Indictment for Murder

by Peter Rawlinson

  ‘They were there in force, weren’t they?’

  ‘I saw some of them there.’

  ‘Only some?’

  ‘Several perhaps.’

  ‘And where did you see them?’

  ‘At the gate to the drive of your house.’

  ‘And, at the gate, did you not tell the police driver to stop so that photographs could be taken?’

  ‘I did nothing of the kind. The driver had to stop.’

  ‘The gate was open. Didn’t you tell the driver to stop at the gate?’

  ‘I do not recollect saying anything of the kind.’

  ‘I suggest that you ordered the car to stop so that the press could get plenty of pictures of the former judge sitting in the police car beside you. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘No,’ the policeman replied, but he shifted uncomfortably in the witness-box.

  ‘Are you saying the press were there by chance? By coincidence?’

  ‘I told you, I have no control over what they do and where they go. Perhaps they had a tip-off. There are always leaks when arrangements have to be made; officers have to be warned, cars booked. Many knew what was going to happen.’

  ‘Your superior officer didn’t, did he? He’d arranged for the arrest and charge to be made at ten o’clock in the police station, hadn’t he?’

  ‘He may have. I have said, three times, that there was an unfortunate misunderstanding between him and me.’

  ‘The media had been told by you that you were going to arrest me at dawn, hadn’t they? And it was you, Inspector Johnson, wasn’t it, who tipped off the press to make sure the arrest was done with the maximum of publicity – for me, and for you?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘My lord,’ said Jonathan, speaking now to the bench, ‘I ask that Mr Leslie Bramley stand so that the witness can see him.’

  As Jonathan spoke the name a flutter broke out in the bench reserved for the press. Bramley looked up, startled.

  ‘Who is Mr Bramley?’ Graham asked.

  ‘He is the chief crime correspondent of the tabloid newspaper the Globe, and since the trial began he has been sitting in the press bench immediately beneath you.’

  ‘If he is present,’ Graham said to the clerk of the court, ‘ask Mr Bramley to stand.’

  But Bramley was already on his feet. Jonathan said to the witness, ‘You know who this is, don’t you?’

  ‘I have met him, yes,’ the detective-inspector replied.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Bramley,’ Jonathan said politely. Bramley sank back into his seat. ‘Christ,’ he whispered under his breath to his neighbour, ‘what’s the bugger up to?’

  ‘Did you ever speak to Mr Bramley during the course of your enquiry into the death of Colonel Trelawney?’

  ‘I may have spoken to him. He was interested in several cases we have under enquiry.’

  ‘And the Trelawney case? Was he interested in the Trelawney enquiry?’

  ‘He became interested, yes.’

  ‘Because of what you told him?’

  ‘I don’t know how a journalist works. He became interested, that’s all I know.’

  ‘During the weeks prior to your dawn arrest, which was recorded so extensively by the media, were there not many references in Mr Bramley’s newspaper to the progress of the police enquiry into Colonel Trelawney’s death?’

  ‘There may have been. The press became interested. That’s all I knew.’

  ‘And did not those references frequently refer to me?’

  ‘I do not remember.’

  ‘Did not the Globe call for an arrest, and suggest that someone was being protected, someone with important legal friends in high places?’

  ‘I don’t remember. I was busy doing my job. That’s all I can say.’

  ‘Is it, inspector? Was it not you who tipped off Mr Bramley and fed Mr Bramley daily with information because you were determined that you would, as they say, get me?’

  ‘All I did was my duty. This was just another job.’

  ‘Was it? The arrest of the judge who you thought responsible for the acquittal of the man you believed had so brutally murdered your friend? Was that to you just another job?’

  ‘I acted as I thought right, and with advice from Mr Trent’s office.’

  ‘Does that mean that you and Mr Trent, both of whom were involved in the Stringer case, acted together in the Trelawney case, or the Playfair case, as it became?’

  ‘As I said. I worked with Mr Trent. It was my duty to do so.’

  ‘After the Stringer acquittal as a result of my direction, did you not widely complain about the result?’

  ‘I may have said that I considered Stringer was guilty, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Did you say that repeatedly to your colleagues and to anyone who’d listen to you?’

  ‘I may have said that to some of my colleagues.’

  ‘And you blamed me, the judge at the Stringer trial.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘And you said this repeatedly to Mr Bramley?’

  ‘I may have.’

  ‘Mr Bramley is the chief crime correspondent of the Globe, a newspaper which I once had the occasion to fine £250,000 for contempt of court and which thereafter regularly criticised me as a judge. Did Mr Bramley tell you that?’

  ‘They weren’t alone in criticising you when you were a judge, but I can’t remember if Mr Bramley spoke about that.’

  Jonathan paused. Then he went on very quietly, ‘So when you began the enquiry into the death of Colonel Trelawney, you had no love for me, had you?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, no love for you. I had my duty to do.’

  ‘As did Mr Trent?’

  ‘I’m sure he did his professional duty.’

  ‘Did it give you great satisfaction to find yourself enquiring into and finally arresting the judge who had let go free the man you thought was the murderer of your friend?’

  ‘It was certainly unusual, investigating the behaviour of a former judge.’

