by Pat Herbert
“But surely you should think about turning off his life support after all this time?” Arthur didn’t care what the doctor thought of him. He needed that money.
“Not just yet, Mr Pettigrew,” said Dr Carmichael, thoroughly riled now. “There have been cases where people stay on life support for months, years sometimes, and they still recover. It’s rare, but I am reluctant to give up on Mr House just yet.”
Arthur was surprised and disappointed by these words. The man was in a coma, no use to man nor beast. Why couldn’t he just give him a helping hand into the next world so he could get his hands on his nest egg? He knew he had at least several thousand pounds in savings, and he owned his own house. It would all come to him eventually, and the sooner, the better.
“Now, if there’s nothing else, Mr Pettigrew, I have other patients to see,” said Carmichael, turning to go. “Why don’t you sit with your uncle for a while and talk to him. I promise you, it will help.”
“All right, thanks. I will.”
It’ll help will it? Arthur Pettigrew was afraid of that. He sat down beside Stanley House and stared at his ashen face. He looked very dead, or as dead as made no difference. He just needed a bit of encouragement. He leaned in towards him and spoke softly into his ear.
“Why don’t you hurry up and die, uncle dear?” he said sweetly.
19th January 1958: The Old Bailey, Central London
The Crown vs Drake
Sir Dogby Squelch took a generous pinch of snuff from his little gold tin and sniffed it up his distinctively aquiline nostrils. He put the tin away carefully into his breast pocket and continued to peruse his notes. The trial of the Crown vs. Howard Drake was in its second day, and he was preparing to cross-examine his first witness. He looked around at his client and gave him an encouraging smile. His inveterate skill had never failed to get his clients off; his reputation went before him. Howard Drake, who knew little about the wonderful achievements of Sir Dogby Squelch, thought he looked a little effeminate and affected in his mannerisms. These did not give him any confidence in the man at all.
Sir Dogby’s first witness had been called. A young man, looking harassed and frightened by the proceedings, stepped into the witness box and took the oath with a shaking voice. The Bible he was required to hold was shaking too, and in danger of falling from his grasp.
Sir Dogby gave him a reassuring smile which he hoped would put him at his ease. He could see the man wasn’t used to such grandiose surroundings. The judge in his long white wig looked about a hundred years old, and even Sir Dogby found him a little intimidating.
“Please tell the court your full name, if you will.”
The man couldn’t seem to open his mouth.
“Let me put it another way. Is your name William Herbert Mason?”
The man managed to nod his head.
“You need to speak so the court can hear you,” said Sir Dogby.
“Not to mention the judge,” said the judge.
That sent the man into a fit of nervous shakes, causing him to nearly fall out of the witness box. “Yes,” he finally gasped. “That’s my name.”
“There’s no need to be nervous,” said Sir Dogby. “No need at all. I just need to ask you a couple of questions. They are very brief.”
“Thank you, sir. Do you think I could have a glass of water?”
The water provided, Sir Dogby started his interrogation. “Mr Mason, you were unfortunately involved in an accident which occurred outside the home of the victim on the night in question. Is that not so?”
The man slurped his water and put his glass down on the ledge of the witness box as carefully as he could, trying not to spill it. “Er, yes.”
“The man, you say, fell under the wheels of your car before you could stop. Were you speeding?”
The judge interrupted at this point. “Sir Dogby, the witness is not here to answer a speeding charge.”
“Quite so, your honour,” said Sir Dogby. “I just wanted to set the scene, as it were. You don’t have to answer that question, Mr Mason.”
Mason couldn’t have answered it if he tried. The speeding accusation had given him a fresh attack of nerves and he was trying to drink the water, but spilling most of it down his tie.
“When you pulled up, did you see anyone else in the vicinity?”
“It all happened so fast,” said Mason, trying to compose himself.
“I appreciate it must have been a traumatic moment for you, but it would be helpful if you could cast your mind back and think hard. Was there anyone nearby who looked like they were running away.”
