The Mitford Trial

by Jessica Fellowes

Manners, in his long black gown and short wig, cut an imposing but not frightening figure. He reminded Guy of a kindly but firm headmaster, one who would indulge the pranks of schoolboys, but only up to a point. Before him, on his table, were several bound files thick with papers, and he was even at this last minute scribbling further notes and passing them back to his juniors.

  Also present was the second defence counsel, Mr Vangood. He looked out of his depth, a provincial barrister more used to being a big fish in a small pond. Here he had the look of an understudy called onto the stage to take a lead role with only minutes to spare. His stomach protruded from the gape of his gown, revealing a pinstriped suit with waistcoat and a gold watch chain, which was either old-fashioned or pretentious. Judging by his drinker’s nose and half-moon specs, Guy bet on the former.

  Finally, there was the prosecution lawyer, Mr Burton-Lands. The oldest of the three, in his mid-fifties, perhaps, he had dark hooded eyes that seemed not entirely unsympathetic. Stiles had whispered to Guy that Burton-Lands had published a book on stamp-collecting as a young man, but whether this was meant in his favour or against him Guy couldn’t ascertain.

  On the other side of the dock were the press benches, crammed with the usual oily types, pencils behind their ears, while up above in the public gallery were numerous women of all descriptions squeezed in together, many dressed in what looked like their Sunday best, looking for all the world as if they were having a grand day out. Guy had heard that some had paid ten pounds for their spot, held by men who had slept in the queue outside the Old Bailey overnight. Their eyes were turned in a single direction: to the dock, where sat the two accused prisoners and their guards.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The telephone was ringing and would not stop. Louisa held the earpiece up, shouting into it, but it kept on ringing and no matter what she did – even pulling the cord out of the wall – its jangling sound penetrated into her ears until it seemed to vibrate her skull.

  Guy shook her and she awoke. The telephone was ringing and she picked it up.

  ‘Louisa?’ It was Diana. ‘Were you asleep? You need to come up here straightaway. Bring Guy, too.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I can’t tell you on the telephone. Come, as fast as you can.’

  Louisa replaced the handset and rubbed her eyes. She switched on the bedside light and winced at its brightness. Guy lay on the bed, half-blind without his glasses, his hair messy and his broad chest still warm. He’d been asleep when she’d got in and she didn’t think she’d ever known anything so nice as climbing into that bunk with him already there. Bliss was always brief.

  ‘That was Mrs Guinness,’ she said. ‘She wants us both to go up there. Something’s happened.’

  Guy sat up and reached for his glasses, putting them on before he spoke. By that time, Louisa had already got out of the bed and was starting to pull on her clothes.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘She wouldn’t say, but she asked for you to be there, too.’

  ‘Me?’

  Louisa knew they were both thinking the same thing. Whatever had taken place, Diana thought a policeman needed to be there. ‘Yes, come on. We’ll get no rest till we find out. She’s probably gone back to her cabin and not realised she left her bag in the bar and thinks it was stolen.’ Louisa was trying to lighten the mood but the truth was, she knew it would be more serious than that. Diana was not frivolous or forgetful. As to what it could be, she didn’t know.

  Louisa’s own corridor was quiet, but as soon as they reached the back stairs, they could hear that there was more activity than was usual for so late at night. It was two o’clock in the morning, and there were sometimes drinkers still in the bars, or even a few dancers by the piano, but something in the air made Louisa uneasy. Up on deck B, Louisa led Guy swiftly to the passage along which lay the cabins of Lady Redesdale, Unity and Diana. Here, several people were swarming about, some in striped pyjamas, some in crew uniform, some in evening dress. There was anxious chatter at a high fever pitch and one woman was crying, a man rubbing her back, ineptly comforting her. Louisa and Guy pushed past as quickly as they could, making their way to Diana’s cabin. Louisa knocked and the door was opened by Unity, wearing a navy cotton dressing gown, her hair wrapped in a silk turban, her mouth pale and straight, devoid of its usual red lipstick. She said nothing but stepped aside to let them both in.

