by Graham Ison
‘Was that all?’
‘No, sir. I also found a separate key that I handed to Sergeant Marriott.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Cartwright. Just stay there in case my learned friend wants to ask you any questions.’
Sir Roland Storey rose to his feet, hitched his gown back on to his left shoulder, and glared at the witness.
‘Mrs Cartwright, I put it to you that you made Lady Naylor strip naked in a cold cell.’
‘Yes, sir. It was necessary so’s I could search her properly. It’s the procedure.’
‘I also put it to you that at one stage you struck Lady Naylor a blow. In fact, I suggest you slapped her face.’
Mrs Cartwright was not in the slightest discomfited by the accusation, true though it was. ‘I did, sir,’ she said blandly. ‘Lady Naylor was hysterical at the time, and it’s the correct treatment for hysteria.’
‘You are qualified in such matters, are you?’ asked Storey sarcastically.
‘I am, sir. I am a state-registered nurse. I also remember Lady Naylor calling me a fat cow. Not the behaviour I’d’ve expected from a titled lady.’
‘Yes, I see. Thank you, Mrs Cartwright.’ Storey sat down. Eminent KC he might be, but he had not reckoned on so spirited a response from a police station matron.
The hint of a smile crossed the judge’s face as he glanced at Sir Gordon Hewart. ‘Mr Solicitor?’
‘I have no further questions of this witness, My Lord,’ said Hewart.
‘Thank you, Mrs Cartwright,’ said the judge, ‘you may step down, but stay within the precincts of the court.’
The trial lasted three weeks. Among those called to give evidence were Dr Spilsbury, DI Collins, Edward and Gladys Drake, Mrs Hampton, the cook at the Naylors’ Grosvenor Place house, Cyril Pearce, the butler who had walked out on the Naylors, and James Charlton, the Wendover cab driver, making his first visit to London.
The jury took ten hours to reach their verdict, but it was damning.
‘Hilda Naylor,’ began the judge sternly, ‘you have been found guilty of the heinous crime of murder, and rightly so in my view. Have you anything to say before sentence of death be passed upon you?’
But Lady Naylor was incapable of a response. She had been so unreasonably confident of an acquittal that the verdict took her by surprise, and she had collapsed when it was returned. Now sobbing hysterically, and supported by the wardresses, she was unable to say anything; just a low moan emerged from her.
The judge donned the black cap and passed sentence. The chaplain appealed to the Almighty to have mercy on Lady Naylor’s soul, and within the hour she was in the condemned cell at Holloway prison in north London.
The Home Secretary, Sir Herbert Samuel, carefully considered the sentence, but marked the docket ‘Let the law take its course.’
Three weeks later, Hilda Naylor was hanged. The usual collection of morbid sightseers waited outside the gates of the prison until the black flag was raised and a stark, brief notice confirming her execution was placed outside.
‘There’s an interesting piece on the Court Circular page of The Times this morning that might interest you, Ernie.’ Superintendent Arthur Hudson stood in the doorway of Hardcastle’s office holding the newspaper.
‘What’s that, sir?’ asked the DDI as he stood up.
‘It states that the King has commanded that the name of Royston Naylor be struck from the roll of Knights Bachelor.’
‘Can’t say I’m surprised, sir,’ said Hardcastle. ‘In my opinion, Naylor was lucky to get away with just losing his knighthood. And it certainly puts paid to his aspirations for a peerage. Their lordships don’t much care for sharing a bench with someone whose missus has been topped for murder.’