Guilty Not Guilty

by Felix Francis

  ‘Didn’t you confront him about it?’ my father asked.

  ‘We tried. But he simply twisted everything we said and threw it back at us with interest. We were advised by a lawyer to stop responding to his emails or communicating with him in any way, but that appears to have made things worse. He now accuses us of trying to destroy him when we’re not even in contact. It’s bizarre.’

  My parents sat quite still, staring at me and waiting for me to go on.

  ‘However, bad as all that is, it pales into insignificance compared to what else he did. He turned his own mother against Amelia. He kept telling her that Amelia was mad and not to be trusted. In the end she believed it. It was as if Joe was jealous of their close relationship so he set out to destroy it. And he managed it. It was that which caused Amelia the most heartbreak and it was what finally tipped her over the edge.’

  ‘What do you mean, it tipped her over the edge?’ my mother asked.

  So I told them everything – the psychiatrists, the therapists, the hospital stays, even the suicide attempts. I told them the whole shebang.

  They were shocked. My mother was even in tears.

  ‘My poor darling,’ she said. ‘How dreadful. Is there nothing you could have done to stop him?’

  ‘Nothing, short of going to court and getting an injunction. And that would have cost a fortune. Thousands at least.’

  ‘But exactly what has all that to do with the reports about you in the papers?’ my father asked.

  ‘Because Joe Bradbury has been telling the police, and the press and anyone else who’ll listen, that I killed his sister and, for some reason, they all believe him.’

  My father had always been one for keeping his emotions in check, as he had taught me to do, but now he let down his guard. I had rarely seen him so angry. He stood up and marched back and forth across the room, continuously bunching and relaxing his fists. ‘There must be something we can do to shut this man up.’

  ‘Douglas says it’s best to do nothing,’ I said. ‘Not to give Joe any more ammunition that he can then fire back. Douglas is fully aware of what’s been going on and he’s been absolutely wonderful. In fact, I don’t know what I’d have done without him. I’ve been staying at his place in London because the police wouldn’t allow me back into my own house.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ my mother asked.

  ‘Forensic examination,’ I explained. ‘They’ve been searching for evidence.’

  My mother looked appalled at the thought.

  ‘I could do with a drink,’ my father announced. ‘Want one?’

  ‘Why not,’ I said.

  ‘Whisky?’

  He didn’t wait for an answer but went out the door, presumably to the drinks cabinet in the dining room.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us before?’ my mother said quietly, but she was already aware of the answer. ‘I suppose your father would have told Amelia to get a grip and stop making a fuss.’

  ‘It would have made things worse.’

  She nodded. She knew him even better than I did. Much better in fact.

  ‘Edward and Stella are joining us for dinner.’

  ‘Great,’ I said, not meaning it.

  My eldest brother and his wife lived in another part of the castle, as my parents had done when my grandfather was still alive. It had become a tradition in the Gordon-Russell family for the heir apparent to the earldom to live on site but, unlike for former generations, the tax benefits were now being properly utilised. There clearly were some advantages to having a family member in the financial services industry.

  In reality, my parents were now houseguests of Edward in his castle, the estate having been transferred to him several years ago. It was a transaction that I had initiated and managed in order to try to prevent another crippling round of inheritance taxes resulting in a total loss, a fate that had befallen so many British stately homes now owned by the National Trust on behalf of the nation after the taxman had come calling once too often.

  When questioned by Her Majesty’s Revenue & Customs as to whether my parents would henceforth pay Edward a commercial rent, I had asked whether it was now the taxman’s practice to expect all parents who had given up their own home to pay their children commercial rents when they lived with them in their old age, and the matter had been dropped.

  My father returned with a glass of white wine for my mother and two cut-glass tumblers with an ample measure of amber spirit in each for him and me.

  ‘Bugger the lot of them,’ he said, lifting his glass high in a toast, then he tossed a third of his whisky down his throat in one large gulp.

  I smiled ruefully at him as I sipped at mine. It wasn’t that easy just to dismiss them all with an expletive. Maybe I could try telling the police to bugger off, but they probably wouldn’t have taken any notice.

  And they didn’t.

  12

  I had a disturbed night and it was not just because my bedroom was cold, although that hadn’t helped.

  Dinner was not easy.

  My elder brother, Edward, was not particularly happy that I was there at all. It was clear from his body language.

  ‘How are the boys?’ I asked, trying to make things civil.

  ‘Away at prep school,’ Stella said. ‘Near Chester.’

  ‘You must miss them,’ I said.

  ‘I do,’ she replied, smiling at me wanly before glancing rapidly at Edward to check his reaction. ‘But they’re home for the half-term break this Friday. I can’t wait.’ This time the smile was genuine.

  Edward, meanwhile, was building up a head of steam and it finally blew loudly and tactlessly over the main course.

  ‘You’re blackening our family’s good name,’ he said directly to me across the table.

  I looked down at my food and ignored him – it was less stressful than getting into a fight.

