She wears a plain, royal blue suit of silk, a cream blouse underneath and little makeup. Charles sees a suggestion of peach-coloured lipstick on her soft wide mouth, and her hair is tied in a simple ponytail. The effect is to make her look younger than her years and attractive, thinks Charles, in a wholesome way. Only the pinched, drawn look about her mouth, and the hazel eyes encircled by dark rings reveal the damage done by the events of the last months.
She takes the Bible offered to her in one hand, the card with the oath printed on it in the other, and reads the oath in a clear voice. She returns the Bible and the card to the usher and settles herself, hands on the brass rail and head lowered, awaiting the onslaught.
In answer to Charles she gives her name, address and occupation without looking up. Charles asks his questions slowly, in a gentle voice, as if dealing with a wild deer that might at any moment be startled into flight. He moves to the early part of her employment, her duties, how the house was run. Then he moves to the deceased.
‘Were the accused and the deceased happy, do you think?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘What did you see that gave you that impression?’
‘They argued a lot or, to be more precise, she argued and he listened.’
‘Was there ever violence between them?’
‘She was sometimes violent. He was never so.’
‘In what way was she violent?’ asks Charles.
‘When she was angry, or drunk, she would throw things around, smash furniture or ornaments. She would also shout and scream at everyone.’
‘Everyone?’
Jenny looks up, a hard look in her eyes. ‘Yes, everyone, including me, the children, the neighbours. Anyone who came within range. But particularly Stephen and the other children.’
It’s the children, realises Charles; that’s what brings out the protectiveness, the anger in her. ‘Was she drunk often?’ he asks.
‘In the year or two before she … before … her death, she was. It went in patches. There might be weeks when she was fine, followed by periods of non-stop drinking. It was often caused by problems in her … extra-marital friendships.’
‘Do you mean affairs?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did you know of these affairs?’ asks Charles.
‘Everyone knew; it was no secret. In fact, I think she deliberately publicised them.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I think she loved the drama. Being the centre of attention, like the heroine in her own film. And of course, so she could hurt him.’
‘The accused?’
‘Yes.’
For the first time since stepping into the witness box, Jenny risks a tentative glance at the dock, but Steele has his elbows on his knees and is staring at the floor.
‘What were relations like between them shortly before you last saw her?’
‘Poor. Her latest boyfriend had ended their relationship, or had tried to —’
Beaverbrook stands swiftly. ‘I object, my Lord, to this witness giving evidence of what may or may not have occurred between the deceased and any other person. It’s hearsay.’
The Recorder addresses Charles. ‘Mr Holborne?’
‘Yes, my Lord, it is hearsay, although in light of the uncontested evidence from Mr Batchelor, it’s not disputed. Nonetheless I shall attempt to prevent any more being given.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You said,’ continues Charles to the witness, ‘that relations had been poor. Perhaps you could tell us what that meant in practice at the house?’
Now, for the first time, Jenny’s feelings begin to be revealed. As she starts reciting the catalogue of unpleasantness, her colour rises, her voice grows louder and her sense of outrage and bitterness is displayed for everyone in the court to see.
‘It meant that she drank heavily, created scenes, shouted at the children for no reason, taunted and demeaned them, played cruel mind-games with them, threw tantrums and objects around the house, vomited in the bedroom once and the car once, picked fights with everyone around her and treated me like filth.’
The Defence barristers, who had until then been concentrating on taking down her words, stop writing to stare at her. A heavily charged silence falls at her last words. Her head drops again, but her voice continues, firm and clear.
‘I hated her then. Before, I thought of her as unhappy and lonely and I felt sorry for her. But what she did to the children, particularly the eldest boy, was cruel and hateful.’
‘Do you know how the accused felt about it? Did he say anything to you?’
‘No, he didn’t. He was very … proper. He would never discuss his marriage with me. But he didn’t need to; it was obvious to anyone who lived in that house.’
‘When was the last time you saw Mrs Steele?’
‘Three days before she … disappeared.’
‘Please describe that occasion for us.’
‘It was tea-time and I was sitting with the children in the kitchen. We heard her car on the drive. We were all holding our breath, because she’d been in a foul mood for days, and we weren’t sure what to expect. Stephen held my hand. But she bounced into the house, singing. She almost skipped into the kitchen. She kissed the top of the children’s heads, one by one. They were astonished. Then she put the kettle on to boil.’
‘Did she say anything to explain her mood?’
‘Yes. She volunteered that she’d “got him back” and that he was giving them “one last chance.”’
‘Did you know who she meant?’
‘I assumed she meant Roddy. He was the man she was seeing at the time, and it was the end of their affair that had made her so unhappy.’
‘What happened then?’
‘Well, there was a bit of a strained silence, and when no one said anything she asked why couldn’t we all be happy for her. I said I really couldn’t say what I thought about it, not in front of the children. She said “Oh, they want me to be happy, don’t they?” and she ruffled the hair of the two older children as she said it.’
‘What happened then?’
