Malice Aforethought

by Francis Iles

  “Well, as I’ve told you all the time, Gunhill, I don’t see how the case can be sent for trial at all. I’ve been watching the magistrates pretty closely, and I’m quite sure they don’t mean to commit me.”

  “Possibly, possibly. We haven’t had all the evidence yet, but it’s quite possible.”

  “It will be extremely unfair of them if they do,” observed Dr. Bickleigh warmly.

  “No doubt. Quite so. I’m not sure I don’t agree. Because, really, there’s only one point in the whole case which gives me the slightest uneasiness. The very slightest. And no doubt you can explain that.”

  “I’m quite sure I can,” Dr. Bickleigh smiled. Of course he could.

  “Quite so. Exactly. It’s part of the evidence Mrs. Bourne is to give. It hasn’t been divulged yet, but I have been given officially to understand that she is prepared to swear that when you called at The Hall on the day of Mrs. Bickleigh’s death you informed her that your wife was dead; although you could not possibly have known it so soon yourself unless—well, you see the interpretation that might be made.”

  Dr. Bickleigh was sitting very stiffly, fighting to prevent the effect of this blow from showing in his face. Good God. . . . Yes, of course. He remembered clearly now. Remembered every detail, and how Madeleine had shrunk away from him as if she almost suspected the truth. Perhaps she had. The hag! She was capable of any beastly, horrible suspicion like that.

  But this was simply dreadful. How could he have forgotten it so completely, this incredible blunder? And how was he now to explain it?

  “That is quite untrue.” His mind forced utterance of the words before he could think at all, in blank, instinctive denial.

  “Untrue, eh?” Mr. Gunhill did not seem quite so exuberantly confident. “That’s good. That’s fine. Untrue. You’re quite certain, Bickleigh? She’s prepared to swear to it. In fact, it was her confiding this to Chatford that really began the whole thing.”

  “Quite certain. It’s an abominable lie.”

  “I see. I see. Then it’ll be just your word against hers.”

  “She’s an abominable, malicious woman,” said Dr. Bickleigh, with stiff face. “I remember my poor wife telling me what a liar she was. I can give you plenty of evidence on that point. I shall expect you to bring that forward very strongly.”

  “Blackening the character of an opposing witness, eh?” Mr. Gunhill remarked dubiously. “Risky. Very risky. We shall have to consider that most carefully.”

  “I should like the truth about that woman to be established, whatever the risk.”

  “Yes, yes. Well, we must see. We must take advice. We must consult Lee-Bannerton about that. Be guided by him. Well, well. Just your word against hers. I see.”

  “How is her husband to-day, by the way?” Dr. Bickleigh asked, and hardly troubled to hide his malice behind the question. For retribution at last had followed Madeleine’s repeated and mean refusals to improve the sanitation at The Hall. Denny was down with typhoid: he had been taken ill just two days after Dr. Bickleigh’s arrest—dangerously ill, Dr. Bickleigh had not been in the least sorry to learn. Conceited young ass! (He had played his part in that hypocritical tea-party, too. God, how Dr. Bickleigh hated that trio.) And, now there was danger of losing him, it seemed that Madeleine had never loved him so well. Typical. Still, there were consolations for her. Widowhood would give her the most marvellous opportunities.

  “About the same, I’m sorry to say; about the same,” said Mr. Gunhill rather flurriedly, as if he had been not a little discomposed by the peculiar quality of the small smile on his client’s face. “Anyhow, no better.”

  “Really? I’m sorry to hear that. Most sorry,” purred his client.

  For the first time since his arrest Dr. Bickleigh slept badly that night. His confidence in the issue remained unchecked. The point was a nasty one no doubt, but not damning; besides, it was inconceivable that the jury should not take his word in preference to that slut’s. But his loathing for Madeleine was so intense that his mind could not rest. Why, why had he not killed her when it was in his power to do so—and damn the consequences! Madeleine was almost worth hanging for.

  And the creature had accepted his offers of friendship, broken bread with him in his own house, all the time with her tongue in her cheek, ready even then to swear his life away with her lies. The filthy, hypocritical, murderous vixen!

  Well, let her give her slanderous tongue full play. He would see to it at least that she left the court without a shred of decency left her: show her up for the despicable thing she was.

