location of my holiday in Rome was never a life-and-death matter. Unlike my talks with Mr Lee.’

  ‘That is my point, Doctor. Those conversations that you remember so vividly were not as you put it life-and-death matters then either. Nor were they life-and-death matters a few months later when they, like the name of your hotel, might reasonably start slipping from your memory. They did not become life-and-death matters for more than a year. Where did you say your hotel was located?’

  ‘Near the Coliseum...’ Dr Walton looked hesitant, almost shifty.

  Maggie shook her head, almost regretfully. ‘Near the Trevi Fountain, I understand. And just across the road from a central Roman Masonic Hall.’

  Dr Walton simply looked at Maggie, dumbfounded, his mouth working like that of a landed fish, his eyes bugging, his forehead streaming. The ring gleaming brightly on the knuckle that grasped the edge of the witness box.

  Carver Carpenter rose. ‘My Lord, my witness is not well. May I crave your indulgence upon his behalf?’

  ‘Indeed, Mr Carver Carpenter...’

  ‘My Lord, I must ask that I be allowed to continue. I have questions for this witness about his resignation from the board, about other conversations he had with Mr Lee regarding Lee’s plans for the commercial broadening of the enterprise-’

  ‘I am sorry, Mizz DaSilva. The man is not well and that is that. We will rise at once. You may question him further if and when he is strong enough. Now, as we did on Friday, we will rise a little early. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, may I remind you not to discuss the proceedings of this court with anyone, in spite of the great and gathering international interest in what we are doing here. And the well-known prevalence of cheque-book journalism amongst our own media let alone the corps of the international press. At the first whiff of any untoward dealings, I will have the jury sent to a secure location and held there for the remainder of the trial. I trust I make myself clear, ladies and gentlemen...’

  * * *

  ‘I don’t have to be back in physio for another hour,’ insisted Robin. ‘Let’s go through some of the stuff I missed when I was in hospital. What’s our best hope?’
Her presence among the defence team had galvanized them all, and had brought a surge of energy to her own battered body. She realized that at least a part of what had been so painfully wrong with her during the last weeks was the feeling that she had been isolated from the team, useless to the defence - and to Richard when he needed her the most. But in fact, as she soon learned, even lying bruised and broken in intensive care, she had been at the heart of what they had been doing; essential to their plans.

  ‘Why is my wife’s right hand bandaged?’ asked Richard all those weary weeks earlier. ‘Her hands weren’t burned or cut as far as I can recall.’

  ‘No,’ answered the doctor. ‘We’re not sure what that was. Her palm is covered in ridges, almost as though her hand had been whipped. It’s nothing dangerous medically, but it seemed to be troubling her. You’ve no idea at all, I suppose?’

  Richard frowned, trying to think back. It had been more than a week since it happened; a week where the preparations for his case had simply been derailed by the police investigation into the fire-bombing of Bacon, Constable’s offices. Arson was now attempted murder. Everything else was pushed aside by yet another police investigation - like a collision between a Mini and a lorry. Frances and Jim were with the police at the moment, though they had an appointment with him and Maggie later this afternoon.

  But the doctor’s quiet question pulled Richard back to the fatal moment yet again. The whole dreadful episode filled all of his mind waking or sleeping still, but only as a series of horrific, nightmare images from which he shied away. Grimly, he began to sort through them, looking through the glass into the little intensive care room at Robin’s still figure lying at the midst of all that strange equipment, the heart of the machine.

  Her fists had been clenched when he found her cocooned in glass on the smoke-filled stairwell: The image of them came quite suddenly. The sensory overload of the whole terrible memory. All the rest of her body had been loose, deathly slack. But her fists had been clenched, all the way down to the Bentley. And yet, when he knelt to release her from the car at the emergency reception outside the hospital here, her hands had been open. He had a clear vision of her hand lying like a lotus flower half open against the darkness of the battleship-grey leather.