by Julian Gloag
“You speak as though it were all over.”
“As a lawyer, I’d have to refute that. But that’s one of the troubles, when one is both solicitor and friend.” He paused. “I’m afraid I haven’t always drawn the distinction too cleanly over the past few weeks.” He glanced away and blew out his cheeks. “In fact, I’ve probably behaved rather badly. It was because I was involved, maybe too involved. So if I adopted tactics that were a bit brutal, it was because …”
“Because you wanted to get me out of the trance, bring me to my senses?”
“Yes, exactly,” said Tom eagerly.
“And yet it wasn’t quite so simple, was it?”
“What …?”
“It wasn’t so much that you were the prisoner’s friend as the friend of the prisoner’s wife?”
“My God, thank God! She told you.” Tom looked behind him and then lowered himself weakly onto the chair. “What can I say? It’s been … been troubling me for weeks.”
“How did it come about?”
Tom took out a handkerchief and wiped his throat. “I don’t know. I mean why she … I don’t know why. I thought I did, but—”
“What did you think?”
“I thought she was in love with me. But God knows the mind of woman, I don’t. I always had a thing about Willy. Naturally I didn’t do anything about it. I knew there wasn’t a hope. I thought that. I didn’t just want an affair with her.”
“But that’s what you got.”
“I didn’t really get anything at all. Bleak hotel rooms. She wasn’t remotely in love with me—perhaps I got that out of it, that piece of knowledge.”
“She wasn’t in love with you?”
“I shouldn’t be here if she had been, would I?”
“Why?”
“We’d be over the hills and far away.”
“You would have run off with her?”
“If that’s the only way we could have done it, yes.”
“And left Norah?”
“Like a shot.” He got up and staggered a little. “There’s nothing between Norah and me.”
“Nothing?”
“Oh company—company. But who the devil wants company? Norah and I are living on what might have been, what could have been—what isn’t, and never will be. By God, if I saw the chance to have something now—” he opened his hand and clenched it hard—“something alive—do you think I’d hesitate?”
There was something not quite right about it—but he couldn’t just put his finger on it. Something … “You mean—amongst it all, you can’t find anything?”
Tom grunted. “Not much. Not a bloody thing, to tell you the truth.” He thrust the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Well, have to get booted and spurred for the fray.” He laughed. “Glad that’s over. Got a cigarette on you? Left mine in Geoffrey’s chambers.”
Jordan gave him one and lit it.
“Thanks. What I really need, of course, is a drink.”
49
“May it please you, my Lord. Members of the jury, you have heard the case for the prosecution. You have listened, I am certain, with the greatest attention to the evidence which the prosecution has put before you. And yet, in this case so far, I have the feeling that our position resembles that of a savage who for the first time sees a motor car in motion. The savage must seek to explain the moving vehicle by analogy with what he knows: the running of wild animals, the flowing of a stream, the movement of the wind. But, of course, it is what he does not know which is vital. Without an understanding of the internal combustion engine, he will never be able to explain what he has seen, except perhaps by a resort to magic. And magic is not an alternative open to us.” A faint smile. Standing motionless in the well of the court, without a note in his hand, Bartlett was the very model of the quiet, careful man who kept close personal accounts and occasionally wrote a short, impersonal letter to the newspaper correcting some small error of fact.
“I mean simply this: the missing facts may well be the vital ones. Now there are a number of facts in this case which are not in dispute. The fact that Singer was murdered with Maddox’s scarf. That Maddox saw Singer in her room within a few hours—perhaps a few minutes—of the time of her murder. That Maddox on one occasion took Singer to the theatre and afterwards to dinner, on one occasion took her out for a drink—simple, social actions which you may consider do not warrant the sinister implications the prosecution suggests.
“In short, Maddox had both the means and the opportunity to murder Singer. And no one else did. That is what is alleged.
“Maddox, we have been told by the prosecution, had a motive for murdering Singer. And no one else did. So, at least, it is alleged.
“Members of the jury, the thought may have crossed your mind—it may be crossing your mind at this very moment—that if Maddox did not commit this crime, then who did? Now I want to emphasize to you most strongly that it is in no way—in no way—incumbent upon the defence to answer this question. For the question before you is not: Who murdered June Singer? The question before you is: Did Jordan John Maddox murder June Singer?
“And yet the probability of the accused’s guilt is, must be, psychologically strengthened by the absence of alternative explanations of what happened on that fatal Monday in March. It would be foolish to deny this. Nature, we are told, abhors a vacuum. So does the human mind.
“And there are a lot of vacuums in this case. Consider what we have been told of the murdered girl, June Singer. No father, mother recently dead, no relatives, no friends, hardly even an acquaintance, no special interest … no boy friend. There is a vacuum there, is there not? A vacuum which, the prosecution tells us, was filled by Maddox. You may come to the conclusion that it was the prosecution’s abhorrence of vacuums, rather than the actual fact of the matter, which led Maddox to be chosen to fill this vacancy.
