by Julian Gloag
“I know what I think. You’re trying to trick me.”
“What I say is true, Mr. Cole.”
“That’s what you say.”
“Before you were employed at Ramsden and Black, where did you work, Mr. Cole?”
“Swail’s in Clapham.”
“An ironmonger’s?”
“That’s right.”
“How long did you work there?”
“Four or five years.”
“Four, or five?”
“Well, five then.”
“Like the job?”
“It was alright.”
“By the time you left, how much were you earning?”
“About eighteen pounds.”
“Eighteen pounds a week?”
“Yes.”
“Was there ever any suggestion that you might become a partner in the firm?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Who said?”
“Mr. Swail.”
“Mr. Swail offered you a partnership?”
“It’s easy enough to talk.”
“You did not think it was a genuine offer?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You did think the offer was genuine?”
“I’d have believed it when I’d seen it.”
“You got on well in the job?”
“Alright.”
“Well now, did you have any rows with Mr. Swail?”
“No.”
“Why did you leave Swail’s?”
“I wanted to better myself.”
“Relations were quite amicable with Mr. Swail?”
“Oh yes.”
“When you left Swail’s, how much notice did you leave?”
“Well, I … I told him I was leaving.”
“You told him that you were leaving on the same day that you left, is that what you are saying?”
“I didn’t owe him anything.”
“Did you give Mr. Swail any advance notice of your departure?”
“There’s no law says—”
“Did you or did you not give notice?”
“No, then.”
“When did you leave?”
“January some time.”
“January of this year?”
“Yes.”
“What day in January?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Was it January the third, by any chance?”
“It might have been.”
“Was it?”
“Perhaps it was, yes.”
“Why did you leave Swail’s without giving notice?”
“I told you, to better myself. A better job.”
“You already had a better job?”
“I was looking around.”
“But you had not, in fact, got a job to go to, had you?”
“Not exactly—”
“Yes or no?”
“No, then.”
“A rather sudden move, wasn’t it?”
“I’d been mulling it over.”
“At this time, where were you living?”
“Fourteen Elmley Road, Putney.”
“How long had you lived there?”
“Five years, I’d say.”
“What rent did you pay?”
“Three pounds.”
“When did you leave Elmley Road?”
“In January.”
“January this year?”
“I told you, yes.”
“On the same day that you left Swail’s—January the third?”
“No.”
“January the fourth?”
“Well, it might have been.”
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
“Did you give any notice at Elmley Road?”
“No.”
“Was it that same day in January that you moved to Rumbold Street?”
“Yes.”
“What rent do you pay at Rumbold Street?”
“A bit more.”
“How much more?”
“Well, I pay four pound ten. But it’s a better room.”
“You pay one pound ten more?”
“I told you.”
“How much do you earn at Ramsden and Black?”
“About the same.”
“Eighteen pounds a week?”
“A bit less.”
“How much, Mr. Cole?”
“Well, fifteen pound ten at the moment.”
“Two pound ten less than at Swail’s?”
“Yes.”
“Has anyone offered you a partnership at Ramsden and Black?”
“Not exactly.”
“Yes or no?”
“No.”
“So. So, without having any new job in prospect, you left a post which you had held for five years and which offered you definite prospects of further advancement, and you left a house where you had lived for five years to take a more expensive room elsewhere. And you did both these things literally at a moment’s notice. And you did them in order to better yourself. Is that what you are saying?”
“Well—I thought it was time for a change.”
“A very sudden change?”
“I’d been mulling it over.”
“And during this period when you had been ‘mulling it over,’ you had also been ringing up June Singer, hadn’t you?”
“I never.”
“Never?” A whipping echo.
“Well, I may have—given her a ring. I can’t be expected to remember everything.”
“One ring? Just one telephone call?”
“Well, it might have been one or two. I tell you I can’t—”
“Or three?”
“It might have been.” The blinks stammered rapidly. “How do I know exact—”
“Four? Five? Six?”
“I don’t know, I tell you I don’t know. I don’t know when you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about when you were trying to find out where she had moved.”
“It couldn’t have been more than …”
“You were trying to find out where she had moved?”
“Well … I may … have asked her. Casual like.”
“Did she tell you?”
“Well, I don’t remember offhand—I—”
“If she’d have told you, you would have known, wouldn’t you?”
“Well, yes.”
“And you didn’t know, did you?”
“I suppose I couldn’t have, really.”
“You didn’t know, did you?”
