Indictment for Murder

by Peter Rawlinson

  Bracton bowed and sat down, looking satisfied.

  ‘You may go on, Mr Shelbourne,’ Graham said coldly.

  Shelbourne remained silent. Bloody young brat, he thought. But he said nothing and turned back to face the witness. ‘What exactly was the commitment which made you leave your patient lying in his bed with a syringe containing a fatal dose of diamorphine?’

  ‘I was to attend the weekend conference in Bristol of the West Country Association of specialists in the treatment of cancerous growths and leukaemia.’

  ‘And this was sufficiently important for you to forego your daily visits to your patient and to leave him in the circumstances you have described?’

  ‘Over the weekend, yes. I was quite confident that Nurse Langley would be able to watch over my patient while I was away and I needed to attend the conference.’

  ‘Ah, yes, Nurse Langley.’ Shelbourne smiled. ‘And you were quite confident, were you, that your patient would be properly looked after during your absence by Nurse Langley.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘Tell me, doctor, why were you so confident of her devotion to her duty?’

  ‘I had worked with her before.’

  ‘Were you aware of the existence of Nurse Langley’s gentleman friend who works as a barman and occupies a bedroom in the White Hart Hotel?’

  ‘I was not, but that is quite irrelevant.’

  ‘Is it? Did you know that she had slipped away from the house on the afternoon of June 21st?’

  ‘She told me when I saw her very late on the night of June 21st when I had been telephoned and I had returned from Bristol. In the circumstances it was quite permissible for her to take a few hours off. The condition of the patient was perfectly stable, the dial was set at the correct level and the apparatus was in perfect working order. She is entitled to some time off. Where she went or what she did was her own business. Moreover she had left someone whom she imagined was a perfectly responsible person in the room with the patient. She was not to suspect that that person—’

  He was not permitted by Shelbourne to conclude his sentence. ‘At what time did you arrive in Bristol on Friday June 20th?’ he asked.

  He’s coming, Benjamin thought, to what he’s learned from the journalist. He glanced at the jury. They were not, he thought, looking at Shelbourne with much friendliness, especially the middle-aged woman near the end of the front row. He’s very rude, she was obviously thinking.

  ‘I arrived at the hotel in Bristol where the conference was being held at about half past twelve on Friday the 20th and registered as one of those attending.’

  ‘When did the conference begin?’

  ‘At two-thirty that afternoon.’

  ‘That was the opening session?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Shelbourne was examining a sheet of paper he held in his hand. ‘I believe that the speaker at the opening session of the conference was—now let me see, who was it? Dear me, the name has slipped my mind. Can you remember, Dr Mitchell? Can you remember who was the speaker at the first session and what he had to say?’

  The witness did not reply.

  ‘Did he give a rousing opening to this important conference which you were so anxious to attend that you abandoned your daily visits to your patient?’ Shelbourne was shuffling the pieces of paper. Then he held one almost to his nose. ‘Ah, yes, I have it now. The speaker at the opening session was, I see, a Dr Stevens.’ He smiled at the witness. ‘Did you enjoy Dr Stevens’ opening speech, Dr Mitchell?’

  ‘I didn’t hear it’

  ‘You didn’t hear it?’ said Shelbourne. ‘How do you mean, you didn’t hear it? You had come all the way to Bristol, leaving Nurse Langley in whom you had so much confidence in sole charge of your patient who had a lethal dose of diamorphine in the syringe feeding the tube strapped to his chest, and you didn’t hear the opening of this important conference which you were so eager to attend?’

  Shelbourne paused, smiling. Then he dropped the paper and his mocking tone and snapped: ‘Where were you on the afternoon of Friday June 20th, Dr Mitchell?’

  ‘After I had registered and I had seen who was to be the opening speaker, I had lunch with a friend who was also attending the conference. A surgeon, Mr Lionel Black.’ The witness hesitated. ‘As we had both heard Dr Stevens speak at an informal meeting at Bath the month before—’

  Shelbourne interrupted him. ‘You and your friend decided to give Dr Stevens’ talk a miss. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And instead you spent a jolly afternoon with your friend on the Royal Bristol Golf Course. Isn’t that right?’

