Prisoner at the Bar

by Roderic Jeffries

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “Found in the dead man’s fingers was a blonde hair which came from the head of your wife. That hair had to come off the clothes of either you or me.”

  “I know nothing.”

  “Is your hatred of someone who appears to take one of your possessions so great that even when the truth is obvious you’ll go on lying to keep him rotting in jail?”

  Curson did not answer.

  “Did you drive anywhere in your Morris on the night of the murder?”

  “No.”

  Bladen was silent for several seconds, then he said: “You are a man of very great property?”

  “Yes.”

  “And still very active in business?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you say that the success of much of your business depends on your being in charge?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you were not at the helm all the time, much of your work would suffer, especially in view of the uncertain climate of the business world at the moment?”

  “Probably.”

  “Then if you were sent to jail your great wealth might suddenly melt away and all your beautiful possessions, those possessions which mean everything to you, would be stripped from you?”

  “This is absurd.”

  “Not quite as absurd as you might wish. I said earlier that our law has its anomalies. One might reasonably have expected a man to be legally required to come forward and save another falsely accused and convicted of a crime. This is not so, however. Even the little-known offence of misprision of felony consists in concealing or procuring the concealment of a felony known to have been committed and here there was no concealment.”

  Curson shifted his weight. “Then all your…”

  “Just one moment. Never forget that the law has a nasty habit of carrying a sting in its tail. You knew the truth about the murder but could keep silent. Even if the whole truth were proved, you would be guilty of no offence.”

  “Then what has all this…”

  “Have you overlooked the fact that you are now in a court of law on oath and therefore you now owe the law a duty — to tell the truth? Have you overlooked the fact that not to observe this duty is a criminal offence, called perjury?”

  Curson’s expression became shocked.

  “The maximum punishment for perjury is seven years,” said Bladen harshly, “and I suggest that in your case few courts, if any, would be loath to award the maximum sentence. Are you prepared to suffer seven years’ imprisonment just for the pleasure of making certain I remain convicted of a murder I didn’t commit because I seem to have deprived you of one of your possessions? Are you willing to lose not one, but all your possessions on the altar of revenge?”

  Curson shut his eyes and rocked back on his heels.

  Bladen rested his hands on the back of the bench in front of him. “Did you go out in your Morris car on the night of Monday the thirtieth of September? And may I remind you of the evidence of Mrs. Burns and Mrs. Ratello.”

  Curson opened his eyes and stared at Bladen with a violent hatred. “Yes,” he said.

  Just for a second, Bladen’s hands trembled. “What happened on that night?”

  “Thompson had come to me and said he’d seen my wife and Bladen in a car in Lovers’ Lane.” Curson spoke as if Bladen were not directly facing him. “I called him a liar, but he swore he was telling the truth,”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I keep thinking about it, wondering whether it could be true and what they’d have been doing. She was too faithful, too loyal to have betrayed our marriage — and yet perhaps she wasn’t as loyal and as faithful as I believed. I couldn’t think of anything else. I had to know one way or the other. She only went out with him when I was away so I spent a night in London on my own. I drove down and the journey took so much longer than I thought it would because the car was much slower than the Rolls. I met Thompson half a mile up the road and we walked down in the fields. There was a shooting brake parked in one of the bays. I didn’t think it was Bladen’s because it seemed to be all one colour, but it was difficult to tell in the moonlight and anyway my mind was in a terrible state. Thompson crept up through the bushes to look inside.

  “A half-dressed man suddenly got out of the car. He’d something in his hand and he hit the bush. Thompson reeled out and collapsed. The man kicked him. Thompson tried to avoid the kicks and rolled over the rock face. The man jumped back into the car and drove off.

  “I scrambled down to where Thompson was. He was still alive, but died immediately afterwards. I was too shocked to think clearly. I went back to my car and was going to drive for help when I… I realised the position I was in. People would think I’d also been a peeping Tom. That’s why I didn’t go to the police.”

