Exhibit No. Thirteen

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘I knew by then it was to get me out of the way so that he could take over my wife …’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll have that,’ said the judge.

  ‘As your lordship pleases.’ Steine sat down.

  Barran, Q.C, counsel for Anne Kremayne, stood up. A small man, he spent his life trying to get from one place to another in the least possible time so that he could try to undertake twice as much work as he would ever be able to do.

  Barran spoke. ‘I suggest, Mr Kremayne, that the evidence you have given in court is mainly a tissue of lies?’ Although his hearing was perfectly sound, Barran half turned his head as though he were slightly deaf and he would have difficulty in catching the witness’s answers.

  ‘I’ve told the truth.’

  ‘I suggest that there has been no sexual intercourse between your wife and yourself for at least a year prior to the death of Fiona Johnson and that this abstinence was occasioned by your refusal, not your wife’s?’

  ‘That’s a lie.’

  ‘I suggest that you saw no reprehensible conduct take place between your wife and Rusk, and that your story of seeing Rusk kiss your wife and place his hand over her breast is a fabrication?’

  ‘It happened exactly as I said.’

  ‘I suggest that although you learned from a friend that the co-respondent had visited your wife when you were in France, you did not believe they had committed adultery, that you never tackled your wife with having committed adultery, that she never confessed to such a happening? I suggest that the whole of this story was designed by you simply and solely to aid your defence when you were tried for the murder of Fiona Johnson?’

  ‘She told me she’d slept with him.’

  ‘I suggest that you have lied to this court on every count in a vain attempt to escape responsibility for your crimes — the crimes of murdering and raping Fiona Johnson and Brenda Ellery?’

  CHAPTER 17

  Barran reached under his gown into his trouser pocket and brought out a battered metal spectacle case. He put on a pair of rimless spectacles and read his proof, removed the spectacles and replaced them in the case.

  The judge leaned forward slightly. ‘Mr Barran, are you entitled to put that last statement to the petitioner?’

  ‘I would submit, most certainly, my Lord.’

  ‘I think the court must have official knowledge of the grounds for such certainty.’

  ‘The petitioner, Jonathan Kremayne, was charged earlier this year with the murder of Fiona Johnson. He was found not guilty. Kremayne can never again be charged with this murder because of the doctrine of autrefois acquit — a man may not twice be put in peril on the same charge. A criminal case is between the Queen and the accused, a civil case is between the two parties. It is part of our system of law that no man may be condemned by a verdict in a case to which he was not a party, consequently the verdict of one court cannot bind another court where the matter is inter alios partes. No criminal court can try Kremayne again because the action there must be between the Queen and Kremayne — but in this court the action is between Kremayne and Kremayne and we are not bound by the previous verdict. As your lordship will know, I am not citing the murder as an act of cruelty against the respondent. I am counter-petitioning and asking the court to grant the respondent a divorce on the grounds of the petitioner’s rape.’

  ‘Rape by the husband on a third party must, of necessity, amount to adultery against the wife, mustn’t it, Mr Barran?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord. In this action I would submit I had the choice of alleging rape as a ground for divorce or as evidence of adultery.’

  ‘But you chose the less usual course?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Your lordship will appreciate that, as I have pointed out, I must prove the commission of the offence and that the petitioner committed it.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Barran, I fully appreciate that.’ Barran faced Kremayne. ‘Did you rape Fiona Johnson?’

  ‘I was found not guilty and you know it.’ Kremayne had lost his appearance of ease and measured calmness.

  ‘Did you rape Brenda Ellery?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you remember the facts of Brenda Ellery’s death and the circumstances under which she was raped?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘I’ll refresh your memory … My Lord, proof will be given later on all these points.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the judge.

  ‘Brenda Ellery was found dead in Swayton Woods. She had been raped and stabbed to death with a stiletto-type weapon. The murderer’s blood was typed group B and he was a secretor. He knelt by the body after the murder and in doing so left behind two threads from the trousers he was, by then, wearing. The threads were of Harris tweed, red-brown with yellow flecks in colour. A palm print was found on the dead girl’s handbag. Dust from her clothes contained dried dung. A psychiatrist reported that the rapist was probably a man who could no longer enjoy normal sexual intercourse and was suffering a compulsion to rape and kill. Such a man would, before the murder, show signs of great strain and extreme irritableness, while afterwards he would be filled with an almost overwhelming degree of remorse … Have you understood all that, Mr Kremayne?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you sleep in the same bedroom as your wife?’

  ‘Sometimes, not always.’

  ‘If she gives evidence that you haven’t shared the same bed for more than a year, do you say she is wrong?’

  ‘I’m not very good on dates.’

  ‘You used to sleep together?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who was responsible for the separation?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Then if your wife testifies that it was at your suggestion and against her will, you can’t deny it?’

