O’CONNOR. What happened to Mrs Rattenbury later that night?
SERGEANT. She did collapse, sir, and had to be put to bed – but that was the whisky.
O’CONNOR. Was it, indeed? And how much whisky did Mrs Rattenbury have to drink that night?
SERGEANT. I don’t know, exactly, sir – she was drinking from the bottle, sir – and emptied it.
O’CONNOR. In front of you, Sergeant?
SERGEANT. Yes, sir.
O’CONNOR. And you allowed that?
SERGEANT. I had no option, sir.
O’CONNOR. ‘No option’? What does your handbook tell you to prevent the victim taking at all costs?
Pause.
SERGEANT. Alcohol, sir.
O’CONNOR. And why, Sergeant? Do you remember why?
Pause.
SERGEANT (quoting from memory). Because the effect of alcohol on a shocked system will greatly increase the symptoms, and will in all respects prove strongly deleterious.
O’CONNOR. And – doesn’t it add – sometimes fatal?
SERGEANT. Yes, sir.
O’CONNOR. It may be that you are lucky that in this case it was not. Otherwise you could be facing a very grave charge, Sergeant – gross negligence while on duty. That’s all.
He sits down. CROOM-JOHNSON rises.
CROOM-JOHNSON. Sergeant, has a person in a state of shock ever made sexual advances to you?
SERGEANT. Certainly not, sir.
CROOM-JOHNSON. Or attempted to bribe you?
SERGEANT. No, sir.
CROOM-JOHNSON. Thank you, Sergeant.
The SERGEANT descends from the box.
That concludes the case for the Crown, my lord. (Sits down.)
JUDGE. Mr O’Connor. Are you ready?
O’CONNOR. Yes, my lord.
O’CONNOR mutters to MONTAGU, then shrugs. He rises.
May it please your lordship, members of the jury, it is my intention to call one witness and one witness only – namely Mrs Rattenbury. I shall therefore claim the right of the last word –
CROOM-JOHNSON (rising swiftly). My lord, this sudden manoeuvre of my learned friend puts me at a grave disadvantage.
O’CONNOR. My lord, I have to confess that I do not know – even at this very second, as I stand here to begin Mrs Rattenbury’s defence, whether she will in fact obey my summons to the box or not. If she does not, then it is I who will stand at a grave disadvantage –
CROOM-JOHNSON. My lord, I think an adjournment at this juncture would be the right –
O’CONNOR (angrily). It would be most damnably wrong! – Forgive me, my lord, but I am not exaggerating when I say that in this moment – this exact moment – lies the hinge of this entire trial. Any delay, even of half an hour, might be fatal to the cause of justice. In my view it is vital that my client goes into the witness box to give evidence on her own behalf, as she has the right and, I have told her, the duty to do. I believe and pray that if called upon now, she will go. With your lordship’s permission. I therefore call Alma Rattenbury.
There is a pause. ALMA enters, and walking as if in a daze, goes to the witness box. In the box a board is handed to her and a Bible.
CLERK OF THE COURT. Take the book in your right hand and repeat the following words, after me. I swear by Almighty God –
ALMA. I swear by Almighty God –
CLERK OF THE COURT. – that the evidence I shall give to the court –
ALMA. – that the evidence I shall give to the court –
CLERK OF THE COURT. – shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
ALMA. – shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
O’CONNOR. You are Alma Victoria Rattenbury.
ALMA. I am.
O’CONNOR. Mrs Rattenbury, how long were you married to your husband?
ALMA. Eight years.
O’CONNOR. By him did you have a child?
ALMA. Yes. Little John.
JUDGE. Mrs Rattenbury, I can’t hear you. Speak up, please. And please make sure the jury can hear what you say.
ALMA. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
O’CONNOR. Mrs Rattenbury – little John, how old is he?
ALMA. Six – (Louder.) Six.
O’CONNOR. And you have been married twice before, I think?
ALMA. Yes.
O’CONNOR. By the second husband you had a child, did you not?
ALMA. Yes. Christopher.
O’CONNOR. You are fond of him, I think.
ALMA. Yes.
O’CONNOR. Very fond?
ALMA. …Very fond.
