A Question of Guilt

by Frances Fyfield

  ‘She’s the kind of prisoner,’ he began, ‘you can’t joke about. Oh, you can imagine how it was tried. Everyone tries to raise a laugh. But the custody officer and the men who brought her in tried to make jokes about her, you know the kind of thing – hell hath no fury … get a load of that … who would fall for a battleaxe like this one … why choose that for a bit on the side? – but all the funnies fell flat; you walk her from the cells, through the charge room towards the interview room, and everything falls silent. People just stop and stare at her, even the drunks arguing the toss at the counter. She has a certain something. Charisma?’

  ‘Maybe she should have gone on the stage.’

  Bailey smiled. ‘Films, perhaps. Omen 3: The Devil’s Aunt. All I can say is that she strikes a chill. Not the chill you feel from a psychopath, someone beyond reason, who does things you couldn’t contemplate for reasons you can’t contemplate either, someone beyond the touching of any hand or heart; she’s not mad in that sense, but she’s so utterly single-minded she becomes terrifying. I can believe that she had that woman killed by an effort of will, didn’t need the agency of Stanislaus, and we might have found the victim in as many pieces as we did simply because Mrs Cartwright had turned long distance gamma rays in her direction and simply wished her dead.’

  He paused, fished for a cigarette. Ryan returned, familiar enough not to knock, and Bailey continued as if he were absent. ‘It’s that which is so frightening. The will of her. The non-mad will of her. The belief in herself and whatever she did, whether minding the shop or organising a death, made no difference. And there’s a contrast for you – her shops. Antique lace, exquisite stuff if you like that kind of thing, couldn’t be more delicate, sold gracefully in Camden Passage and Bermondsey, sold so well that Mrs Cartwright had no financial problems. Odd stock in trade for a woman so obsessed. Delicacy and brutality.’ He was embarrassed by Ryan, ‘I’m sorry. I’m rambling more than a bit.’

  ‘No you aren’t.’

  Again the feeling that she understood him before she spoke. Again the prickly feeling of resentful relief.

  ‘She has two or three friends who adore her. Pale women, whose lives she’s mended, like her lace, and who rely on her. So gentle, they say, “What would we do without her? Couldn’t harm a fly.” But I can’t find it in me to believe that there’s any good in her at all. I think she blackmailed Stanislaus, not that he’d done anything disgraceful, just emotional blackmail. She used the whip hand of shame. I think she does the same with her friends, her customers, and she tried to do it with Bernard. Used kindness and devotion as a weapon, which he dodged. Half of me thinks she might have killed the wife because she really believed he would fall into her arms; the other half reckons it might have been to punish him for not coming to heel, for resisting her at all. The rest, if that makes sense, thinks she did it for fun. I don’t know. What I do know is that it’s all entirely straightened up in her mind, as you guessed. I simply wonder who else she’s destroyed, or plans to destroy. I think she’s gone through life like that. Manipulating, destroying, throwing away, without anyone realising.’ His long hands fluttered. Bailey was not a man of gesture, and now he had almost run out of words.

  ‘You asked me to describe her: I can’t. All I can say is that she’s a woman of extraordinary strength. Not entirely unattractive in a way, like a lizard or a fat snake. Obsessive. Evil, I think, rather than bad. Bad rather than sad, because I can’t think of her as sad. Rare to find anyone evil. Thoughtless, malicious maybe, but evil, no. I doubt if any of this helps at all.’

  ‘You’re wrong. It helps a lot. Will she mesmerise a jury?’

  Bailey laughed. ‘Even she’ll have a problem with twelve men at a time. Her influence is best when she’s dealing with an individual. Like Stanislaus.’

  ‘Was he so easy?’

  ‘It can’t have been easy to persuade someone to commit murder for you. Even for ten thousand pounds he wanted so much. Not easy, but obviously not impossible. Stan’s not without a brain, but he’s a superstitious dreamer. That helped him to do it, and helped him confess.’

  ‘Not evil? On your terms?’

  ‘Not in that league at all, whatever he did, however horrible. In fact,’ Bailey paused, wondering how far to trust her with his eccentricity, knowing he would suffer from Ryan’s incredulity, ‘he’s really quite likeable.’

  ‘Oh come off it, sir. How can you like someone who did what he done? Man’s a bastard. Like him? I’d as soon sell my mother.’

