The Colour of Murder

by Julian Symons

  “Be seeing you.” He raised his hand, pushed open the door and was gone.

  I looked at my watch and saw that the time was twenty minutes to seven. With a vague consciousness that the people in this pub were showing some hostility to me, and suddenly realising that I must have been here some time, I drank the last of my whisky in one gulp, and left the pub.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  That is the last I can remember of this Monday evening. At twenty minutes to seven I left the Lock and Key. I remember nothing more, nothing until I woke in my bedroom at the hotel next morning.

  Part Two

  AFTER

  Chapter One

  That Monday night was a velvety one, moonless. At a quarter past twelve a young garage engineer from Croydon named Sydney Pethers was walking along the promenade with his girl-friend Thelma Wayne. They had had the day off, and had come down to Brighton on Syd’s motor-bike. They had eaten a fish tea at Sam Isaac’s, gone to see an ice show and then on to a dance. Now Syd was trying to persuade Thelma to go down on the beach for a breath of air.

  “I know your breath of air, Syd,” she said. “Quite enough air for me up here, thank you. Besides, we ought to be getting home.”

  “Come on, Thel, what’s the hurry, won’t take more than an hour to get back this time of night. Not afraid of the dark, are you?”

  “’Course not.”

  “Well then.” He whispered to her and she giggled.

  “Just five minutes then, Syd, but we must go home soon, honest, we must. I don’t know what my mum will say.”

  They went down the steps. There they stood in utter darkness for perhaps five minutes, locked together, while Thelma giggled and Syd urgently whispered.

  “But it’s so uncomfortable down there,” she said.

  “You can have my jacket.”

  “Just for a minute then, Syd.” They stumbled across the shingle towards the sea, his arm around her.

  “Here, this’ll do.”

  “A bit farther, Syd, I’ve got a funny feeling. As if we were being watched.”

  “You and your feelings. Come on then.” They walked another dozen steps and then she tripped over. “Hey, what’s up, Thel?”

  “Syd.” Her voice was high. “There’s somebody here. I fell over someone, Syd.”

  “Take it easy. Someone asleep, probably. Get my lighter.” The wheel turned, the light glowed. Syd Pethers sucked in his breath, the light went out. “Christ!”

  “What is it, Syd, what is it?”

  “You get up and come along with me, Thel, like a good girl. There’s been an accident.”

  “What do you mean, accident?” She moved to get up and her hand slipped on something wet, something sticky. Thelma Wayne began to scream.

  Chapter Two

  Some weeks after the gruesome discovery made by Syd Pethers and Thelma Wayne on Brighton beach, Mrs Wilkins and Uncle Dan had an interview with Mr Likeness, of Likeness, Bale and Moody, solicitors. Mr Likeness, whose family name a generation ago had been Leibowitz, was a smiling man with a face like a sagging yellow balloon, and a few strands of hair plastered down on a shining skull.

  Mr Likeness rose when his visitors came in, and offered them chairs. A girl brought in cups of tea. While they drank and he made polite conversation, the solicitor looked at his clients to see if there was any likelihood of an emotional scene. Mr Likeness disliked emotional scenes very much. Mrs Wilkins sat solidly in her chair, her square face was set like a wood carving, the hand holding the teacup was firm. Her companion was jittery – he had a nervous tic affecting one eye – but not, Mr Likeness thought, likely to make trouble. Mr Likeness shuffled the papers on his desk, produced something quite irrelevant to the case in hand, pretended to examine it closely, and began.

  “Just let me put you in the picture. I wanted to let you know that everything is going as smoothly as can be expected. We’re past the Magistrates’ Court stage now, which is purely a formality, as I’ve told you, and the case is fixed to come on at Lewes in a month’s time. Now we’ve got to settle the matter of counsel. Have you any ideas or preferences about that?”

  Mrs Wilkins and Uncle Dan looked at each other. “We’ve talked about it,” Uncle Dan said in a voice that would have seemed to those who knew him remarkably low and hesitant. “We wanted Sir John Banbury.”

  “Banbury.” Mr Likeness made a note. “Any other ideas?”