“For the defence will call evidence which will prove that June Singer was not friendless. She had a friend, one Regina Copley. From her you will hear a side of June Singer’s life which has not come to our notice and which, you may think, has great bearing upon this case.
“Singer also had another friend. One Bernard Cole. We shall hear from him too.
“And finally, the accused will go into the witness box, quite voluntarily, on his own behalf. It is, I think, both fitting and proper that, having so long held his peace, this man should at last speak for himself.
“Members of the jury, I beg you to put aside all preconceptions of this case which you may have formed up to now, and listen with the closest attention to the evidence for the defence, which I shall now call.”
Bartlett paused, then lifted his head slightly and said, “I call Regina Copley.”
Regina Copley—she might, Jordan thought, have been a pretty girl if it were not for the harelip which gave her face a look of disdain. She hardly moved her mouth in taking the oath, and her voice was subdued.
Bartlett took a few paces towards her, but not at all threatening, rather as though he were going to her aid.
His voice was low-pitched and gentle as he asked the first question. “Miss Copley, were you a friend of June Singer’s?”
“Well …” She was nervous at once.
Bartlett smiled. “You did know her?”
“Oh yes, I knew her.” A tiny hint of emphasis on the word knew.
“When did you first come to know June?”
“At school. We was—were—at school together.”
“For how long were you at school together?”
“Oh all along.”
“You were the same age?”
“I was older.”
“How much older?”
“Well, not much. Three weeks. I’m Leo and she was Virgo, see.”
“You’re interested in astrology?”
“Well, a bit.”
“Was June interested in astrology?”
“She said she wasn’t. She said it was silly. But all the same, she always read the horoscopes in th
e papers.”
Bartlett paused. Then, “Were you in the same form as June at school?”
“Yes, I always was. She was higher up than me though.”
“She was usually towards the top of the form?”
“Near there, yes. See, she was one of the favourites.”
“She was favoured by the teachers?”
“Well—not exactly favoured. No, I wouldn’t say that. But they always liked her. She couldn’t ever put a foot wrong with them. Specially Mrs. Fremantle.”
“When did you leave school, Miss Copley?”
“When I was sixteen. June too. June and me left together.”
“And what did you do then?”
“I went to secretarial college. June and me both went.”
“To the same college?”
“Yes.”
“So you saw quite a lot of her?”
“Oh yes. We went up and back on the bus together most days.”
“After you left the secretarial college, did you continue to see June?”
“Off and on. But not so much. She got a job in the West End and I was working in Putney. But sometimes we’d go to the pictures. Not often. She wasn’t a great one for going out.”
“Why was that?”
“Her mother. She had to look after her mother. Of course, if she really wanted to go out, she always could.”
“What about her mother on those occasions?”
“The old lady downstairs would always look after Mrs. Singer.”
“The old lady downstairs?”
“Mrs. Pita.” She pronounced it pitter.
“Mrs. Peter? That was her name?”
‘Oh well—no, not really, that was just a nickname like. Her real name was Mrs. Payne.”
“Peter was your nickname for Mrs. Payne?”
“It was what June called her. Only it wasn’t Peter, it was Pita: p-i-t-a. They was initials.”
“Whose initials?”
“Initials of her nickname. They stood for something.”
“What did they stand for?”
“Well … I don’t …” She looked nervously at the judge. “It’s vulgar, see?”
“You mustn’t mind that, Miss Copley. No one will mind that. Just tell us what the nickname was.”
“Well … it was Mrs. Payne-in-the-arse.” She flushed.
“And that is what June Singer called Mrs. Payne?”
“Yes.”
“If June could so easily get Mrs. Payne to look after her mother, why did she not go out more often?”
“She didn’t like to fling her money about. She had to support her Mum and then she had to give Mrs. Payne something for her trouble.”
“When you and June went out together, to the pictures, for instance, who paid?”
“I did.”
“Always?”
“Yes. I told you, June couldn’t really afford it.”
“Would you have said that June was mean?”
“Oh no. Not mean. I wouldn’t have said that. She was just careful.”
“At that time—while you were at school and then later at the secretarial school and later still when you continued to see something of her—did you like June Singer?”
“Yes, I did then. I looked up to her ever so. I thought she was the cat’s whiskers.”
“But later you changed your opinion?”
“Yes.”
“What caused you to change your opinion?”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“Was it because of something that happened?”
“Yes.”
“Tell us about it.”
“Well …
“Take your time, Miss Copley.”
“Well—it was over Bernie. He—he was my steady …” She trailed off.
“Bernie—Bernard Cole?”
“Yes.”
“Tell us what happened then, Miss Copley.”
“I’d known Bernie from school, see. He was a year behind June and me. We’d never paid much attention to him. But, well it must have been two years ago now, he began asking me out. And then we began to go steady. He had a good job he did—at Swail’s in Clapham …”
“Yes?”
