by Julian Gloag
“Did you want to marry her?”
“I suppose I did really.”
“Did you ask her—when you had coffee at the Kardomah then—did you ask her to marry you once again?”
“I had tea—I don’t care for coffee. I said I would, yes.”
“You said you would marry her. Did she ask you to marry her, Mr. Cole?”
“Not exactly.”
“Did you gather that she wanted to marry you?”
“Well, I … she’d have come round to it.”
“But she did not want to marry you at this time?”
“No.”
“Later? Did she want to marry you later?”
“I … no.”
“What did she want?”
“I … She … she wanted to get rid of it.” Cole shook his head sadly at such human frailty.
“She wanted to procure an abortion? She told you that?”
“She was taking a lot of stuff. They shouldn’t be allowed to sell it, in my opinion. And if that didn’t work, she said she was going to one of them quacks.”
“An abortionist?”
“Yes.”
“And she expected you to help?”
“I told her it wasn’t right. A person’s got to pay for what they’ve done wrong, haven’t they?”
“She expected you to help?”
“I said I’d marry her. In spite of it, I said I’d marry her. You’d of thought a person would be grateful for—”
“What was it that she expected you to do, Mr. Cole?”
“She wanted me to give her money.”
“For the abortionist?”
“Yes.”
“How much did she want?”
“Two hundred quid.”
“Did you have the money?”
“I’ve got a bit in Post Office Savings.”
“But you didn’t give her the money?”
“I couldn’t do that. It wouldn’t have been right, would it?”
“Did you meet June again after that one time in early February?”
“Yes. Three or four times.”
“And did she also, on these occasions, ask you for the money?”
“She did.” He sighed.
“And each time you refused?”
“I told you, it wasn’t right.”
“And each time she refused to marry you?”
“Yes, but she was in a state. It wouldn’t have lasted.”
“I see. You fancied you were sitting pretty, didn’t you? All you had to do was wait, and eventually she’d have no choice but to marry you? That was your calculation, wasn’t it?”
“I didn’t calculate nothing, I—”
“Mr. Cole, if, as you say, you were not the father of the child, why did June not go to the man who was responsible and ask him for the money? Did she tell you that?”
“I …” He was blinking very quickly now. “She didn’t tell me nothing about that.”
“Well, it would be the natural thing to do, wouldn’t it?”
“I … Natural? How can it be natural to want to get rid of a baby?”
“And would you call it natural to want to marry a woman bearing another man’s child?”
Cole hesitated, then blurted, “If you ask me, she was lucky to have the offer!”
“Possibly—possibly she was. If what you say is true.”
“I’m not a liar.”
“Aren’t you? I think you are a liar. I think, I put it to you, Cole, that June Singer came to you and tried to extract money from you and counted on your help for one reason and one reason only—because she had a right to expect your aid and support. Is that not so?”
“No, it’s—”
“And her right consisted in this—that you were the father of the child she carried. Is that not so?”
“Naow!”
“And by refusing her the money for which she asked, you attempted to blackmail her into a marriage she did not want?”
“That’s a tale, that is.”
“What were you doing on the morning of Monday, March the ninth, Mr. Cole?”
“What?”
“Monday, March the ninth. What were you doing that morning, Mr. Cole?”
“I don’t recall offhand. I—I’d have been at work. It depends what time.”
“You were at work? At Ramsden & Black’s?”
“Yes, I expect I would have been.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m trying to think. I can’t say exactly. I might of, then again I might not of.”
“Did you or did you not go to work that morning?”
“Well, I think I did. But I was off a couple of days round then, so I can’t be sure.”
“You did not go to work for two days?”
“I was off sick. A sore throat I had, see.”
“You were off sick with a sore throat for two days. Those days were March the ninth and March the tenth, were they not?”
“They could have been, I can’t say for sure.”
“It’s undoubtedly a matter of record, Mr. Cole.”
“Well if you know, why do you ask?”
The judge’s teeth snapped sharply. “The witness is not here to indulge in repartee. You will confine yourself to answering the questions, Cole.”
“I beg pardon, my Lord. Come to think of it, it was those days. Yes, I’m sure now.”
“And on that morning, March the ninth, did you leave your lodgings at any time?” Bartlett asked the question softly.
“I was sick in bed, wasn’t I?” Cole’s eyes flickered towards the judge. “I mean, I don’t think I did, no.”
“You are quite positive you did not go out on that morning for any reason whatsoever?”
“Well I—I might have popped out for milk. But it’d have only been a minute.”
“You left your lodgings to purchase milk?”
“It’s soothing to a sore throat, milk is. I wouldn’t have been gone long.”
“I expect we can ask your landlady to verify that. Where did you purchase the milk?”
“There’s a machine on the corner of Ludlow Street.”
“And you bought milk there?”
“Yes.”
“And Ludlow Street is next but one to Panton Place, is it not?”
“Maybe. Yes, I think that’s right.”
There was a movement on the Treasury bench. Pollen was whispering, flushed with the indignity of it. His junior got up suddenly and hurried out.