  So that was it, thought Benjamin. The witness nodded.

  ‘Come along, Dr Mitchell,’ said Shelbourne cheerfully, ‘Think of the poor shorthand writer. Yes or no?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me, when you and Mr Black went off and played hookey, or rather golf, did you have to hire golf clubs?’

  ‘No. I had them with me, in my car.’

  ‘You had your golf clubs in your car,’ Shelbourne repeated thoughtfully. ‘So, when you fitted up Colonel Trelawney’s syringe with what turned out to be a fatal dose of diamorphine and left him, you had in your car your clubs which, presumably, you were intending to use when you got to Bristol. Tell me, Dr Mitchell, did you have any intention whatsoever of attending the conference?’

  ‘Of course I did. My clubs were in the car because I had played at home on the previous evening.’

  ‘How convenient! At any rate, on Friday afternoon you abandoned all chance of improving your medical knowledge to play a round of golf? Now tell me, on the following day, Saturday June 21st, the second day of your important medical commitment, did you attend the conference on that day?’

  ‘I attended the morning session.’

  ‘And the afternoon session, did you attend the afternoon session?’

  ‘After attending the morning session Mr Black and I formed the view that we were not going to gain as much as we had expected from the conference. It appeared to be directed at those with less experience in the treatment of cancer than that of Mr Black and myself. Indeed we’d heard much of what was being said the month before at a conference in Bath, so—’

  ‘So off you went to the golf course again?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘One out of three! You scored one out of three attendances at the first three sessions of this important medical conference. But tell me, do you think that on that weekend you displayed an appropriate degree of dedication to your profession?’

  The witness remained silent, glaring at him. Shelbourne waited. Then he half-turned to the jury as he went on, ‘To leave a seriously ill patient with a massive dose of a dangerous drug attached to him while you went off to play golf. Do you think that was a proper thing for you to have done?’

  ‘I have explained—’

  ‘You have. But consider for a moment, doctor. On the afternoon when the fatal dose of diamorphine with which you had loaded the syringe entered the body of Colonel Trelawney, and Nurse Langley was in bed with her barman, you were on the golf course.’

  ‘You are distorting—’

  ‘No, Dr Mitchell, I am distorting nothing. I’m asking you if on reflection you consider your conduct at the time when Colonel David Trelawney died was that of a responsible medical man in charge of a seriously ill patient.’

  Shelbourne was leaning forward, bent over the desk. Virginia could see his face in profile under his wig. The light caught the flash in his eyes and when he spoke his lips pulled back in a sneer. Oh, yes, she thought again, he’s enjoying himself.

  ‘Do you think it was right to go off and play golf leaving Colonel Trelawney with that deadly amount of drug in the syringe and the tube attached to his chest?’

  The doctor tried to speak but Shelbourne went on inexorably. ‘You are not seriously suggesting, are you, Dr Mitchell, that on that weekend you behaved in accordance with the best traditions of the medical profession?
’

  ‘This is intolerable,’ the doctor spluttered.

  ‘No, I suggest that what you did was intolerable, Dr Mitchell. I suggest that by your behaviour on that weekend you failed in your duty to your profession, and above all’ – Shelbourne bent even further forward and literally hissed – ‘you failed in the duty which you owed to your unfortunate patient.’

  ‘Stop!’

  The cry was so loud and so sudden that at first no-one in that courtroom knew exactly from whom it came. It was only when it was repeated – ‘Stop! Stop this, immediately!’ – that everyone realised that it had come from the figure in the dock.

  ‘Stop, I want this stopped.’

  Jonathan was standing, brushing aside the restraining arm of the warder. From her seat at the side of the court, Virginia, like everyone else, craned forward to stare at the tall figure standing with one arm raised, pointing at Shelbourne.

  Shelbourne swung round. A great murmur arose in the court and Graham began to bang on his desk with his gavel. The High Sheriff half-rose to his feet. A policeman and the usher came to below the dock, looking up at Jonathan, who had dropped his hand and was leaning over the edge of the rail, his white hair falling over his brow. The noise in the court increased. The usher bellowed, ‘Silence, silence.’ Graham’s gavel fell again and again. Gradually the noise subsided.

