The Mitford Trial

by Jessica Fellowes

  Guy knocked on the bedroom door, which was closed. Within seconds, the young maid he had seen earlier peered around it. Guy could hear a low groan coming from behind her.

  ‘I’m sorry, miss, but I need to speak to Mrs Fowler, if she’s awake?’

  The maid glanced behind her. ‘She is awake,’ she said, sounding as if she wasn’t certain about this.

  ‘I’m a detective with the CID,’ explained Guy. ‘I am taking control of an investigation into the attack on Mr Fowler. I need to know if Mrs Fowler saw anything.’

  The maid spoke in a whisper that could barely be heard. ‘She’s in no fit state. She’s been saying such terrible things, sir.’ She looked at the floor as she spoke. ‘Telling me she did it, then that it wasn’t her, it was … well, I don’t know who, sir. She seemed to start saying “sir”, but who knows what she meant by that. She’s not very clear.’

  The maid stepped forward and pulled the door behind her a little. ‘It’s been a dreadful night, sir.’ She trailed off at the repeat of the title and looked uncertainly at Guy.

  Poor thing, he thought. She’d come to work on a ship to see the world, probably expecting to do nothing more complicated than any job requiring a feather duster.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  22 May 1935

  Old Bailey, Court Number One

  The prosecution counsel called Blythe North as their witness. She came in with her head bent down and when she spoke to take her oath, she was quiet enough for Mr Justice Hogan to be forced to ask her to speak up. She wore sombre clothes and little make-up, but something in the way she carried herself made Guy think she had designed herself to be noticed. She was strikingly pretty, with dark hair and a figure wrapped in a narrow cream coat that brought to mind starlets who traded on their ‘girl next door’ looks. No girl who looked like that had ever lived next door to anyone he knew.

  Guy had met Blythe on the ship, but in the chaos of the attack and its aftermath, he had not noticed any of this. The marvel was how she had turned herself about completely – he almost might not have realised that the cabin maid he had interviewed then and the woman in the witness box now were one and the same.

  Stiles leaned across to whisper, ‘I hear she’s landed a part in a play at the Haymarket that opens soon.’

  Ah. That explained it.

  Mr Burton-Lands asked Miss North to recount the facts of her whereabouts on the fated evening. This time her diction was beautifully clear and confident. She was an actress who knew how to respond to her director.

  ‘I was working as a cabin maid on the Princess Alice. I had been employed by Empire Line for eight months.’

  ‘One of the cabins you were assigned was that of Mr and Mrs Fowler?’

  ‘Yes, I was the maid for ten of the cabins on the port side of the deck.’

  ‘Where were you on the night in question?’

  ‘I was preparing the rooms for the night. I did them while the guests were at dinner, switching some of the lamps off and turning down the covers, tidying up if needed.’

  ‘At what time did you reach the Fowlers’ cabin on that night?’

  Blythe’s voice remained steady. Guy could not help but admire her steeliness.

  ‘About eleven o’clock. For the Fowlers, I would do the usual tasks but also put out a pillow and blanket on the sofa.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘I believe it was because Mr Fowler slept there.’

  Mr Burton-Lands turned his attention to the jury. ‘Mr Fowler did not appear to share the bedroom suite with his wife but slept on the sofa.’ Point made, he returned to Blythe. ‘Were you alone as you worked in cabin B-17 that night?’

  ‘No. Mr Evans was also working in there.’

  ‘What was he doing?’

  ‘He was clearing up the drinks cabinet, washing and polishing the glass.’

  Mr Burton-Lands then faced the jury and, as if he was asking them the question, said: ‘And what happened to interrupt your work?’

  ‘Mrs Fowler came in, earlier than expected.’

  ‘Earlier? How did you know her routine?’

  ‘They always took the same cabin and I’d been their maid before,’ said Blythe. ‘We always prepared their cabin last and usually she would return from dinner at about half-past ten or thereabouts. Occasionally to retire to bed, but more often to powder her nose before leaving again to join one of the parties that were happening on the ship.’

  ‘Was Mrs Fowler usually with her husband when she came back after dinner?’