“Why didn’t you get your milk from the dairy on the corner of Rumbold Street, Mr. Cole?”
“It wasn’t … I don’t care for the management there.”
“Were you going to say it wasn’t open at that time in the morning?”
“I really couldn’t say when it opens. I don’t patronise the dairy.”
“Are you asking us to believe that, because of your dislike of the dairy’s management, you went four streets further on to get your milk—ill as you were on a cold, rainy morning—”
“It wasn’t raining, it was …”
“Ah, nor it was. Sunny, wasn’t it? Yes. I am glad to see your recollection is improving. I wish the same could be said of your truthfulness.”
Cole’s mouth remained stubbornly shut. In the momentary silence, there was an audible movement at the back of the court. Jordan turned just in time to see the departing figure of Superintendent George.
Bartlett waited until the rustling died. “There is just one more thing that I should like to see whether you can recollect, Mr. Cole.”
He spoke slowly. “How did you find out that someone else had supplied the money for which June asked you?”
“She …”
“She told you, Mr. Cole?” Very gently.
“No. I don’t know anything about any money.”
“But she did tell you, didn’t she?”
“No. I was going to say—I was going to say she didn’t have no money as far as I know.”
“She didn’t have—bu
t she got some.”
“No!”
“She didn’t get any?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What I am talking about is that you knew June’s lack of money would prevent her procuring an abortion, and that you counted upon that fact to force her into a marriage which she clearly did not want. Her shortage of cash was your trump card, and—”
“You’re twisting it. It wasn’t like that!”
“But you thought, indeed you have said in this court, that, failing an abortion, June would have no alternative but to marry you—”
“I was offering her a home, and a name for her baby!” And suddenly it was genuine, the furious righteousness with which he spoke.
“The fact that she didn’t want your home and didn’t want your name, carried no weight with you at all. You didn’t care what she wanted, did you? All you cared—”
“I did! I did care!” He leaned forward, as if to leap at Bartlett.
“But only to prevent it!”
“No!”
“You wanted to possess June on your terms, didn’t you, regardless of her—”
“Terms? I was prepared to marry her.” No blinking now. “What more could she ask?”
“Love?”
“I loved her alright.” He nodded.
It was a losing game. For Bartlett now. Jordan knew that, felt it as he felt the dampness of sweat under his shirt.
“And loving her, Mr. Cole, when it became clear to you that she didn’t need your support, financial or otherwise, you made up your mind that if you could not have her, no one else should—didn’t you?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean—and I want there to be absolutely no misapprehension about this—I mean that when June Singer told you that she had the money and that she did not need you anymore, did not love you and did not need you, you realised finally that she had slipped from your grasp. And rather than live without her, you determined that she should not live without you. I put it to you, Mr. Cole, that rather than lose June Singer, you killed her.”
He was silent, as though turning something over very carefully in his mind. Then he said, but quite without anger, “If I loved her, I wouldn’t want her dead, would I?”
“Did you kill June Singer?”
Cole sighed slowly. “Certainly not.”
“I have no more questions, my Lord.” Bartlett smoothed the back of his gown wearily and sat down.
51
Jordan closed his eyes. Absolute stillness … absolute quiet. Let the poor bastard go, he thought, let him go.
“My Lord?”
“Mr. Pollen?”
“If your Lordship pleases, in view of the, er, circumstances, I should like to request a recess.”
“Yes—in any event it is almost time for luncheon. Very well, Mr. Pollen. We will adjourn until two o’clock. Does that suit your purpose?”
“I should like a recess until, er, tomorrow morning, if your Lordship—”
“Tomorrow morning!” The jaws snapped sharply.
“In the circumstances, my Lord, the Crown wishes to consider fully certain matters that have, er, arisen.” Pollen’s face mottled.
Bartlett rose. “My Lord, I most strongly oppose the Crown’s submission. I see no reason for delay. Justice can be done here most swiftly. If the Crown does not wish to cross-examine this witness, I am agreeable. I am ready to dispense with all further evidence. Further, I am prepared to waive my close, if the Crown will do the same. I am ready to let the verdict rest upon the evidence as given.”
“Nothing of the kind!” Pollen almost shouted.
“In that case,” said Bartlett, “I think we are entitled to know what is in the Crown’s mind.”
The judge nodded. “Yes, that’s fair enough. What are these matters you wish to consider, Mr. Pollen?”
“I … It’s not a question, my Lord. I am not able to state positively at this, er, juncture. That is to say, I—”
“Perhaps,” said Bartlett slicingly, “the Crown’s mind is a blank. But I see no reason why we should share my learned friend’s suspended animation. If he is planning to nolle prosequi the indictment, he should—”
“My Lord!” Stentorian. “I must insist—”
“Insist? A strange word, Mr. Pollen.”
“Crave, my Lord, humbly crave with all the powers at my command, I must …”
“Well, you know, Mr. Bartlett, it is the Crown’s prerogative.”
“As your Lordship pleases.”
“I must then accede to the Crown’s request. We shall adjourn until tomorrow morning.”
Down again to the lower cell, Jordan felt bruised.