  ‘What is the meaning of this? You must not interrupt the proceedings,’ Graham said. ‘You must sit down and keep silent.’

  ‘I dismiss my counsel,’ Jonathan replied loudly. ‘I no longer wish to be represented by Mr Shelbourne. I wish this cross-examination to cease. I withdraw all instructions from Mr Shelbourne. I dispense with the assistance of any counsel.’

  Oh God, thought Graham. Not this, not this.

  Shelbourne slammed the papers he was holding on to the desk beside him, looking up in astonishment at Jonathan.

  ‘I gave no instructions for the doctor to be cross-examined as he has been,’ Jonathan said. The whole court was very still. ‘I disassociate myself from this cross-examination and I dismiss my counsel. I shall defend myself.’

  Graham took a sip of water from the glass in front of him.

  ‘That is a very grave statement,’ he said, clearing his throat, ‘and a very serious decision, especially at this stage of your trial.’

  ‘I am aware of that, my lord,’ Jonathan replied more quietly. ‘But I do not need Mr Shelbourne’s services any longer. I withdraw my instructions from him. I dismiss him.’

  With what sounded like a growl, Shelbourne, two livid spots of red now on the cheekbones of his dark face, turned his back on Jonathan and sat down noisily.

  ‘I must advise you,’ said Graham, ‘that you should not make a decision in a matter which affects you so gravely without very serious thought. If you wish, I shall adjourn so that you can speak with your advisers privately.’

  ‘No, my lord, I do not wish to speak to Mr Shelbourne. I have nothing to say to him. I no longer wish to have his services as my defending counsel. Nor do I wish for any counsel to replace him.’

  Some of the reporters started to move noisily from their bench. ‘Stay where you are,’ Graham commanded loudly. ‘Be still,’ and they stood or sat where they could. For a moment nothing broke the silence. Virginia bit her lip, watching Shelbourne. The eyes of all the jury were on the figure standing in the dock.

  ‘I am aware,’ Graham said at last, ‘that for someone of your experience to defend yourself does not present the same problem as it would for a person ignorant of court procedure. Nevertheless what you say you have decided is very grave. I shall now adjourn and give you the opportunity of considering the matter overnight. But I must warn you that, whatever you decide, the trial will proceed tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I shall not change my mind, my lord. From now on I shall defend myself and I shall be ready to continue tomorrow, without counsel.’

  ‘I hear what you have to say, but you will now have some hours to reconsider. The court is adjourned until tomorrow morning at half past ten.’

  Graham rose and, gathering up his white gloves and followed by the High Sheriff and his clerk, left the court.

  Immediately the judge had disappeared, hubbub broke out. Some of the reporters made a dash for the door to get to the telephones; other crowded below the dock. ‘Sir Jonathan,’ they called up, ‘Sir Jonathan, why have you done that, Sir Jonathan? Why have you dismissed your counsel? What are you going to do now?’

  Jonathan ignored them and leaned over the rail of the dock, calling out, ‘Mr Benson, Mr Benson!’

  Harold pushed his way through the throng, James and Mary at his heels. Seeing they would get nothing out of Jonathan, the reporters moved away and crowded round Shelbourne and Benjamin. Shelbourne’s clerk, Isles, was already gathering up Shelbourne’s papers, tying them with pink tape. Virginia pushed her way towards them.

  ‘Mr Benson,’ Jonathan said briskly, ‘come to the house immediately. I must speak with you.’

  He turned, but the warder tried to restrain him. ‘You’d better wait, sir, ’till the crush is less.’

  ‘No,’ said Jonathan, ‘I must be going.’ Then, to James: ‘See the car is brought to the door, and warn the house that the press’ll be outside the gates. Tell them to be ready. We’ll leave as soon as the judge has got away.’

  ‘What does it all mean?’ Mary asked James. ‘What has he done?’

  ‘God knows,’ James replied, starting for the door. ‘He’s gone mad.’

