by Peter Murphy
She is starting to fry the vegetables lightly in onion and garlic, and I’m suddenly starting to feel hungry.
‘Well, there certainly could be. Polygamy features in Islam, obviously, and quite probably in early Jewish practice. There are some tribal cultures in Africa, too. But I suppose the most obvious example in the West would be the Mormons.’
I nod. ‘Cathy asked a couple of questions today about the defendant’s brother. He’s a Mormon, living in Utah somewhere. But surely, they don’t practise polygamy today, do they?’
She drains the pasta, adds the vegetables, gestures to me to take the garlic bread out of the oven, and we’re ready to take our seats at the table.
‘Officially, no,’ she agrees. ‘From my limited recollection of what I’ve read on the subject, polygamy got started during the great trek from New York State in search of a new home out west, which they eventually established in Utah. They’d suffered a lot of violence during their early days, resulting in a large number of deaths among the men and an imbalance between men and women. Brigham Young saw polygamy as an acceptable way to take care of the women who had been widowed, and their children. The religious overtones, about being fruitful and multiplying, may have come later.’
‘But not today?’
‘As I say, not officially. They had to agree to abandon the practice as the price of statehood for Utah: so, in Salt Lake City or Provo today, probably not. But in the rural areas, well – you hear all kinds of reports of groups living in compounds and keeping the old traditions alive. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if polygamy is still thriving away from the prying eyes in the cities.’
‘But what do you think about polygamy, Clara,’ I ask after a pause, ‘as a minister, I mean? You’ve always been pretty liberal about relationships from the pulpit, but I’m not sure I’ve ever heard you talk about polygamy.’
I pour the last of the wine for us, and she thinks for some time.
‘I don’t think I have,’ she replies. ‘I suppose it’s one of those things that you don’t hear about very much, so compared to the bigger issues, such as forced marriages, it doesn’t register. But, now that I think about it, I think my reaction is more as a woman than a minister. What struck me about your case was that he kept the two women separate and apart. Did they ever know about each other?’
‘No.’
‘You see, that makes all the difference for me. He tells the police he likes being married and it’s part of his religion, but actually he’s living in two alternate worlds at the same time, worlds that never collide.’
‘But he has to, doesn’t he?’ I suggest. ‘Otherwise, he will be arrested and it all comes crashing down. Besides which, the second marriage isn’t a real marriage. Legally, it’s void.’
‘Maybe so,’ she replies. ‘But that’s not what marriage is supposed to be about, Charlie, is it? Even polygamous marriage: in all the religious traditions, younger wives are brought into the household and are part of an extended family. All the children grow up together and the more junior wives help the more senior wives, and the husband, as they get older. I’m not sure I like the idea: for one thing, how much choice do the women have in the matter? Probably not a lot in most cases. But, in theory, if everyone agrees freely, I wouldn’t necessarily be against it.’
‘But not if he’s keeping them separately, at arm’s length?’
‘Well, that’s not marriage, is it?’ she replies. ‘That’s just a married man having an affair.’
* * *
Tuesday morning
The scandalous case of Marcus Findlay-Smyth having received more than adequate coverage on the TV news and in the columns of the Standard, I receive some less scholarly input on the defendant’s conduct on my way to work.
‘You just never know, do you, sir?’ Jeanie asks, as she puts the finishing touches to my smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwich, an occasional break from my usual ham and cheese. ‘You never know who’s living next door to you. They may seem like a nice enough couple, but for all you know, the bloke could be leaving her the next morning to go and see one of his other wives somewhere else.’
‘And how much money is that costing him?’ Elsie joins in. ‘Or costing us, I should say: because they’re all on benefits, aren’t they? It’s us that’s paying for it all, innit?’
‘Not in this case,’ I point out. ‘At least he had the money to provide for both of them.’
‘I’d kill mine if he was up to anything like that,’ Jeanie adds. ‘I’d be up in front of you for murder, sir.’
‘Yes, but you wouldn’t know, would you?’ Elsie insists. ‘That’s how they get away with it. They’re so clever, they never let one wife know about the other.’