“Well, not then.”
“When?”
“Not at that time.”
“What time?”
“Not when I was …”
“Yes?”
“I don’t recall.”
“When did you find out her new address?”
“I don’t recall.”
“January the third?”
“No. I don’t remember.”
“You knew she had moved?”
“Well, yes. I knew that.”
“You knew she left Putney on December the twentieth, didn’t you?”
“Well, thereabouts, I suppose.”
“Within a day or two?”
“Well, yes.”
“How do you account for the fact that earlier in this examination you denied knowing when June Singer had moved?”
“You didn’t ask me that. You asked me if I knew when she moved to Panton Place and I said I didn’t know. You never said anything about Putney.”
“So immediately she moved away from Putney, you began your efforts to find out where she had gone? You telephoned her and wrote her letters and—”
“I never said nothing about letters!”
Bartlett nodded gravely. He moved to his place and picked up a large exercise book stuffed with papers. He opened the book and began to turn the pages and sheets of paper as he slowly returned to the witness. He seemed to find his place, stopped, looked up. “But you did write letters to June S
inger between the time she moved to Panton Place and her death, did you not?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Letters,” Bartlett glanced down, “letters which you signed, ‘Your Bernie Boy’?”
“How’d you get them lett … ers?”
“You did sign your letters to June, ‘Your Bernie Boy’?”
“Well … I may have.” His voice was hardly audible.
“Did you?”
“Once or twice I did, perhaps.”
“And you were writing letters to her last December—at her office— were you not?”
“One or two, perhaps, I—”
“And in January of this year?”
“I could have. I …”
“And in February of this year?”
“One or two, I could …”
“And in March of this year?”
“Alright alright! I wrote her a few letters. There’s no law against it.”
“A few letters. You were writing her lots of letters, weren’t you?”
“Not lots.”
“Every day?”
“Not every day.”
“And you signed all those letters, ‘Your Bernie Boy’?”
“Not all of them.”
“And do you recall saying in one of those letters you wrote to June Singer this year: ‘You are ruining my life?”
“Well, I …”
Bartlett raised the exercise book in his hand. “Did you write that: ‘You are ruining my life?”
“I could have. It’s possible.”
“Did you think she was ruining your life?”
“I didn’t like—what she was doing.”
“What was she doing that you did not like?”
“She was …” He mumbled indistinctly.
“Speak up, Mr. Cole. What was she doing?”
“Playing around.”
“Playing around—with another man, you mean?”
“That Maddox.” Loud, strong, hard.
“You thought she was ‘playing around’ with Maddox?”
“I knew she was.”
“How could you know any such thing?”
“She told me!” Yah—clever sticks!
“She told you she was ‘playing around’ with Maddox? Those were the words she used?”
“Not exactly. She said she was going out with him. I knew what that meant. A married man!” He was strong now, vicious against the injustice of it all.
Bartlett put the exercise book under his arm and turned to the judge. “My Lord, in view of that statement, and indeed in the light of this witness’s demeanour of reluctance, evasiveness and hostility throughout my examination, I must make application to treat this witness as a hostile one.”
The judge nodded impatiently. “Quite right, Mr. Bartlett. I only wonder why you have waited so long. I am very unfavourably impressed with this witness’s manner of giving evidence. He is clearly hostile. I have indeed been permitting you to cross-examine him for that very reason. Mr. Pollen!”
“My Lord?”
“You were informed that this witness would be called?”
“This morning, my Lord.”
“And as to the nature of his evidence?”
“I do not believe, my Lord, that the full nature of his evidence was known.”
“You did not know of the existence of this witness prior to being informed of it this morning?”
“Of course not, my Lord. If I had known, naturally I should—”
“Quite quite. You may sit down, Mr. Pollen. Mr. Bartlett, your application is granted.”
There was a kind of heaviness in the barrister as he turned to face Cole once again.
And almost visibly Bernie Cole braced himself, but there was a pleasure in it. A hostile witness—well, they’d admitted it at last, hadn’t they, what he knew all along? They hated him, and he’d made them admit it. It was a victory. He’d never been taken in yet.
“Let us, Mr. Cole, go back to last December. Did you see June Singer in December?”
“Yes.”
“You had not seen her for some weeks prior to that, had you?”
“No.”
“But in December you went round to see her?”
“No. She came round to see me.” A touch of pride.
“Was that before or after her mother died?”
“After her mother had passed away, it was.”
“Why did she come to see you?”