  Kremayne made no reply.

  ‘In the six months that preceded the death of Brenda Ellery, did you spend several evenings a week away from home?’

  ‘I always slept there.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ve misunderstood my question. Did you go out in the evenings in your car?’

  ‘I often had a look round the farm.’

  ‘Which car did you use?’

  ‘My Rover.’

  ‘And you did no more than look round your farm?’

  ‘That’s all.’

  ‘Except, of course, for the evening when you ran out of petrol near Great Chart and had to telephone your wife to come and bring the spare can of petrol to you because the local garage wasn’t open. Where were you going on that occasion?’

  ‘A drive.’

  ‘Nowhere in particular?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Could there have been other times in this six months’ period when you were out at night and were going for a drive and not visiting your farm?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘How did your wife and you get on together before the death of Brenda Ellery?’

  ‘As usual.’

  ‘Was your marriage always unhappy then?’ Were you always arguing, bickering and on edge?’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘Your wife will testify that you were short-tempered and seemed perpetually to be in a rage: that she tried to help you but nothing she could do or say would make any difference and you continued to be extremely unsettled: so much so, that you went out in your car at least five nights out of every seven. What do you say to that?’

  ‘The whole thing’s a lie.’

  ‘What was your attitude towards your wife after the death of Brenda Ellery?’

  ‘I can’t remember. It’s perfectly absurd. If you …’

  ‘Your wife will testify that suddenly your whole attitude altered, and you became extremely attentive towards her, apologised extravagantly for the ways you’d behaved, kept giving her presents, said you weren’t fit to be married to her, and asked time and time again if she could ever forgive you.’

  ‘So I was nice to her.
Haven’t you ever … ?’

  ‘Do you remember the ice pick?’

  ‘What ice-pick?’

  ‘The one always kept in the middle drawer of the dresser in the kitchen. The one your wife asked if you’d seen because she’d looked for it and couldn’t find it?’

  ‘I remember it, yes.’

  ‘Do you also remember when your wife found it to be missing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It was three days before Brenda Ellery was raped and stabbed to death — What is your blood group?’

  ‘B.’

  ‘Are you a secretor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you know — from your own experience — that a palm print was found on the handbag of the dead girl?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Evidence will be given that it was. Did you also know that a comparison print of yours is very, very, similar to the one of the murderer, but that not sufficient characteristic identification marks were present in the original for experts to say the two are from the same hand?’

  ‘If they can’t say, it doesn’t mean a thing.’

  ‘Do you own a Harris tweed suit, red-brown with yellow flecks?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did your wife examine the trousers by chance on the morning after Brenda Ellery was raped?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Then you wouldn’t be aware of the fact that she found the trousers so muddy at the knees that she took them straight away and washed them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And that she noticed some of the threads were very loose around the knees?’

  ‘She’s lying.’

  ‘Were you questioned by the police regarding your movements on the night Brenda Ellery was raped?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’

  ‘The truth. That I was at home.’

  ‘Nothing more?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you didn’t say your wife would back up your statement?’

  ‘Well, yes, but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I didn’t think that’s what you meant?’

  ‘You’ll be glad to hear it’s precisely what I meant. Did you ever say to your wife she must back up your alibi because you weren’t the guilty man and therefore you mustn’t begin to be caught up in the investigations?’

  ‘I might have said something like that.’

  ‘And did she support your alibi?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But surely she couldn’t — not accurately? You and she slept in different rooms. Her room is on the south side of the house and from there she can neither see nor hear anything that goes on on the north side, where you room is. So far as she knew, you could have left the house late that night, driven away, returned later, garaged the car, gone to your bedroom — and she wouldn’t, had she stayed in her bedroom, have been in the slightest degree aware of your absence?’

  ‘I spent the night in my room and you can’t prove otherwise,’ he shouted.

  ‘Fiona Johnson was raped by the same person who raped Brenda Ellery.’

  ‘Was she?’

  ‘The experts will say so. Do you remember the facts? You should do, you were tried for the murder.’

  ‘I remember them’

  ‘Good. Then you can contradict me if I get them wrong. Fiona Johnson was driving from Quincy Cross to Hangley when her car broke down. She must have wondered what she was going to do since it was after one in the morning, and to find a telephone she could use would have been a difficult task. Then it seemed fate was answering her distress call. Another car came along, stopped, and a man asked if there was anything he could do. She asked to be taken home and he said he’d be only too glad to help. His help consisted of raping her and stabbing her to death with a sheath knife. When he left her body and drove home, certain marks remained of his presence. Tyre-marks on the verge which showed that the tyres had been half-worn Michelin X. Proof that he was group B and a secretor. Plimsoll prints that showed the wearer wore size ten or ten and a half. Fiona Johnson had managed to fight a little and she’d scratched him, probably on the face or forearm. She’d also bled a lot and he was probably stained by her blood … Do the facts seem correct to you, Mr Kremayne?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Barran opened his spectacle case, put on his spectacles, and read his brief. His action was a well-known mannerism that was used to gain a few moments of thinking time.

