“She was,” said Cathart.
“Then isn’t it obvious that Mr. Plesence’s denial was no more than an illustration of the automatic desire of anyone not to be drawn into a rather nasty and sordid case?”
“I couldn't say, sir.”
The judge spoke dryly. “Mr. Gretnor, would it not be best for observations of this nature to be left for your closing speech?”
“As your lordship pleases.” Gretnor momentarily smiled. When a practising silk, Mr. Justice Fletcher had been well known for his habit of making suggestive observations to the jury in the guise of questions put to the witnesses. “Inspector, the prosecution has made very great play of the fact that the accused, when at the hotel, did not go up to the reception clerk to ask the whereabouts of his wife. Do you personally find any significance in this fact?”
“I find neither significance nor lack of significance in it.” Gretnor folded his arms in front of himself. The detective inspector was a man with a quick mind. He had carefully blocked that last question and so cut off any line of attack that a more definite answer might have introduced. “You saw the dead woman before her body was moved?”
“I did.”
“As a layman, was it obvious that the woman had suffered the most appalling wounds?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And that there had been extensive bleeding?”
“Yes.”
“Did you find blood over a large area of the room?”
“We found it on the carpet, two of the walls, the foot of the bed, the blankets, and on one of the chairs.”
“Within a circle of what diameter?”
“About ten feet.”
“Quite obviously, then, the unfortunate woman’s blood was distributed in all directions. Evidence has been given that a thread of Harris tweed was found in the bedroom and the prosecution alleges this thread came from a coat, part of a suit, belonging to the accused and worn by him on the day of the murder. I want to take certain of these points one by one. What kind of a day was Sunday, the twenty-sixth of June?”
“A warm day, sir, and mainly sunny.”
“Have you any idea what was the temperature in the evening?”
“At seven o’clock it was sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit at the meteorological sub-office in North Borisham.”
“I must congratulate you, Inspector, on the obvious care with which you have prepared this case.”
Cathart was far too experienced to say anything in reply to this many edged compliment.
“The evening, then, was warm: in fact, I don’t think one could be accused of exaggeration if one said it was hot. You have seen and examined this Harris tweed suit of which the coat is exhibit number eight. Is it made of a very thick cloth?”
“Pretty thick, yes.”
“Would you describe this suit as one you’d wear in the cold of midwinter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And not the kind of suit to be worn on a hot summer’s evening?”
“Not normally, no.”
“Inspector, my client agrees that he was at the Swan Hotel on the night of the murder, but he says he was wearing a light grey suit at the time. Did you find anyone who could confirm or deny this?”
“No, sir.”
“Let us examine the other side of the question. Did anyone at the hotel see a man around who was wearing a Harris tweed suit?”
“No, sir.”
“And surely such a suit in the circumstances would be so unusual that it certainly would be noticed?”
“I wouldn’t like to express an opinion on that point.”
“Not even from the viewpoint of common sense?”
“I can’t answer for other people, sir.”
“We have heard that when Mr. Nathan saw the accused, the accused was not carrying anything. Were you able to find any member of the hotel staff who saw the accused carrying a parcel of any description?”
“No one else noticed him, sir.”
Gretnor unfolded his arms, dropped them to his side, then clasped them together behind his back and under his gown. “Inspector, we know it was a hot evening, we know that at about six the accused was in the hotel wearing an ordinary lightweight grey suit, we know he was not carrying a parcel, we know that not one drop of blood was found on the Harris tweed suit from which the thread is said to have come...Do not these facts contradict many of the prosecution’s contentions?”
The inspector, for the first time, hesitated before he answered. “There are certain inconsistencies, sir, that are, however, capable of explanation. I must say, though, I have been unable to find the proof of such explanations.”
“Thank you for that very frank answer. Would you like to be even more frank? Have the inconsistencies raised doubts in your mind?”
“Question marks, sir, which I have placed against other evidence.”
“Are there not further points which must inevitably raise further question marks? You have been unable to discover any motive whatsoever. No one saw the accused at the hotel after about six-fifteen to six-thirty, which was when he left, after being called there by a false telephone call.”
“I have considered all the evidence, sir, including the evidence of the carving knife and the finger-print, sir.”
“Was that finger-print not smudged, as if someone wearing gloves handled the knife after the finger-print was put on it?”
“I am not qualified to answer that.”
“Have you at any time considered the possibility that the murder was committed by another person and that a vicious attempt has been made to inculpate my client by the planting of false evidence?”
“I have investigated that possibility, sir.”
