by Peter Murphy
‘You have something of a problem, either way,’ I point out.
‘Agreed. But at least we have somewhere to start. Frankly, whichever way it goes, I am going to recommend that the parents think about consulting a child psychologist. Whatever is going on has to stop before some real damage is caused.’
I sip my Cobra thoughtfully.
‘All right, I see that. But what if the vicar is one of those who does subscribe to demonic possession? He might not be thinking in terms of child psychologists.’
She scoffs.
‘If he really does believe in demonic possession, his conduct is even worse – in fact, it is inexcusable.’
‘Why so?’
‘If you really think you are dealing with a case of demonic possession, you don’t just take the boy into church and start some random prayer session with no one else involved.’
‘What should you do, then?’
‘First, you get all the advice and support you can. You contact your bishop and get him involved.’ She pauses. ‘Look, we don’t really go in for that kind of thing in the Anglican Church. But the Roman Catholics do, and they have a whole protocol, with specially trained priests and counsellors. Whether or not there are demons, you are probably dealing with a mental illness of some kind, which needs proper handling. They don’t just let the parish priest dive in without any preparation at all. It’s just asking for trouble. He had no idea what he was letting himself in for, and he should have known that.’
She takes a long drink.
‘What did you say his name was, again?’
‘I’m not sure I did say,’ I reply. ‘But it’s Stringer. Father Osbert Stringer.’
She puts down her beer glass and seems to focus on a statue of the elephant god Ganesh in the small alcove opposite our table.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘I’m sure I have heard that name before,’ she replies.
‘Well, it would have been in the press reports of the fire, I’m sure.’
She shakes her head.
‘No. I know it from somewhere else. But I can’t think where.’
Back at home, I get ready for bed, and retire with a cup of hot camomile tea. After three Cobras I want to make sure that I sleep soundly, and camomile tea usually does the trick. I am about to turn off my bedside light when I notice that the Reverend Mrs Walden is not with me. She does sometimes sit up late reading, particularly if she wants to check something for her forthcoming Sunday sermon, but tonight she has seemed more in the mood to fall into bed and drift off. I put on my dressing gown and slippers and make my way to her study, from which emanates the sound of a computer keyboard being punched with deliberation. I enter to find the Reverend, still fully dressed, in the middle of what looks like a complicated search. She turns and looks at me.
‘I knew it, Charlie. I knew I had heard the name before.’
I glance at the computer screen.
‘You mean Father Osbert Stringer?’
‘Yes. I couldn’t for the life of me remember how I knew it, so I googled him.’
‘I am glad you are not on my jury,’ I say. ‘I would have to do you for contempt.’
‘Contempt or not, I think your jury should see this,’ she counters.
‘Oh?’
She clicks a couple of buttons, types in a command, and invites me to come closer to the screen. It is an article in the Toronto Star, from about eight years ago. The article has two photographs; one of a slightly younger Father Osbert Stringer wearing his trademark full-length black cassock; the other showing the burnt-out ruins of the former Church of St Anthony of Padua in the parish of East York, just outside Toronto. The article goes on to record that a mentally disturbed young man of the parish had been arrested and was about to appear in court for a preliminary hearing. I am fully awake again now. The Reverend Mrs Walden and I exchange a meaningful look.
‘It gets better,’ she says.
‘Better?’
‘Or worse; depending on how you look at it.’
She clicks and types quickly again. Up comes a second article, rather difficult to read on the screen.
‘I can tell you what it says,’ she offers. ‘This was four years before the Toronto fire. It’s from a newspaper called the Weekly.’
I look more closely. ‘South Africa?’
‘Father Stringer was serving in South Africa at the time, in Bloemfontein, to be precise. The first article I came across was in something called the Volksblad, but that was in Afrikaans, so it wasn’t much help. But then I came across this.’
‘My word, he gets around, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes, he does. And guess what?’
I look at her blankly.
‘You’re joking.’
‘No, I’m not. This time the church was called St Peter and St Paul, and again a young man was arrested. The difference is that by the time this article was written, the young man had been tried and convicted.’
We exchange the look again.
‘Remember Lady Bracknell?’ she asks.
I remember Lady Bracknell well. We had seen a good production in the West End a few months earlier.
‘To have one church gutted by fire may be regarded as a misfortune; to have two churches gutted by fire looks like carelessness,’ I reply.
‘And to have three churches gutted by fire,’ she adds, ‘looks bloody suspicious, if you ask me.’
We are silent for some time.
‘What made you think to do this search?’ I ask.
‘I suddenly remembered why the name seemed familiar. There was an article I read some time ago in the Church Times about priests who had served in different countries. Stringer was mentioned. I was trying to track that article down, but I couldn’t find it. So I widened the search. I had no idea about all this until I found the Toronto article. Charlie, I’m not sure anyone else will have joined up these dots.’
‘No, they probably haven’t, not with him changing country on a regular basis. You probably wouldn’t find the connection unless you were looking for it.’
