by Julian Gloag
“You forget, Bartlett. I’m not going to give evidence. I’m pleading guilty.”
“Yes.” Bartlett paused. “I am, of course, your servant in this matter, Maddox. Nevertheless, it is my concern, my duty, to put before you the alternative courses open to you in this case and the probable consequences of those courses. Patently, if you plead guilty, you will be convicted and sentenced to a long term of imprisonment. You will spend a minimum of twelve years in gaol. Few men can survive more than two or three years in prison and emerge as whole human beings.”
Jordan made an impatient movement.
“You must consider that, Maddox. You can’t dismiss it. This is not a game which can be closed up and forgotten about when it’s finished.”
“I’m fully aware of that.”
“Right. Now, if you continue with your plea of not guilty, if you go into the witness box, and if, additionally, you instruct me to call the new evidence of which I shall tell you, then I will say that there is a good possibility—not probability, but a good possibility—of your being acquitted.”
“I’ll take your word for it, because I’ve—”
“You will not take my word for it!” Bartlett said sharply. “How can you make a meaningful choice unless you are fully aware of the alternatives? To blind yourself in this manner is absolutely irresponsible.”
Jordan stared at those blue eyes, the face perhaps a little whiter than usual, but hardly more different now in anger than in … what? Mirth, triumph, love? The Sunday suit did not really disguise the advocate—like the law itself, he would take on the mechanics of responsibility only. He saw him as a little boy, plump in the face, never losing his temper, never weeping, already armoured against the dangerous world.
“Very well.” Jordan nodded and slowly sat down. “Let’s get on with it. Miss Lawley’s letter—where do we go from there?”
“That letter was not a figment of Miss Lawley’s imagination, nor a tribute to a misguided sense of nobility. It existed.” Bartlett spoke as though he had never left the subject. He resumed his seat. “I’ll tell you how we know this. Gladding—Short’s clerk—was, with the help of private detectives, eventually able to trace most of Singer’s contemporaries. Gladding personally interviewed all the boys and girls that appeared in Singer’s school-leavers’ photo. With two exceptions: Hetty Smith and Bernard Cole. It is of course Cole whom we’re interested in. No one could give Gladding any hint of where Cole might be. Now, most of Cole’s contemporaries—he was a year younger than Singer but left at the same time—described him as a quiet one who kept himself to himself. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? To most of them he was, rather obviously, known as ‘Bern’ Cole. But Gladding recalled an exception—one girl had said that she’d not seen ‘Bernie’ for some time. Bernie. This girl’s name is Regina Copley. You’ve heard of none of these people before?”
“No.”
“No. How one wishes Singer had been a chatterbox. Well, Gladding immediately went out to Putney—this was on Friday evening—to see Regina Copley. He managed to have quite a long talk with her. She didn’t tell him very much, and Gladding formed the impression that she knew rather more than she was willing to reveal. But she let fall one thing: Cole had worked for an ironmonger in Clapham by the name of Swail. First thing on Saturday morning, Gladding saw Swail, who told him that Cole had worked in his shop as late as the beginning of January. On January the third he had left, quite abruptly, with no notice and refusing to give any reason.
“Swail also gave Gladding two other important facts. A day or two after Cole left, a girl came into the shop enquiring for him. A girl with a harelip. Regina Copley has a harelip. Swail was unable to help her. He didn’t know where Cole had gone—until, and this is the second important fact, a fortnight later, when he received a phone call from an ironmonger’s asking for a reference for Cole, whom they were about to employ. The name of that firm is Ramsden and Black—and the shop is located at One Hundred and Twelve Devizes Road.” Bartlett paused. “Devizes Road, Maddox—does that suggest anything to you?”
“No.”
“Devizes Road is rather less than a quarter of a mile from Panton Place.”
Jordan said, “As you would put it, that’s a bit tenuous, isn’t it?”
“Interesting, nevertheless. Another thing—Gladding checked the home address Swail gave for Cole. Cole left there, also in early January, and no one knew where he had gone. By the way, you might like to have a look at Cole.” He reached down beside the table and brought up a small case which he opened. “This is the school-leavers’ photograph.” He passed it across the table. “Cole’s the one ringed in white.”