Mason screwed up his face and looked like he was about to lay an egg. The egg not forthcoming, he managed to dredge up a memory from the back of his mind. “I saw someone running down the street, yes.”
“Good, now we’re getting somewhere. Did you notice anything in particular about this person? Could you see if it was a man or a woman?”
The man looked like he was about to retch. “It all happened so quick….”
“Yes, you told us that already. What height would you say the figure was?”
“Height? No idea.”
“Shorter than average? Average? Tall?”
“Average, I suppose.”
Sir Dogby knew, somehow, he was going to say that. “Very good. Now, can you tell the court what time all this happened?”
“It was about eleven o’clock, sir.”
“Eleven o’clock at night? Please be precise, Mr Mason.”
“Yes – er, eleven o’clock at night.”
“Now, you are quite sure of the time? Could it have been any earlier, say about an hour earlier?”
Mason was more sure of his ground now. “No, absolutely not,” he said with conviction. “You see, I’d been visiting my sister and she’d just switched on the eleven o’clock news as I was leaving. And that was only a few yards from where the accident happened.”
Sir Dogby smiled once more. “Thank you. No more questions.”
There being no questions from the prosecution, Mr Mason was free to go. And go he did, at speed.
***
The next witness was a Mrs Madge Bascomb, the landlady of the bedsits where Alison Troy had lived. Her name echoed several times throughout the court and beyond before she appeared in the witness box.
“Good morning,” said Sir Dogby, giving her one of his most charming smiles. “Can you confirm that you are Mrs Madge Bascomb of Paradise Villa, Catford?”
An imperceptible titter went round the courtroom. Paradise Villa in Catford? Surely it was a contradiction in terms?
“Yes, that’s me,” she said crossly, looking up at the spectators’ gallery. What was so funny, she wanted to know. “Number one, MaryRuth Street,” she added.
Sir Dogby looked around the court and smiled. “Thank you. Yes, number one, MaryRuth Street.” He was enjoying himself immensely. He turned back to the chubby, rosy-cheeked woman in late middle-age whose height was such that her chin barely reached above the ledge of the witness box and bestowed the benefit of that smile on her as well. She, like Howard Drake, didn’t think much of him. He was what her late husband would have called a ‘pansy’. She folded her arms under her ample bosom and looked suitably dignified. She was having no truck with the likes of Sir Dogby Squelch, if he thought he could make a fool of her. He had only confirmed her name and address so far, but there was a world of meaning in the way he had done so, and she hadn’t liked it much. Who was he to look down his nose at the likes of her?
“Jolly good,” he said about nothing in particular. “Now, Mrs Bascomb, I would like you to tell the court in your own words what happened on the day the unfortunate Miss Troy met her untimely demise.”
Mrs Bascomb wasn’t to be bamboozled by flowery language, even if she was unsure what ‘untimely demise’ actually meant. She shoved her bosom up higher and began to explain that she was coming out of her flat to take some rubbish to the dustbin when a young man passed her on the stairs. He loo
ked flustered and in a hurry. She had seen him clearly, there was a bright electric light on the landing, almost forty watts. She would know him again anywhere.
“Thank you, Mrs Bascomb. Now, you say you would know him again anywhere, and I understand you were able to pick him out of an identity parade with no difficulty. Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Very well. And I imagine you would be able to pick him out if he was anywhere in this courtroom?”
Madge Bascomb was starting to get flustered. What was the man driving at? Of course she would. He was the man in the dock facing her.
“He’s over there.” She pointed at Howard Drake.
“Good. Now, can you tell the court whether you saw anyone else on that fateful day, anyone else at all leave Paradise Villa during the hours before Miss Troy’s body was discovered?”
Madge Bascomb was indignant. “I hope you don’t think I’ve got nothing better to do all day than watch people come and go.” She smiled to herself. That told him.