  ‘You first came to interview me about the death of Colonel Trelawney on July 25th?’

  The detective-inspector took out his notebook from his inside pocket and opened it. ‘I did,’ he said.

  ‘By then you knew I was the last person to have been with Colonel Trelawney while he was alive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘On that first visit you asked me what had happened when I was in the room?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I told you that I had arrived at 2.00 p.m., the nurse left the house at 2.30, the colonel and I talked and I left at 4.30.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘And I told you that when I left Colonel Trelawney had by then passed away.’

  ‘Yes, and I asked you why you had not immediately informed someone that David Trelawney had died. You replied that you didn’t know why, that you just left. I then said that the death would be further investigated.’

  ‘On that first occasion when you came to see me I told you that David Trelawney had dropped into a heavy sleep, his breathing had become very heavy, then stopped, and he passed away?’

  ‘You did. I next returned on July 27th, accompanied again, as I had been on July 25th, by Detective-Constable Packer. By that time I had interviewed the nurse and the doctor and seen the solicitor, Mr Symes, from whom I had taken possesion of the letter, Exhibit 6, written on June 21st by the deceased. I had also identified that certain fingerprints were on the syringe and on the tin deed box which DC Packer took. I also asked you if you had removed anything from that house on June 21st and you replied, “Nothing”.’

  ‘Do you accept the police officer’s account of that interview?’ Graham asked Jonathan.

  ‘I do. So far.’

  ‘So far?’

  ‘Yes, so far.’ Jonathan turned back to the witness. ‘When you were about to leave, when you were still with me and your colleague was already in the hall, did I not speak to you further?’

  ‘I do not recol
lect your saying anything further.’ He held out his notebook, pointing it at Jonathan. ‘I have nothing in my book.’

  ‘I didn’t expect that you would. But I suggest that I told you Colonel Trelawney had been a very brave and distinguished soldier and I hoped it need not become public that he had taken his own life in my presence by injecting the diamorphine into himself.’

  ‘I do not recollect your ever saying that, then or later.’

  ‘No, inspector, I didn’t think you would. In your determination to see me stand trial you have deliberately omitted that, haven’t you?’

  ‘I have not. I don’t remember your saying that. In fact I’m certain you didn’t.’

  ‘I told you that Colonel Trelawney had killed himself, and you know that I did.’

  ‘I don’t and you didn’t. Nor did you when I came the third time on July 30th.’

  ‘Yes, your third visit. Let us see what you knew at that time. First, that David Trelawney had told the nurse that I had insisted on coming to visit him on June 21st, and the nurse had told you that that had disturbed him?’

  ‘That it had scared him.’

  ‘Second, you had the letter in which David Trelawney wrote that he feared me, even that I might put a pillow over his face to hurry him off; that he didn’t trust me; that I’d like him out of the way?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Third, my fingerprints were on the tin deed box, the apparatus and on the head of the syringe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And, knowing all that, you were convinced that I had killed David Trelawney?’

  ‘I had good grounds for believing you were responsible for the murder of David Trelawney.’

  ‘And when you came to interview me again on July 27th, I suggest, you made that perfectly clear?’

  ‘I may have.’

  ‘And you did not disguise your personal satisfaction at having gathered evidence which you thought pointed to my guilt?’

  ‘At the time I was satisfied with the progress of the investigation. I may have made that clear.’

  ‘At that third interview, because of your aggressive attitude and conduct, isn’t it right that I said that I declined to answer any more of your questions?’

  ‘I don’t know the reason why you didn’t say anything – that’ll be for the jury. All I know is that you didn’t provide me with any further explanation of what happened when you were with Colonel Trelawney before and when he died.’

  ‘I told you I was not responsible for Colonel Trelawney’s death.’

  ‘You did not.’

  ‘I had already told you at the second interview that Colonel Trelawney had killed himself by injecting the drug into his own body, and I told you at the third interview that I was not responsible for his death.’

  ‘You did not.’

  ‘I suggest you are lying.’

  ‘I’m certainly not lying.’

  ‘I suggest that then, as you are here today, you were motivated by the desire to see me brought to trial and convicted of murder partly because of your bitterness over what had happened during the trial of Joseph Stringer?’

  ‘That is not so.’

  ‘And I suggest you are lying when you deny I told you that David Trelawney injected himself with the drug that killed him?’

  ‘I am not lying.’ The detective-inspector now leaned over the witness-box towards Jonathan. ‘And you tell us why, after the colonel died, you ran away. If you had nothing to do with his death, why did you run off without telling a soul what had happened? You tell the jury that. You ran away after that man died out of panic at what you’d done. Because you’d killed him.’

  Jonathan lifted his head higher, then lowered it and looked at the policeman. ‘You are right when you say I ran away, in so far as a man of my age with my legs can run away,’ he said quietly. ‘But you are lying when you deny that I told you that David Trelawney had killed himself.’

  And then, very slowly, he sat down. Richard Bracton was whispering to Brian Graves sitting beside him. then he rose to his feet.