  Shelbourne approached. ‘Sir Jonathan…’ he began.

  ‘No,’ said Jonathan. ‘I have nothing to say to you. I have dispensed with your services.’

  ‘But this is intolerable—’

  ‘It was you who were intolerable. I have nothing to say to you.’

  ‘We must speak in private. We cannot talk here.’

  ‘I have nothing to say to you, Mr Shelbourne. Mr Benson will make all the necessary arrangements with your clerk.’

  ‘Damn Mr Benson and damn my clerk! You must listen to me, Playfair. I insist you listen to me. You’ve publicly insulted me in front of the whole court, in front of the whole world—’

  ‘You left me no alternative. Now, if you please, I am leaving. I have nothing more to say to you.’

  Shelbourne lost control. ‘You bastard,’ he said, white with fury. ‘You bastard. To dismiss me publicly! You planned this, didn’t you? You planned this.’

  Jonathan looked at him but did not reply.

  ‘You know what’ll happen to you now, don’t you?’ Shelbourne snarled. ‘You’ll be convicted and you’ll go to prison for life. You’ve disgraced yourself and the whole of the judiciary. And after the way you’ve behaved I shan’t be sorry.’

  Benjamin took him by the arm. ‘Hugo,’ he said, ‘come away, Hugo.’

  Virginia and some of the reporters were standing just behind them. James returned. ‘The car is here,’ he said. Benson had disappeared. Jonathan gave Shelbourne one final stare and then turned, left the dock and, with James at his side, made his way to the door, refusing to say a word in answer to the questions shouted at him as he went. There were photographers and television cameras as they got into the car and drove away.

  Ahead of them, in the judge’s car on it’s way back to the Lodgings, the High Sheriff turned from the jump-seat in front of Graham.

  ‘That was very sensational, judge. Has that ever happened before?’

  Graham shrugged.

  ‘Not in my experience,’ said Priestly.

  ‘What happens now?’ Colonel Basildon asked.

  ‘We shall go on with the trial tomorrow,’ Graham replied. ‘With or without counsel.’

  ‘He won’t change his mend,’ said Priestly.

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Shelbourne was pretty offensive to the doctor,’ said Basildon. And to me, thought Graham.

  ‘How’s your headache, sir?’ asked Priestly.

  ‘About the same. Not helped by what happened
this afternoon.’

  At six o’clock he spoke to the Lord Chief Justice in London and told him what had happened.

  ‘It was on the five o’clock news,’ said the Chief. ‘Well, you must go on tomorrow as if nothing has happened. Do you think Playfair is all right, mentally?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Graham.

  ‘Well, if he goes down for murder, as it sounds as if he will, you have to sentence him to the mandatory life sentence and they’ll have a medical report on him later.’

  ‘What if it’s a verdict of manslaughter?’

  ‘Could it be?’

  ‘Unlikely, but I suppose conceivable, if the jury for some reason think he didn’t know the dose would kill Trelawney.’

  ‘Then remand him in custody for a medical report and look at that before you sentence him.’

  ‘When he’s defending himself, how does that work?’

  ‘Make him do it from the dock, and have his solicitor or someone help him with his papers and documents. At least Playfair will know what to do. It was always a difficult case, Harris, and now it’s more difficult. But just get on with it, and do your best.’

  As he replaced the receiver Graham thought about what Anne’s mother had said about him and the children. A failed father, a failed husband, perhaps now a failed judge. He took some more tablets and went to his room.

  13

  FROM the window of the robing-room Andrew Benjamin saw the reporters gathering in the forecourt. ‘Best not say anything, Hugo,’ he said. Shelbourne nodded. He would say nothing now – not here. But when he got back to London he would say plenty.

  ‘Why the devil did you get me involved with this madman?’ he growled at his clerk. Isles did not reply. You got yourself involved and you know why, he said to himself as he put the wig in the wig-box and folded the gown and court coat. You thought there’d be plenty of publicity – and there has been, though not the kind you expected.

  ‘You’re well out of it, Hugo,’ said Benjamin. ‘No-one can blame you when he’s found guilty.’