  ‘I don’t see why an assassin shouldn’t be likeable,’ Helen interrupted quietly. ‘I don’t see why not. He could even be trustworthy, lovable, kind to animals and children, like someone in the Mafia: but is he telling the truth? I mean the whole truth?’

  Geoffrey looked at Ryan. Ryan looked at Geoffrey. Mutual incomprehension.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ryan. Geoffrey was silent.

  ‘Enough of the truth?’ Helen insisted.

  ‘Enough,’ said Bailey. ‘I mean by that that it contains no lies, his truth. I believe that that statement under caution is absolutely true, although, God knows, I’ve thought that before and been wrong. It’s just that there’s something missing. Perhaps nothing vital. Don’t ask me why I think it, but I do. It’s only complete as far as it goes, which is more than adequate.’.

  ‘Something missing? Or someone?’

  Ryan was puzzled. Bailey’s head shot up in surprise, nearly anger. Damn her for being so astute.

  ‘Yes,’ he said slowly. ‘Someone. He had help, our Stanislaus. Someone, apart from her, who didn’t stop him. Stanislaus couldn’t keep a secret if he tried. I can’t believe he did all this without any help but whisky. And I’m ashamed of myself. He told me everything else, and I couldn’t risk asking him who it was. That’s where I’ve failed.’

  Helen did not call it failure, but she did not reply. She was looking at the face, wondering how one pale, uncertain assassin had ever resisted its power, its weary compassion. Shook herself; carried on. Spring had sprung. In the form of another articulate intelligence, and a case which had already cast a spell.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘Mr Stanislaus Jaskowski of Hackington Estate was committed for trial today by the magistrate sitting at Highbury, charged with the murder of Mrs Sylvia Bernard. Mrs Bernard had been found dead at her home address in Cannonbury Street. Jaskowski, who is forty-four, married with four children, said nothing. There was no application for bail. Another suspect connected with the murder is believed still at large …’

  That was all. The second formality of murder. Helen saw the Evening Standard report, and others identical. Frustrating for them to be allowed to say so little even though they had heard better snippets from the public galleries where they gathered daily in dozens of court peripheries like flies around sealed carrion, buzzing and whizzing in frustration. Such a promising murder story from the first.

  ‘Blonde solicitor’s wife brutally beaten to death in own £400,000 home: no clues whatever. Husband questioned but released. “I’m broken-hearted,” he said to our reporter.’ Shocking stuff, even in North London terms, where the Turks shot the competition for drugs, the Irish broke skulls as often as they broke bread, and the indigenous population had a fashion in mugging babies. The draw of a solicitor’s wife as victim dragged three of the Fleet Street weasels to court in the hope of hearing details worth printing later when the trial was in progress, and they could scribble as they pleased to fill a page or two, but not now. Nothing to be published which could possibly interfere with a fair trial. Nothing for today but three lines and an hour’s gossip with one another. They could have added the details of the defendant’s dress without their editors risking a summons for contempt, but frankly it wasn’t worth it, even though his suit, and the completely ordinary, even respectable look of him surprised them all, in so far as surprise was ever a feature of a crime reporter’s life.

  It was not inefficient of them to miss what little drama there had been in the seedy an
onymity of the busy court. When Helen had arrived early enough to check that each original statement was signed and witnessed, before the eagle eye of the magistrate’s clerk could see otherwise, the building had been empty and clean, even the graffiti in the lavatory scrubbed. By ten-fifteen, all those answering bail had crowded into the foyer, fingermarking the lists outside each court to find their names before retiring to plastic seats to drink coffee from plastic cups, filling the air with nervous smoke, the floor with debris, the atmosphere with coughs and conversations, half muttered, half rowdy, the court corridors as cluttered as a station cafeteria, food and drink only ever half consumed, all eyes on the clock. Resignation and pretended indifference on old young faces. Most had travelled this road before; simply wondered how sharp would be this bend in it, how steep the fine. Anything you say, your Worship: don’t let me go to prison. Little enough wickedness, plenty despair.