‘I’d know,’ Jeanie replies. ‘Mine’s not clever enough to do that. He’d say something he shouldn’t and give the game away, wouldn’t he? You know, one day I’d say to him, “Where are you off to then, all dressed up?” and he’d say, “I won’t be long. I just have to go and get married.”’
This reduces both of them to laughter as I hand over my money and pick up my latte and sandwich.
‘I’m sure neither of you has anything to worry about,’ I say as soothingly as I can.
‘I hope not,’ Elsie says. ‘But you never can tell, can you? I don’t mean my old man. But my uncle Albert was a different story. I mean, he kept my aunt Gladys in Chigwell, but there were nights when he didn’t come home. If you ask me, he could have had another wife in Epping Forest or somewhere, and we’d never have known.’
‘You’ve got to hand it to him, guv,’ George says, giving me The Times and my change.
‘Do you?’ I ask.
‘Well, yeah. I mean, just think of the energy it would take to have two birds on the go at once and having to keep them both happy, without them knowing about each other. It takes all my time with just the one. And it’s not like he just had a fling with the second one, is it? He actually married her. It makes me tired just thinking about it. No, I take my hat off to him, guv. All right, I mean, I know he shouldn’t be doing it, which is why he’s landed himself in court. But still, I reckon most blokes would have a secret admiration for him, guv, wouldn’t they? They wouldn’t say so, obviously, in case it got back to the old lady, but I bet you anything you like, they’re thinking it.’
At Cathy’s request, Aubrey calls the son, Trevor Martineau first. He invites me to remind the witness that he’s not obliged to answer any question he thinks may incriminate him, which I duly do, and which Trevor acknowledges with a brief grunt and a nod of the head. It’s an interesting feature of criminal trials that witnesses often give you a clue to the kind of conduct they’re going to be accused of just by the way they look and behave. Trevor is no exception. He’s a big lad and he’s sporting several sinister tattoos on his neck and hands. He’s wearing a suit and tie, but somehow they only serve to make him look even more threatening than if he’d come in a T-shirt and jeans. In his manner he comes across as truculent and uncooperative. Cathy couldn’t have asked for anything better: a villain straight out of central casting. Aubrey is not going to ask him any questions, so she can wade right in.
‘Mr Martineau, in November 2007, did you appear at the Old Bailey with your father, charged with blackmail and grievous bodily harm?’
He turns towards me.
‘Is she allowed to ask that?’
‘Yes, she is,’ I reply. ‘Please answer the question.’
He turns back towards Cathy.
‘That was a misunderstanding.’
‘Really?’ Cathy says, with one eye on the jury. ‘According to the record of the trial, a Mr Summerfield suffered a broken right tibia, three broken ribs, concussion, and numerous cuts and bruises consistent with having been assaulted with a weapon such as a baseball bat. Do you remember that?’
Trevor shrugs. ‘Nothing to do with me.’
‘Oh, but it was to do with you, Mr Martineau, wasn’t it? The prosecution said that you were the leader of a group of men who attacked Mr Summerfield outside a public house in Hackney.’
‘That’s what they said, yeah,’ Trevor acknowledges after some time. ‘But it was all lies.’
‘Well, the jury believed it, Mr Martineau, didn’t they? They convicted you, and you were sentenced to four years inside.’
No reply. That’s not going to throw Cathy.
‘Did Mr Summerfield owe your father a thousand pounds he’d borrowed to cover his gambling debts?’
‘You’d have to ask my old man.’
‘Oh, I will. But you were present at a meeting between your father and Mr Summerfield, weren’t you, about a week before he was assaulted?’
‘Might have been. I don’t remember.’
‘At that meeting, your father said to Mr Summerfield, “If you don’t pay up, the boys will be round, and you’ll be lucky to get out alive.” That’s right, Mr Martineau, isn’t it?’
Another shrug. ‘Don’t remember.’
‘And your father was right, wasn’t he? Mr Summerfield didn’t pay up; the boys – led by you – did go round; and he was lucky to get out alive, wasn’t he?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘But you were convicted of blackmail and causing grievous bodily harm with intent, weren’t you?’