O’CONNOR. Now, Mrs Rattenbury, I want you to tell me about your relationship with your husband. Since the birth of –
ALMA. Er – (Looks towards the public gallery.)
O’CONNOR. Mrs Rattenbury?
ALMA. No, I –
JUDGE. Is something wrong, Mr O’Connor?
O’CONNOR. I’m sorry, my lord. An oversight on my part. If your lordship permits –
He turns to MONTAGU.
(Murmuring.) Get the boy out of court, will you…
MONTAGU nods and goes.
I do apologise, my lord. Now, Mrs Rattenbury, would you say your married life was happy?… Mrs Rattenbury!
ALMA. I’m sorry?
ALMA looks at the court, then…
O’CONNOR. Would you say your married life was happy?
ALMA. Well, it was a bit – you know –
She makes a gesture indicating ‘up and down’.
O’CONNOR. You had some quarrels?
ALMA. Not many. Only little ones, and always about money. He was a bit – well – stingy. I often had to tell him little fibs to get the bills paid.
O’CONNOR. Yes. Well, we’ll come back to that.
MONTAGU returns and nods to O’CONNOR. ALMA again looks into the court, but clearly CHRISTOPHER has gone.
Mrs Rattenbury, I want you to tell us now about your relationship with your late husband. Be quite frank, please. Since the birth of little John six years ago, did you and Mr Rattenbury live together as husband and wife?
ALMA. No.
JUDGE. Mrs Rattenbury, I must ask you to speak much louder, please. And please address your replies so the jury may hear them.
ALMA. I’m sorry.
O’CONNOR. Since that time you did not live together as husband and wife at all?
ALMA. No.
JUDGE. Mrs Rattenbury, you do understand what was meant by the question?
ALMA. Yes.
O’CONNOR. Did your husband have a separate room?
ALMA. Yes.
O’CONNOR. Was that at his suggestion or yours?
ALMA. Oh, his.
O’CONNOR. You would have been ready to continue marital relations with him?
ALMA, Oh yes, of course.
O’CONNOR. But he didn’t want it?
ALMA. Well, I think it was rather a question of the flesh being willing but the spirit being weak –
O’CONNOR. Er – the other way round I think?
ALMA. I expect so.
O’CONNOR. Now, between the months of November 1934 and March 1935, were you having regular sexual intercourse with Wood?
ALMA. Yes.
Again she has a quick look into the court.
O’CONNOR. And what attitude did your husband take to all this?
ALMA. None whatsoever.
JUDGE. You mean he didn’t know of it?
ALMA. Oh, I think he must have known of it, my lord.
JUDGE. Then he must have taken some attitude – even if it was one of tactful silence?
ALMA. I just don’t think he gave it a thought.
The JUDGE makes a heavy note.
O’CONNOR. Now, Mrs Rattenbury, I am going to take you through the events of the week that led up to your husband’s murder and I want you to answer my questions with complete truth. You will, will you not?
ALMA doesn’t reply.
JUDGE. Mrs Rattenbury, you are under oath. You must reply f
ully and truthfully to Counsel’s questions.
Again ALMA doesn’t reply.
O’CONNOR. On Monday March eighteenth – that is six days before the murder – did you ask your husband for some money?… Mrs Rattenbury?
JUDGE. One moment, please. Mrs Rattenbury, you do understand, do you not, that having taken the oath to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, you are in law in duty bound to do so. Do you understand that?
ALMA. Yes, my lord.
JUDGE. Then be so good as to answer Counsel’s question.
O’CONNOR. For how much money did you ask?
Pause.
ALMA. Two hundred and fifty pounds.
O’CONNOR. What ‘little fib’ – to quote your words – did you have to tell him?
ALMA. That I was going up to London to have an operation.
O’CONNOR. And on the following day you went up to London?
ALMA. Yes.
O’CONNOR. And you stayed with Wood at an hotel in Kensington?
ALMA. Yes. The Royal Palace.
O’CONNOR. During that time did you give Wood some presents?
ALMA. Yes. A pair of silk pyjamas, a new suit, and then a ring for him to give to me.
O’CONNOR. Now, it has been strongly suggested that there was some very sinister significance in this hotel visit only a few days before the murder. It has in fact been represented as a kind of premature honeymoon. What truth is there in that?