Slowly Jordan looked down. The faces—some smiling, some simpering, some serious with the gravity of the occasion, but nearly all tinged with a kind of eager complacency. I’ve left school—the moment when the accolade of maturity was conferred upon them. Now they were free—what a horrible trick it was to catch them so, what a fraud, what a hypocrisy, what a trap. But Cole—yes, Cole didn’t look like the others; he looked uneasy, as if perhaps he suspected as much.
“Not a very prepossessing countenance, is it?” said Bartlett.
Jordan handed back the photo. Poor little bastard.
“I put it to you that we now have the outlines of another candidate for the role of Singer’s murderer. A quiet, self-contained man, who knew Singer at school—but not very well, perhaps, not then, for he was junior to her. A man known to his schoolmates as ‘Bern’—except to the only girl who showed enough interest in him to enquire where he was, to whom he was ‘Bernie.’ Was it pure coincidence that Singer was receiving letters—or a letter—from Bernie? Cole, we know, uprooted himself two weeks after Singer moved to Panton Place and planted himself in close proximity to her. Might one not explain that two-week delay as the time in which it took Cole to trace Singer?”
“There’s a great deal of supposition there.”
Bartlett didn’t answer at once. He took out his silver cigarette case and made quite a business of lighting a cigarette. Then he glanced up and said, “Don’t you suppose that?”
“I don’t … Wouldn’t it be necessary for your purposes, to show that the thing was reciprocal?”
“No. Reciprocity’s not necessary. What is important is opportunity. Did Cole have the opportunity of killing Singer? Short’s trying to get hold of either Black or Ramsden today. Perhaps one of them can supply the answer. If Cole was late for work that day, then … An ironmonger’s too, you notice. An ironmonger’s would have key-making equipment. Then there’s Copley—Gladding is trying her again today. But I don’t wish to exaggerate, Maddox. We haven’t got much, and we may get nothing more. On what we have, we can’t prove Cole was interested in Singer, or vice versa—but we can suggest it, plant a seed in the jury’s mind. It’s enough to set them thinking: Perhaps it isn’t all so simple, perhaps the prosecution’s case isn’t as cut and dried as all that. Perhaps, perhaps. That’s all we need—the reasonable doubt. That would be a great achievement in itself. It could tip the balance.”
“And what about Cole?”
“Cole? What about you? It’s for you to decide.”
“I have already decided.” But he felt no warmth now. He was a bit tired after his long climb, and ravenously hungry.
“One moment. Let me tell you what I propose. I want to call Copley, and then Cole himself. It may be necessary also to have confirming evidence from Swail, possibly Black or Ramsden as well. I don’t think I need trouble Miss Lawley. Then, then I should want you to give evidence on your own behalf.”
He regarded the barrister for quite a long while without speaking. “I’m sorry, Bartlett.” He broke into a smile. “It was a good effort. But the answer is no.” As he stood up, he knew that he had somehow regained himself. “It’s a pleasant dream, but quite idle. For I killed June. I’m guilty, and I shall so plead.”
“Very well.” Bartlett nodded and got up. He took Jordan’s confession from the table and hel
d it in his hand. “Just one thing, Maddox.”
“Yes?”
“I wish you’d withold this. Let me simply announce your change of plea in court tomorrow.”
“Why?”
Bartlett looked away. “One prefers … one would rather not—not have the ground cut from under one’s feet in exactly this manner.”
Jordan wondered for a moment. “Alright. If you wish it. I see no harm.”
“Thank you.” Bartlett passed him the envelope. “I’ll try to get down to the cells and see you before proceedings begin tomorrow.”
“That’s kind—but not necessary. Oh, I see, you think I may change my mind?”
“Of course. One doesn’t let go easily.”
“No … no.”
44
He walked by himself round the flagged circle in the prison yard. A single prison officer watched him. It drizzled meanly, and in the flower beds the rosebuds were closed tight against the cold. Under the grey prison cape, Jordan’s body shivered.