  Twisting his way through the crowd, papers in hands, Helen on his left with her eyes skimming the crowd for Jaskowski’s solicitor, Bailey saw her, Mrs Eileen Cartwright, clutching a large handbag like a shield, sitting upright in a seat immediately facing the entrance to Court One, eyes fixed on the door as if willing it to open. A harmless member of the public outside the room into which Jaskowski, crucial witness against her, would be brought from his underground cell by means of two gaolers and one set of handcuffs, whilst she waited and watched unrestrained, dressed in black, as if for a funeral.

  ‘Hang on, Miss West,’ Bailey touched her arm and guided her back a few steps.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘She’s here: bloody woman.’ His face was white with anger. ‘Mrs Cartwright. Sitting outside Court One like an ever-patient relative. Jaskowski’s wife’s here as well. He’ll go mad if he sees them both: he’s frightened enough already. What the hell does she think she’s doing?’

  Helen shook her head slowly, guessing. ‘God alone knows. She’s probably come to upset him. Remind him she’s still on the same side of the fence as his wife and kids, whereas he isn’t. Something like that perhaps? Curiosity? Bad taste, watching the man you hired for murder being shuffled along for trial? Let’s ask her.’

  ‘Should we?’

  ‘Why not? Forewarned, forearmed. She shouldn’t be here. It’s obscene. We should ask her. Not that she has to tell us; she knows the virtues of saying nothing.’

  Bailey hesitated, struggling with a sense of propriety. ‘She’s not under arrest,’ he ventured, far too aware for once of strict legality.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Helen. ‘Lawyer’s privilege.’

  The strange quality of fear, as varied as love in all its manifestations, touched Helen with a shade of itself as she approached Mrs Cartwright who remained unnaturally still, only raising her head without the slightest adjustment of her body when she heard herself addressed. There was an insolence in it, a bravado in the stillness, as if the presence of the other standing above her was insufficient reason to alter her position by as much as a fraction or make any other gesture indicating attention. A subtle, humiliating rudeness, seen by Helen for what it was.

  ‘Mrs Cartwright?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘I’m Miss West. Prosecuting Mr Jaskowski, who should be committed for trial this morning. Which you realise, I expect. I know you’ve been questioned about the same matter. Do you mind if I ask why you’re here?’

  ‘I do mind in fact. I’m not in prison. I can attend any court I want as a spectator, any time I want, can’t I? I don’t have to give reasons.’

  ‘No you don’t, but it would make my life easier if you would.’ Helen smiled pleasantly, aware at the same time of an itch in her skin, uncomfortable under the intensity of the woman’s sudden myopic glare. She could feel a rush of blood to her eyes, perspiration beneath her arms, and her hands damp on the cover of the file.

  ‘I should hate to make anyone’s life more difficult.’ The reply was politely ironic. ‘I’ve nothing to hide. I came to watch because I’m curious. That man is telling lies about me, and I want to see him. I want him to see me, since he says he knows me. I have come for him to see me,’ she repeated.

  ‘Oh,’ Helen was at a loss for words. She paused, felt the second rush of blood carrying the swift anger she needed.

  ‘Why do you want him to see you? To intimidate him?’

  The returning stare was blank, deliberately blank.

  ‘What do you think? Leave me alone. I’ve done nothing.’

  The anger was cold now, cold and closed like Mrs Cartwright’s face, as clearly hidden in mild, blunt words.

  ‘Mrs Cartwright, you do have the right; but if you sit in that court and try to make Jaskowski look at you, I’ll ask the magistrate to have you removed, and I’ll tell him why. I know you won’t listen to me, and that might not shift you, but hear this: there are three journalists here, and once I say my little piece, they’ll chase you out of the building, hound you for photographs and comments. Have you met them before? They’re extremely determined. They’ll follow you home and camp outside your door, life will become very uncomfortable, and I doubt if police protection will be forthcoming.’

  The expression did not alter. Helen ignored the face, and went on. ‘Now, there are several things you can do. Sit right at the back of court and out of view if you insist on watching the circus, which will only last five minutes, not much opportunity for staring him out, is there? Or leave now. I suggest the latter. Your visit is pointless. You won’t be allowed to upset the defendant for your own reasons, whatever they are, and if you stay, you won’t be seen by him. He may be on trial, but not by fire. Or by you. Do you understand me?’

