Jessica has been summoned, along with the cook from Riverview, to be a Crown witness at the trial.
She talks to Jack before she leaves, and asks him if he’ll be going to Wagga Wagga to attend the trial. Jack hesitates then says quietly, ‘Jessie, it’s really hard — my father’s going and, well, you know how we’re not on speaking terms. He’s such a big mouth, he’ll be carrying on a treat to anyone and everyone who’ll listen, about justice and hanging the bastard by his balls, and all that sort of thing. I’d be expected to publicly take a side against Billy.’ Jack is plainly distressed as he looks at Jessica. ‘I can only say this to you and no one else: what Billy did was terrible and it can never be forgiven and I know he’s got to hang for his crime .. .’ he hesitates, searching for the right words, ‘I loved my mother and sisters, but it was them that finally drove Billy mad — I know it deep down in my heart.’ He shrugs, still upset, unable to communicate his feelings properly.
‘I can’t help Billy now, I’m ... I’m not sure I’d even want to if I could, but I can stay away and not be a part of the old man’s gleeful public vengeance.’
Jessica and Joe, who is attending the trial as her chaperone, are given two second-class tickets on the train to Wagga Wagga by the Department of Justice. As well as accommodation, all found, at Mrs Ma Shannon’s boarding house close to the courthouse. They also receive a further stipend of eight shillings a day to compensate them for being away from work. This is as much as Jessica and Joe can earn together working an eight hour and forty minute shift as shearer and rouseabout in a woolshed, the longest they can work according to the Shearers’ Union.
At first Joe objects. ‘I don’t take money for sittin’ on me bum,’ he tells the clerk of the court.
‘Why ever not?’ the surprised official asks. ‘The judge does!’
‘Dunno about that, it’s important work, the court an’ all,’ Joe mumbles.
‘Well, what about the prime minister? He sits on his bum all day.’
Joe grins. ‘I starts to see your point, sir,’ he replies. ‘Jessica and me will practise doing bugger-all, hard as we can.’
But Jessica hasn’t been doing nothing — she’s found herself frequently in the witness box, where the more she answers the Crown prosecutor’s questions the worse it looks for poor Billy Simple. Billy has proved to be too traumatised and confused to speak for himself, and simply cries and sighs when put into the box, so that it is soon decided to refrain from attempting to question him. He is unable to utter a sentence in his own defence, and sits mumbling to himself in the dock.
The Crown prosecutor has mounted a strong case against Billy, and he plays on the sensibilities of the jurors with all the morbid details of the killings.
The time of death has been clearly established as early Saturday evening. The beds were still made up, a pot of burnt stew rested on the wood stove and on the marble sink beside it were six skinned potatoes floating in an enamel dish of water.
It was known furthermore that Billy Simple used to water the vegetable garden in the cool of the evening, and a half-empty watering can was found resting beside a bed of beetroot with Billy’s hat lying abandoned on the path a few feet from it.
The bodies of the three Thomas women were found in different parts of the garden where Billy Simple had taken to them with a mattock.
Ada had been struck to the side of her neck, the mattock severing her spine and cutting her throat at the same time. Her head remained connected to her shoulders by a small bridge of muscle.
The girls, who must have attempted to escape, were each discovered separately. They had been struck by almost identical blows to the back of the head, which split open their skulls. Like their mother, they appeared to have died instantly.
Other than these singular blows and the dark stains of ant-infested blood that seeped into the gritty soil, there was no sign of any further mutilation. Billy Simple killed the three women quickly and cleanly, a fact the Crown prosecutor makes much of in his case, which will count greatly against Billy.
Laying down all the gruesome facts before the jury, the Crown prosecutor, confident to the point of arrogance, then sums up his case against the accused.
‘Members of the jury, if the killer were a madman, driven to despair by the three women as has been suggested, he surely would not stop with one blow,’ he points out. ‘He would be furious, enraged, he would set out to vent his frustration on his hapless victims by mutilating them again and again.’ Then in a low voice he adds, ‘You must ask yourselves: are we dealing here with a simple-minded man driven to despair and well beyond his mental capacity to think rationally, or is the accused a vengeful killer capable of three vicious and premeditated murders?’ He pauses meaningfully before continuing.