  ‘No. Once or twice she mentioned that he had gone to the smoking room for a cigar.’

  ‘Did she say where he was on this night?’ Mr Burton-Lands’ demeanour was entirely calm.

  ‘She was distressed when she came in and said there had been an argument. I didn’t hear much more than that for she told me to leave.’

  ‘Had you finished your work?’

  ‘No, but there was no staying. She wanted me out of there.’

  ‘Leaving only her and Mr Evans in cabin B-17?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Blythe, dropping her head.

  Mr Burton-Lands swept a glance over the men and women who were sitting in the press benches, each of whom was writing furiously. A great deal of what he said was likely to end up being quoted under large headlines tomorrow. It could put pressure on a man.

  ‘Were you aware of any relationship between Mr Evans and Mrs Fowler?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Blythe, her voice barely louder than a whisper.

  ‘Did you speak to your fellow worker, Mr Evans, about it?’

  ‘I tried, because I knew he’d get in trouble with the captain if it were ever discovered. But he told me it wasn’t my business and I had to stay out of it.’

  ‘Did he express any intention of ending the relationship?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Blythe turned the jury. ‘I knew she was trouble—’

  ‘Objection.’ This came from Mr Vangood, Jim’s defence counsel.

  The judge barely looked up but raised his hand. ‘Objection upheld.’

  ‘Continue,’ said Burton-Lands, gently.

  ‘Mrs Fowler came back from her dinner, with Lady Redesdale’s lady’s maid, and dismissed me from the room, and as hers had been the last cabin I needed to do, I went straight to my own. I was tired and looking forward to some sleep.’ She gave a wan smile as if she was just as tired today. ‘I lay on my bunk and only managed to take my shoes off. That sometimes happened. The maids did long hours on the ship.’

  Blythe kept talking. Guy wished she’d get to the point.

  ‘I was woken up by the telephone in my room and it was Mrs Fowler. I couldn’t absolutely make out what she was saying. She sounded…’ Blythe gave a glance at the woman in the dock. ‘Drunk, sir. She was crying and telling me to come to the room quickly.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘I think it was half-past midnight. I couldn’t say for sure. I only knew I didn’t think I’d got much sleep. I splashed some water on my face and put my shoes on and hurried down there…’ Her voice petered out.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss North. I know it is hard to talk about. A minute or two more, if you would. What did you find when you returned to the cabin?’

  Blythe’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Mr Fowler, he was … I thought he was asleep, he was in the armchair, and his head was back. I heard him sort of moaning, and then I saw…’ She hiccuped slightly. ‘He had a towel wrapped around his head and it was covered in blood. I saw blood on the carpet.’

  Mr Burton-Lands let her pause for a moment, but no longer. ‘Please tell the court everything you can remember.’

  ‘Mrs Fowler was pulling off his jacket and his waistcoat, she was shouting, and she gave them to me and told me to rinse them out.’

  ‘Why did she tell you to do that?’

  ‘To get the blood out. It stains if it sets, but cold water, quick as possible, gets it out. And she told me to scrub out the blood on the carpet. She was saying something a
bout her boys, how this would destroy them, she didn’t want them to see this.’

  ‘Her boys?’

  ‘I assumed she meant her children.’

  ‘They were not on the ship, were they?’

  ‘No, sir. I believe they were left at home with a nanny.’ She turned to the jury. ‘You hear a lot when you’re a maid. People often forget you’re even in the room.’

  ‘Did you do as she asked?’

  ‘Yes, but I couldn’t clean the carpet properly, she was hurrying me up. I was confused; I wasn’t sure if I should be doing it or not.’ She looked up and seemed to think, as if she was going to say more, but then didn’t.

  ‘Had she called a doctor?’

  ‘I think she must have done. He arrived less than ten minutes after I did.’