  ‘Now, now, Edward, dear,’ my mother said, stroking the back of his hand. ‘William has enough trouble without you adding to it.’

  It did not noticeably appease my brother, who pompously expressed his opinion that the common people looked to families such as ours to provide role models for their behaviour.

  He had clearly forgotten that the first earl, our ancestor, had been a depraved and shameless womaniser who had acquired this castle as a result of a bet on cards in a brothel, and then had allegedly demanded a title in exchange for keeping quiet about an eighteenth-century royal scandal in the same establishment.

  Nowadays that might have been called extortion.

  ‘It’s an outrage him being here,’ Edward muttered to no one in particular.

  I looked up at him. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ I said quietly.

  I could see from his face that he thought I was lying, and he was about to say something else when our father cut in sharply. ‘That’s enough, Edward. You heard your mother.’

  We all sat there in awkward silence for a while, the only noise being the clinking of our cutlery on the plates. And any conversation during the remainder of the meal was somewhat uneasy and forced, such that I think we were all relieved when it was over and Edward and Stella could return to their own quarters at the far end of the castle.

  ‘I’m tired,’ my mother announced. ‘I’m going up to bed.’

  She offered her cheek for a goodnight kiss.

  ‘I think I might do the same,’ I said. ‘It’s been a long day.’

  ‘How about a nightcap?’ my father said, raising his bushy eyebrows at me in a manner that suggested that it wasn’t really a request, more of an order.

  ‘Fine,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t stay up too late, you boys,’ my mother said with a hollow laugh as she disappeared out through the door.

  ‘Whisky?’ my father asked. ‘Some of that Glenmorangie you brought with you?’

  ‘Just a very little,’ I said.

  I wasn’t a habitual drinker of alcohol, let alone neat spirits, but on this occasion I welcomed the sharp warming sensation it made in m
e as it slipped down.

  ‘Now then, William,’ my father said, clearing his throat. ‘I think it’s time you fought back.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You can’t just stand by and let all this happen to you without responding. Look at this evening at dinner. You let Edward off without as much as a whimper, sitting there with your head down as if he were right and you are guilty. The same with this Bradbury man. It’s time to fight back, boy.’

  I stared at him. Part of me agreed with him, and strongly so.

  ‘But I have been advised by my solicitors not to respond in any way.’

  ‘I don’t care what their advice is,’ my father said, banging his hand on the table to emphasise the point. ‘Your silence has got to stop or else everyone will believe you killed Amelia. And I’m assuming you didn’t.’

  ‘No, Pa, I didn’t.’

  ‘Then say so. Shout it from the ramparts and sue the damn papers for libel.’

  ‘Suing newspapers is extremely expensive,’ I said.

  ‘Only if you lose.’

  I shook my head. ‘It would be expensive anyway. Even if you win, you never get all your costs back, and your lawyers expect you to pay them what they call a retainer before they will do anything. All of it, up front, just in case you lose. It would run into the hundreds of thousands. I haven’t got that sort of cash lying around, and neither have you.’

  ‘It’s so bloody unfair,’ my father said in frustration.

  It certainly was.

  We finished our drinks and then I made my way up the cold stone spiral staircase to my bedroom high in one of the towers that had made up the main defences of the castle.

  The original thirteenth-century structure had been rectangular with a round tower at each corner and another midway down each side, the towers joined by curtain walls between them. It had not been built for comfort but simply to house a garrison of troops to defend itself and to dominate the surrounding countryside.

  It had been Sir Thomas Humberly who had converted the interior of the towers from damp fetid dungeons into proper living accommodation, including the installation of square windows set high into the stonework, not an easy task considering the four-feet-thick fortified walls that sloped gradually inwards from ground level.

  This bedroom was not where I’d spent my early childhood nights, that had been in the part now occupied by Edward and Stella, but this had been my space since I’d been a teenager when my father had inherited. The only difference since that time being the swapping of the single bed for a double after my marriage – something that, in itself, had been quite a task as it had had to be dismantled, carried up the narrow stairway in pieces, and then reconstructed in situ.

  I sat down on the side of that bed and felt very alone. Amelia had loved this place, although more so in the warmth of the summer rather than now, as winter approached, with the bitter cold already seeping into my every joint. Central heating remained one of the modern-day comforts that the castle was still lacking although, thankfully, electricity, running water and sanitation had been installed in the first quarter of the twentieth century.

  I undressed quickly and put on my warm pyjamas together with some bedsocks and my sweater. While folding my trousers, I came across the three envelopes that I had stuffed into a pocket at the Old Forge.

  As I’d assumed, one of them contained a bill that could wait, but the other two did not. They were both letters and I read each of them through several times, absorbing the bad news.

  The first was from the chairman of the BHA telling me that my services as an honorary racecourse steward were no longer ‘in the best interests of British racing’ and therefore my name had been struck from their list; all my future appointments as a steward had been cancelled.

  But it was the second letter that was the real worry.

