The Burden of Proof

by Roderic Jeffries

  “Suppose the police deliberately don’t search very hard?”

  “Don’t think along those lines, Mr. Ventnor. The police will make exhaustive inquiries, designed just as much to clear you as to inculpate you.”

  “Are you telling me that an innocent person couldn’t be convicted?”

  “Over the centuries a few have been, but expressed as a percentage of the total number of convictions, it’s a figure far too small to signify.”

  “To the people wrongly convicted?”

  “Of course not, but I was trying to stress the inadvisability of your previous line of thought.”

  “How much does it cost to hire a private detective?”

  “A good one, which is the only reasonable one to have, about ten guineas a day.”

  “Then will you start one moving? We must find that artist. Surely to God, it shouldn’t be very difficult if the searcher’s really trying.”

  “If the man’s without roots, wasn’t gregarious, if he and the girl kept out of the circles they could be expected to have been seen in, and if he knows and understands the charge that could be brought against him if he’s caught… I’d say it could prove very difficult to get hold of him.”

  Five minutes later, Roger left the building. He walked down the street toward the crossroads and as he did so a strange fact about the men he passed occurred to him. Any one of them could be Margaret’s lover. He and Roger could rub shoulders and pass on, and that would be that. The man represented Roger’s innocence, yet there was no way in which to identify him.

  *

  “The weakness at the moment is quite obvious,” said the assistant from the Director of Public Prosecutions. “We cannot prove she wasn’t going round with another man.”

  “I know, sir,” muttered Fisher.

  “I wonder if you chaps have made quite enough inquiries to satisfy a court that had there been such a man he would inevitably have been found?”

  “I know that’s important, but is it so important — ”

  “In this case, you’ll have to lead the jury very carefully and very slowly. So get statements from every person the girl might have spoken to. What I’m worried about is the obvious fact that if you leave a loophole a quarter of an inch across, the defence will rip it open until they can get a London omnibus through.”

  “You think, then, we ought to double check all the inquiries we’ve already made?”

  “I do. And add in everyone else you can think of. We must make certain on this point.”

  “I’d have thought, sir, the rest of the evidence — ”

  The assistant from the D.P.P.’s office straightened his already straight tie. “The rest of the evidence — by the time you’ve sorted it — will land him in the net, but I’m just holding back to make certain we keep him there. I gather this is a case that must be successful?”

  “Yes, sir. Abortion’s on the increase and if a successful prosecution is brought it’ll help to remind some people of the fact that they can very soon be whipped inside for what they’re doing.”

  “Not, of course, to mention the fact that the girl was the daughter of an ex-policeman.”

  “That fact on its own wouldn’t have any effect, sir,” said Fisher sharply.

  “Wouldn’t it? You surprise me. I’m sure if one of our chaps was murdered, we’d all do overtime searching through the law books for some way to nab the murderer.” He crammed papers into his briefcase. “Numbers will count here… By the way, I suppose you’ve been through the catalogues of art exhibitions over the past two or three years and have had a word with anyone who’s ever exhibited?”

  “One of the first things we did, sir.”

  “Good, good. Felt certain you had. A little bit more and you can bring the case.” He smiled quickly, as he added, “You’ll be glad to hear.”

  Chapter 11

  Elizabeth was waiting at Reton Park Hall. She seemed to have grown lines about her eyes and mouth and whereas before she had looked younger than her age, now she was beginning to look older. When she heard the car pull up outside the front door, she hurried out.

  As Roger opened the car door, Elizabeth stared at him with an intensity that suggested she was trying to read from his expression what had happened because she was afraid to hear the words.

  He kissed her and handed her a package, wrapped in tissue paper. She opened it and stared at the six long-stemmed, pink-edged, golden-yellow Peace roses. “I couldn’t resist them,” he said. “Put one in your hair and let’s dance the mantilla.”

  “A mantilla happens to be a kind of shawl.”

  “Don’t be such a spoilsport.”

  “What happened, Roger?”

  “The solicitor was convinced that the whole thing will sort itself out.”

  “Is that what he said?”

  “In the circumlocutory way in which lawyers always speak.”

  Patricia came out of the house and her eyes mirrored the same expression as had been in Elizabeth’s. “What happened?”

  “I saw Lindy who passed me on quickly to Yerby. Yerby says there’s not much else to do at the moment but hire a private detective to try and trace the artist.”

  “Did you agree to that?”

  “I said it was a damn good idea in case the police hadn’t been searching as hard as they might.” He stared across the raised circular lawn at the tall iron railings and the wrought-iron gates. “Ten guineas a day. Still. What the hell’s ten guineas a day compared to all we owe?”

  “The money doesn’t matter,” cried Elizabeth. She stared at the roses in her hand. “What I can’t understand is why the police keep going on and on at you. They don’t know anything that you haven’t told me, do they, Roger?”

  He hesitated, and that was fatal.

  “What is it?” demanded Elizabeth, and her voice rose.

  Patricia turned and limped back into the house.

  “What happened, Roger, what really happened? You’ve got to tell me.”

  He sighed. “When I saw Margaret and she told me she was pregnant, she was in a hell of a state.”