  Bailey listened. For a moment, Mrs Cartwright did not move. The black, expressionless eyes scanned Helen’s blue ones before she rose in a single movement, brisk for her broad size, and left the foyer with a solid, dignified tread. A woman who had completed an errand and had others listed for the day. A useful, worthy, efficient middle-aged lady, model citizen, passing through the crowd politely as they parted for her. Helen watched, relieved.

  ‘You have to admire her,’ she muttered, palms damp and cooling.

  ‘Admiration? For nerve? Coming here, or to any court, before she needs? Yes, I agree. Admiration, not respect. Do you know, she’s wearing the same skirt and blouse she did when I arrested her, and all the other times I’ve seen her? Always the same clothes. Do you think it’s a gesture of contempt for the world at large; cheap, but effective gesture? How do you like her?’

  An attempt to lighten the tone, rewarded with an uncertain smile.

  ‘Not much. Of all the people to meet in a black alley at night, I’d rather Jaskowski. But it gives me a taste, though, of what you must have seen when you interviewed her. She inspires fear. She makes me think,’ Helen paused, pushed at her hair with one hand, clutching at words, ‘of always being in the dark.’

  ‘Oh no,’ Bailey laughed. ‘Don’t let her touch you so, Miss West. You,’ he added with an awkward and mocking gallantry, ‘are more suited to light. That’s where you belong. In the daylight.’

  Eileen had conquered the dark, turning the fear of it into an addiction. She had come to like the dark, although it had been such a challenge to conquer and make it tolerable. The oblivion of real sleep was never possible now except in a darkness as total as blackout, and only in her father’s armchair in the treacherous half-light of the living-room did she suffer the half-sleep which prodded her into life with the old familiar terror. Only when the sleep had come unbidden did she dream at all. She dozed like this after leaving the court, plodding her measured retreat to the deeper colours of her house, hiding her fury in footsteps deliberately slow.

  There had been so little sleep of late; so many septic dreams like these.

  A blurring of three male figures into the screen of the television set as her eyes closed. All of the figures ageless, but none of them young. There had never been a young man in Eileen’s life, nor a child. Not even herself: however she
tried, she had never been a child, not a real child, could not recall infancy or innocence, or anything invoking the supposed happiness of either.

  Tell me a story, Father,’

  ‘No, child,’

  ‘Please … I’ll tell you one then.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please …?’

  ‘Go away child.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  Far longer than years competing for his love, strong dull father. What else could she do, she without a mother, with such a face to guide her elegance? Only the brash, brown, northern cousins, visited reluctantly once a year and never invited to return, until at last they too, ceased issuing invitations.

  ‘Poor child,’ said Aunt Sally, scolding her own sons. ‘Cooped up with that dry man. Ian, Simon, you must both be nice to her, you hear? Doesn’t she have any friends?’ The two boys choked on toast, helpless with mirth at the very idea. Friends? Ridiculous. How could she have friends? Fat, solid Eileen, with the pebbly glasses, the black hair like wire and the pasty, sallow skin. ‘And legs like tree trunks,’ Simon smirked, ‘and spots.’ Ian added, ‘And fat fingers; she doesn’t want friends. She doesn’t know how to play.’ ‘She’s like a slug,’ said Simon. ‘No, a fat frog.’ ‘More like a toad,’ finished Ian, choking again as Eileen, hated cousin Eileen, emerged from behind the door which had failed to block this crescendo of insults. Smiling as if she had not heard. Each boy looked at the other, collapsed in the face of that silly smile. They had forgotten to mention the brace.

  If father spoke, it was a lecture or an order, and she welcomed both even as her teenage spots disappeared and she settled into a broad, squat twenty-year-old of spectacular plainness, who dreamed vainly of assisting in the creation of the obscure books which provided his merely sufficient means. ‘Hilary’s wife,’ said the same aunt, ‘must have died in an accident of boredom,’ but that fate was not imminent for Eileen, the only child of a surviving parent who thought her stupid, clumsy, infinitely tedious and repulsive to look at, imagining quite rightly that she never guessed his opinion. Keeping it hidden was his single concession to fatherly duty, part of a breathtaking selfishness, but at least he could say he never once told her. He could not have done worse. Eileen believed, because of her father’s silent lies, that love was always reciprocated in the end as long as one persisted, believed fervently that if you gave it, worked for it unceasingly, the devotion would be returned. I love you: therefore you will love me. There could not be a simpler formula than this imperfect equation, believed with utter conviction.