ALMA. Oh, none at all. It wasn’t the first time we’d gone to a hotel, and he did love it so. He loved being waited on and called ‘sir’ –
O’CONNOR. And you wanted to give him that pleasure?
ALMA. Yes.
O’CONNOR. And that was the reason for the presents?
ALMA. Yes.
O’CONNOR. And the ring to yourself?
ALMA. The ring was only a pretence.
O’CONNOR. A pretence of what?
ALMA. Well – like an engaged couple.
O’CONNOR. So this visit was no more than a whim, designed to give Wood pleasure. What about you? Did it give you pleasure too?
ALMA. No. It was terrible.
O’CONNOR. In what way terrible?
ALMA. Oh, rows.
O’CONNOR. Serious rows?
ALMA. Not on the surface. But underneath, of course, they were. You see, he knew I was trying to finish it.
O’CONNOR. Finish the relationship?
ALMA. Yes.
O’CONNOR. Why?
ALMA. Well, it had got out of hand.
O’CONNOR. Had you told him that?
ALMA. I tried to often, but the difference in our ages made it so difficult. After we’d got back from London I was determined to say ‘finish for good’ – and mean it. I’m quite sure he knew that, which is why he was making my life hell… I’m sorry, my lord. Dreadful…
JUDGE. Hell will do. Now, I am not sure I have followed this. You say you tried to break the affair with Wood but were unable to – one of the reasons being the difference in your ages. Surely that very thing would make it easier?
ALMA. No, my lord. Sorry, but it makes it harder.
JUDGE. But surely the older party must be the dominant party?
ALMA. Excuse me, my lord, but to me it’s the other way round. Anyway, it was with me and George. I think it must be with many people. Of course, I don’t know.
O’CONNOR. Now, Mrs Rattenbury –
JUDGE. One moment, please, Mr O’Connor.
The JUDGE finishes writing then signals O’CONNOR to continue.
O’CONNOR. Mrs Rattenbury. We come now to your return to the Villa Madeira two nights before the murder. Did your husband ask you any awkward question when you saw him?
ALMA. No. It was as if I’d never been gone.
JUDGE. He must surely have asked you about your operation?
ALMA. No, my lord.
O’CONNOR. Anyway, all was normal at the Villa?
ALMA. Oh yes. Very friendly.
O’CONNOR. How was Wood?
ALMA. Well, he was a bit sulky. He’d wanted to stay on at the hotel, you see. But he perked up later.
O’CONNOR. You had intercourse that night?
ALMA. Oh yes, everything normal, as you said.
O’CONNOR. Thank you. Now we come to Sunday, the day of the murder.
ALMA. Oh no. No. I can’t – I…
O’CONNOR. One moment, Mrs Rattenbury, please.
ALMA. But I can’t – I can’t –
O’CONNOR. Please. Please.
ALMA is silent.
My lord, in view of the obvious difficulties which I see your lordship has noticed, I would crave your indulgence at this point to embark upon a somewhat unusual course. With your lordship’s permission, I would like to quote certain passages from the signed statement entered by the prosecution yesterday, which was made by the prisoner Wood on the day of his arrest – Exhibit 27, my lord.
JUDGE. But that is evidence against Wood. You are asking to use it on Mrs Rattenbury’s behalf?
O’CONNOR. Naturally, my lord. I would hardly use it against her.
CROOM-JOHNSON. My lord, I must most strenuously object to any part of the statement being read on behalf of Rattenbury. What cannot in law be used against her, must not in law be used for her. My learned friend should know that very well.
O’CONNOR. I really do not need lessons in law from prosecuting counsel. I do know that it is my duty to my client to use any evidence on her behalf that this court will allow – any evidence, of any kind, and from any source.
CROOM-JOHNSON. But, my lord, there are no precedents for such a –
JUDGE. Yes, yes, Mr Croom-Johnson. It is plainly a matter for me. You are perfectly correct in saying that this proposed course is highly irregular – but having regard for the undoubted fact that the law always allows, and must allow, the greatest possible latitude to the defence in a capital charge, I will decide in favour of Mr O’Connor.
O’CONNOR (plainly delighted). Thank you, my lord.
CROOM-JOHNSON sits.