“Well then, how it started was one day he said to me, wouldn’t it be nice to ask June to come along with us? I didn’t think anything of it. So I said yes. He knew her—but not well. But he knew all about her Mum and not having any Dad and he said she must be lonely. He was always worried about people being lonely. He was that good with animals …” She stopped. All this time her arms had been rigid by her sides. Now she put a hand on the rail in front of her and gripped it hard. “So the three of us went out together. Then after that, well, the three of us would go out every week. I’m not saying I minded—not then. Bernie and I still went out twice a week by ourselves, without June, I mean. Well then—last year this was—Bernie had to study real hard. He was studying to be an engineer nights. So we couldn’t go out, except once a week. And June would be there that time. So it got so I never saw Bernie alone. I’m not saying I minded even then. Bernie had to study, I thought. I knew he liked her but … Well then, one night I went to the flicks on my own and … I saw them together. At the Gaumont, Kensington it was. I suppose they thought I’d never go there.” She quivered a little, then stood there silently, as though nothing more could possibly be said.
Bartlett gave her a few moments. Then, “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do nothing. What could I do?”
“You didn’t tell Cole that you had seen him with Singer?”
“No. It was too late then. If I’d made him choose—well, he’d have ditched me, not her. That’s what I thought.”
“But you still continued to go out as a threesome?”
“Yes. For a bit we did. Then Bernie said he had to study even harder, so he couldn’t afford the time. I knew he was lying. I knew he was still seeing June but …”
“How did you know that?”
“I—I watched them.”
“You mean you followed them?”
“Yes. They went out Wednesdays and Saturdays regular.”
“And each time you followed them?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you never went to Cole and asked him to explain the situation?”
“It didn’t need much explaining, did it?”
“And at this time—while Cole and Singer were seeing each other regularly—did you ever go out with June?”
“No. The last time I saw June was when the three of us went to the ice rink together. I never saw her again.”
“And when was this—this time you went to the ice rink?”
“It must have been about May last year.”
“And thereafter you made no effort to see June Singer?”
“Why should I? She should have come to me. If she had, I wouldn’t have minded so much. But I knew she wouldn’t. June never could admit she’d done anything wrong.”
“And after the time when you went to the ice rink last May, did you see Cole again?”
“Yes. The end of November. Not long before June’s Mum died. I went to see Bernie then.”
“You went to see him?”
“Yes.”
“Why—after all this time?”
“Well, see, a long time before, we’d planned, Bernie and me, to take our holidays—a week of our holidays, that is—together just after Christmas. And I wanted to find out like …”
“You wanted to find out whether the arrangement still stood?”
“That’s right.”
“And did it?”
“No. He said he had to study. He gave me a load of excuses. I knew he was lying. I got that angry with him. I told him I knew all about him and June.”
“And what did he say to that?”
“Well, he said there wasn’t anything between him and June. And I knew it was true by then—I wouldn’t have gone if they’d still been carrying on.”
“By the end of November there
was nothing between Cole and Singer? How did you know that?”
“She’d cooled off. I always knew she’d cool off. That’s why I never did anything. June could have done a lot better for herself than Bernie. Bernie was just a passing fancy, I knew that.”
“But how did you know that she’d cooled off?”
“Because I was watching them. July it must have been they started going out once a week instead of twice. By October she’d stopped seeing him altogether.”
“And was it your understanding that this ‘cooling off’ was mutual?”
“I didn’t know for sure. But Bernie promised to take me to the Palais New Year’s.”
“And did he take you?”
“No.”
“What did you do then?”
“Well, I waited a few days. I got a bit of pride. Then I went round to see him—at Elmley Road, where he lived. But he wasn’t there. I hadn’t been watching him, see, because he made me promise not to. So I didn’t know where he was. I enquired at Swail’s. But they didn’t know either. He’d just vanished.”
“Did you continue your attempts to contact him?”
“I couldn’t think what to do. Then, after a bit, I went round to see June. I thought perhaps she might … Well, she wasn’t there either. Mrs. Pi—Mrs. Payne didn’t know where she was. Well, that was funny. And I began to put two and two together.”
“What did you do then?”
“I thought it over for a bit. Then I rung up June’s office. I knew where she worked, of course.”
“And you talked to her?”
“Yes.”
“When was this?”
“Sometime in February. About then.”
“And did you ask her the whereabouts of Cole?”
“Yes. At first she said she didn’t know nothing about Bernie. But then when I told her he’d disappeared, she kind of laughed and said she wished he would. She said he was a pest. She said he kept writing her daft letters and ringing her up and whenever she turned round in the street, there he was. She said I was welcome to him. She said she’d be grateful if I took him off her hands. She couldn’t stand the sight of him, she said. Then she told me where he lived, and I went round there. A Thursday it was—I just took the day off and went round, I was that upset. He wasn’t in, but they told me where he worked. So I went there. I didn’t go in. I waited till he came out after they closed …”