No reply.
‘Let’s turn to something else,’ Cathy suggests happily. ‘When did you first learn that your sister Deborah was pregnant by Marcus?’
He thinks for some time, evidenced by his lips tightening and a grimace on his face.
‘A month or two before the wedding.’
‘Did your father become aware of the pregnancy at the same time?’
‘She told us at the same time, yeah.’
‘How did you react to that news?’
‘React to it?’
‘Yes. How did you feel about it?’
‘Well, we weren’t exactly pleased, were we?’
‘Why was that?’
For the first time, the witness shows some sign of being engaged with the subject.
‘Why?’ he replies animatedly. ‘Why do you think? She’s my sister, isn’t she?’
‘It was 2012, Mr Martineau. Your sister is an adult, isn’t she? What she does is her business. What’s it got to do with you?’
He stares at Cathy. ‘You must be joking.’
‘I assure you, I’m not,’ Cathy replies calmly. ‘Did you think her pregnancy was something you had to deal with in some way?’
‘She’s my sister.’
‘So you said. Did you feel you had to protect her, make sure this man who had violated her did the right thing by her? Was that what it was about?’
The truculence finally subsides a bit. Apparently, it has finally occurred to Trevor that Cathy is leading him at a brisk pace down the garden path, and he doesn’t like what he sees at the end of it.
‘No. I mean, we weren’t best pleased, obviously. But he was going to marry her, wasn’t he? He wasn’t short of money, and he was going to take care of her and the baby, and that’s all that mattered.’
Cathy treats us to one of those dramatic pauses she does so well.
‘Did the fact that Marcus agreed to marry Deborah have anything to do with a conversation you and your father had with him a day or two after she broke the news of the pregnancy to you?’
‘Not that I remember. What conversation?’
‘The one in which your father said – and apparently this is a phrase he’s rather fond of, one that’s worked well in the past, perhaps –“You’d better bloody-well do the right thing, mate; if you don’t, the boys will be round, and you’ll be lucky to get out alive.” Do you remember your father saying that?’
‘That’s the same as what they said at the Old Bailey,’ Trevor protests.
‘Exactly my point, Mr Martineau,’ Cathy says contentedly, resuming her seat.
‘Your Honour,’ she adds, after Trevor has left court, ‘I ask that the record of Mr Martineau’s conviction, and that of his father, at the Old Bailey be admitted as Exhibits three and four.’
‘No objection, your Honour,’ Aubrey says, sounding rather dejected. I have the impression that he’s less than happy with the way things are going for the prosecution this morning.
The father, Oscar, is up next, and we have a virtual replay of Trevor’s evidence: yes, he was upset; she’s his daughter; but no, he never used threats against Marcus; he’s not a violent man, and it was all a misunderstanding at the Old Bailey. By the time it ends, I’m abundantly convinced that the pair of them had a few words to say to Marcus, most probably in the vein Cathy has suggested, just to make sure he understood that he would be wise to honour his obligations; and I’m pretty sure that the jury will have reached the same conclusion. That’s a long way from proving that the marriage took place under duress: but it’s not a bad start.
No doubt convinced that the only way from here is up, Aubrey calls DI Bairstow. Much of his evidence is a low-key account of the investigation, beginning with Alice Clegg’s chance discovery of an apparent irregularity in the defendant’s matrimonial situation. But then he comes to the arrest. As Deborah said before him, the officers’ appearance in Park Walk came as a bolt from the blue for both her and her non-husband. Mr Findlay-Smyth was taken from home to West End Central Police Station, where he was interviewed in the presence of his solicitor, a Miss Vickery, at which point the evidence increases in intensity quite considerably. The evidence of the interview is delivered in the usual manner, with Aubrey reading the questions and the inspector reading the answers given by the defendant. It includes the following passage.
DI Bairstow: So, Mr Findlay-Smyth, if I understand you correctly, you don’t dispute that, when you went through your ceremony of marriage with Deborah, you knew you were already married to Monica. Is that right, or have I…?