  “Or Miles, H F Miles, who got an acquittal in that Wolverhampton case recently. But our first choice would be Banbury.”

  Mrs Wilkins spoke. “I am not a rich woman, but I am prepared to spend every penny I have to help John. Money is not important, Mr Likeness.”

  A formidable old woman, Mr Likeness thought. “Banbury and Miles are good, of course. I’m not sure that we can get them.”

  “Why not?” Mrs Wilkins fixed him with a basilisk stare before which many men might have quailed. Mr Likeness did not lose his pleasant smile.

  “Banbury is pretty well tied up already, but I will find out about him. Miles is on the Midland circuit, and we should have to pay him an extra fee. I doubt if it’s worth it. Tell me, have you talked with your son about this?”

  “With John? No, has he talked to you about it?” Mrs Wilkins looked surprised and almost offended that her son should discuss his own defence with anybody except her.

  “Yes. He is anxious that we should approach Magnus Newton.”

  “I’ve never heard of him.” It sounded decisive.

  “He is not so well known as Banbury, perhaps, but that may not be a bad thing in some ways. Your son seems to have been impressed particularly by his conduct of a case involving a man named McKenna.”

  “Hit his wife on the head with a rolling-pin,” Uncle Dan said, with a bark of uneasy laughter.

  “That’s right. I should like at least to approach Newton, together with the other two. I am sure you could have every confidence in him.”

  “Very well,” Mrs Wilkins said, with the air of one making a considerable concession. “Now, what about this man who has been coming to see John every day?”

  “Doctor Andreadis, the psychiatrist, you mean?”

  “I suppose so. John said he had been talking to him a lot. What is the idea of that?”

  “Doctor Andreadis is an eminent member of his profession,” Mr Likeness said with his gentle, deprecating smile. “Your son talks to him easily. It is often useful for us to have such an indication of our client’s state of mind.”

  “You mean you think he did it? You think my boy is a murderer.”

  “Nothing of the kind.”

  “You think he’s guilty, and you want this doctor to say he’s mad, is that it?”

  “My dear Mrs Wilkins –”

  “If that is what you think, say so. My brother here recommended your name, but I have no doubt that another solicitor would be prepared to take the case.”

  Uncle Dan made feebly reproachful gestures. Mr Likeness did not lose his smile, but the words that came out of his sagging yellow face were sharp ones.

  “It’s your privilege to approach another firm of solicitors to act for you. If you want to damage your son’s defence I can think of no better course than to change solicitors at this point.”

  “Melie, Melie,” Uncle Dan said.

  Mrs Wilkins’ square face showed no emotion, but her chest moved up and down. “What else are you doing?” she asked.

  Mr Likeness knew that he had won. He looked from one to the other of them, and wondered how much to tell them. “Through Doctor Andreadis we are obtaining an insight into the workings of your son’s mind, and an account of his activities for some time before the murder. I cannot anticipate the use that counsel will make of this, but it is immensely useful information. Then there is the question of his movements on that Monday night, which he can’t remember. If we could establish all his movements between the time he left Lonergan and the time he returned to his hotel, that would help us a great deal.”

  “
He was due to meet me at six-thirty in a pub,” Uncle Dan said. “Never turned up. I went to quite a few pubs in Brighton myself that night, before I caught the eleven o’clock train. Never a sign of Johnny. Have you had any better luck?”

  “Investigations are proceeding,” Mr Likeness said evasively.

  “What I want to know is this – what progress have you made towards finding the real murderer?” Mrs Wilkins asked. “Obviously the police won’t try to find him.”

  Mr Likeness paused for thought before his reply. Relatives who are insistent about the innocence of their accused son or father or brother, mother or daughter or sister, are the most troublesome clients a solicitor can have. At the same time it is unwise even to hint at the possibility of guilt. Mr Likeness temporised. “We have first-class people down in Brighton. Their job is to find evidence which shows that your son is innocent. You can rely on it that they won’t miss anything that can help him.”

  “That’s all very well–” Mrs Wilkins began. Mr Likeness held up a creased yellow hand.

  “If you want to pursue private inquiries of your own there is nothing to stop you.”

  “You’ll try for Sir John Banbury?”