‘You will recall the witness for the Crown, Miss ... er . .. Jessica Bergman, how she described to you the killing of the three dogs on her father’s property. Was this not another appalling example of a ruthless and efficient killer at work? The dogs were killed with the same lack of emotion as the accused displayed when he ended the lives of his three human victims. The incisive and cold-blooded nature of all of the killings should be given very careful and urgent consideration. You will decide whether you are dealing here with misadventure brought about by a confused and insane mind driven beyond its feeble endurance or with three deliberate and calculated homicides. These are the requirements of the law and of justice, are they not?’ He pauses again and then raises his voice.
‘I believe we have proved beyond reasonable doubt that William D’arcy Simon, better known as Billy Simple, is guilty of murder. Murder without mercy. Cold-blooded and premeditated murder.’ The prosecutor’s voice rises and he enunciates each of his final words slowly. ‘These murders were premeditated and executed in cold blood with almost surgical precision by an unfeeling and callous killer and it is up to you, members of the jury, to decide on this and to give this killer the punishment he deserves.’ Then quietly he adds, ‘I thank you for your patience, and I rest the case for the prosecution.’
It is masterfully done. At the moment of his conclusion Jessica can see a burning conviction of Billy’s guilt in the eyes of every jury member. The Crown prosecutor’s words have hanged Billy Simple as effectively as if all twelve jurymen had personally been present at Riverview and looked on as he killed the three Thomas women.
Jessica looks at Billy, who sits slumped in the dock, his scarred head hidden in his hands because he can’t wear his hat. He whimpers constantly, a small boy lost among strangers, and Jessica glares at his lawyer, who has not lifted a finger since the trial began.
Richard Runche KC works the circuit courts where King’s Counsels are thin on the ground. He depends for his briefs on local solicitors who, in a mutual back-scratching exercise, are themselves appointed by the court. It is an arrangement happily tolerated by the bench.
Runche is an Englishman educated at Cambridge, said to be the prodigal son of an aristocratic family in Hampshire, sent to the colonies with a generous allowance to avoid them any possible embarrassment. His mild manners coupled with his wild intemperance make him a favourite of the circuit judges. He is good company in the evenings and gives them few problems during the day.
He is always the first chosen when the presence of a KC for the defence is required by legal procedure for what is thought to be an open and shut case. Richard Runche’s alarming ineptitude has the capacity to conclude a trial several days early, a notion much approved of by a busy and harassed circuit judge. His very appearance for the accused has come to signal a verdict of guilty, and to everyone’s mind he’s the obvious choice to defend Billy Simple.
Runche’s reputation has earned him a couple of colourful nicknames from the local wags. Some say that KC stands for King Claret, while others dream up a nice bit of rhyming slang and Richard Runche becomes Liquid Lunch.
Never was a more suitable name given to
a member of the New South Wales Bar. For while he makes some small sense after breakfast, where he restricts himself to two large brandies taken in a tumbler of warm milk, he makes none whatsoever after lunch, when his preferred tipple has consisted of two bottles of a raw-boned claret which contains enough tannin to cure the hide of a Shorthorn bull.
During the trial Jessica has watched while Richard Runche KC has one or two feeble attempts each morning to make a case for the accused. He is seldom stirred to do so in the afternoon, when he frequently nods off with the silent approval of the judge.
Even to someone as naive as Jessica, Billy’s trial is proving to be a travesty of justice. She is not allowed to tell the whole sad story of Billy’s life, or how the three Thomas women tortured and tormented him for years. After three days of frequent visits to the stand, she hasn’t on one single occasion been cross-examined by the defence. Jessica is becoming more and more agitated as she watches Mr Richard Runche snore away Billy’s mortal life. And so Jessica goes to Joe for help. After all, Joe was once in Billy’s shoes, on a murder charge, and the jury set him free.
‘You gotta get Billy’s barrister to tell his side of the story,’ Joe tells her. ‘You can be bloody sure yer not gunna hear it from the Crown prosecutor.’ Joe shakes his head. ‘But I don’t fancy yer chances, girlie.’