  It was from my bank, informing me that there had been an insufficient balance in my account to cover the recent direct-debit demand for my monthly mortgage payment. It further reminded me that, unless I placed more funds in the account as a matter of urgency to cover the debt, they could commence proceedings to recover the loan by foreclosing on the property.

  That was all I needed.

  Kick a man when he’s down, why don’t you?

  I’d lost my wife, my job, my hobby and my reputation, and now I was in danger of losing my home as well.

  No wonder I didn’t sleep well.

  *

  I woke early from a combination of cold and anxiety and I lay for a long while as darkness gave way to daylight, wrapped tight in the duvet, wondering if my father was right.

  Perhaps I should start fighting back.

  Did people only believe Joe Bradbury because there was no one telling them that he was lying through his teeth? Maybe I should conduct my own interviews with the newspapers, accusing him of being the murderer.

  But would they listen?

  Simon Bassett had claimed they would only distort what I’d say to match their own agendas. But could that really make things worse for me than they already were?

  I had to be joking. Of course it could.

  Still wrapped in the duvet, I lay prone on the deep window seat with my phone pressed up close to the glass – it was the only spot in the room with any signal – and downloaded my emails. There was wireless internet access in my father’s study but, with such thick walls in the castle, the waves didn’t make it into the next room let alone all the way up here.

  There were only six emails in total, far fewer than I would have normally expected, and not one of them to do with any work, either past, present or future. It was as if I had fallen off the actuarial planet.

  Indeed, five of the six were spam or unwanted advertising and the remaining one was from the local Hanwell village round-robin email service informing me of the dates and times of upcoming services in the parish church.

  At least I hadn’t been struck off that list, not yet anyway.

  I sighed. At the very time I needed the support of a loving wife, she was not here to provide it.

  Even in our darkest hours, when Amelia had been hospitalised with mental health problems, she had still been there for me, understanding what I was going through as her husband, and helping me believe that she would soon be well and home again.

  Now, there was no possibility of that.

  I would simply have to cope on my own, one way or another.

  My bedroom window faced slightly south of east and I looked out into England, across the flatness of the Cheshire and Shropshire plain, towards the Wrekin, the hill faintly visible in the far distance. Much closer, I could just make out Bangor-on-Dee Racecourse where I had once ridden two winners in a single afternoon and had been presented with a trophy for the second victory by my own father, with Amelia looking on in admiration.

  Happy days.

  As I watched, two cars made their way up the long driveway towards the castle and, to my dismay, one of them was a marked police car.

  What the hell did they want?

  My dismay deepened considerably when, having pulled up on the gravel outside the main entrance, I saw that DS Dowdeswell was one of the four men that climbed out of the vehicles. And I was sure he wasn’t here for his health or the view.

  The maxim is often quoted that an Englishman’s home is his castle. Although technically a Welshman, my father’s home was indeed a castle and, if it had been down to me, I would have raised the drawbridge – that’s if we’d had one – and let the sergeant stew outside. I might even have been tempted, like that medieval garrison, to pour boiling liquids down on the invaders through the ‘murder holes’ constructed for the purpose above the entrance.

  My father, however, must have let them bypass the castle fortifications and walk straight into the building as, presently, I heard him at the bottom of the stone staircase.

  ‘William,’ he shouted up. ‘There are some men down here to see you. They’re police.’

  I felt cornered.


  My heart was beating fast, with adrenalin coursing through my body. Part of me wanted to kick out the window and use knotted bedsheets as a rope to make my escape, like some swashbuckling hero of a 1950s B movie.

  Instead, I dressed quickly and went down to face the music.

  ‘William Gordon-Russell,’ said the detective sergeant immediately I arrived at ground level, ‘I arrest you on suspicion of the murder of Amelia Gordon-Russell.’

  13

  ‘You must be mistaken,’ my father said loudly, just as soon as the DS had finished telling me that I had the right to remain silent but anything I did say might be used in evidence.

  ‘No, sir,’ the detective said firmly. ‘I am not mistaken. I have driven here from Oxfordshire this morning to arrest your son. He will come with us. I also need his belongings, and his car.’

  ‘But it’s preposterous,’ my father exclaimed, going a little puce in the face.

  ‘It’s all right, Pa,’ I said. ‘Please keep calm. And do something for me. Call Simon Bassett and ask him to meet me at Banbury Police Station.’ I turned to DS Dowdeswell. ‘I assume we are going there.’

  He grunted, which I took to be confirmation.

  My father, however, wasn’t finished yet.

  ‘I think it’s monstrous that you come in here without any appointment, force your way into my property, and arrest my son without so much as a by-your-leave. I intend to complain to the Home Secretary.’

  He was going even redder in the face and I was seriously worried that his blood pressure was going through the roof and that he might easily have a seizure.

  ‘Pa,’ I said loudly. ‘It’s fine. Calm down. They are only doing their jobs. I’ll be back here before you know it.’

  I went to make a movement towards my father and that was my error.

  The two constables holding my arms must have sensed the tightening in my muscles and they clearly mistook it as an attempt to flee.