They shook hands and the High Sheriff left. Graham went to the telephone. In London the Lord Chief Justice had already heard the news. ‘I’ll expect you back tomorrow to tell me all about it,’ he said. When Graham explained about the half-term and that his wife was abroad, the Chief added tersely, ‘Very well, come and see me on Tuesday.’ When the Chief had replaced the receiver he turned to the Deputy. ‘He got rattled. He should have made them listen to his summing-up before he took a verdict. There’ll be a rumpus now,’ he said.
But he was wrong. The press understood that any enquiry into the prosecution or the police conduct in the Playfair case could lead to an investigation into the role played by the press and their own links with their informants in the police. So the editors comforted themselves that the fuss was, after all, over the case of a wealthy man with a knighthood – not a very sexy subject, the tabloids decided, on which to found a campaign against persecution by the authorities. So no more was heard about the jury’s comments and the matter was allowed quietly to fade away. Bramley and his editor were much relieved, while Detective-Inspector Johnson was quietly transferred from the plain-clothes branch back to uniform duties in the county traffic division.
* * *
From the hotel in the town Virginia telephoned Hugo Shelbourne’s chambers. Isles told her that Mr Shelbourne had left for the country just after lunch. ‘He was not feeling well, madam. He thinks he may have a bout of flu coming on,’ the clerk told her.
Hugo Shelbourne would have to feature in her story. He was, after all, one of the main players. She would have to see him again.
When she arrived two hours later she told the driver to wait. Before she reached the front door it swung open. Hugo Shelbourne was in his shirt-sleeves. She could hear the news bulletin on the radio repeating what had happened in court.
‘Can I come in?’ she said. For answer he stood aside, then followed her and switched off the radio.
‘The immediate question,’ she said, smiling vivaciously, pulling off her gloves and running her hand through her hair, ‘is whether I keep the hire car or send it away.’
‘Had you thought of staying?’ he replied.
‘Not if you don’t want me to.’ She walked over to the fire. ‘Not if you don’t want to talk to me.’
‘As I assume anything I say will appear in your article, I think I’d better say very little.’
‘Hugo, darling,’ she said, turning towards him, ‘I’ve come because I wanted to see you.’
‘You mean,’ he said, ‘you wanted to see how I was taking it.’
‘Don’t be silly. I came to see you – and to talk about your side of the story.’
‘My side of the story!’ He walked to the tray of drinks on the side table and poured some whisky into a tumbler. Quite a lot of whisky, she saw. ‘My side of the story is short and simple. I was set up, like Playfair told the court Trelawney had set him up.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Playfair kept back everything of importance. He told me nothing of what really happened. If what the reports say he told the court was true—’
‘Do you think it wasn’t?’ she interrupted.
He waved his glass dismissively, as he took ice from the ice-bucket on the table and dropped it into the whisky. ‘He allowed me to make a fool of myself, then he publicly humiliated me.’
‘Why do you think he did that?’
‘To put himself in a better light with the jury. Make them more sympathetic. Frail old man, forced to defend himself because of the outrageous behaviour of his advocate.’
He flung himself into a chair. Virginia was still standing, still in her coat in front of the fire.
‘And once he’s got rid of the lawyer, hey presto! Miracles begin to happen. Rabbits come jumping out of the hat, the blackmailer, the wicked policeman, the corrupt newspaper, the tape, the bank statements, letters from Lloyd’s. Then he almost collapses in the witness-box, and a feeble prosecutor chucks in the towel.’
‘And you think he planned it all?’
‘He couldn’t have planned the gutless prosecutor giving up. But what he said was probably all lies.’
‘About him and Trelawney?’ she said, interested.
‘Well, it can’t be proved or disproved, can it? How do you know that money went to Trelawney?’
‘Some of it certainly went to his company in France. The documents showed that. And the rest, if it didn’t go to Trelawney, who did it go to? And since Playfair proved he didn’t need money, why should he want to kill Trelawney?’
