“By this testimony, Mr. Macrea,” said the judge, “are you hoping to establish the positive proposition that Lieutenant Wells was a man who was inherently likely to have immoral relations with any woman he met?”
“Yes, my lord. I am hoping to establish that, and something further. I am hoping to show that a certain type of woman made an especial appeal to him. A type which I should describe as a small brunette, of pleasant rather than aristocratic features. A type, may I add, to which the prisoner demonstrably belongs.”
“I do not know what Mr. Summers has got to say about all this,” said the judge doubtfully.
“With respect, my lord,” said Mr. Summers who was clearly bursting to say a good deal, “I think the proposition is nonsensical. I do not think that the dictates of passion can be classified in any such analytical way. You cannot lay it down that certain types of men appeal to women, or that certain types of women only appeal to certain men.”
“My learned friend is oversimplifying my proposition,” said Macrea. “I do not think that the physical type of the man has anything very much to do with the matter. I do not believe, for instance, that women are necessarily attracted to a man because he is large, strong, athletic or superficially handsome. Indeed, if we may judge by some of the notorious lady-killers who have from time to time come before the criminal courts of this country, they were often small, timid-looking, sometimes rather effeminate men. Possibly such a type arouses some maternal instinct in women which later turns to passion when it is reciprocated – I do not know. What I am certain about is this. A man either is or is not a ‘lady’s man.’ Further, if he is, then human nature being what it is, his friends will know about it. You will recollect I put precisely this point to two witnesses. And you will remember their answers. The English witness agreed with me. The Frenchman did not. I must confess that I prefer the English viewpoint. It may well be that Frenchmen are more reticent than we are in affairs of the heart. I simply do not believe that any Englishman will be a ‘squire of dames’ without his friends knowing all about it.”
“In the United States of America,” observed the judge unexpectedly, “I believe such a man is described as a ‘wolf.’”
“I believe that is so,” agreed Macrea, “though, as I have indicated above, the description may often prove superficially misleading.”
“Very well,” said the judge. “I am certain that the jury are sufficiently men and women of the world to form their own opinion.” The jury all looked down their noses in a gratified way. “I shall rule that this witness may be heard – I think one witness will be sufficient, Mr. Macrea – on the grounds that her testimony may help us in the specific manner you have indicated. I must confess, however, that I am still a little at a loss to understand—”
“If I might make the matter clear,” said Macrea. “I had hoped to introduce this new witness simply in the role of Lieutenant Wells’s former lover. I was told that he carried a photograph of her in his pocket when he went to France. It occurred to me – such things do happen, odd though it may seem – that he may well have shown it at some time or other to the prisoner. If he had done so, and the prisoner had been able to identify the witness, her position in the matter would have been established without a number of embarrassing questions.”
“I see,” said the judge doubtfully. “And the boy?”
“Shortage of household help,” said Macrea promptly, “was alone responsible for such an unfortunate occurrence. She came up to London at very short notice from Amesbury, where her husband is stationed, and having nowhere to leave the boy was forced to bring him with her. That the prisoner, in the darkness of the court, should have mistaken him for her own dead child is a contretemps which upset me as much as it did anyone else—”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Your name is Irene Durvier?”
“Well – that’s my professional name.”
“Your—?”
“My stage name. My real name is Iris Box.”
“I see – now, Miss Box, I understand you have something to tell us about the night of March fourteenth.”
“That’s right.”
Without undue prompting, and with reasonable clarity, Miss Box then told the court what she had already told Mr. Rumbold and had later repeated for Macrea. She told how she had celebrated her birthday. How she had eaten and drunk with her friends – “not that I was paying for the party. I was far too broke. It was strictly a Dutch treat” – and had eventually set out, at about twenty-five past ten, to walk from the neighborhood of Gower Street, to her lodgings in Mornington Crescent. How she had sat down, for a few minutes of rest and reflection, on the low coping of the wall in Pearlyman Passage. How she had heard an unknown voice, from the darkened windows of a building which she now knew to be the Family Hotel, whispering the name Benny.