“Don’t you worry, sir, you’ll be alright.” Denver cheerful. “We’ll have the transportation up in half a mo’. Just you sit tight.”
Bruised for Bernard Cole.
“Here’s your man.”
Still gowned and wigged, Bartlett swept quickly in and sat down. The door shut behind him. With one neat movement he slipped off his wig. He took out his case and lit a cigarette and put the case on the table. All without looking up. And then he did, and smiled. “A hard morning.”
“What is going to happen?”
“They’ll go for a nolle, I think. Sorry—which means a stop to further proceedings under the indictment. I’ll press for a dismissal—that’s better, better for you.”
“For me?”
“An open admission that there’s no case against you. Almost as good as a verdict. We won’t get that now, not a verdict. But even a nolle is not so bad. You don’t have to worry. In any event, you’ll be your own man tomorrow, Maddox.”
“I really meant Cole. What will happen to him?” He saw him standing there, forgotten but patient, while the lawyers debated what was to be done.
“It depends. There’ll be a reinvestigation. It depends upon the degree of Cole’s loquacity to the police. It will have to be cast-iron before they bring charges. And there is of course a natural aversion to prosecuting the same case twice—whatever the extent of incrimination.”
“Did he do it?”
“Cole?” Bartlett poised in surprise—cigarette halfway to his mouth, head a little to one side like a listening bird’s.
“Yes,” said Jordan. He waited for the lawyer to gather himself, take flight into the abstract blue.
“Of course he did it.” Bartlett stubbed out his cigarette.
“There were moments when he was—well, oddly convincing.”
“He’s quite clever. He knows enough to contrive a half-truth where another man would resort to an outright lie. But he’s caught in his own snare now.” Bartlett smoothed his hair, rumpled from contact with the wig. He stood up abruptly and held out his hand. “Well, Maddox, we won’t meet again, I expect. You’ll see me in court tomorrow of course. But it shouldn’t take ten minutes. Good luck.”
They shook hands. Jordan said, “I have a lot to thank you for. I’m grateful.”
Bartlett hesitated, then gave a brief smile. “You know, Maddox, I can’t help thinking—if only she’d had enough sense to marry Cole when he asked her, it would have saved us all a great deal of trouble.”
Jordan stared at the barrister, holding his wig delicately in his fingers, lips slightly pursed, striped trousers and gown immaculate. “Goodbye, Bartlett.”
The lawyer nodded. “Goodbye.”
They crawled along the Embankment. There was just the sergeant driver and, in the back, Denver and Jordan. No handcuffs now.
“The last time you’ll be going this way, sir,” said Denver.
“Yes.”
“All be over tomorrow. I told you there wasn’t anything to worry about, didn’t I?”
“Yes.” It was high tide. Further down, towards Westminster Bridge, the sun caught the water in a dappled silver gleam. There was the faintest of winds, just enough to lazily curl the fingers of smoke from the stacks on the South Bank.
; Where was Cole now? Sarah Street? The cells of the Old Bailey? Home? It was hard now to visualize his features.
Jordan turned his head and looked across the line of traffic to the Embankment Gardens. Wandering in the bright May warmth, the lunchtime crowd was a mixture of loose flapping overcoats and summer dresses bright as fuchsia and forsythia. On the grass, one or two in shirt sleeves, lying as dead from some sweet, benevolent gas. A couple pinioned motionless together.
As the car came to a halt, he saw that yesterday’s rain had washed everything clean. The young leaves of the box hedge shone, the needles of yew gleamed softly. The earth was heavy and freshly turned. Tomorrow he would be able to stroll there at his will. He half-closed his eyes and the sun made a haze of the colours—the greens and greys and browns roughly sewn with patches of orange and of pink. The gay frocks of the secretaries, hundreds of them moving their mouths, heads, hands. And, beyond, the flash and twinkle of brass—the band playing on the bandstand. The lunchtime concert. He wound down the window, but he could not hear the music above the traffic—the hooting, the shifting of gears, the deep sigh of airbrakes.
He leaned back again, and something crackled in his pocket. He took out the two envelopes. For a while he sat with them on his lap, then he looked down and turned them over. Willy’s letter and his own confession. J. J. Maddox, Esq.—By Hand; The Governor—Urgent. He squinted at the crumpled envelopes, and his fingers centred and pulled—a straight, unwavering tear. Across once. He shuffled the four pieces together. Again across. Eight. Sixteen. He held them in his open hands, then slowly closed his fist, crushing the pieces into a tight ball.
There was a prison officer waiting when they got out of the car.
“Visitor for Maddox in the solicitors’ room.”
Denver smiled. “Well, he made good time, didn’t he?”
Tom—he hadn’t the slightest desire to see Tom. He went with Denver reluctantly.
But it wasn’t Tom.
“Willy—how on earth did you get in here?”
She turned jerkily towards him. “Jordan … The Governor gave special permission.”
He smiled at her.
“Oh darling, it’s wonderful, isn’t it?” she said. “I—I can’t wait.”
He still held the crushed shreds of paper. He put them in his pocket. “Willy,” he began.
“Yes?” Eager, yet trepid.