  In the drawing room, Diana was sitting on the sofa, also wearing a dressing gown, but one which could have passed muster as an evening dress for a dance at Buckingham Palace, with a feathered brooch pinned at one shoulder and matching satin slippers with a small heel. Her face was clean but drawn. In spite of her youth and beauty, she was grey around the gills, thought Louisa, recalling an expression of her mother’s.

  ‘Joseph Fowler has been attacked,’ said Diana. ‘Horribly.’

  Louisa felt as if an invisible hand had pushed her in the chest.

  ‘Do you know who did it?’ This was crucial. If it was an unknown attacker, there was someone on the ship who was – potentially – extremely dangerous.

  ‘No,’ said Diana, oblivious to the consequences of what she was saying. ‘Ella was too hysterical to tell me anything. I’m not even clear as to whether she found him or someone else did.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘I suppose they must have some sort of sick bay on a ship like this.’

  ‘Where was he attacked?’ Guy had stepped forward and Louisa could see that his instinct had taken over, all other formalities to be ignored.

  ‘Presumably where he was found. In his cabin.’

  Louisa and Guy exchanged a glance. She stayed quiet.

  ‘Where is his wife?’ Guy asked.

  Diana lit a cigarette and blew out the first puff of smoke. ‘She called from her cabin so she must be there. I’m not unsympathetic, it’s ghastly, of course. I simply don’t want to get caught up in this.’ She looked up at Louisa, furious. ‘The Leader does not need this; he will not like it.’

  ‘What did you do when she telephoned?’ asked Louisa. Unity had walked around behind them and sat down on the opposite sofa; she lit a cigarette too. Louisa could feel the smoke settle on her hair and clothes.

  Diana closed her eyes briefly, opening them again to talk. ‘She wasn’t making any sense on the telephone. She said she’d done him in, then she said he’d done it, naming no names. She was slurring, she sounded mad. I thought she was drunk or sleepwalking or something. I went down to her cabin, but then I saw…’ She broke off. ‘I saw him in the chair, bleeding from his head. It was horrible.’ She looked at Guy. ‘Almost as soon as I got there, others rushed in, and I left. I didn’t want to be in that room. I got back here and called Unity, then you.’ She looked at Louisa. ‘I needed company.’

  ‘Why did you say Mr Sullivan needed to come too?’

  ‘Because I don’t want to have to be the one to talk to Mrs Fowler. I’d like Guy to do it. He’s a policeman, isn’t he?’

  Louisa smarted at the use of his Christian name, the casual demotion of his rank from detective sergeant.

  Guy started patting his pockets. He said quietly to Louisa, ‘I don’t have my notebook on me. Where can I find paper and a pen?’

  She kept her attention on Diana but pointed to the desk in the corner of the room.

  ‘What? For heaven’s sake, are you taking notes? I told you: I don’t want any part of this.’ Diana stubbed out her cigarette, only half-smoked.

  Guy turned from the desk, holding a pad of writing paper in his hand, a pencil in the other. ‘I have to,’ he said. ‘You might be a witness; you could have seen something important.’

  ‘Why? You saw the man earlier, he obviously gets himself into fights. He’ll get patched up, then he’ll be back to his normal, awful self, won’t he? It’s not as if it’s a murder investigation.’

  ‘No,’ said Guy. ‘But if it turns into one…’

  Unity stood up then, alarm on her face. ‘Why are
you saying that? Why?’

  ‘It’s best to be prepared,’ was his reply.

  Unity sat back down heavily. ‘Muv is not going to like this at all,’ she muttered.

  ‘Mrs Guinness,’ said Guy. ‘I’m going to go to the Fowlers’ cabin now. I will need to talk to you again about the telephone call and what you saw.’

  Diana looked at him balefully. ‘I’ll get some sleep first, in that case. Louisa, telephone down for some hot milk, would you?’

  Louisa and Guy locked eyes. She hoped this wasn’t going to ruin their short time together, but she already had a sinking feeling that it would.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  This time, Guy used his badge. Thankfully, he never took it out of his inside suit pocket, so although he had dressed in a hurry, it was with him. He held it out as he walked into the cabin that Louisa had directed him towards, further along the same passage as Diana’s. The guests in the hallway had started to drift away now, the remaining few in danger of revealing themselves as ghoulish tourists in dressing gowns.