Shelbourne shrugged. ‘Because something happened between them. I don’t know what, but all I do know is that if I’d been the prosecutor I’d’ve burrowed away until I’d dug out the real story behind all that balls. If I’d been the prosecutor it would have been Jonathan Playfair who’d’ve chucked in the towel, not the prosecution.’ He sprawled in the armchair, already half-drunk. ‘By the time I’d finished, I’d have found out a lot more about the saintly Sir Jonathan.’
‘So you think he did kill Trelawney?’
‘What does it matter what I think? He’s been found Not Guilty, and he’s done for me.’
‘That’s nonsense, Hugo.’
He glared at her. ‘What do you know about it? You don’t understand. You’re only a hack. Well, let me tell you what people in the profession, other barristers or solicitors, will remember about the Playfair case. What they’ll remember is that Hugo Shelbourne was briefed to defend Jonathan Playfair and Hugo Shelbourne got sacked. Then Jonathan Playfair defended himself and Jonathan Playfair was acquitted. End of story. End of Shelbourne.’ He drained his glass and got up from the chair and staggered back to the decanter on the side table.
‘I’m sorry—’ she began.
He turned and looked at her. ‘You’re not sorry. It gives a good twist to your story, doesn’t it? And to top it all off, you can describe how you found maudlin defence counsel blubbing into his whisky.’
She walked over to the table where she had put her gloves.
‘I wasn’t much of a lover was I?’ he said. ‘Not up to your class, was I? Not the old QC, not Hugo Shelbourne. Not the sexual athlete you need, was he? And you can put that in too. The human touch, isn’t that what they like? That should help sell it.’
She turned on her heel and went out to the car, leaving his front door open behind her.
* * *
But Hugo Shelbourne wasn’t the only lawyer to suffer from the trial of Regina v. Playfair. As the Attorney General had prophesied, Richard Bracton, who had taken so seriously his responsibility as an impartial officer of justice, did not become a judge. Nor did he receive any more briefs from the Director of Public Prosecutions. He stayed on at the bar, but at first solicitors feared he was under some kind of official cloud and were reluctant to brief him. But he persevered and his practice slowly revived. While he mourned the loss of the appointment to the circuit bench on which he had set his heart, he had no regrets over what he’d done. ‘As the prosecutor,’ he told Joan, ‘I was an officer of justice, and I did what was right.’ And she agreed with him.
19
IT was just after Jonathan had been driven away from the court that the woman approached Harold.
He had followed as Jonathan, accompanied by James and Mary, had been escorted from the court by the attendants and the police, who formed a cordon to push a way through the throng. Outside the Great Door of the castle they had been met with the flash of the cameras. Jonathan clambered into the car and lay back on the rear seat, his eyes closed, his face deathly pale. Mary got in beside him; James next to the chauffeur. For the last time the car swept out of the castle yard on its way to Pembroke House.
It was then that Harold felt the tug on his sleeve and, turning, he looked down and saw her at his elbow. The photographers were starting to pack away their kit and by now it was almost dark. The forecourt of the castle was lit only by the tall standard lamps and the lights above and beside the Great Door. At fir
st he couldn’t see her clearly, for the crowd was still pressing all round them and she was being forced up against him. But he could see she was very small and slight, and then, in the flash as a newsman took a final shot of the back of Jonathan Playfair’s car, he saw she was a woman in her fifties, dressed in grey, with a grey, pinched face and grey hair emerging from a maroon-coloured hat with a curved brim.
‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you something to do with the trial?’
He peered down at her through his steel-rimmed spectacles. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘What do you want?’
‘I thought you were. I’ve seen you on television.’
‘If you’re the press, I’ve nothing to say.’ He was anxious to get to the hotel where he had parked his car and he tried to shoulder his way through the crowd. But the crush was too great and for the moment neither of them could move.