‘What are you going to do?’ she asks.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you can’t ignore this. It may be highly relevant to your trial.’
‘I’m not sure there is anything I can do about it,’ I reply.
She is indignant.
‘What? Charlie, this young man you have on trial may be innocent. Stringer may be a serial arsonist who knows how to shift the blame to vulnerable young men. You can’t just stand by and watch your young man get convicted, knowing what you know. You have to tell the defence lawyer.’
‘I can’t.’
‘What? Why on earth not?’
‘Clara, I’m not allowed to contact the defence and suggest that they look for evidence. That would be the end of my career on the Bench, such as it is. In any case, what would I tell them? That my wife and I found some old press reports which we think may be suspicious?’
‘May be? Charlie, there is no “may be” about it.’
‘Perhaps so. I still can’t do it. It wouldn’t be proper.’
‘Spoken like a true lawyer,’ she says accusingly.
‘I am a lawyer,’ I point out.
‘That’s no excuse.’
She thinks for some moments.
‘Well, look, if you can’t just tell the defence counsel, tell both sides. Then the prosecution can’t claim to be taken by surprise.’
I think about this. I could, of course, call both counsel into chambers privately and suggest that further inquiries be made. Cathy Writtle would ask for an adjournment. Having brought the subject up myself, I could hardly refuse her that. We might even have to start the trial again at some future date. Perhaps by then Father Stringer will have moved on to Australia in search of new churches to burn down. B
ut it still looks awfully like judicial interference on one side of the case, doing the defence’s job for them. Why haven’t Cathy and her solicitors been here before us? Perhaps they have. Perhaps it didn’t check out. I don’t know what the evidence was in those cases. In particular, I don’t know what the evidence was against the two young men involved. Perhaps there was compelling scientific evidence. The articles are very brief. It may be that they are not terribly accurate. If newspaper reports of what goes on at Bermondsey Crown Court are anything to go by, they may be largely fictitious. Eventually I decide to do what I always do in case of doubt – procrastinate and hope it will all go away. I decide to wait until the close of the prosecution case and see how the land lies then. I have no reason to think it will lie much differently, but hope springs eternal.
The Reverend Mrs Walden is not pleased when I communicate this decision to her. She stalks off, muttering to herself, stage right. I’m not sure how late it was when she finally came to bed.
* * *
Wednesday morning
The CPS photocopying machine being miraculously restored to health, there are now copies of the transcript of Tony’s police interview for myself and the jury, and Roderick now calls the officer in the case, DS Major, to give evidence. He outlines for the jury the course of the investigation and the arrest of Tony Devonald. He summarises the results of the forensic testing of Tony’s clothing, before turning to the interview.
Advised by the duty solicitor, Tony answered every question put to him, without a single ‘no comment’ – these days, a creditable thing in itself. He told the police repeatedly that he had nothing to do with the fire, often volunteering it without being asked. Then there was the matter of the mysterious phone call, about which the prosecution has so far said nothing. He was at home at the time, he said. He did not recognise the voice. But he was sure that the man told him that Father Stringer needed his help with something at the church. He slipped out of the house without telling anyone, thinking that he would not be away long. When he arrived at the church, he saw the fire, and immediately ran to the south door because it was the door nearest to the vicarage. The door was unlocked. It was impossible to enter the church because of the searing heat, but he called out to find out whether anyone was inside. There was no reply. The vicarage seemed dark. It was then that he noticed the metal can standing by the door. It smelled strongly of white spirit. He ran from the church with the intention of summoning help, and took the can with him to ensure that it was out of reach of the flames. He dropped it by the side of the road. He was unable to call for help because he had left his mobile at home, but soon afterwards he heard the sirens of the approaching fire engines, and went home. Roderick asks DS Major to await further questions.
‘Just to clarify, then, Detective Sergeant,’ Cathy begins, ‘apart from the traces and smell of white spirit on Tony’s clothing and his fingerprints on the metal can, there was no scientific evidence linking him to this offence at all, was there?’
‘Apart from those things, no,’ the Sergeant replies. His manner suggests that he thinks that really ought to be enough.
‘Well, there was no such evidence inside the church, was there?’
‘No, Miss. But there again, the church was burned quite thoroughly.’
‘Yes, but not entirely, was it? The south door and its lock survived, didn’t they?’
‘They did.’
‘And it is a reasonable inference that whoever started the fire entered through the south door, isn’t it?’
‘Is it, Miss?’
‘The south door was unlocked, and the metal can containing the white spirit was found at the south door.’
‘With respect, Miss, we only have your client’s word for that.’
‘That’s not entirely true, Sergeant, is it? The south door was unlocked when the police arrived.’
‘Yes, but we don’t how when, or by whom it was unlocked.’
Cathy smiles. ‘That’s exactly right, Sergeant. We don’t know that, do we?’
‘No, we don’t.’
‘Could it have been the same person who cancelled choir practice so suddenly?’
Roderick is half way to his feet. She raises a hand.
‘Sorry, your Honour.’
She pauses for effect.