He wondered whether anyone was looking at him from the rows of lifeless windows that stared blankly into the yard. If there were watchers he would surely feel it.
He permitted himself to look forward. He longed now for the ease of company. He wished he had not insisted upon his privacy like this. He craved the chatter and blasphemy of the hospital ward, he would take even the bland banality of the Light Programme. He imagined the ward a haven of triviality, laughter and dominoes. Among the other prisoners he would be with his own kind. What did they call it?—a present dweller.
Soon he would be one of them. He would be numbered. And without the burden of a name, he would be free. He would be simply a body. One of a thousand bodies which ate and slept and exercised and sewed mailbags or picked oakum or whatever they did these days. Each day every day the body, languorous or appetitive, excited or still—pleasure and pain of it the only concern.
“Two more minutes, Maddox,” the prison officer called.
“Right.” He did an about turn and started the circle clockwise.
Tomorrow. This time tomorrow he would be where he belonged. But today he was neither one thing nor the other. So he was set apart; as a dying man, maybe, will be unable to give full credit to the reality he is leaving. Already they didn’t exist, those outside the precincts of the prison. It would be hard even to describe them physically.
Except for Cole. He could see Cole’s bleak, small-featured face quite clearly; a face that never expected to be caught and blown up and examined with such intensity. It was the sort of face which couldn’t stand much close inspection—alright in the public anonymity of a school group. Jordan wished he hadn’t seen the photo. Bernie—the name itself called up the awful coyness of the deprived, the sugar cosiness which the forlorn long for.
But expecting always that impoverished dream of comfort would be taken away. And then—then the little man, for he had to be little, would be capable of any malice, any covert treachery. He would plead his rights, calling upon all in heaven and earth for help—except upon himself alone. He would eat tinned food and keep his change in a flat leather purse. He would …
“Okay, Maddox. Time’s up.”
He let his cape fall onto the pile of others at the door and was escorted without a word to his room.
“Hold it,” called Denver, as Jordan was about to enter. “Visitors’ room. All the world’s after you today, Maddox lad.”
Back again. Down the same stairs, along the same passage. “Special permission for a Sunday. What’d you do—bribe the gov?”
The room was only half lit. He was marched along the line of boxes and delivered into one of the open-backed closets.
“Colin.”
Colin started, caught unawares. “Oh hello, Jordan. How are you now?” He was not looking well.
“I didn’t expect to see you.”
“I thought I’d come round and give you a bit of moral support, as they say.” Colin managed to smile. “It’s hard to believe it’ll be all over tomorrow or—”
“Tomorrow? You’ve heard?”
“Heard what? I gathered it would wind up tomorrow or on Tuesday. Why, is there something new?”
“No, nothing new.”
“Pity. I thought Short might come up with something. A very energetic fellow.”
They must have forgotten about poor old Colin. “How’s the firm?”
“Bumbling along, as usual. Could do with an active partner, of course.” He was quiet for a minute, absorbed. Then he pulled himself together. “Something peculiar did happen. Perhaps I shouldn’t bother you with it, but …”
“What happened?”
“Miss Lawley resigned.” He had been looking down at his hands. Now he raised his head and stared at Jordan. “Damn it, Jordan, I don’t understand. Blast the woman, she resigned—and wouldn’t say why.”
“She told you nothing?”
“Not a word. Not a word of sense. No longer able to continue. Long and happy association. All that sort of balls. I’m afraid she’s gone round the bend.”
“Not the Law.”
Colin grimaced. “No. Not the Law. You’re right. The rest of the world could go mad, but she’d stay sane.” He took out his cigar case, looked at it, and put it back again. “Cap it all, I’ve got asthma. Haven’t had it for twenty years. Now I’m told I can’t smoke! God, can you imagine the mess, without Miss L. to dig up the file I want? What a memory—by God, I believe she could repeat by heart every contract we ever signed. Do you know how long she’s been with me?”
“A long time,” he said.
“Thirty-eight years, Jordan. And she walks out just like that. No notice. No severance. A damn great memorandum on office procedures and a bare apology.” He began to cough. The cough turned into the semblance of a chuckle. “I nearly married her once.”