  CHAPTER XIII

  1

  THE TRIAL of Dr. Edmund Alfred Bickleigh for the murder of his wife opened on Monday, the 18th January. It was remarked by the reporters in court that the prisoner walked into the dock with quite a jaunty air, and looked round the court with a slight smile; in their columns the next day they hinted deprecation of such levity on an occasion so critical.

  The prisoner did not share their view. He did not find the occasion in the least critical. He found it only a tiresome prelude to liberty.

  During the last three months he had, of course, had his bad moments, but they had not been many. His confidence had never been really shaken. Dr. Bickleigh never had any doubt that he was not of the sort that gets convicted. It was, he could not help feeling, rather impertinence to put him on trial at all. Why the grand jury could not have thrown out the bills . . .

  And for it all he had to thank Chatford and Madeleine. No, the next time they should not get off so easily.

  “Edmund Alfred Bickleigh, you are charged in this indictment that on the 9th day of April, 1928, at Wyvern’s Cross, in the county of Devonshire, you feloniously, wilfully, and of your malice aforethought, did kill and murder one Julia Elizabeth Mary Bickleigh. How say you: are you guilty or not guilty?”

  “Not guilty.” Not guilty of course, you old idiot. Do you think I’d tell a lie?

  During the tedious swearing of the jury (no women, thank goodness), Dr. Bickleigh began to speculate on what was to happen next time to Chatford and Madeleine. Something with plenty of pain attached to it. . . . He found himself curiously sustained by such a contemplation.

  “Gentlemen of the jury, the prisoner at the bar, Edmund Alfred Bickleigh, is charged in this indictment that on the 9th day of April, 1928, at Wyvern’s Cross, in the county of Devonshire, he feloniously, wilfully, and of his malice aforethought did kill and murder one Julia Elizabeth Mary Bickleigh. Upon this indictment he has been arraigned, and upon arraignment he has pleaded not guilty, and has put himself upon God and his country, which country you are. Your duty, therefore, is to enquire whether he be guilty or not guilty, and to hearken to the evidence.”

  What rot it all was.

  However, the jury looked suitably impressed.

  Dr. Bickleigh surveyed them benevolently. Twelve good men and true. At a guess, ten farmers and two professional men. Two farmers for certain, for Dr. Bickleigh recognised them. One came from not far outside the Wyvern’s Cross district; Dr. Bickleigh had quite a nodding acquaintance with him. He sent a look of recognition across the court now, and the man responded with an embarrassed little nod. Dr. Bickleigh felt more satisfied than ever. Here was one man ready for an acquittal already. What a farce it all was.

  He exchanged a smile with Gunhill, and a self-possessed little nod with Sir Francis Lee-Bannerton. Let the fools of spectators stare. They need not think they could put him out of countenance.

  A sudden hush succeeded the bustle in court. Somebody was getting to his feet.

  Of course; that would be the Attorney-General.

  How ridiculous, to send the Attorney-General himself down on such a forlorn hope. They must realise how hard up they were for a case. Oratory instead of evidence, it was to be.

  2

  SIR BERNARD Deverell was a tall, thin man with a beaky nose. He began to speak in quite conversational though impersonal tones, addressing a point somewhere on the wall about four fee
t above the heads of the jury.

  Well, now we’re off, thought Dr. Bickleigh.

  He listened at first with close interest. Of course there was nothing new to come out. He knew exactly the strength, and the weakness, of the case against him. But it was quite absorbing to hear the facts set out in orderly array. On his knee was a pad of scribbling-paper for notes, and his pencil hovered over it alertly.

  “May it please your lordship—gentlemen of the jury, it is my duty, in conjunction with my learned friends, to lay before you the evidence in support of the indictment which you have just heard. The unfortunate lady, into whose death we are enquiring . . .”

  Dr. Bickleigh’s pencil drooped. The quiet voice went on. Morphia symptoms . . . inquest . . . exhumation . . . post-mortem examination. . . . There was nothing to make notes about here. Dr. Bickleigh noticed that Sir Bernard had a habit of bunching his gown up on his left hip as he spoke, rolling it gradually up his thigh till he had got all the slack into a tight ball, and then letting it drop and beginning all over again. Silly.

  His attention began to wander.