  The door to cabin B-17 was closed – all the doors on the Princess Alice swung shut automatically – but not locked. Guy pushed it open and stepped into a narrow entrance, with a further door opposite; to his left the entrance carried on, leading presumably to other rooms of this suite. It was cluttered with several coats and hats hanging up and shoes that were ineptly lined up against the wall. To his surprise, Guy could hear jazz music playing loudly. Quickly, firmly, Guy opened the door into the drawing room. Immediately he blinked: all the lights were on, making it bright enough that his eyes ached, but it did at least leave nothing to hide.

  Guy took in the scene, trying to nail down as many details as he could in a few seconds. On the left-hand wall was a second open door that he assumed led to the bedroom, or bedrooms, and a bathroom. The room was comfortable and stylish, grander than anything in his own house but more modest than Diana Guinness’s stateroom. Opposite the door he’d walked through were floor-to-ceiling curtains, dark yellow with a flower print, parted in the middle, and through the gap he could see only darkness on the other side of a clear panel of glass – French windows leading to a balcony, he assumed. In front of the curtains an armchair, the impression of a body that had been sitting in it still visible on the cushions. To the left of the chair there was a muddy-looking damp patch on the cream carpet that he wanted to inspect more closely. Otherwise, everything was in its place.

  The real problem was the people swarming everywhere, all over the crime scene, talking in low voices, their eyes darting around. Mostly young men in white uniform so far as he could see. No one seemed to respond to his having entered the room until he caught the eye of a maid, her skin as white as the frilled apron she wore. She looked away quickly and turned towards a figure that Guy knew he should have noticed sooner.

  This was Joseph Fowler’s wife, he was sure, having seen her earlier, after the first punch-up of the evening, leaving with the older man to go to supper. She was no longer in her evening dress but in coffee-coloured satin pyjamas that had a dark stain on one of the trouser legs; her hair was unkempt and she had a glass of whisky in one hand. Most surprisingly of all, she seemed to be dancing – swaying – around the room, talking loudly and incoherently to no one in particular. As he watched, she grabbed the arm of one of the white-suited crew members and appeared to be trying to kiss him, the man putting his hands on her shoulders and trying to talk to her calmly. All this happened in a matter of seconds.

  Standing by the armchair – his shoes too close to the stain on the carpet – also watching Mrs Fowler, was the man that Guy knew must be the captain. He was in full uniform, including the cap with its gold badge on the front. Guy walked over and stood a little to his side, hoping to make the captain move away from the incriminating spot on the carpet.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, are you the captain of this ship?’

  The man turned to Guy, his pockmarked skin weathered, his blue eyes faded to the colour of a winter’s morning. ‘What is it to you?’ He had a German accent, but it was not strong.

  ‘I’m DS Sullivan, I’m with the CID of the Metropolitan Police. I gather there’s been an incident.’

  The captain looked over at where Mrs Fowler was swaying by the gramophone player. There were loud squeaks as she scratched the needle on the record and he winced.

  ‘Captain Schmitt.’ He put out his hand for Guy to shake, but his eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, there has been an incident. How is it you are here? Did you know this was going to happen?’

  ‘No, sir, it’s coincidence. I’m staying on your ship for a few days because my wife is here, working as a lady’s maid for Lady Redesdale. I joined at Livorno and was planning to leave at Rome. Captain, can you tell me – are we further than twelve miles from land?’

  ‘Considerably further; we cannot dock for another thirty-two hours.’

  ‘And my understanding is that the man who has been attacked, Mr Joseph Fowler, is British?’

  ‘Ja, that is my understanding too.’

  ‘In that case, if there is a line of inquiry to pursue here, it falls under the jurisdiction of the British police. If there is no one else here, I think I had better take charge. Will you agree?’

  Captain Schmitt nodded. He gestured to a crisply dressed young man beside him. ‘This is the first officer, Mr Logan. He will assist you in any way you need. If you will forgive me, I must return to my post.’

  ‘I will need to talk to you later,’ said Guy.