  “I’ll get in touch with him immediately. Don’t pin too many hopes on him, though. Newton is a very good man.”

  When they had gone Mr Likeness picked his nose thoughtfully while staring at the old hunting prints on his walls. Then he went along to see his tall, thin, dyspeptic partner, Moody.

  “It’s all right,” Likeness said. “I’m pretty sure we can get Newton. He’ll do a good job.”

  “Did you have any trouble?”

  “They wanted Banbury or Miles.”

  “Banbury.” Mr Moody turned down the corners of his thin mouth. “Wouldn’t touch a sex case like this with a barge pole.”

  “No. Besides, Wilkins wants Newton, and why shouldn’t he get what he wants, poor devil?”

  “I suppose there’s no doubt he did it.”

  “Shouldn’t think so.” Mr Likeness was looking at the cricket scores in the stop press news of his partner’s paper. “But you never know. I’m going up to Lords for a couple of hours. It looks rather like an exciting finish up there.”

  Chapter Three

  A day or two later Mr Likeness had a conference with Magnus Newton, QC, who had agreed to take the case. Newton was a rising silk who welcomed a case that, whatever its outcome, was certain to bring him a lot of publicity. He was short, puffy and self-important, and in cross-examination sometimes produced the impression that he was a little slow to grasp obvious points. Yet witnesses who tried to take advantage of this apparent obtuseness almost invariably found themselves pulled up by a disconcertingly pointed and unpleasant question. His chief fault as a cross-examiner was that of occasionally ignoring an obvious line of questioning while pursuing some fanciful idea of his own. Was Newton in fact a man who combined patches of brilliance with dull moments, or were his occasional errors the result of too great a subtlety of mind? Mr Likeness, who had watched him in action several times, had never quite made up his mind.

  Now Magnus Newton stretched out his little legs and listened to the solicitor talking about the long statement which they had received from Doctor Max Andreadis.

  “I sent Andreadis to see him as a matter of course. But Wilkins took to him at once, seemed to want to talk, and soon Andreadis had the idea of getting somebody to take it all down. This is the result of a dozen or more long sessions.” Newton nodded, his lower lip stuck out. “It means we’ve got to keep him out of the box. If he goes in and says the kind of thing he’s said to Andreadis, any jury would find him guilty in ten minutes.”

  “Do you think so?” Slumped in his chair, chin on chest, Newton asked the question with every appearance of serious interest.

  With a touch of impatience which he quickly checked, Mr Likeness went on more moderately, “He’s admitted motive, said he can’t account for his movements, and worst of all given such a picture of his own personality that…” Mr Likeness, who generally controlled his dramatic gestures, spread out his hands. “But if you don’t put him in the box…” He left that sentence unfinished too.

  “Ha,” said Magnus Newton. Ash dropped from his cigarette on to his waistcoat. He made no attempt to brush it off.

  “You wouldn’t,” Mr Likeness said hesitantly, “like to see Wilkins yourself, I suppose?”

  “I would not.”

  Mr Likeness suppressed a sigh. It never does happen that counsel want to see their clients in such cases, even where it might conceivably be useful to do so.

  “What’s he like?” Newton asked.

  “There’s an intelligence report somewhere.”

  “No, I mean this fellow Andr – what’s his name? – Andreadis.”

  “Andreadis.” Mr Likeness, whose smile had not been much in evidence during this conference, produced it now. “As a matter of fact I asked him to come here today, thought you might like to talk to him. He may be here now.”

  Newton grunted, and picked up the telephone. “When a Doctor Andre-ad-is arrives – oh, he’s here. Ask him to come in.” To Likeness he said, “Pity his name’s not Andrews, go down better with a jury if you want to call him.”

  “In this case that may not matter.” Newton understood what was meant when he saw Doctor Max Andreadis, who was an exceptionally handsome man in his forties, dressed in impeccably discreet English clothes, and with only the faintest trace of a foreign accent.

  “Doctor Andreadis,” Newton said. “First I must congratulate you on obtaining this very remarkable statement from Wilkins. You must have established a great imaginative sympathy with him. I don’t think I can ever recall seeing a statement of exactly this kind before, one so complete and informative. It is almost a life history.”