  ‘The accused,’ he said, ‘has made some allegations, apart from those he has made about the conduct of the detective-inspector, which appear to involve the Crown Prosecution Service. I would like to take instructions about these allegations from the Director of Public Prosecutions. May I, therefore, postpone my re-examination of this witness until I have had instructions from the DPP in London? To avoid any waste of the court’s time, at this stage I can in the meantime recall Nurse Langley.’

  ‘I was about to adjourn for lunch,’ said Graham. ‘Would you be ready to re-examine after the adjournment?’

  ‘I shall have to communicate with London. It may take a little time. I would prefer to postpone the re-examination until tomorrow.’

  ‘Very well. I shall adjourn now, and Miss Langley can be recalled after lunch.’

  Graham rose and left the court.

  ‘Why the devil didn’t they warn us Johnson had been one of the officers in the Stringer case,’ said Bracton to Graves as they gathered up their papers.

  ‘Trent,’ said Graves.

  As Virginia left the court she thought that Hugo, for all his swagger, couldn’t have done that. Not like the old man had done it.

  Colonel Basildon and his wife went again to the County Club. ‘What did you think of that?’ he said when he had ordered a pink gin.

  ‘Rum,’ she said. ‘Nasty bit of work, that copper.’

  Graham, alone in his room at the court, drank coffee but ate nothing. I must be careful, he warned himself. I must be careful.

  15

  AS Sylvia Langley mounted the steps to the witness-box on this occasion she was still nervous, but not as nervous as before. She was, however, very conscious that everyone now knew what she had been doing in the White Hart on the afternoon of Saturday June 21st. It’s none of their business, she kept saying to herself. When the police car had come in the morning and she’d been told she had to return to the court, her heart had sunk. ‘Why?’ she had protested. ‘Why do they want me again?’

  ‘All I know is I’m to bring you back,’ the police driver had said.

  Detective-Constable Packer met her at the door of the court. ‘They’ve broken for lunch. Do you want anything to eat?’

  She shook her head. All she wanted was to get it over. ‘What’s it all about?’ she asked Packer. ‘I’ve told them all I know. Why’ve I had to come back?’

  ‘He wants to ask you some questions.’ Packer saw the look on her face. ‘No,’ he went on, ‘not the barrister. He’s gone. It’s the old man himself, the man you met at the house before he did in the colonel. Now he’s trying to say the colonel did it himself.’

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘Killed himself, with the drug.’

  ‘That’s rubbish.’

  ‘Well, you tell them that.’

  Now she waited, her heart thudding, her hands gripping tightly the edge of the witness-box as they had two days before. Graham turned towards her. ‘Thank you for coming back so promptly, Miss Langley. There are some questions which the prisoner wishes to ask you. Remember you are still under oath.’

  He turned towards Jonathan. The revelations concerning the behaviour of the police had disturbed him. He hadn’t liked what he’d heard; nor, he thought, had the jury. But it couldn’t alter the facts in the case against Playfair. So he addressed him in the same cool tone. ‘You may begin,’ he said.

  Jonathan rose slowly and awkwardly from his chair. ‘On June 21st, Miss Langley, when you let me into the house, you were not pleased to see me, were you?’

  ‘No, I was not.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Because the colonel didn’t want to see you.’

  ‘Why did you think that he didn’t?’

  ‘Because of the way he spoke when he said you were coming.’

  ‘What way was that?’

  ‘As I said last time, he was upset. Before then he’d been laughing and joking as he always di
d. But not after he knew you were coming. He changed then. He was scared, I thought, because you were coming to see him. He didn’t want you to come.’

  Jonathan’s voice was quiet, almost gentle. She wasn’t frightened of him as she had been of Shelbourne. He looked, she thought, very frail, but she remembered what he’d done to the colonel. She’d do well this time, Bracton thought.

  ‘And that happened, you say, after the telephone call?’ Jonathan asked.

  ‘Yes. Your telephone call changed everything.’

  ‘The call he received?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you hear him make a call that morning, an outgoing call?’

  ‘No, but earlier, when he was reading the papers, he talked about the racing at Brighton and said he must phone his bookie. He loved the racing. But I don’t know if he ever did.’

  ‘You didn’t hear him make a call?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you yourself hear the telephone ring that morning?’

  ‘I did. The colonel answered it from his bed. I was downstairs.’

  ‘Did you come into the room while he was speaking on the telephone?’

  ‘No. When I came into the room he had the telephone still in his hand and I could hear the buzzing. That was when his mood changed.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Well, when I came into the room he never said anything. Usually he made some kind of joke, about me or about what I was doing. I was over at the dresser tidying things when I heard him sigh and say something like “Oh, God”. I turned round, and he was staring out of the window. I asked if everything was all right, and he didn’t look at me but said something about not looking forward to the afternoon. “Why not?” I asked, and he said someone was coming whom he didn’t want to see. Then he wrote the letter and asked me to get it posted and I gave it to Mrs Jackson.’

  ‘When I arrived at the house at about 2.00 p.m. you and I had some talk and then you took me up to Colonel Trelawney’s room and left us alone. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘Yes. I told you not to upset him.’

  ‘So you did. Then, about fifteen minutes later, I came to your room?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I told you the colonel had suggested you take a few hours off?’