  Elizabeth, unconscious of what she was doing, began to fiddle with the bloom of one of the six roses. She plucked at an outer petal, rubbing and twisting it between forefinger and thumb, and very soon it tore free. She dropped it to the ground and immediately started on a second petal.

  “She told me she was pregnant and that the father, who was an artist, had refused to help her. She said that if I couldn’t do something for her, she’d kill herself. She was hysterical. I refused at first, but — I couldn’t do nothing and know she might kill herself because I did nothing, and in the end I agreed to help. I said I’d speak to someone I know.”

  Three rose petals were plucked off together.

  “I went up to London to see a doctor I knew. He slung me out of the house. I came back and told Margaret I hadn’t anything for her and wasn’t going to try to get anything for her. I didn’t see her again.”

  “And you couldn’t tell me that before now?”

  “I wasn’t going to shout it from the roof tops.”

  “I can well imagine that. What else is there that you know but I don’t?”

  “That’s the lot, Elizabeth.”

  “Is it? I wonder. Every time I see you now, it seems a little bit more of the story is dragged out of you. Every time I ask, you say you’ve told me everything, but there’s always more to come.”

  “For God’s sake, Elizabeth — ” he began. He bit back the words he had been about to say. “I swear you’ve got the lot now, just as it happened. So how about forgetting it all and coming in for a drink?”

  “All right,” she said listlessly.

  On the ground lay all the pink-edged golden-yellow petals from a rose.

  *

  Once upon a time — that is, before television — The Kinema had boasted a doorman who, dressed in a magnificent uniform, shepherded the waiting thousands into queues. He and the queues had vanished at about the
same time. In his place appeared the manager, a somewhat morose man, who frequently waited by the box office, dressed in worn dinner jacket and made-up bow tie, and who seemed to have an air about him of expecting, at any minute, queues to materialise once more.

  Ritter parked immediately in front of a police no-parking sign, being still young enough to enjoy doing just that. He and Fisher left the car, crossed the pavement and walked under the large square canopy without which no cinema of the thirties had been complete.

  The manager hurried forward. “Ticket office there, sir. Seats in all parts.”

  “Seen the film,” said Ritter.

  The manager’s face relaxed and shed the false smile.

  “Didn’t think much of it, either — not nearly as good as the old ones they put on telly.”

  Fisher forestalled any comment the manager might have made. “We’re from the police.”

  “That’s all I needed!” The manager looked toward the girl in the box office as though seeking her sympathy.

  Fisher became very business-like and sharply-toned in voice. One of his abilities was to be able accurately to sum up the character of the person he was interrogating and then adjust his style of questioning as necessary. Just the right amount of pressure on the manager would insure full cooperation, whereas no pressure could produce resentment through a mistaken belief that that showed independence. “We’re investigating a case in which you’ll be able to assist us.”

  “Is it to do with that bunch that slashed the seats in the three and sixes?”

  “No… Take a look at these photographs and say if you recognise anyone.” Fisher gave twelve photographs to the manager.

  “Are they all crooks?”

  “Don’t worry about who or what. Just say if you recognise anyone.”

  The manager looked through the photographs. “I’ve never seen any of this lot.”

  “Go through them again and make certain.”

  He did so. “They’re all strangers to me.”

  Fisher took his cigarette case from his pocket and offered it around, even including Ritter. “One of those people says he met a girl outside this cinema twice, not so long ago. If you’d been around, you might have seen him.”

  “I should have done.”

  “I’ll tell you quite frankly, you strike me as the kind of bloke who’d take an intelligent interest in what goes on, and who’d be bright enough to remember.”

  Ritter watched the manager’s expression and sardonically thought that everyone was a sucker for a slice of flattery.

  “I do notice a lot,” said the manager, with irritating self-satisfaction. He flicked ash on the floor and scuffed it with his shoe.

  “But you’ve never seen any of these chaps?”

  “No. You say he met a girl outside?”

  “That’s it.”

  “And then they both came in here?”

  “He arrived with his car and then drove off with her.”

  “What’s the girl look like?” The manager sniggered. “I find them easier to remember.”

  Fisher looked across at Ritter, who shrugged his shoulders. “We haven’t a photograph with us.” He was very obviously angry at this.

  “Who was she?”

  “Margaret Stukeley.”

  “Her? You’re on that, are you? Trying to get rid of something she wouldn’t tell even her best friend about?” The manager sniggered again. “I saw her photograph in the local.”

  “Seen her?”

  “I have, and I said to myself at the time, if I’d been a few years younger I’d have asked her if she’d like to come and see my pictures.”

  Ritter mentally added the beard of a billy-goat to the manager’s chin.

  “When did you see her?” asked Fisher.

  “Standing out just there.” The manager pointed at the pavement under the canopy. At that moment, an elderly woman entered the cinema and walked slowly up to the box office. The manager left the detectives and escorted the woman from the box office to the doors of the auditorium. When he returned, he said, “When they do come, it’s only the one and nines.”

  “You saw the girl standing on the pavement,” prompted Fisher.