  “Thank you.” Andreadis gave him a brilliant smile. “Wilkins was completely co-operative. It was a relief to him to talk.”

  “At the same time the very completeness of this statement presents those of us responsible for his defence with a problem, on which we should welcome your expert guidance.” He certainly knew how to lay it on thick, Mr Likeness reflected. “What kind of a witness do you think this young man would make?”

  “It is hard to say. He is of average intelligence according to his IQ. A little slow, and yet there is an impression of honesty. Or at least of a great endeavour to be honest. He says quite frankly, I cannot think that I committed this crime, I feel great revulsion from it, but I had a mental blackout and I do not know.”

  “How do you think he would stand up to cross-examination?”

  “I don’t think I can offer a useful opinion. I can say only that at times he is easily confused.”

  “Our problem, you see, is that if we put him into the witness box and he says some of the things he said to you, he will damage his own case. Yet if he does not go into the box that will also be damaging, in a different way.” Andreadis bowed his head courteously as if to say that the problem was theirs and not his. “What about insanity?” Newton barked suddenly.

  “Insanity?”

  “You’ve been talking to him for days, man. Is he sane or not?”

  “That is not an easy question.” Andreadis spoke carefully. “Wilkins is a maladjusted personality. Profoundly maladjusted. He suffers from a conviction of inferiority, a feeling that he is not capable of doing his job satisfactorily, of satisfying his wife sexually, of living a complete and integrated life. He finds compensation for his maladjustment in creating fantasies. But he knows that the fantasies are not reality, he takes refuge – unconsciously, of course – in fits of amnesia. There are some psychotic symptoms, but it is not easy to say–”

  “Doctor,” Magnus Newton said softly. He had risen, and was standing with his puffy red face thrust forward in his favourite attitude for cross-examination.

  “Yes?”

  “How often have you given evidence in a case involving a capital offence?”

  “How often?” Andre
adis cast a startled glance towards Mr Likeness, but the solicitor was staring at the floor. “Why, never, as it happens. But my years of experience –”

  “Years of experience are not important here, I’m afraid. If you had ever given evidence in such a case you would know that this kind of psychological analysis does not impress juries, and can be torn to pieces by any good cross-examiner. You have heard of the MacNaughton rules?”

  “Naturally.”

  “You know what they are – the distinction they draw between a man’s knowledge of right and wrong?”

  There was a slight flush on Doctor Andreadis’ handsome cheek. “The MacNaughton rules are very much out of date.”

  “Possibly, but they are part of the law of this country. Tell me this, Doctor Andreadis. Is there any chance that we can plead that Wilkins was guilty but insane under the MacNaughton rules?”

  There was silence in the room for more than a minute. Mr Likeness watched two flies crawling up the windowpane and made a mental bet with himself that the smaller would reach the top first. He clucked with annoyance as the larger fly flew off before his bet could be resolved. Magnus Newton, face red as a turkey’s gills, looked at his shining black shoes.

  “No,” Doctor Andreadis said. “I think there is no chance that you could successfully plead insanity under the MacNaughton rules.”

  “Ha. I’m obliged to you.” Newton stood with head sunk on chest for a moment. “You’d better go and see this feller, Likeness. Here’s what I want to know…”

  Chapter Four

  To those outside the legal profession the problem of a counsel’s attitude towards the guilt or innocence of his client is a fascinating one. Supposing that counsel for the defence in a murder trial becomes convinced of his client’s guilt, should he give up the brief? The fact is, however, that such things are not matters of concern even for those barristers who most pride themselves upon their moral susceptibilities. Quite early in his career the aspiring lawyer learns that the guilt of his client is a matter that must be left to judge and jury; he learns how desirable it is, and indeed not merely desirable but absolutely essential, that upon this question he should have no opinion. Thus, although Magnus Newton would have agreed readily enough that there was a strong case against John Wilkins, he never discussed the matter in terms of the young man’s possible guilt. Magnus Newton was conscious of himself as an actor with a part to play – or, to put it less fancifully, as a man with a job to do – and he assessed the various people involved simply in relation to his own position.