“You?”
“She was something in those days. Oh, she wasn’t beautiful or anything like that. But she had—how can I put it?—a precision, a precision of spirit about her. But at the same time—sweet, remarkably sweet. Not the arrant old bitch you see nowadays. Never heard her laugh, have you? Amazing—like that sudden great rush of melody in the third movement of Beethoven’s First. I used to ask her to laugh for me—and she would, too. I daresay she was amused at my asking. Clara Lawley. Dammit, I wish I could smoke a cigar. Sallow old sultana now. Well, how are you, Jordan? How are you?”
“I’m well, Colin. Tell me about Clara Lawley.”
“Lawley? One doesn’t watch, you know. Doesn’t notice. I went down, after she’d left, went down to the production room. Looked at old Timothy, examined him. He’s a senile idiot, Jordan! I should have seen that before. Last year he lost seventeen blocks and a hundred and twenty pounds’ worth of art. I knew that. I’ve always loathed his guts, him and his whining William Morris cant. But I always thought, well, he’s a craftsman. He’s as much a craftsman as I’m Alice. I decided on the spot that Timothy would have to go. Pension him off. But I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t bring myself to sack that silly old sod. It’s a job for you, Jordan.”
“Colin. Clara Lawley—did …?”
“I wandered. Yes. I proposed to her, you know. It was after Charles died. Lily dead, Charles dead. I suppose I moped. There didn’t seem to be much fun around, suddenly. And then I heard that laugh of Clara’s one day. When you hear something like that, you don’t waste time picking lilies. We had a marvellous time, a marvellous summer. But she turned me down flat. September the twenty-ninth. It was a blow. A great blow. Why do they do it, Jordan? Up stakes and off, just like that. I hate them going off and dying on you, without a word.” A blow. And Colin looked as though he had been hit hard in the stomach. He puffed a little and wheezed his asthma.
“I think I can explain why Clara Lawley left you,” knowing, as he said it, that today he was raising up, and tomorrow he would strike down. But there was nothing else to do. He could not leave Colin like this.
“You can?”
&nbs
p; Briefly Jordan explained.
“I see,” murmured Colin. “Clara did that, did she? The poor old soul. Well,” with sudden vigour, “we’ll get her back. That is, if you think …”
“Of course you’ll get her back.”
Colin considered for a moment. “I couldn’t do it, Jordan. She wouldn’t come back for me. But you—you could. She’s always had a weakness for you … What am I thinking of? By Jove, Jordan, it’s great news for you! Why, it breaks the case against you wide open! Forgive me, forgive me—this is most excellent news.”
“It doesn’t matter, Colin. You’ll get Clara Lawley back. Just make her laugh.”
“Those days are over. No, it’s your baby. She respects you. I wouldn’t have the savvy these days. Too old. Look how my mind flies to trivialities. I’m getting old. Timothy. Lawley. S. and M. is heavy with the gentle degeneration of years. We need you, Jordan, to put us on the right track. My dotage is approaching. The appalling thing about old age is that one doesn’t notice it happening. One day you’re ranting against all the bloody old farts who run the show, and then you wake up and you’re one of them.”
“Colin, you mustn’t count on my being there. I—”
“Count on it? I bank on it, Jordan. My dear old chap, I’m lucky, supremely lucky. I see our imprint stamped upon the spine of works of real scholarship, instead of on the products of profitable but plodding hacks.” He laughed. “Dear old Clara. God guided her eyes when she broke one of her sacred principles. Even her failings bear fruit. And I am, to tell you the truth, not greatly surprised. Surprised, I mean, at June Singer.”
“I thought you liked June.”
“I like anyone who works for me until I sack them. Then my accumulated bile wells. As it did with old Timothy—although too sentimental, I suppose you’d call it, to do the actual deed. No, I always thought Singer a bit of a sly puss.”
“June sly?”
“Sly. Positively sly. Oh fair enough at her work. But just a wee bit too pleased at always managing to give you the right answer. To my taste. And those nails!”