‘Now, let me move on to something else. Tony told you, didn’t he, that he had received a phone call asking him to go to the church at about the time of the fire, to help Father Stringer with something?’
‘That is what he said, yes.’
‘Did the officers seize his mobile phone when he was arrested?’
‘They did.’
‘And was the phone interrogated to see whether there was any evidence to support what Tony had said?’
‘Yes.’
‘And was the result of that investigation that a call was received at about seven-forty with a duration of about forty-five seconds?’
‘That is correct.’
‘Long enough for some conversation to take place?’
‘I suppose so, yes.’
‘Well, it’s not a missed call, is it?’
‘No, I would presume not.’
‘Were you able to establish the number from which the call originated?’
‘Yes, Miss, it was made from the public call box on Vicarage Road.’
‘Not far from the church?’
‘Less than two hundred yards.’
‘And no doubt the phone box was checked for fingerprints or other scientific evidence?’
The Sergeant makes a pretence of checking the record of the investigation, and feigns a look of resignation.
‘I know an officer went to take a look. But you wouldn’t expect to find anything usable in a phone box with members of the public going in and out all the time. There was no way to preserve it as a scene by the time we were aware of it.’
‘That’s a “no”, is it?’
‘No check for fingerprints was made.’
‘Very well. But there is no doubt, is there, that a call was made to Tony’s phone from the call box at about the time he claimed in his interview?’
‘That would appear to be correct, Miss, yes.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant. Lastly, can you confirm please that Tony Devonald is nineteen years of age, and that he has never been convicted of any offence, and that he has never received any caution, reprimand, or warning?’
‘That is correct, Miss.’
Cathy sits down, and the Detective Sergeant leaves the witness box.
‘Your Honour,’ Roderick announces grandly, ‘that concludes the prosecution’s case, subject only to preparing a few agreed facts for the jury. If I might have a few minutes to inquire into the continuing health of the CPS photocopier, I would be most grateful.’
‘Your Honour, I would appreciate a few minutes also, to confer with the defendant before we go any further,’ Cathy adds.
I turn to the jury.
‘Short break, members of the jury. You will have time for coffee, I expect.’
They don’t seem in any way distressed by the news. In fact, as it turns out, they have more than enough time for coffee. I soon get a message suggesting that I release the jury until two o’clock. Nothing to do with the CPS photocopier, for once. Something has come up, and Cathy needs more time to confer with her client. Fair enough, I think. He is probably nervous about giving evidence. He will have to, whether he wants to or not, if he is to stand a chance of getting off. But she may have to persuade him of that, and I don’t want to rush her.
And so to lunch, an oasis of calm in a desert of chaos.
I enter the mess with some trepidation, fully expecting to find the rugby wars still in full flow, but to my relief, calm seems to have descended.
‘How is your case going?’ I ask Legless.
‘Fine,’
he replies. ‘Should finish the prosecution case tomorrow. No problems.’
Nothing amiss that I can detect.
Marjorie likewise, when I ask her the same question. ‘Yes, fine. We are making good progress. I may get the jury out late this afternoon, but more likely tomorrow morning.’
‘Hubert?’
Hubert looks up from the dish of the day, described on the menu as pasta puttanesca.
‘Oh, it’s all nonsense,’ he complains, ‘two foreigners attacking each other in a pub. Deport both of them if it was up to me. Waste of public money.’
‘Is there a bad injury?’ I ask.
‘Couple of broken ribs, cuts to the head, that kind of thing. Nothing serious.’
‘How is your case going?’ Marjorie asks.
I decide to tell them about my dinner at the Delights of the Raj with the Reverend Mrs Walden, and about her subsequent computer-based research.
‘I’m not sure what, if anything, I should do about it,’ I confess. ‘What do you think?’
‘I wouldn’t say anything,’ Legless advises. ‘You can’t jump into the arena on behalf of one party. Besides, as you say yourself, you can’t be sure what the previous matters were about, whether they have any relevance. There would have to be a complete investigation, which would derail the trial.’
‘I agree that it would derail the trial,’ Marjorie says, ‘but I think you have to say something, Charlie. There is a real risk of injustice. You don’t have to jump into the arena. I would just have counsel into chambers, tell them you stumbled over some information; you are worried about the possibility of a miscarriage of justice; and give them time to reflect about what to do. If I know Cathy Writtle, she will invite you to discharge the jury and order a retrial once they have had time to investigate properly. The officer in the case might well want to look into it, too.’
I nod, still undecided.
‘I did that once,’ Hubert says.
‘Did what?’
‘Told counsel about some information I had which might have been relevant.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes. It was while I was sitting at Southwark for a week or two, years ago. Fraud case. John Sugden prosecuting, and that awful woman – God, what was her name? Fulton, Fulberry, something like that, dreadful woman – defending. The defendant was giving evidence and Sugden was cross-examining, and he asked the defendant where some transaction had taken place. Can’t remember what the transaction was, but obviously fraudulent, because he eventually went down like a lead balloon, and I gave him –’