‘How can I do that?’ Jessica cries. ‘How can I get the silly old bugger to speak up for Billy? He’s pis sed all the time!’
Joe shrugs. ‘You been through enough, girlie. Let go of it, eh? No good gain’ on — Billy ain’t gunna get off. He did the murders all right, he’ll have to cop it sweet.’ ‘But it’s not fair!’ Jessica protests. ‘Nobody’s telling his side. They tried to get him to answer questions, but he doesn’t understand, he can’t talk for himself. It wasn’t no cold-blooded murder like they’re saying!’
‘Murders. It were more than one, girlie,’ Joe reminds her. ‘Listen to me. Billy ain’t got a bloody side. The judge ain’t gunna waste time pickin’ through the details just for the flamin’ record. What d’ya expect him to do? He’s got three women from the richest family round these parts been murdered by a bloody halfwit! Now you want him to look for mitigating circumstances? Grow up, will yiz? Who gives a shit about Billy’s side?’ Joe looks at her and she can see he’s wild at her. ‘And it don’t look too good neither, you jumping to his defence. Don’t look good for yer mother and Meg.’ Joe pauses, staring at his boots, and mutters, ‘Me neither. I got a job to worry about. So’ve you.’
Jessica spends a sleepless night thinking about Billy.
Joe is right. Joe is wrong. Fair’s fair. Who cares, anyway? What can she do? She’s a nobody. The lawyers know what they’re doing. Billy is going to hang no matter what. Hester and Meg’d be furious if she made a fuss. Joe is real pis sed off with her. He is her father after all, she should obey his wishes. But what will Jack Thomas think if she doesn’t put up a fight? Jack, who’d carried her up the courthouse steps at Narrandera, whose face, wet with tears, was the first she saw when she came to, who stayed with her for two days when the doctor put her in the hospital. They say war is only a matter of weeks off being declared. Joe says people will want normal things tidied away. They’ll want to get on with killing the Germans.
Jessica thinks she must have dozed off eventually, for she wakes at about six o’clock the next morning, feeling exhausted and sick in the stomach. She’s forced to run outside to the dunny, where she throws up violently for nearly half an hour. She’s weak from bringing up all Mrs Shannon’s mutton stew and is feeling wretched, but she’s made up her mind and she’s quite decided what she must do.
At half past seven she enters the Albion Hotel, where the drunken lawyer is staying. Nervously she asks the young desk clerk if she may see Mr Richard Runche KC. The clerk seems very young, with not a hair on his chin, and Jessica takes courage at this.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Runche don’t entertain guests to breakfast,’ the clerk replies curtly, taking a good long squiz at her.
Jessica knows none of Meg’s cunning ways but she tries to smile at the young man and look helpless, hiding her anger and impatience. ‘It’s a matter of great urgency, sir,’ she says, her large green eyes appealing to him for help. Jessica is wearing a light blue dress, one of three good frocks belonging to Meg which Hester says she must wear to court so the judge knows she comes from decent folk. She’s washed and brushed her short blonde hair and she supposes she looks about as pretty as she ever will.
The young clerk nibbles at the end of the pen, and she can see he’s trying to decide whether he has the authority to help her.
‘Please, sir?’ Jessica begs again, tilting her head slightly to one side and pouting her lips the way she’s watched Meg do in the company of young blokes. What surprises her is how naturally it all comes — her duplicity requires no effort on her part.
‘Hey, aren’t you the one, you know, what brought the murderer in on the horse?’ he asks suddenly.
Jessica nods, then drops her eyes modestly, deliberately averting her gaze.
‘That was very brave,’ the young clerk says, frowning down at the ledger, and Jessica notices that while he now holds the pen poised over the ledger, there is no ink-pot anywhere to be seen and the nib is brand new and bone dry. She knows nothing about hotels but she’s been around a few young stockmen and ringers in her time and she reckons she’s just about got the measure of this bloke.
‘Thank you, but I’m sure a big strong bloke like you would have done the same.’ She pauses and smiles again, and the reedy young man blushes profusely and looks down at the ledger again.