  It was caught again abruptly.

  The Attorney-General had dealt with the history of the case up to the time of Mrs. Bickleigh’s death. He began to touch on the reasons her husband might have had for rejoicing instead of sorrowing over that death. Motive . . . motive . . . motive . . .

  Dr. Bickleigh had not heard the full account of the motive imputed to him. It filled him with sudden horror. They had got the truth—the real, secret truth. That devil Madeleine had . . .

  A cold sweat broke out over him as he listened to the measured voice recounting the story of that disastrous passion. This was terrible. Obviously, quite obviously, the motive was overwhelming. He dared not look at the jury. Madeleine was determined to hang him with her lies. Hang him!

  He tried to shut his ears to the damning recital, drew little pictures on his pad, grotesque faces, anything to distract his attention. Whatever happened, he must preserve his composure. Let his face for one moment show the terror in his mind, and it was all over. He felt a thousand eyes boring into his forehead, trying to burn their way through to his thoughts. God, this was awful—awful!

  In the luncheon interval one enterprising journalist managed to get a look at that page of the pad. He made quite a feature of it in his report the next day. “The prisoner, who preserved a jaunty attitude throughout the day’s proceedings, showed his indifference to the Attorney-General’s opening of the case by . . .”

  When the court adjourned for lunch, Dr. Bickleigh was weak with the strain. Some legal argument had preceded the judge’s rising, but he had been unable to attend to it. Something about the admissibility of the Chatford evidence. The jury had been sent out of court. It was important, of course; most important, Gunhill had considered; but its importance had vanished now. He was as good as convicted already on that opening speech alone. Convicted—before the trial had scarcely begun. It was terrible.

  Gunhill came to see him in the interval, rubbing his hands as usual. “Well, we can congratulate ourselves so far, I think. Yes, certainly.”

  Dr. Bickleigh looked at him with haggard eyes. “Congratulate ourselves?”

  “Yes, a very fair opening. Scrupulously fair. Sir Bernard let you down quite lightly, don’t you think?”

  Dr. Bickleigh did not answer.

  “It’s a pity that Mrs. Bourne’s a widow, though,” Mr. Gunhill added, shaking his head. “A recently bereaved widow always has an effect on the jury. Invariably. Well, well, let’s hope she doesn’t cry. But really, Bickleigh, I must say we . . . Yes, every confidence.”

  3

  AFTER LUNCH the legal argument was resumed. The jury were still absent. Dr. Bickleigh, quite recovered now (how absurd, to be so upset by such a small matter; nerves, of course), listened at first with interest, but soon became bored.

  “Rex v. Geering (1849), 18 L.J., M.C. 215; Rex v. Flannagan, 15 Cox. 403 . . .”

  They flourished books about, at the judge, at each other, at anyone who looked a likely person to have a book flourished at him.

  Sir Francis Lee-Bannerton made great play with Rex v. Winslow, 8 Cox, 397; but nobody seemed very much impressed except Sir Francis himself.

  In the end the judge decided that the evidence was admissible.

  Dr. Bickleigh was disappointed, but not disheartened. Gun-hill and Sir Francis had both warned him that such a decision was extremely probable. Well, it only meant that the farce would be a more protracted one.

  Thank goodness that opening speech was finished, though. There had been some nasty moments there.

  But it wasn’t. The jury came back, and the Attorney-General rose again. Quite chattily, he told them of Dr. Bickleigh’s attempts to kill Madeleine and Chatford. The curious thing (thought Dr. Bickleigh, listening with disquiet growing once more) was how right he was. And he spoke as if he knew he was right, too. The most remarkable little details. If the jury realised that he was right . . . It began to seem almost impossible that they should not. The fact that he was grew more and more glaringly apparent.

  Dr. Bickleigh again found himself unable to glance at their faces, as Sir Bernard made his damning points one after the other. He did not give way to panic again—would not give way; but it was really terrible. To have to sit there and listen silently, helplessly, while this man invited the jury to hang him. . . .

  When at last the Attorney-General sat down, Dr. Bickleigh realised that his underclothes were wringing wet. Had he still got a chance? He caught Gunhill’s eye, and was astonished to notice that it was still as gleaming and jovial as ever. Apparently he had, then. Glancing surreptitiously at the jury, he noticed one of them stifling a yawn. Good heavens!