She said, ‘I’ve nothing to do with the press.’ She still had her hand on his arm and as she spoke she looked about her, alarmed by the crush. ‘I’m Mrs Sarah Peachey, from Radley St Philip in Somerset.’ Both of them were being pushed and jostled as she went on breathlessly, ‘I want to speak to someone who knows about the colonel and I’ve seen your face on the tele. I saw you talking to the man they’ve let go free.’
The way she said this nettled him. ‘I was talking to Sir Jonathan Playfair,’ he said ‘I’m his solicitor.’
‘He was the man who was tried for the murder of the colonel, wasn’t he?’
‘He was. Sir Jonathan has just been acquitted in a trial which should never have been held. But I’m in a hurry, madam, and you must excuse me.’
She must be a reporter, he thought. He turned and tried again to push his way through the mass of people, but the woman tugged at his arm once more.
‘Please don’t leave me here,’ she said. ‘I’m not used to crowds. I only came here to find someone who might be able to help me.’
The crowd was thickest where they were standing, and the police and court officials were trying to clear the forecourt. A cameraman, his kit over his shoulder, pushed past, knocking her hard against Harold.
‘Please,’ she said, looking up at him, pleading. ‘Please, help me out of here. I get so worried in crowds.’
Harold took her by the arm and steered her through the throng. Gradually they pushed their way through, until they had crossed the forecourt to the edge of the square away from the Great Door.
‘It’s clearer from here,’ he said. ‘You’ll be all right now. And I must be getting away.’
‘Oh, please,’ she said. ‘I don’t know who to talk to. I’ve come all this way. I want to ask someone about the colonel and you’re the only one I recognised. You said you’re a lawyer so you might be able to help me. Please.’
Harold looked down at the small figure beside him and heard the distress in her voice. For some reason he thought of Margaret, although Margaret was bigger and she was always smiling. This woman wasn’t smiling. Their escape from the crush had obviously frightened her. He had been able to see over most of the heads but she was so short she could not. Under the lamp at the corner of the square where they were now standing he saw her face was even greyer than it had been when she had first accosted him and she looked as though she might faint.
‘You’re nothing to do with the press?’ he asked.
‘No. I’ve come from Radley St Philip. This morning.’
‘Well, I’ll walk you to the town,’ he said, ‘but I’ll have to leave you there. I have an appointment.’
Using his key, he opened the wicket gate and led her on to the path used by the lawyers and court officials. It was dark and neither spoke as they followed the few others using the private way. When they emerged on to the street below the castle she began again. ‘He was such a good man was the Colonel.’
Harold, surprised, said, ‘A good man? You knew him?’
‘I’d never met him, but he did so much for us.’
‘For whom?’
‘For Mum, and the family.’
Colonel Trelawney a good man! They were walking now down a side passage towards the main street of the city.
‘I never met him, but I’ve the letter he wrote after Dad was killed. That was when I was a child, in the war, towards the end of the war.’
‘Your father was killed in the war?’
‘Yes, with the Colonel, in Africa. The Colonel was very good to us.’
‘You came here today to ask about him?’
‘To ask what I ought to do. I read about the trial of the man who killed the Colonel—’
Harold interrupted her. ‘Sir Jonathan did not kill the Colonel,’ he said severely. ‘The Colonel was very ill with cancer and took an overdose, deliberately. The jury very rightly acquitted Sir Johnathan. The prosecution should never have brought the case against him.’
She made no reply as they walked on. Then she said, ‘I hoped to find someone here I could ask what I ought to do about the money the Colonel sent.’
Harold stopped. ‘The money the Colonel sent?’
‘Yes. I keep the shop at Radley St Philip. It’s also the post office. Mum had it before me, and that’s where the money came. I couldn’t get away from the shop before today but I was sure there’d be someone here I could tell about it. So I came to find someone, and I’d seen you on the tele.’
‘I’m not Colonel Trelawney’s lawyer, and if it’s about his money I won’t be able to help you.’
By now they had reached the main street further down the hill. She put her hand on his arm. ‘Please listen. I feel so bad about what I’ve done. I want to do what’s right.’