Sir Dogby smiled once more. That smile was getting on her nerves. “Quite. We all, I’m sure, have better things to do than to pry into other people’s daily doings. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Of course, I would.” Her bosom was now practically under her chin.
“And, naturally, it was a pure coincidence that you were taking some rubbish to the dustbin when my client was leaving Miss Troy’s flat. Am I correct in that assumption, Mrs Bascomb?”
“Yes, I told you.”
“Yes, indeed you did, Mrs Bascomb. The point I would like to make clear to the court is this. If, as you say, you have better things to do than watch people come and go, then there could have been other visitors to Miss Troy after my client left. Is that not so?”
Mrs Bascomb began to see where Sir Dogby was heading. “I don’t think anyone else came that day. I hear people come and go all the time. The stairs are echoey.”
“The stairs are ‘echoey’? You mean you can hear people’s footsteps from within your flat?”
“’Course I can. I’m not deaf.”
“I wasn’t accusing you of having hearing difficulties. So can you categorically state that you heard no other footsteps go up to Miss Troy’s flat or down from it on that day, after my client left?”
“Yes, I can.” Madge Bascomb was sticking to her guns, even though she knew an element of doubt had crept in and there was a buzz going around the courtroom. People were whispering to one another. She looked at the prisoner and wished, with all her heart, he was at the devil. He was a cold-blooded murderer. She had no doubt of it. You only had to look at him.
“One final thing. Can you confirm the time you saw the accused leave your flats?”
She was on firmer ground now. “Yes, I can. It was ten o’clock.”
“You are quite sure?”
“I know what time of the day it was,” she declared rudely, looking around the court with a smug expression on her face.
“The fact that a previous witness saw someone running away an hour later in the near vicinity could possibly mean Miss Troy had had another visitor later than the accused. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Suddenly, she didn’t seem quite so smug. “No, I wouldn’t! It could have been anytime that I saw that man run away. I mean, between ten and eleven. It was sometime during then.”
“But you categorically stated it was ten when you saw the accused run off.”
“Well, I suppose I could’ve been wrong about the time.”
The buzz in the court was louder now. Sir Dogby was more than satisfied.
“Thank you, Mrs Bascomb, that will be all.”
The counsel for the prosecution had no questions and the rotund lady was ushered out of the room. As she left, reporters were coming and going with indecent haste.
Sir Dogby Squelch gave his client a friendly wink. Howard Drake, for the first time in a long while, saw a glimmer of hope. But he didn’t dare to wink back.
***
That hope was short-lived. It wasn’t only Madge Bascomb who was convinced of his guilt. It seemed that the rest of the court, especially the jury, were also convinced. It didn’t take the prosecution long to demolish Sir Dogby’s line of reasoning. Madge Bascomb stated categorically that she hadn’t heard or seen anyone else leave Alice Troy’s humble bedsit in Paradise Villa, and her word was taken for it. The counsel for the prosecution was equally adept at twisted logic as his opposite number. It wasn’t the first time he and Sir Dogby had clashed in court.
The latter gentleman was angry; the smiles he had been generously bestowing on the court were withdrawn and he sat, stern-faced, throughout the rest of the proceedings.
Those proceedings lasted less than twenty-four more hours, and it took the jury less than half an hour to make up its mind about the guilt of Howard Drake. Sir Dogby fumed as the verdict was uttered. How could they damn the man on the say-so of a silly old woman? It was a farce.
It wouldn’t have been clear-cut if the evidence given by Paul Farrell, called as a witness for the prosecution, hadn’t been so convincing. There he stood, a handsome young man, a tear poised delicately in his left eye, telling the court how he had loved the victim, how he had planned to marry her, and how the accused had taken all that from him. Sir Dogby had glared at him, while the rest of the court smiled sadly in sympathy and lapped it all up. For two pins, Sir Dogby could bet that Paul Farrell had killed her himself, out of revenge, except he had a cast iron alibi for the night in question.