Gretnor leaned forward and shuffled the papers on his desk in order to gain a moment’s time. Should he openly accuse Catalina Plesence of the murder? If he didn’t name her, then the defence’s allegation of another person as the murderer, deliberately setting out to land the crime on Plesence’s shoulders, might so easily seem to the jury like a defence ploy without any foundations of fact: if he did name her without some proof, then the accusation would rebound on Plesence and the jury would turn against the man who sank so low as to accuse his own wife — who had been forced to bring divorce proceedings against him. There was no evidence that Catalina Plesence had killed Mrs. Cabbot. No one had seen her at the hotel, no clue pointed to her. The only certainty was that if David Plesence had not killed Mrs. Cabbot, either Catalina Plesence or Patricia Brakes must have done because they were the only people in a position to try to pin the murder on to him. No one was going to believe Patricia Brakes was the murderer.
Gretnor stood upright once more. The judge was looking at him with interest, correctly gauging the quandary he was in and wondering what way out of it he would take. “Inspector, you have testified you found in the hotel bedroom seven hundred and sixty-one pounds in ten pound, five pound, and one pound notes. You have also testified that as Mrs. Cabbot said she and her husband had little money, you wondered where this sum could have come from?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What steps did you take to discover the answer to this query?”
“I investigated the accused’s bank accounts, holdings in national savings, and share holdings, and also the finances of his firm.”
“With what object?”
“To see if I could trace any withdrawal of money that would correspond with the seven hundred and sixty-one pounds.”
“Did you succeed?”
“No, sir. There were no such withdrawals.”
Gretnor looked at the dock. Plesence was staring stonily at the witness. Gretnor spoke slowly. “Did you investigate the bank accounts, and other accounts, of anyone else?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you find any large withdrawals in such accounts?”
“No, sir.”
There was nothing, thought Gretnor: nothing to help the defence.
Detective Sergeant Herald was called at two-thirt
y in the afternoon.
Gretnor’s cross-examination was not long. “Sergeant, you have described the finger-print on the blade of the knife as being slightly over-blurred. Am I correct in assuming that by this you mean that something touched the knife after the finger-print was implanted on the handle?”
“Yes, sir. But can I point out something? It’s possible for this over-blurring to take place if the finger making the print — or any other finger — comes back in a brushing movement over the print, but not so hard as to erase it.”
“There are other causes, though?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then will you refrain from stressing just this one?” The judge intervened. “The witness was merely trying to explain the matter, Mr. Gretnor.”
“Indeed, my Lord, but it’s unfortunate that he chose the example most suited to the prosecution’s case.” Gretnor addressed the witness once more. “If a print is placed on a surface such as the handle of this knife, does it disappear by the action of time? In a day or two?”
“No, sir”
“In a week or two?”
“Not if it’s undisturbed.”
“Then let us suppose the print is implanted on the knife and seven or eight days later it is picked up by a gloved hand. Could the gloved hand cause over-blurring?”
u Yes, sir.”
“Tell me, Sergeant, was the handle of the knife much blood stained?”
“At the near end, but not so much in the centre or the far end.”
“Suggesting that a hand prevented the blood falling on to the handle?”
“That could be, but I can’t say for certain.”
“Of course you can’t. Nevertheless, there is nothing in your evidence to dispute the fact that the last time my client handled this knife was a week before the murder? There is nothing to deny that someone else, wearing gloves, then picked up the knife and used it, did not leave any prints because of the gloves, but did cause this over-blurring because of the gloves?”
“I can only tell you what is certain,” said the detective sergeant, doggedly.
The mythical someone, thought Gretnor bitterly. Of course it could have happened as he suggested. But until the defence named that someone, could prove it was that someone, of what use were mere possibilities? “Did the position of the finger-print tell you anything?”
“It was the right forefinger and it came at the end of the handle, on the left-hand side looking down the knife with the sharp edge downwards.”
Gretnor picked up a ruler to illustrate his words. “It was like this? The knife leading back from the wrist? In other words, the knife had been picked up in the reverse way to that which one could say it would normally be picked up? Picked up in a way that it could be used for stabbing, not for slashing?”
The judge intervened. “Sergeant, is there anything to suggest that the position of the knife was not changed after the imprinting of the finger-print?”
“No, my lord.”
You bastard, thought Gretnor, without much real resentment.
The cross-examination of David began at eleven o’clock on Friday morning. Charlton was pleasant, incisive, and polite, but deadly.
“This carving knife: it was used by you in the garden for cutting string and odd jobs like that?”
“Yes.” David’s voice was hoarse. He was telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, as the oath demanded, yet he was only too bitterly aware that few, if any, believed him.
“Where do you keep the knife?”
“In the gardening shed at the back of the house.”
“Is that the shed marked G on the plan?”
“Yes.”
“Whereabouts in this shed did you keep it?”
“In a drawer in an old cupboard.”
“Did you keep the shed locked?”
“Yes.”
“Have you to your knowledge lost anything else from the shed?”
“No.”
“So just the knife was taken?”
“Yes.”