  “Did the interior light in the car go on when the man opened the door?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you see the man clearly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever seen him before?”

  Curson shook his head.

  *

  Bladen went into the witness box and gave his evidence. He denied any act of intimacy with Katherine Curson at any time. Masters, on instructions, cross-examined at length. Clearly, Curson was vindictively still trying to prove adultery.

  At the conclusion of the cross-examination, Bladen was about to leave the witness box when the judge spoke to him. “Mr. Bladen.”

  “My Lord?”

  “Will you now be calling your witnesses?”

  “Witnesses, my Lord?”

  “Mrs. Burns and Mrs. Ratello.”

  “No, my Lord.”

  “Why not?”

  “In view of the fact that they can add nothing to the evidence…”

  “Are they present in court?”

  “No, my Lord.”

  “Do they exist?”

  “My Lord, they do not.”

  “Then you have been guilty of a grave deceit of the court.”

  “My Lord, although even a convicted barrister may owe a very high duty to the laws of a court, I fear the laws of self-preservation will always prove stronger.”

  Chapter 19

  Katherine’s flat was in a row of houses which ran parallel with the river. She and Bladen arrived there at eight o’clock. It was a raw night, damp and cold, with a fine rain that at any moment could turn to sleet. Bladen, who had been driving, parked her car in the forecourt of the house. They went inside.

  The flat was not large, having but two bedrooms, but it was comfortable and after about nine at night there was not very much traffic along the road outside.

  Katherine sat down on the settee in the sitting room. She looked up at him. “I feel just as if someone had been taking a sledgehammer to my mind.”

  He studied her, carefully recognising all the beauty that for so long had existed only in his mind.

  “Bob, I said lots of things…”

  “Which have all been forgotten.”

  She shook her head. “The kind of things I said aren’t easily forgotten.” She reached up and took his hand. “But I thought you’d betrayed me.”

  “I did.”

  “You had to.”

  “I still betrayed you.”

  “I’ve learned something, Bob. I’ve learned loyalty to one person can be wrong and disloyalty to another can be right.”

  “And I’ve learned that disloyalty to justice may be the only way of securing it.”

  “We’re both disillusioned.” She gently pulled on his arm. He came round and sat down beside her.

  “Kiss me, Bob.”

  “D’you think I ought to?”

  “That’s one damn silly question.”

  “I feel all shot to hell. I’m liable to ignore all the voices of reason and restraint.”

  “Bob, do I have to spell it out to you? If you leave this flat before tomorrow morning, I’ll shout for help.”

  He kissed her, hungrily and achi
ngly. “I knew a nightmare of despair.”

  “I, too.” Her hands caressed him. “That’s why we’re going to burn ourselves free of all nightmares. Make outrageous love to me, Bob, kiss my body afire.”

  “Adultery, no less?”

  She looked at him with eyes that were bright. “The judge refused Elmer a divorce. We’ve got to make sure he succeeds next time.”

  *

  Spring was early. The sun streamed down from a cloudless sky, birds filled the air with mating calls, people left off overcoats, tulips succeeded daffodils, holiday advertisements were everywhere, traffic jams increased, the ice cream trade picked up, politicians became still more politically optimistic, the bank rate went down a point, the stock market rose, protesters marched here, there, and the other place…

  In chambers, spring did not work such a change. Premble was too old to heed the rising of the sap and few solicitors were given to any form of optimism: however, both Premble and visiting solicitors were inclined to be slightly less pessimistic.

  Bladen was sitting at his desk when Premble came into the room and put two briefs on the desk. “More briefs!” said Bladen. He picked them up. “And from old Dickie, at that. His firm must be sending me as much work now as before?”

  “More, sir. Like the other firms, they’re trying to show you that they never really believed the terrible allegations.”

  “English hypocrisy at its most attractive. And look at the marking — one hundred and fifty of the best. Pity the poor client who has to pay that much for the salvation of Dickie’s conscience.”