‘She lost patience with the kettle and switched it off. She said she had to go and pack. Charlotte asked if she was going away again and she said “Only for a couple of days”. She said she needed a break. That caused Charlotte to start crying, and that set Lise off again.’
‘Set her off?’
‘Everyone had to share her joy or her sorrows. She hated it when the children were unhappy when she was on one of her “upswings”. She couldn’t see that she was responsible. So she rounded on Charlotte, shouting at her, demanding her to explain why she was crying. That just made Charlotte cry all the more.’
‘What happened then?’
‘She told Charlotte she was too old to be a cry-baby, and ordered her to stop. Of course, that did no good, and she raised her hand as if she was going to slap her. Stephen intervened.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He got off his chair and ran round to his sister. He shouted at Lise to leave Charlotte alone, that she was always bullying her. It was foolish, but it worked.’
‘Did Mrs Steele stop?’
‘No, but it worked in the sense that it diverted her anger away from Charlotte. He was stammering so much he could barely get the words out, and Lise mimicked him, poking him in the chest as she did so. She threatened him that if he didn’t watch out, he wouldn’t be coming home at all over the holidays — he was in a boarding school, you understand — and he hated it, but Anthony … Mr Steele … felt it was the only way to protect him from Lise when she was in this frame of mind. He worked away a lot on cases, so he couldn’t be there to protect Stephen.’
‘And you? Couldn’t you protect him?’
Jenny shrugs. ‘I tried, of course I did. But I was just the nanny. She could’ve sacked me at any moment. I think the only reason she didn’t was that I was prepared to put up with more of her behaviour than the previous staff.’
> ‘What happened then?’
‘She ran upstairs and I took the children into the garden to get out of her way. That was the last time I saw her before she disappeared.’
Charles thinks for a moment, framing his next question carefully. ‘You say “before she disappeared”, but the truth is that she didn’t disappear, did she?’
Jenny looks at her feet and gives no answer.
‘Did she?’ repeats Charles.
Jenny shakes her head and almost whispers. ‘No. At least, I don’t think so.’
‘What makes you think that she didn’t just “disappear”?’
Everyone in the court strains to hear her next words. ‘Because he told me.’
‘Who told you, the accused?’ She nods. ‘May I ask you to give a spoken answer?’
‘Yes. Anthony. The … accused.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He told me that she came at him with a knife, and that as he was defending himself, he killed her by accident.’
‘When did he say this?’
‘The day after she came back from her few days away with the boyfriend.’
‘Where were you when you had this conversation?’
‘In my room.’
‘Your bedroom?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he say why he was telling you this?’
‘Yes. Because he didn’t know what to do. He was terrified that if he went to the police, they wouldn’t believe him. Everyone knew how awful she was, and he thought he’d be suspected of killing her deliberately.’
‘Did you talk about it?’
‘All night.’
‘Did he make a decision?’
‘Yes. I told him that —’
The Recorder intervenes. ‘Excuse me, Mr Holborne, but I think I must interrupt you. Am I not obliged to warn this witness against self-incrimination?’
‘Well, my Lord, I have no intention of bringing out anything to her detriment, but I suppose she may stray over the line.’
‘It sounded as if she was about to do that very thing,’ says the Recorder. ‘What do you think, Mr Beaverbrook?’
‘This is not really the province of the Defence, but I would submit that the warning is appropriate.’
‘Yes. I think so.’ The Recorder turns to Jenny. ‘Madam, you are entitled to be warned that you need answer no questions, the answers to which might tend to incriminate you of any offence. Do you understand? You are not on trial, and you have a right to protect yourself by not answering any question that suggests that you are guilty of any offence.’
‘I understand, my Lord,’ she replies.
‘Continue, Mr Holborne.’
‘Thank you, my Lord.’ Charles pauses before addressing his next question. ‘You need not tell us about any action you took. Just tell us what, if any, decision the defendant took as a result of your discussion.’
‘He decided to … hide her body, rather than tell the police.’
‘Where did you understand from him that the deceased had met her death?’
‘In their bedroom.’
‘Where was she when he came to talk to you?’
‘I didn’t look, but he said she was still in there.’
‘Did you ever see her, alive or dead, again?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Thank you. I have no further questions for you. Please remain there.’
Beaverbrook gathers his gown around him and rises to his feet. This time he uses no notes. He tries to keep the boom out of his voice and to speak in the same manner as that adopted by Charles.
‘Are you a single lady?’ he starts.
She sighs deeply to steady herself. ‘Yes.’
‘Are you still the nanny of the accused’s children?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how long have you lived as part of the family?’
‘About fifteen years.’
‘Do you love the children?’
‘As if they were my own. I have been their mother in all but name since long before Lise Steele … died.’
‘In the last ten years or so, you have lived in that house with the defendant, just the two of you and the children?’
‘Yes.’
Beaverbrook lowers his voice further, and when he speaks he sounds almost apologetic. ‘Has there ever been any intimacy between the two of you?’