  Mr Justice Hogan put his hand up. ‘We’ll stop there, Miss North. The court will adjourn for luncheon. We shall resume in an hour.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Walking away, Guy gathered his thoughts: Joseph Fowler had been struck on the head, with what he did not know; whether Mrs Fowler had called the doctor or the maid first, he couldn’t be certain, but the doctor arrived some time after Blythe; yet why did the doctor take so long to arrive? Guy would have to ask him about that. In the doctor’s absence, Mr Fowler’s head had been wrapped in a towel and his jacket and waistcoat rinsed out. A bloodstain on the carpet had also been partially scrubbed out. Mrs Fowler then called Diana and told her what had happened, and asked her to come – why? After the doctor, the captain and some of the crew arrived at the cabin. Instead of being stricken and bereft, Mrs Fowler appeared to have thrown something of a party in her pyjamas, getting drunk on whisky and playing records on the gramophone. Now she was drugged by morphia and talking incoherently in her bed about having done the deed herself, or possibly that it had been committed by ‘sir’ – did that mean ‘Sir Somebody’ or a ‘sir’, as Guy himself would be addressed? He couldn’t gauge what class she was – he’d detected an accent, probably American – and therefore it was possible she would address any senior man as ‘sir’. Louisa had mentioned that there was a Sir Clive on the ship, that he had lost a fortune on Joseph Fowler. Was that it? He’d have to dig for those details.

  Speculation wasn’t useful right now. What he needed to know was who had been in the room when the attack happened. In short: who were the likely suspects if there was anyone other than Mrs Fowler present? Who had been first on the scene?

  Mrs Guinness.

  After hurriedly telling Logan to remain at his post and to fetch him immediately from Mrs Guinness’s suite if there was any immediate change in the situation, Guy marched along the passage and knocked on her door. Louisa opened it, but instead of letting him in, she stepped outside and held the door almost shut behind her.

  ‘She’s fallen asleep,’ she said.

  ‘I need to talk to you, Louisa, and Mrs Guinness.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I will tell you, but there’s too much to explain and I can’t shake this feeling that I need to make my investigations now, as soon as possible.’

  ‘Investigations?’

  ‘Yes. Whatever happened to Joseph Fowler, he didn’t walk into a door, to say the least. Are you sure Mrs Guinness can’t talk to me now?’

  ‘Well, I…’ Louisa turned and pushed the door open. ‘Take a look for yourself.’

  Guy stepped in and gingerly looked through the second door into the drawing room. Diana was stretched out on the sofa, a blanket over her, her golden hair loose and on the cushion she had pulled beneath her head. There was a light snoring noise.

  ‘It will have to wait, then.’ He couldn’t keep the frustration out of his voice. ‘Did she say anything to you earlier?’

  Louisa shook her head. ‘She was more concerned about the news of her being on the ship when this happened affecting the Leader’s reputation in some way. But if Mr Fowler survives this attack, I doubt news of it will get out, don’t you?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. What about Miss Unity? Did she see anything?’

  ‘I don’t think so. She’s gone back to her cabin to sleep. She was reluctant, but I persuaded her. She doesn’t like to miss any drama.’ Louisa took Guy’s hand. ‘I’d better stay here, try to move Mrs Guinness into bed, then I’ll come and find you.’

  He recognised her tone: she wanted him gone. He knew he should ask her about having been with Mrs Fowler earlier, but he decided he would find a better moment. Instead, he gave Louisa’s hand a squeeze and walked back to cabin B-17.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Guy returned to the bedroom. Forewarned, Mrs Fowler was sitting up on the bed, though not in it. She was in the same pyjamas, with a matching coffee-coloured dressing gown over the top and her toenails painted a dark red. Guy was reminded of the spots of blood on the cream carpet in the next-door room. Her face had been washed, leaving her pale, but in spite of the dark hollows beneath her eyes, her good looks were vivid. She clutched a heavy glass of clear liquid and started when Guy came in, spilling a drop on her stomach.

  ‘Mrs Fowler. I’m Detective Sergeant Sullivan.’

  She said nothing; her eyes reverted to their glassy stare. The maid stood up as if to leave, but Guy stopped her.

  ‘I’ll need you to stay, Miss North.’

  She nodded miserably and sat back down.

  Guy took out his notebook. ‘Mrs Fowler, as the attack on your husband happened at sea, it falls under the jurisdiction of the British police, and the captain has agreed that I should make any necessary inquiries. Mr Fowler is seriously unwell. If there’s a slight chance that this is going to turn into a murder investigation, then it’s vital to get as much information at this stage as I can.’