‘What have you done that you’re so worried about?’
‘It’s the money, the money I kept. I want to do what’s right, though I can’t pay the money back.’
She spoke so agitatedly that he began to think she was becoming hysterical. There was a tearoom just ahead.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ he asked.
‘I would, very much,’ she said.
‘Come along then. But I can’t be long.’
As they walked on he asked, ‘Have you been in court?’
‘No, I couldn’t get in. I only got here in the afternoon and I waited outside. Then I heard the noise and everyone started to come out and I was pushed to the front where the man was taken away in the car and I saw you.’
In the tearoom they found a table and he ordered tea. She was, as he had thought, a woman in her fifties, worn and grey. She still looked frightened and bewildered.
‘Why do you want help?’ he asked.
‘Mum’s dead, you see. She died just after Christmas. Not last Christmas, the one before. I’m on my own. Then I read about the trial and saw the pictures of the Colonel and the man they accused. So I thought I’d find someone here who might know what I ought to do.’
‘About the money?’
‘Yes, the money the Colonel was sending to Mum.’
‘Colonel Trelawney was sending money to your mother? Was he…’ He paused and then went on, ‘Had he been – a friend of your mother?’
‘Oh no. He sent the money after Dad was killed in the war. It came regularly, for years and years. Every year, up to last year.’
It couldn’t have been much, Harold thought as he drank his tea. Trelawney might have been able to send money immediately after the war, but not later.
‘Dad was a sergeant. He was with the Colonel, Mum said, first in France, then in Africa where he was killed. Dad was one of the Colonel’s men. That’s why the Colonel sent Mum the money. He was very generous to Mum and the money came ever so regular, through the post office.’
‘From Colonel Trelawney?’
‘Oh yes. He wrote to Mum a few months after Dad died and said he wanted to help her. I was a child then of course, but Mum kept the letter.’
‘What did the letter say?’
‘The Colonel said we’d be looked after. He said he’d arranged that.’
‘Was it mu
ch money?’
‘We thought so. It came each month but Mum died Christmas a year ago and the money kept coming until May last year. Then it stopped.’ She looked up at him. ‘I kept it, even though Mum was dead.’
‘How much money came after your mother died?’
‘Two thousand five hundred pounds.’
‘Two thousand five hundred pounds!’
‘Yes, five months’ money. January to May. The Colonel used to send five hundred pounds, regular each month. Then it stopped.’
‘Colonel Trelawney sent your mother five hundred pounds each month every year since the war?’
‘Yes.’
He calculated rapidly. Six thousand pounds a year for over forty years. A quarter of a million pounds! ‘What happened to the money?’ he asked.
‘In the fifties,’ she said, ‘Mum and Billy – he’s my elder brother – got a garage in Bristol because the money was coming in so regular. Mum turned over the post office to me and went with him. Then Billy got into trouble.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
She looked down at her hands. ‘He went to prison,’ she said. ‘Something to do with cars, stolen cars. The garage went, and Mum came back to me. They’d borrowed a lot and the money helped to pay Mum’s debts. I was on my own then. Mr Peachey had gone. Mum helped with Eve.’
‘Who is Eve?’
‘She’s my daughter. She’s not quite right. She got very difficult as she grew up. Violent. She’s in a home now.’
Five hundred pounds a month. That was the same sum Jonathan had told the court had gone to Trelawney. Was Trelawney passing it on to the widow of one of his soldiers? Even when he himself had none?
‘Will I get into trouble?’ she asked. ‘I needed it so badly, for Mum lost everything with Billy and Peachey’s never paid me nothing, not for me nor for Eve. I don’t know where Peachey is now. The Welfare think he’s abroad. I know I shouldn’t’ve kept it after Mum was dead.’
‘Couldn’t you have written to Colonel Trelawney?’
‘No. We’d never heard from him after the letter, and that was back in 1943 when I was a baby. All Mum knew was that the money kept being paid to the post office for her. The last few years it came in cash.’
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