‘I don’t think so,’ he mumbles, but she can see he’s dead pleased.
‘No, I mean it,’ Jessica lies. ‘You can always tell when a bloke’s got guts, isn’t afraid to do something. It shows in his eyes,’ she pauses, ‘a sort of faraway, squinty look.’
Joe would have said ‘when a young bloke’s got balls’, but she knew she couldn’t get away with saying it without him shying at her words.
The young clerk — though Jessica was beginning to seriously doubt this was his true vocation, for he was now nervously cleaning his nails with the nib of the pen — answered shyly, ‘It were a brave thing to do, him killing them three women an’ all.’
Jessica knows she’s won. ‘I need to see Mr Runche at once. It’s about the murderer. Things he has to know,’ she adds darkly.
Just then an older man walks in through a door directly behind the young desk clerk, his beetle-black hair parted down the centre and pasted down on either side of his head, shiny as a sergeant-major’s toe-cap. He is short, narrow about the shoulders and hips, and with a head too big for his torso. To complement his hair he sports a black moustache tweaked a good two inches at each end and curved upwards towards his ears, giving him what Jessica supposes is meant to be a fierce look. Looking closely, she sees that he has a soft and slightly dainty manner about him, not in the least frightening. He walks on his toes with his bum tucked in and his chin held high, as though denying his nose the right to smell things.
‘That will do, Jimmy Jenkins. Back to your work, chop chop!’ he says, clapping his hands twice then holding one hand out for the pen. ‘We haven’t got all day here, my lad. The banister brass has dirty great fingerprints all over it and the front steps must be swept before the morning train comes in from Sydney. Hurry, hurry, we’ll have no idle hands, if you please!’
Once he hands back the pen to the older man, Jimmy Jenkins loses his authority and is suddenly transformed from desk clerk back to hotel rouseabout. He grins sheepishly at Jessica. ‘Yes, Mr Snibbs,’ he says meekly, lifting the counter bar and stepping to Jessica’s side of the foyer.
‘And who’s this?’ the man asks, looking at Jessica with one eyebrow slightly arched.
‘She’s an old friend, Mr Snibbs,’ Jimmy says quickly, ‘come to visit me.’
‘Cat
brought her in from the bush, eh?’ Snibbsquips. Then, feigning no further interest, he turns to the ledger, his pen running across the scribbled lines as though searching for some important piece of information.
You’ll keep, mate, Jessica thinks. The bastard wouldn’t have said that if Joe had been with her.
‘Come, miss,’ Jimmy Jenkins whispers out of the corner of his mouth.
Jessica follows Jimmy across a square of black and white marble tiles towards the entrance of the dining room. ‘Brasses, Jimmy! Brasses, my boy!’ Snibbs calls after him.
‘Yes, Mr Snibbs, right away, no problems!’ Jimmy calls back, touching his finger to the side of his head.
Then in a voice meant only for Jessica, he says, ‘Bloody old nancy boy’, but Jessica has no idea what it means.
Jimmy Jenkins leads her past several of the breakfasting guests and over to the lawyer’s table, which is situated in the .darkest corner of the large room, behind a magnificent stand of aspidistra and a second, almost as impressive, of cascading fish fern. It is a setting concealed from all the other tables and in the natural gloom created in part by the plants it appears almost like a dark corner of an overgrown garden.
‘It is a propinquity,’ Richard Runche KC later explains to Jessica, ‘that has been created for one by a sympathetic and very decent hotel management. They have thought it most conducive to the amelioration of a severe hangover.’ He sighs, wiping his brow with his napkin. ‘My dear, I don’t know how I should possibly manage without such kind and dear friends.’
Jimmy later tells Jessica, though, that the management’s kindness is strictly confined to the till in the club lounge. Richard Runche KC, alias Liquid Lunch, is worth four times the bar takings of any other regular guest and is, to boot, an excellent drunk who always staggers outside to throw up. ‘You can’t ask no more from a guest than that, now can yiz?’ Jimmy whispers proudly to Jessica.
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