  He removed the spectacles and replaced them in the case. ‘Did you sleep with your wife in the time between the deaths of Brenda Ellery and Fiona Johnson?’

  One of the public coughed three times in quick succession and Kremayne, apparently startled, swung round and stared at the cougher.

  ‘You must answer that question,’ said the judge.

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Kremayne.

  ‘What was your attitude towards her immediately prior to the day on which Fiona Johnson was raped?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Your wife will give evidence that sexually you were as indifferent to her as you had been for so many months, that on one occasion you hit her, and that you were ever short-tempered so that she became afraid of you. Do you remember your attitude towards her the morning after Fiona Johnson was raped?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your wife will testify that at breakfast you suddenly said you weren’t fit to sit down at the table with her, that you were so wicked you could never find happiness, and that you were doomed and nothing could save you?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘But you won’t deny that’s how you behaved?’

  ‘Of course I deny it. She’s lying.’

  ‘That can hardly be a valid accusation on your part since it’s only a few seconds ago that you couldn’t remember the facts, one way or the other.’

  ‘You’re deliberately confusing me.’

  ‘I venture to suggest it is not I who am responsible for the state of your mind. On the night before Fiona Johnson was raped, you had supper at about eight-thirty, didn’t you?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Was it a warm evening?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘It was. Because you and your wife were alone, you ate without a coat on and with your shirt-sleeves rolled up. You’d become very sunburned and you showed your arms to your wife in one of your few moments of comradeship. Do you remember that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you realised that when you asked your wife to admire your sunburn you were, in effect, giving her the chance to examine your forearms?’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘She will testify that on neither forearm was there a scratch — Yet that on the following morning you had a nasty scratch on one forearm.’

  ‘That came from carrying a bale of hay.’

  ‘Have you ever claimed that the bale of hay which caused the scratch was carried by you in the afternoon, not the evening?’

  ‘I may have got things round the wrong way.’

  ‘Then the truth is, you carried this bale after dinner.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your wife will testify, Mr Kremayne, that you and she watched the television until late that evening and that when the set was switched off both of you went upstairs to bed, separating at the top of the landing in order to go to your respective bedrooms.’

  ‘What if we did? When she went to bed, I suddenly remembered the work I had to do.’

  ‘Are you seriously expecting the court to believe you left the house at eleven o’clock at night in order to go to your farm and carry bales of hay?’

  ‘It was important.’

  ‘Then you are expecting the court to accept your story?’

  ‘It’s what happened.’

  ‘Very well … So you went out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m prepared to accept that, Mr Kremayne. But I think you went out on a very different purpose from the one you claim — You own a green
three litre Rover, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you drive your Rover that night?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was it examined by the police?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And blood was found on the steering-wheel?’

  ‘I’d scratched the palm of my hand on a bramble.’

  ‘Your wife will testify that neither palm was scratched up to the time you went to bed.’

  ‘It happened when I was shifting the hay.’

  ‘Another scratch whose time of origin has suffered alteration! Have you recently bought a pair of plimsolls, size ten or ten and a half?’

  ‘I haven’t bought a pair in years.’

  ‘You’re quite certain of that?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘Yet your wife will testify that when she entered your bedroom on the morning before Fiona Johnson was raped, the door of your wardrobe was open and lying on the base of it she saw a brand new pair of plimsolls. She will further testify that because you never normally wore them she wondered why you’d bought them.’

  ‘She’s lying.’

  ‘Did you meet Detective-Sergeant Rusk at two fifty-seven on the morning that Fiona Johnson was raped?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He didn’t speak to you after you’d garaged your car?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘I was asleep in bed.’

  ‘He’ll testify he spoke to you at this time and asked you where you’d been and that you refused to answer.’

  ‘It’s a bloody lie.’

  ‘So your wife lies and Rusk lies?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Suppose, Mr Kremayne, your wife had been allowed to give evidence at your trial for the murder of Fiona Johnson, what do you think the verdict would then have been?’

  ‘How should I know? She couldn’t and didn’t.’

  ‘I put it to you that you raped Brenda Ellery and Fiona Johnson.’

  ‘Rusk and my wife want to get me out of the way so that they can carry on.’

  ‘If that had been their aim, wouldn’t it have been better achieved by leaving you to bring this action undefended?’

  ‘He’s lying. He’s always lied. He planted the buckle, didn’t he?’

  ‘Ah, yes, the buckle! I expect my learned friend will deal with that point.’ Barran turned and nodded at Peace, Rusk’s counsel. Barran sat down.