  The manager scratched the side of his head. “Beautiful piece of goods. You know the kind, makes your shirt tails flap. Saw her twice all told.”

  “Did you?”

  “She was out there, waiting on the pavement. A car came up and she jumped in and away they went. I’ll bet you they didn’t discuss Einstein!”

  “You must have been able to see the driver.”

  “Didn’t bother to look, and that’s the long and short of it.” The manager inspected his very carefully manicured nails.

  Fisher swore.

  “But I know the number of the car because it was the exact opposite of my old one. Proper coincidence, that!” The manager waited, but nothing was said. “Mine was PKM five-four-five and this estate car was four-five-four PKM.”

  “I told you, you were really observant. Was it the same car the second time?”

  “It was.”

  Fisher walked over to a sand-filled ashtray and dropped the cigarette butt into it. He came back. “You’re being more help than you can possibly imagine. Just to round things off, what were the two days you saw her?”

  An elderly couple entered the cinema and the manager escorted them. “More one and nines,” he muttered, on his return. “The first time’s easy. A Sunday, beginning of this month. I come down on Sundays and open up half an hour before we start the films going and I saw her just after unlocking the doors.”

  “Which would be at what time?”

  “Four o’clock. Seven days a week, my job, and two weeks’ holiday a year, and that’s my lot.”

  “And the second time you saw her?” Fisher’s voice quickened.

  The manager was slow in answering. “Wasn’t very long after the first time. But which day? Roughly when would it have been?”

  “That’s your answer, not mine.”

  “It was the end of the week.”

  “A Friday or a Saturday?"

  “One of those two. D’you know, I’m on duty every Saturday. I tell you, these days it just doesn’t pay to have a responsible position.”

  “Suppose it was a Saturday — would anything have happened to make that day stick in your mind?”

  “Doubt it.”

  “What about the change of program?”

  “Comes on Sunday for one day and another change on Monday.”

  “You can’t remember whether you were thinking to yourself that there’d be a change of program the next day? Wondering how the film’d do?”

  “I’d’ve been doing that all right if it was Saturday. That’s the day, is it?”

  “I didn’t say so.”

  “But you’re not saying it isn’t, eh? I seem to remember thinking about the next day’s program when I saw her. Wondering if there’d be anyone half as beddable as her in it.”

  “What time of the day would it have been?”

  “Evening, that’s for certain. Saturday evening, that’s when I saw her picked up by the car.”

  “Can you be sure it wasn’t Friday?”

  “Even if I say it myself, I’ve a memory, and after a bit of a think, I know it was Saturday.”

  “You stick to that?”

  “I do, sir, I do. That’s when I saw her and I can distinctly remember wondering what the film would be like the next day — Sunday. Never get many in on Sunday. Can’t think why we stay open.”

  The detectives were friendly for a short while, then they returned to their car.

  “Does that look like the final loop to you, Ritter?” asked Fisher.

  “Kind of, sir. Riding it a little hard, aren’t you?”

  “What the hell d’you mean?” snapped Fisher. “We know damn well it was almost certainly Saturday.”

  Ritter was silent. He knew damn well when to be silent.

  *

  Roger walked alo
ng the back of the cow shed and studied the running repairs he’d made the previous year. They’d run rather too rapidly. Most of the mortar had fallen out.

  At the end of the buildings he met the head cowman, a man who professed to find more to like in cows than humans.

  “The building looks a bit worse,” said Roger.

  “That it do.” The cowman used his right hand to shield his eyes from the sun. “That bulge be growin’, and it wouldn’t shake me nothing to see that part all fall down. Still, don’t signify. Be rebuilt ’fore long.”

  None of the men who worked for him showed the slightest reticence about discussing the benefits his marriage would bring to the estate.

  “How’s Tilly?” asked Roger.

  “The mastitis is gone from two front quarters, but I can’t do nothing with the back and no more can the vet. She’s beef and nothing else and as soon as the prices come right we’ll ship ’er to market.”

  “Where’s all this mastitis coming from?”

  “No one can’t say, but we ain’t the only ones suffering, not by a long chalk. George Fowler up the road ’as twelve down with it now and ’is milk’s so low there’s talk of turning over to pigs.”

  “I suppose what we really need is new stock.”

  “Aye. And we’ll ’ave that by and by. I’ll be at the sales later on and afore we’re finished we’ll own the best ’erd in the south.”

  Roger left the cow shed and crossed the concrete yard which brought him to the path that led to the house.

  Lunch was ready. Mrs. Blately had hashed up the remains of the joint and called the result shepherd’s pie. She was only just an adequate cook but her lack of skill was to some extent compensated for by her enthusiasm. She had worked for the Ventnor family since she was fifteen and in those days her wages had been fifty pounds a year. The house had then been called the big house and she never referred to it in any other terms, even though some of the villagers jeered at her for doing so.

  Roger went through to the dining room where Patricia was waiting. The table could seat twenty in elbow comfort, and when there were just the two of them they looked lost, or even a living caricature, but Mrs. Blately would allow them to eat nowhere else. She demanded they live in the manner to which she thought they ought to be accustomed.