If the listeners expect outrage at the suggestion they are surprised, for she answers with the simplicity of truth, and with obvious sadness in her voice. ‘If you mean, have we had an affair, the answer is no.’ She smiles sadly and her cheeks regain some of their natural colour. ‘No. Nothing of that sort has ever happened.’
‘He has behaved with complete propriety towards you, at all times?’
‘There were times when I wished he hadn’t, but he has.’
‘How do you feel about him?’
Her eyes move from the QC asking the questions to the man in the dock. He looks up at her and their eyes meet for the first time. She half-smiles and her expression softens. She sighs again and says simply: ‘I love him.’
A tear escapes from her right eye and drops onto the brass rail of the witness box where it lies, sparkling like a gem.
There are rare moments like this, in Charles’s experience, when the truth manages to escape the sludge of lies, obfuscation and half-truths in which the courts habitually deal. When that happens, everyone who hears it recognises it as the truth, and they are united in their understanding. At that moment No. 1 Court of the Old Bailey stands hushed, and the heart of everyone present is touched by an emotion recognised instantly as pure and true. When Jenny continues, she speaks directly to the man in the dock. ‘And I wish I’d told him long before now, because now, when I risk losing him, it’s too late.’
She gasps suddenly and stretches out her hand towards the dock. ‘Oh!’ she sighs.
It’s a sound full of compassion and tenderness, the sort of sound that might be made by a mother pitying a grieving child. Everyone’s eyes follow the line of Jenny’s outstretched arm and see that Lord Justice Anthony Steele QC is holding his head in his hands, and that he is weeping silently too.
Beaverbrook resumes his seat without a further word. No word, no question, could possibly improve upon the effect the scene has made on the jury.
‘I shall rise for a moment,’ announces the Recorder.
CHAPTER 30
The papers and the news reports the following morning are full of the drama. What was expected to be the highest-profile criminal trial in a generation has developed an unexpected new dimension: now it’s a love story too.
The weighty broadsheets remain, reluctantly Charles senses, with the evidence and the constitutional issues, but the tabloids have no hesitation; they carry the day with “‘I’ll stand by you!’ weeps Nanny” and “Judge cries in dock for love that never was!”.
Two television programmes have interviews with psychologists who applaud the ability of men to cry, one even venturing the opinion that the tears signified innocence rather than guilt, before the presenter is able to blurt out “Sub judice!” and shut her up.
From a week before the trial began, in accordance with his usual practice, Charles ordered not just The Times, but The Guardian, The Herald and The Mirror to give himself the widest possible insight into what the jury would be thinking. This morning’s reading over breakfast provides him with unpalatable food for thought. If the jury’s views are those of the average Herald reader, they’ll acquit, and he can’t blame them. What’s more, the Defence haven’t even started their task of building Steele into a paragon, a man to whom violence was abhorrent and untruth anathema. Charles knows from twenty years of defending that that’s exactly what he’d do in Beaverbrook’s place: lay on with a trowel the good works, the humane judicial decisions, the lifetime of public duty and private respectability.
Charles eats his toast and drinks his second cup of coffee while reading the final, and only interesting, report (“Ten thing
s you didn’t know about High Court Judges”) and throws the paper to the floor. Harry sits opposite him, looking out over the river, a dry piece of toast in his hand.
‘Do you think he’s guilty now?’ he asks without turning around.
‘Peculiarly, the surer I become that he murdered her, the more I’m convinced the jury’ll acquit.’
‘He’ll receive his punishment,’ responds Harry, as always taking the longer view.
‘Sure about that?’
Charles paces around the flat for a while before deciding to walk to the Old Bailey early. He takes his other route for a change, up Fetter Lane and along High Holborn. He turns right into Old Bailey and, for once, it’s deserted. He salutes the famous statue of Justice, blindfolded and with the scales in her outstretched hand, and enters the building.
He changes quickly into his wing collar, bands, wig and gown and decides not to go into the Bar Mess, but instead straight to court. The usher, just unlocking the doors, greets him and Charles descends into the well of the court and his bench. A moment later the doors open again, and Inspector Carr enters. Charles hasn’t seen him since the committal hearing. The inspector sees Charles and approaches. They shake hands.
‘I gather from the papers that it’s not going our way,’ comments the policeman.
He’s had a haircut since Charles last saw him and wears what appears to be a new suit. He looks too nice to be a copper, thinks Charles.
‘You gather correctly.’
Carr nods, as if unsurprised. ‘I know we all said how awful it was, how we hoped for the sake of British justice he was innocent, but I think we all secretly wanted him to be guilty. It gave us a sort of satisfaction, knowing that they weren’t above it all. Now I look at the evidence, I wonder how we let it get so far.’
‘The evidence or the tabloids? Anyway, that’s a bit defeatist, isn’t it?’ says Charles. ‘He’s pleaded guilty to disposing of a body already, and the game’s not over so far as murder is concerned. We’re not exactly going away empty-handed even if he gets off the other charges.’
‘Yes, maybe,’ replies Carr, unconvinced. ‘Will you get to me this morning?’
The Waxwork Corpse: A legal thriller with a chilling twist (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers Book 5) Page 24