  “I would not have put it quite like that, sir,” said Premble, a trifle frostily.

  There was a loud knock on the outside door. Premble left the room, to return soon afterwards. “Sir.”

  “What is it this time? A two hundred and fifty guinea brief from Reg who was offering ten to one I’d be found guilty?”

  “Detective Inspector Whicheck, sir.”

  Bladen’s merriment vanished. “What’s he want?”

  “To speak to you, sir.”

  “All right.”

  Premble showed Whicheck into the room, then left. “Good morning, Mr. Bladen,” said Whicheck.

  “Do we shake hands and pretend it was all an unfortunate mistake?”

  Whicheck spoke quietly. “I’m sure you’ll appreciate we were only doing our job.”

  “That kind of appreciation comes a little difficult.”

  Whicheck suddenly twice sneezed violently. He blew his nose. “Hay-fever.”

  “At this time of year? There’s no pollen around.”

  “I wish you could get my nose to understand that.”

  Bladen smiled. “So everything was in the course of duty. Have a seat.”

  Whicheck sat down and crossed his legs. “I felt certain you’d be interested to know what’s happening in the Thompson case. Obviously, our first move was to try and trace the car. Curson said it was like yours, but probably all one colour, and we had the tyre-print which was almost new and said the car could have been the same model as yours. We started a check on all B.M.C. Countrymen of your model. At first we took a circle of ownership of twelve miles, but when that didn’t work we extended to twenty-five miles.

  “We turned up a man called Smithers. He’s smooth and handsome and the only fly in his ointment is that his wife holds the money-bags. She owns a paint factory and to judge from the way they live, paint pays. She’s quite a bit older than he is, looks it, and knows she looks it, so tries to keep a close eye on him. He’s had one party with a fancy bit of goods that his wife got to hear about and she swore then that if he ever played fast and loose again she’d kick him out of her house without a penny to see him on his way.

  “He met a girl — a very juicy redhead — and somehow managed to keep the matter quiet from his wife. He and his redhead used to go for drives and have all the fun of the fair. They were in Lovers’ Lane, at their funniest moment, when he saw a peeping Tom staring at them from the bushes. He was scared silly that this could mean his wife would get to know everything, lost his head, and grabbed the nearest weapon — according to him, the starting handle which was lying on the floor. He held up his trousers with one hand, opened the door with the other, jumped out — he must have landed on the hard ground just to the side of the depression you’d earlier stepped in — and hammered the peeping Tom.”

  “So you’ve got the real murderer this time?”

  “In a way.”

  “How d’you mean?”

  “You can imagine Smithers’ thoughts when he read of your arrest. He wasn’t worried about your collecting a prison sentence, he was terrified that at the last moment the truth might come out and his wife would learn the lot. He followed your trial with a very special interest. That’s undoubtedly why, and how, when I went to arrest him, he admitted delivering the blow with the starting handle but swears that was all.”

  “Then who… Good God!” said Bladen.

  “Smithers knows the blow from the starting handle didn’t kill so he’s claiming he drove away at once and left Thompson lying on the ground, dazed, but still very much alive. He says Thompson must have been trying to blackmail Curson and Curson took the opportunity to deliver a couple of hefty kicks and then roll Thompson over the edge.”

  Bladen began to tap on his desk with his fingers. “I don’t see it. Elmer’s the wrong sort of character.”

  “Stress alters a character, as has been said before in this case.” Whicheck momentarily smiled. “Or maybe Smithers also kicked Thompson and all Curson did was to roll him over the edge.”

  “Won’t the redhead tell you the truth?”

  “Smithers obviously won’t name her and we can’t trace her. Whether Curson did, or did not, roll the man over the edge, he’s going to have a job to prove he didn’t as he never admitted to anything until he was forced to in court. People tend to read guilt into that kind of silence.”

  “So Elmer’s going to learn a little about the tyranny of popular belief — and about the perils of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I wonder how he’ll enjoy his discoveries?”

  “Not very much,” said Whicheck.

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