Mr Findlay-Smyth: No, you’re right. Of course I knew.
DI Bairstow: But… did you understand… do you understand that you can’t legally be married to more than one woman at the same time?
Mr Findlay-Smyth: I’m aware of the law. Yes, of course.
DI Bairstow: So, when you tried to marry Deborah, you knew you were breaking the law?
Mr Findlay-Smyth: I don’t see it that way.
DI Bairstow: Well, with respect, Mr Findlay-Smyth, it’s not a question of how you see it. That’s the law. What makes you think you’re entitled to ignore the law?
Mr Findlay-Smyth: I enjoy being married.
DI Bairstow: What?
Mr Findlay-Smyth: I enjoy being married.
DI Bairstow: What do you mean, enjoy it?
Mr Findlay-Smyth: I mean what anyone would mean. I like the companionship, the home life, the comforts – the same things everyone likes. Don’t you enjoy being married?
DI Bairstow: Since you ask, yes. But I’m happy enjoying marriage with one wife.
Mr Findlay-Smyth: Well, there you go. We’re all different.
DI Bairstow: But why couldn’t you enjoy being married to just one woman?
Mr Findlay-Smyth: I don’t know. I just enjoy having more than one wife. They are different people, you know. And I do want to add that I wouldn’t be married to more than one woman if I couldn’t afford it. I supported them both to a very high standard – in Monica’s case, until she died, obviously. I do want to make that clear. I would never marry a woman I couldn’t support. In my book, that would be completely wrong. But fortunately, I’ve been blessed with enough money in my life. It’s never been a problem.
DI Bairstow: I understand that, Mr Findlay-Smyth, and I will say, I’ve received no complaints about your financial support.
Mr Findlay-Smyth: Thank you.
DI Bairstow: But what you
did is still against the law.
Mr Findlay-Smyth: Well actually, I think I’m entitled to do it.
DI Bairstow: Really? Well, let me ask you again? Why do you think you’re entitled to ignore the law?
Mr Findlay-Smyth: I have the right to express my religious beliefs.
DI Bairstow: Come again?
Miss Vickery (solicitor): If I may… it may help if I explain.
DI Bairstow: Well, I wish someone would.
Miss Vickery: Mr Findlay-Smyth is asserting his right to family life and religious expression under articles 8 and 9 of the European Convention on Human Rights. Those articles give him the right to protect his family life and to express his religious beliefs through his actions.
DI Bairstow: Are you saying that there’s now a human right to commit bigamy? Because, to be honest, that’s a new one on me.
Miss Vickery: It’s a new one on me too, Inspector. I will need to do some more work on it, but I think he may have an argument.
DI Bairstow: Well, I’m out of my depth, I’m afraid. I’ll have to consult the CPS and get their advice. But in the meanwhile, unless Mr Findlay-Smyth has any other matters he wants to bring to my attention, I see no alternative but to charge him with bigamy. Is there anything else either of you would like to add? Would you like to tell me what religious belief you hold that permits you to commit bigamy?
Mr Findlay-Smyth: It’s a form of Mormonism. I was introduced to it by a relative who lives in America, in Utah.
DI Bairstow: Mormonism?
Mr Findlay-Smyth: A form of Mormonism. Not all Mormons practice polygamy today. But it is a tradition, and there are those who carry it on.
DI Bairstow: They carry it on in this country, do they?
Mr Findlay-Smyth: Well, no: in America, mainly.
DI Bairstow: I see. Is there anything else either of you would like to add?
Miss Vickery: Nothing from me.
Mr Findlay-Smyth: No. Thank you.
Wisely, Cathy contents herself with a few innocuous questions about the investigation before DI Bairstow leaves the witness box to resume his seat behind Aubrey. Aubrey announces that he is ready to close the prosecution case. As expected, the spectre of religion and the European Convention has raised its menacing head, and I now have to deal with it. Cathy is about to ask me to stop the case. Suppressing nightmarish visions of constitutional law – and the Court of Appeal – I send the jury away until after lunch.