“She was upset and that.”
“Upset over the death of her mother?”
“That’s right.”
“And she wanted you to comfort her?”
“Well, yes, you could say that. She was lonely, see.”
“And did you comfort her?”
“I tried.”
“And you saw her on several occasions?”
“Yes.”
“Over how long a period?”
“A week it was.”
“And did you see her every day?”
“Yes. She was very keen.”
“Keen on you?”
“Why not?”
“She was very keen on you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you mean by that expression that she was in love with you?”
“I’m not saying she wasn’t.”
“Did she say she was in love with you?”
“Well, if you want to know, she did, yes.”
“And were you keen on her during that week?”
“I’d always liked her. I never said I didn’t.”
“And did you tell her that you loved her?”
“Well, I …”
“Did you?”
“Yes, I—I told her that. She …”
“Yes?”
“She was ever so keen I say it.”
“So you did?”
“Yes.”
“Just to oblige her? Or did you mean it?”
“I wouldn’t have said it if I hadn’t of meant it.”
“And did you ask her to marry you?”
“I … she was that keen. She—well, yes, I did ask her that.”
“And she said she would?”
“Yes, of course she did. I wouldn’t have asked otherwise, would I?”
“She was distraught at this time?”
“Well—” Bernie smiled. “I wouldn’t have said she was exactly in the pink.”
“She was upset?”
“Of course she was upset.”
“And she didn’t have anyone to turn to, did she?”
“She had me. She turned to me.”
“And you were condescending enough to extend your help?”
“Condescending! I wasn’t condescending. It’s just common decency, besides I—”
“And would you call it common decency to take advantage of a woman in that grievous situation?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I mean, Mr. Cole, did you think it decent—or fair—to have sexual intercourse with June Singer at that time?”
“I never! I never did. That’s nothing but a story, that is.”
“Very well, Mr. Cole. Now, how did you find out where June lived?”
“I … well, I followed her.”
“Followed her?”
“I followed her home from her office.”
“To Panton Place?”
“Yes.”
“And then you yourself moved to Rumbold Street?”
“Well, it was convenient.”
“Convenient for what?”
“It was convenient to my job, and—”
“But at that time you didn’t have a job, did you?”
“Well, no.”
“So I repeat, Mr. Cole, what was your move convenient for?”
Bernie blinked rapidly. “I mean, it was convenient to the shops and that.”
“Convenient to the shops!”
“And I had to keep an eye on her, didn’t I?”
“Oh! Why did you have to keep an ey
e on June Singer?”
Slowly Bernie’s pudding-white face had grown red, and now his forehead was scarlet. “We was going to be maided. I tell you and tell you!”
“Despite the fact she had left you without a word of where she was going, despite the fact she refused to tell you where she lived, despite the fact she never answered your letters—you still thought she was going to marry you?”
“Yes!”
“Why?”
“I … I just thought so.”
“But you had no reason, not the slightest grounds, for thinking that she would marry you, did you?”
“I … She …”
“Are you saying that it was a totally irrational expectation on your part?”
“She—she didn’t have no alternative.”
“Why not?”
“She had to get married, didn’t she?”
“Why?”
“Well, I mean.” Bernie paused, then almost imperceptibly he smiled. “She was pregnant—so I’ve heard.”
“Did June tell you that?”
“As a matter of fact she did.”
“When?”
“Oh, roundabout the beginning of Feb.” Offhandedly. “When she knew for sure, that is.”
“You saw her?”
“I wasn’t blindfold, if that’s what you mean.”
“Where did you meet her? In the street, in her flat?”
“We went round to the Kardomah for coffee, if you want to know.”
“And it was then she told you that she was pregnant?”
“Yes.”
“That was the purpose of the meeting?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Yes or no?”
“Yes then.”
“Why should she come to you with this piece of news, Mr. Cole?”
“She was in trouble, wasn’t she?”
“But why should she come to you?”
“Well why not?”
“Answer the question!”
“I suppose it was because she knew I liked her. She knew that. I told you that.”
“It wasn’t because you were the father of her child?”
“No. No, I keep telling you.”
“Then why? What was the purpose of this confidence?”
“I said it once, I said—”
“Oh yes—because she liked you. Well, let’s see, did she perhaps want you to marry her, Mr. Cole?”
“I … not exactly. I mean …”
“But you wanted to marry her—you still wanted that?”
“I … I was prepared to forgive and forget.” He drew back his shoulders a little.