  The calling of the first witnesses was sheer anti-climax. The Attorney-General, as if satisfied with a good day’s work, had actually left the court. Dr. Bickleigh watched him go with such relief that he could have laughed out loud (perhaps a little hysterically) at his retreating back. The only two witnesses called that day were examined by Sir Bernard’s junior—and what did their evidence amount to? Nothing! Simply nothing. A surveyor produced plans of Fairlawn (what on earth did they want plans of Fairlawn for?); and Florence, the maid, recounted her impressions of Mrs. Bickleigh’s illness and the events of the fatal day. The idea left with Florence was that Mrs. Bickleigh had been very puzzled about her headaches, and could not account for them in any way. Well, so had Sir Tamerton Foliott been. And Dr. Bickleigh himself. There was nothing new there. And as for the rest, Florence’s evidence was positively favourable. Obviously she did not believe the doctor guilty, and as one on the spot her opinion must carry weight. And in cross-examination Florence quite agreed that she did not see how it was possible for Dr. Bickleigh to have come back that afternoon without being observed by either her or the cook. Well, you might say impossible. In his reexamination Sir Bernard’s junior had to treat her almost as a hostile witness.

  When the court adjourned, Dr. Bickleigh had quite recovered his spirits. One must preserve one’s sense of proportion: that was the secret.

  4

  THE PROCEEDINGS dragged on, with the tedious taking of evidence, examination and cross-examination, ridiculously polite exchanges between counsel, all the flummery of a full-dress trial.

  Dr. Bickleigh alternated now between complete confidence and uneasiness; but confidence certainly prevailed. There were nasty moments; several of them; far too many of them. But Gunhill was always very reassuring afterwards; and, though sometimes quite appalled at the time, Dr. Bickleigh was always able to call proportion to his aid before too long.

  Madeleine’s evidence, for instance.

  To Dr. Bickleigh’s cynical perception, Madeleine was revelling in the situation; in the notoriety, the limelight, the sympathy, even in her widowhood. But, knowing how he himself had been taken in, he realised that it was too much to hope that the scales could be stripped from the other male eyes in court. He settled himself down not to
listen, and began to draw a very elaborate and meticulous study of a galloping horse. The reporter, who was featuring Dr. Bickleigh’s artistic efforts for the benefit of his readers, hastily jotted down: “Ashamed to face old love testifying against him, prisoner pretended to be absorbed in his sketching.”

  In low, candid tones Madeleine revealed the hideous pursuit to which she had been subjected. By innuendo rather than by any direct statement, Dr. Bickleigh was shown as a ravening beast endeavouring to get his claws into pure and innocent maidenhood. The reporters sharpened their pencils. Here was the goods. There would be strong coffee and wet towels that night for the headline merchants. Madeleine, a figure of infinite pathos in her widow’s weeds, noticed the sharpening of pencils and promptly wept a little. The judge, the Attorney-General, the jury, even Sir Francis Lee-Bannerton, looked their consternation. Dr. Bickleigh, quite unable to stop himself listening, abandoned his horse and writhed in the dock with impotent rage.

  “Now, Mrs. Bourne, you’ve told us that the prisoner forced his way into your bedroom and there proposed marriage to you. You naturally referred, as you say, to the fact that he was already married. Kindly tell us what he replied to that.”

  Madeleine hesitated, in gentle, feminine reluctance. Then with quiet courage she did her duty. “He said: ‘Julia is dead.’ ”

  As every newspaper on the following day remarked, sensation.

  Dr. Bickleigh glared at Madeleine. On this point, he knew what chance there was of losing the case depended. In spite of the sinking feeling in his stomach, he strove to give an impression of a man righteously indignant at being faced with a foul lie.

  The Attorney-General sat down.

  As the cross-examination proceeded, Dr. Bickleigh’s heart sank lower and lower. In spite of his warnings, it was clear that even Sir Francis Lee-Bannerton had been taken in by Madeleine. He handled her gently, openly sympathised with her, played up to her own play-acting. Dr. Bickleigh, almost frantic, began writing passionate little notes addressed to his counsel. Sir Francis would not even look at them. Dr. Bickleigh could have shouted at him with fury.