“Then by your account we have a locked shed, an old cupboard inside it and a drawer in the cupboard in which you kept this carving knife. Will you agree that it seems rather unlikely — to put things at their mildest — that a casual passer-by would break into this shed and help himself to this knife?”
“Yes, but...”
“But what, Mr. Plesence?”
David was silent.
“Will you also agree that it’s difficult to suggest why this same casual passer-by should try to inculpate you in the crime of the murder of Mrs. Cabbot?”
“Of course it is.”
“And that it’s even more difficult to suggest why or how this casual passer-by entered your house, went up to your bedroom, found your Harris tweed suit and tore off a length of thread, returned downstairs and totally disappeared, all without anyone in the house being any the wiser?”
“Can’t you see...” began David loudly, then stopped.
“Will you tell the court who you suggest it was who stole the knife, tore off a thread from your coat, went and murdered Mrs. Cabbot, and carefully left behind the clues in the bedroom to inculpate you?”
Goaded to the point where he forgot the advice Gretnor had given him, David said: “Catalina.”
“D’you mean your wife?” Charlton spoke in terms of astonishment.
“Yes,” muttered David, cursing himself.
“I see. Will you tell the court what proof you have of these accusations?”
“I...I haven’t any proof, not the kind you want.”
“You haven’t. Yet, despite the fact you can offer not a shred of proof to support your accusation, I presume it is only with the greatest reluctance that you accuse your own wife of murdering the deceased?”
“She hates me. Can’t you understand that? She hates me.”
“We know she is divorcing you, but why should she hate you to this terrible degree?”
“Her pride’s been shattered because I’m in love with someone else. She’s become savage. She’d do anything to hurt me.”
u Clearly, Mr. Piesence, you no longer feel bound by any ties of chivalry.”
Patricia sat down at the table in the crowded restaurant. The waitress asked her what she wanted and she ordered a plain omelette. It would be an effort to eat even that.
Her despair was as black as it had been during the days after Michael’s death. Perhaps, if that were possible, it was even blacker. Then, it was all over even as it began, the worst had happened, and there was nothing she could do: now, the worst was not yet over and she had to sit and wait, tearing her mind apart with the frantic longing to do something for David, sickened by her own helplessness.
Catalina had been far too clever for them. She’d planted the evidence so skilfully that there was probably no one in court who even began to believe David could be innocent. How could anyone overlook the evidence of the knife, the finger-print, the thread from the coat, the handkerchief that had been in David’s bedroom?
The handkerchief haunted her. In the middle of the night, two nights ago, she had been lying awake, tormented by her own thoughts, when she had suddenly realised that although the embroidered initials on it, M C, so obviously stood for Marion Cabbot, they could stand for Muriel Cooper. She had been born Patricia Muriel Cooper.
She’d once read a book which said that the more inexorably the evidence at a trial pointed to the guilt of a prisoner, the more eager some of the jury were to believe anything which disproved the prosecution’s case. It was an instinctive reaction from the responsibilities of judging a fellow human being.
If she said that the handkerchief was hers, would any of the jury begin to believe her because they’d welcome a chance to shrink from their responsibilities? Had the book been right when it said that the more certain the prisoner’s guilt, the more ready, perversely, the jury were to believe anything disputing this certainty?
The waitress brought the omelette. Patricia began t
o eat.
Even if they didn’t all believe her, might not one or two of them do so? But suppose none of them did — wouldn’t that just have made things worse for David? Dare she risk this? Could she live with herself if she thought she had in any way been responsible for what happened to him? But could she live with herself if she knew there had been something she could have tried, but didn’t?
One moment she was optimistic, the next she knew only black pessimism.
She finished the omelette.
Could a lie really make the jury doubt, and doubt far beyond the ambit of that lie? And even if she made some doubt, what long-term good could that do?
The waitress asked her if she wanted anything more to eat. She said she did not.
Patricia was called into court. She walked past the uniformed constable on duty at the main doors, down the two steps, along the aisle between the jury box and the witness benches, and then climbed the three wooden steps into the witness-box. The usher, she noticed he had a small mole on his right cheek, told her to hold the New Testament in her right hand and to read what was printed on the card on the small ledge. She did so. She swore by Almighty God that the evidence she was to give to the court and jury sworn between the sovereign lady, the Queen, and the prisoner at the Bar would be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
She looked at the dock and when she saw the strained, shocked expression on David’s face, she felt sick inside. He knew he was beaten.
Gretnor asked her her full name and her address. She answered in a voice so low that he had to tell her to speak up. She wondered how many of those present would look at her with contempt? She was the other woman of the divorce. She’d been living with David. Some people could only see the “dirt” in such a situation: they could not perceive the hurt, the worry, and the wonderful love. She’d known a happiness so great that it had frightened her as being too wonderful to be true. She had been right to be frightened.
A Deadly Marriage Page 14