  ‘Absolutely.’ The captain left, and on his signal three members of the crew followed him.

  Guy knew he needed to talk to the maid and Mrs Fowler, but the likelihood of her telling him anything that would make sense was vanishingly small. He turned to the first officer, but before he could say anything, another man came into the cabin and walked straight towards Mrs Fowler, who put her arms around his neck, the remaining few drops of whisky sloshing out of the glass.

  ‘Doctor,’ she mumbled, ‘doctor, I need you.’

  ‘Mrs Fowler,’ said the doctor, carefully removing her hands but keeping hold of her.

  Guy went towards him and showed his badge. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Sullivan—’ he started, but the doctor waved at him to stop.

  ‘Mrs Fowler is in no state to say anything. I’m taking her to her bed and giving her morphia to calm her down.’

  Mrs Fowler leaned heavily against the doctor as he said this. ‘I did it, I did it,’ she was saying. ‘He’s been killed.’

  Guy was alarmed, but he wasn’t going to stand in the doctor’s way. The two of them walked through the door to the bedroom, the maid following behind.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  There was no one in the room now but Guy and the first officer, who was standing by the drinks cabinet, undoing and redoing the button on his blazer. He stood a little straighter as Guy walked towards him.

  ‘Mr Logan,’ Guy began, then hesitated. ‘Is that how I address you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I don’t know the ins and outs of ships – you’ll have to forgive me if I say anything out of line. I need you to get rid of everyone in the passage outside – but carefully and taking note of their names in case I need to question anyone. Also, please make a note of the names of the crew who were here earlier with the captain. Has anyone touched anything in here?’ He wanted to be professional, but he knew he was failing to keep the nerves out of his voice.

  ‘I couldn’t say for certain, but I don’t think so, sir.’

  ‘Do you know anything of the condition of Joseph Fowler?’

  Logan touched the tip of his nose nervously. ‘I believe he is unconscious, sir. He’s in the ship’s sanatorium. The doctor will know more.’

  ‘He will, but he is occupied for now. I’d like you to call through for me, please, and ask the nurse for a report. Thank you,’ he said, and when Logan hadn’t moved: ‘Quickly now.’

  Alone, Guy set to work as best he could. He had no fingerprint du
sting powder, no blood-testing kit, no assistants. Without moving the curtains he looked through the glass, but it was dark outside and he could only make out the railings of the narrow balcony, with a small white iron table and two chairs.

  Back in the room, the patch beside the armchair looked muddied, but further along he saw small spots, darkened to a deep rust red, missed by whoever had tried to clean the rest. He thought there might have been two or even three different spatter patterns, meaning Mr Fowler had been struck at least as many times on the left side of his head as he sat in the armchair, perhaps from behind. An empty tumbler was also by the chair, tipped on its side. Otherwise, there was little to tell a tale. It was the usual innocuous interior of the more expensive of the Princess Alice’s cabins, with cream carpet and printed blue wallpaper. The only jarring note was the folded blanket and pillow on the sofa.

  Logan came back into the room as Guy became aware of a woman’s voice: Mrs Fowler in the bedroom, or perhaps the maid. He needed to speak to them soon.

  Logan confirmed that Joseph Fowler was alive but had not regained consciousness. Guy asked him to stand guard and ensure that no one came in. The second doorway in the drawing room, which he guessed led to the bedroom, also went through to the narrow passage, continuous from the front door. Someone could come in through the front door of the cabin and, by turning left, reach the bathroom and bedroom without needing to go through the drawing room.

  Guy looked inside the bathroom, which had a light on over the sink. The walls were either glass or mirror, with black and white tiles on the floor and around the sides of the bath, everything gleaming. On the side of the sink was a cabinet with three drawers, with a mirrored box on top that contained a messy collection of what he assumed was Mrs Fowler’s cosmetics. A wet flannel was scrunched up in the corner of the sink, there were streaks of grey on the soap and the toothpaste had its top off. She was not a natural housewife, perhaps.

  He pulled back the bath curtain and saw that there was a sopping-wet man’s waistcoat and jacket draped on the taps. Guy recognised these as the ones Joseph Fowler had been wearing earlier that evening.