But if Sir Dogby’s feelings were ruffled by the verdict, they were nothing compared to the feelings of Howard Drake as he watched the judge put on the black cap.
5th February 1958: Wandsworth
Lucy Carter opened the door to Celia Pargeter, an all-too frequent occurrence for her liking. She swept into the hallway in a cloud of exotic perfume, dressed to the nines, and obviously looking forward to another evening out with Robbie.
“Is he ready, Lucy dear?” said Celia sweetly, as the doctor’s housekeeper showed her into the warm front room. “He said the table was booked for eight o’clock.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” said Lucy, “he only told me you were coming tonight and to make you welcome. He’s had to go and see a patient. Emergency.” Lucy was pleased Madam Fancy Knickers would have to wait for his return. She wasn’t the kind of woman that was used to being kept waiting by her male admirers.
Celia, however, contrary to her expectations, just smiled. “Never mind. How about a cup of tea to keep the chill out? Then we can have a nice chat.”
Lucy was flabbergasted. Celia Pargeter wanted a ‘nice chat’ with her. Maybe, just maybe, she had misjudged her? “Yes, of course. I’ll put the kettle on,” she said.
***
Five minutes later, they were seated together in the front parlour. As she looked at Celia, Lucy tried not to feel jealous of her; it was a useless emotion. There she sat, on the brink of another evening out with Robbie, curse her. He had never taken her out, not even to the local fleapit. She had dropped several hints when the new Victor Mature film was on at the Odeon in the high street, but he had only said she could have the night off to go and see it on her own. Lucy had cried and, needless to say, she didn’t go and see the handsome Victor either.
Tonight he was probably going to take his precious Celia to that new restaurant she’d read about in the local paper only last week. She remembered thinking how nice it would be to go there with Robbie, or even that elusive man in white, if he ever turned up.
“Robbie had trouble booking tonight. He hasn’t told me which restaurant we’re going to, but it must be popular.”
“I’m sure you’ll both enjoy it,” said Lucy, deadpan.
Celia seemed to be studying her carefully, and she began to feel self-conscious. Then she smiled at her. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I hope you don’t think me rude, staring at you. But I was thinking how nice-looking you are. You could make more of yourself, though,” she
added, spoiling the compliment.
Lucy was flattered all the same. “I know I should go to the hairdressers more often,” she said, touching her pretty hair nervously. “I just don’t seem to get around to it.”
“How does the old beast treat you?” said Celia, veering rather abruptly to the subject of Robbie.
“What d’you mean?” She herself often called him worse names than ‘old beast’ under her breath, but she wasn’t having anyone else maligning him in his absence. Certainly not Celia Pargeter, anyway. She didn’t even like her friend and confidante Nancy Harper doing that, although she couldn’t stop her and had given up trying.
“I just wondered if Robbie was good to you? Appreciated you properly?”“He’s very good to me, thank you. You needn’t fret. All a good employer should be, I’m sure.”
“I’m pleased to hear it. But, have you ever thought of having a bit more of a life of your own?”
“A life of my own? I’ve got a life of my own. Of course I have. What do you mean?”
“Don’t take it the wrong way, dear. You see, I think Robbie is concerned that you do too much for him and don’t get out and do things you’d like to do. For example, he told me that you missed a good film the other week, even though he had encouraged you to go and see it.”
“I don’t like going to the pictures on my own,” said Lucy. She knew she had a whine in her voice now, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.
“But surely you have a friend you could go with?”
“I suppose so,” she said, thinking of Nancy. But the last time that lady had accompanied her to the pictures, she had done nothing but comment on the actors’ clothes, hair, physical allure or lack of it, and the fact that he or she was looking old these days. She hadn’t been able to follow the plot at all. Besides, it was Robbie she wanted beside her in the cinema, preferably with his strong arm around her, not some old biddy who didn’t know how to keep quiet during the main feature.
“There you are, then,” said Celia, smiling at her. “You must let him see that you have your own life to lead, and not be at his beck and call all the time.