CROOM-JOHNSON (muttering). … dangerous precedent…
The lights fade to O’CONNOR and more dimly on the JUDGE.
I refer your lordship to paragraph three, in which –
WOOD is heard describing the events of the murder.
WOOD (off). ‘They were up in her bedroom together – That is, Mr and Mrs Rattenbury, my lord.’
JUDGE. I have it, thank you, Mr O’Connor.
The light on the JUDGE fades out.
The light fades up on WOOD, listening outside the bedroom door.
O’CONNOR. ‘When I went up with the tea, the door was locked. So I listened outside, and then I heard them – kissing noises and “darling”. And then I heard them doing it. I listened to them right through, then I heard them talking and getting off the bed, so I went into my room and waited for them to come out…’
The lights come up on the Villa Madeira. WOOD goes to his room. The bedroom door opens and RATTENBURY comes out, putting on his jacket. ALMA has a dressing gown on. She helps him down the stairs, which he has to take very gingerly.
ALMA. Gently does it, Ratz. That’s right… So I’ll tell the Jenks we’ll be over tomorrow, shall I?
RATTENBURY. If they’ll have us.
WOOD appears, a menacing figure at the top of the stairs. He is in his shirtsleeves.
ALMA (gaily). Of course they’ll have us. They’re always asking us to stay. How long shall I say? A couple of days?
RATTENBURY. It’s a long way to go for a couple of days. Lot of petrol. Make it a week.
ALMA. All right, dear.
WOOD (calling). Alma, I want to see you.
ALMA (looking up). Come down then.
WOOD (commandingly). Up here. Now.
RATTENBURY (muttering). You shouldn’t let him talk to you like that, Alma.
ALMA (shrugging). He’s in one of his moods – back in a jiffy.
She climbs the stairs. WOOD, in a passion, g
rabs her wrists.
WOOD. Why was that door locked?
ALMA. Locked? Was it?
WOOD. You lying bitch –
ALMA (laughing). George, you can’t think that me and Ratz –
WOOD opens the door and looks inside.
WOOD. Yes. Tidied up the bed now, haven’t you? You were at it just now with him, weren’t you? I heard.
ALMA. Oh, George, you are a scream! Ratz, of all people. Oh, I’ll die of laughing –
WOOD hits her hard.
(Angry.) George, if you ever do that again –
WOOD. You’ll what?
ALMA. Tell you to get out of this house and never come back –
WOOD produces a revolver from his pocket.
WOOD. I could kill you quite easily.
ALMA (calmly). Yes, I expect you could, dear, but not with Christopher’s water pistol.
She takes it from him quickly.
George, are you all right?
WOOD (shouting). Why was that door locked?
ALMA. Quiet, dear. Even Ratz could have heard that.
He hasn’t. He is in the sitting room, placidly reading the paper.
The door was locked because it rattles when the window’s open – as you should very well know. (Strokes his face.) Silly boy!
She gives him back the water pistol.
WOOD. Are you going to these people tomorrow?
ALMA. Yes.
WOOD. With me driving?
ALMA. Of course.
WOOD. I see. Where will I sleep?
ALMA. Oh, they’ve lots of room.
WOOD. In a servants’ attic?
ALMA. Well, perhaps, but I’ll try and see it’s a nice one.
WOOD. And eat in the servants’ hall?
ALMA. George, it’s only for a week –
WOOD. And you and Ratz, with a nice big double bed – ?
ALMA (angrily). Stop this nonsense at once! At once, do you hear?
WOOD. Yes, ma’am. Very good, ma’am. Beg pardon, I’m sure, ma’am.
She turns her back on him and picks up the phone.
ALMA (into phone). Could you give me Bridport 31, please? This is Bournemouth 309.
WOOD (to her, and taking the phone out of her hand). Listen, you cow. You’re to go down there now – (Pointing to the sitting room.) and tell him you’re not going to the Jenks’ tomorrow –
ALMA. George, you’re going to make me very angry.
WOOD. Because if you don’t, I’m going to do something very bad. Something very very bad.
ALMA. Put acid in that water pistol and squirt it in my face? (Takes the telephone. Into phone.) Hallo? (To WOOD.) Go into the kitchen and help Irene with supper, there’s a good boy.
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