  At this, Ella looked up sharply, her eyes focusing on Guy with an alertness he’d not seen before. ‘Murder?’

  ‘Not yet, Mrs Fowler, and I hope very much it doesn’t come to that, but if it does…’ He trailed off, attacked by guilt that he may have made more of this than he should have done. Was his ambition getting the better of him? Guy didn’t have a chance to pursue this line of thought because Ella started raving.

  ‘Oh God, oh God. He lived too long. I did it, you know I did. I did it. I did it with a mallet. It’s hidden. You won’t find it.’

  ‘Mrs Fowler…’ Guy didn’t know whether to write this down or try to calm her. She was intoxicated, that much was clear: no statement she made now would stand up in court. Nevertheless, he needed to ask her what had happened because if there was an attacker loose on the ship, he needed to be found.

  The maid stood up, hovering and uncertain. He didn’t give her a signal one way or another. Truth was, he was uncertain, too. Meanwhile, Mrs Fowler carried on, waving her glass around, drinking from it and mumbling, incoherently for the most part, with the occasional phrase shouted out more clearly.

  ‘Mrs Fowler,’ Guy said as firmly as he could, as if trying to waken her out of a semi-conscious state. ‘Can you tell me what happened this evening?’

  She started trembling then and dropped her now empty glass onto the bed. ‘He told me he wanted to die; he dared me to kill him. I picked up the mallet and he told me I hadn’t the guts to do it.’ She looked up at Guy, her eyes wild. ‘If I’d had a gun, I’d have shot him. I tell you, I would have.’ Then she buried her face in her hands and gave a loud sob. ‘Is he dead, is he?’

  ‘No, Mrs Fowler, he isn’t. He may yet live. He could tell the tale.’ Would she understand the threat behind this? Would it be a threat to her?

  ‘Oh God.’ She lay back and closed her eyes, and this time the maid did not wait for Guy to tell her what she could or could not do and started to pat a cold flannel on Mrs Fowler’s face, calling her name urgently, but Mrs Fowler would not be roused.

  The maid looked back at Guy. ‘Do you think she did it?’ she whispered.

  Guy gave no answer to this in voice or gesture. Mrs Fowler wasn’t going to give him the coherent replies he needed.


  Having instructed the maid not to leave Mrs Fowler’s side, Guy went back out to the drawing room. First Officer Logan was still standing at the entrance. He confirmed that he had received no telephone call to indicate a change in Joseph Fowler’s condition but was concerned that the doctor wouldn’t call through.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Guy, ‘but I’ll need you to go back there and ask them. If he looks like he’s regaining consciousness, I must know. Press this point on the doctor, would you? I’ll stay here until you return.’

  Left alone, he scanned the room again. Mrs Fowler had talked about a mallet. If that was here, there was a chance he would find the weapon and, as any policeman knew, that could lead directly to the culprit – whether it was Mrs Fowler or not. He knew that he had Mrs Fowler’s admission, but it wasn’t clear-cut – she’d said to him, and Mrs Guinness, that ‘he’ had done it, hadn’t she? – and this instability of hers worried him. He needed hard facts.

  Before Guy could get started on a forensic assessment of the scene there was the sound of someone coming in through the hall. He went to the door expecting to see Logan, but it was Louisa. She kissed him quickly and looked at him with concern.

  ‘Mrs Guinness has gone to bed at last. She didn’t say any more about what she saw earlier. Will you tell me what has happened? You look washed out.’

  ‘Do I? I’m tired, that’s all,’ he said.

  ‘May I see?’ She started to walk through into the drawing room.

  ‘Louisa, careful. That is, it’s a crime scene. There were people everywhere when I got here; I got them cleared out. I was about to try to make a proper note of what’s what.’

  ‘Do you think things have been moved?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  She walked through but stopped almost as soon as she had crossed the threshold. ‘Was that blood there?’

  ‘Most likely, and someone has tried to wash it out.’

  They gave each other a meaningful look.