Mr. Summers rose to cross-examine with something like satisfaction. There were moments in the case which had shaken him considerably. He considered that Macrea’s tactics had verged on the unprofessional – had indeed at more points than one passed right over the verge line. But this was the sort of witness he appreciated. There was nothing he liked more than a witness, preferably a member of the public, who came forward at the last moment with unexpected testimony in a murder trial.
“Now, Miss Box,” he said briskly, “will you tell the court why you are here.”
“Why – I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.”
“It’s a plain question, surely.”
“Well – when I read about the case—”
“You read about it? Where?”
“In the newspapers.”
“I see. Please go on.”
“Well – I read it in the newspapers, and I said to Daisy – that’s the girl I share a room with – ‘Why, that’s just about the place where I sat down that night’ – and Daisy said—”
“I am afraid, Miss Box,” said the judge, “that what your friend said to you is not strictly evidence in this case. You must confine yourself to indicating what you did.”
“Oh, certainly, your lordship,” said Miss Box, considerably flustered at this judicial intervention. “Well, I went back to make sure.”
“You went back to Pearlyman Street?”
“That’s right.”
“And before that you had no real idea where it was you had sat down that night?”
“Well, no. It was very dark, of course.”
“Of course. But once you had seen it by daylight you were quite certain?”
“Well, I had to look round a bit, and then I found the wall I had sat down on, and there it was – the hotel, I mean.”
“Was this wall the only wall in the street?”
“It was the only one just there.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand that.”
“It was the only one opposite the hotel.”
“Oh, I see,” Mr. Summers smiled indulgently. “It was the only one opposite the hotel. Quite so. There were other walls, but they were opposite other houses?”
“Yes. But I’m sure this was the one I sat on.”
“And what makes you so sure, Miss Box? Was there something particular about it?”
“Not exactly. But I know I’d come a certain way along the street, and then I came to this wall – and – that was the one I recognised when I came back to look at it.”
“I see. Yes. There was, of course, a considerable interval of time, Miss Box, between your two visits to Pearlyman Street. The first visit was on the night of March fourteenth and the second one was not until after you had read the police court proceedings in the papers – August of this year, that would be?”
“Yes, I suppose that’s right.”
“And even after that length of time you were able to identify the particular—er—wall on which you sat?”
“Well – yes. I’m fairly certain that was the one.”
“Fairly certain?”
“Yes. Pretty certain. It’s difficult to be quit
e certain.”
“I entirely agree with you,” said Mr. Summers suavely. “Now on this first occasion – the night of March fourteenth. It was your birthday?”
“Yes.”
“And you had been having a little party?”
“That’s right.”
“A certain amount of drinking – I don’t suggest that anyone had drunk too much—?”
“Well, it wouldn’t be a party unless you had something to drink, would it?”
“I suppose not.”
“And you can’t go too far on beer.”
“As to that,” said Mr. Summers, “being a total abstainer myself, I would not be able to give any useful opinion. No doubt some of the jury are beer drinkers and will be able to form their own opinion. It would be true to say, however, that you had taken a glass or two of beer, and that you were walking home on what you have already mentioned was a very dark night, and that you sat down for a minute or two to rest?”
“Yes.”
“Now, Miss Box—” Mr. Summers leaned forward, a picture of earnest kindliness—“is it not possible – I will put it no higher than that – is it not possible that you were mistaken?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand. Do you mean that I am making up—”
“Please, please. Don’t misunderstand me. I willingly accept that everything happened exactly as you have told us. But is it not conceivable that in all those many little streets that you had to pass through in walking between Gower Street and Mornington Crescent—is it not conceivable that you sat down to rest at some other place than the back of the Family Hotel?”
“Well – if you put it like that – yes, I suppose it is possible.”
“I do not know how many streets you had to pass through – how many houses you had to pass behind – how many walls you might have rested on – dozens, certainly. Perhaps even hundreds. I am simply suggesting – it is no possible criticism of your veracity – that when you went back five months later you selected the wrong one.”
Mr. Summers accompanied this with a broad smile in the direction of the jury, as much as to say, “See how considerately I’m treating this witness. You and I know perfectly well that she was so tight at the time that she wouldn’t have known whether she was sitting on Noah’s Ark or Nelson’s Column, but we mustn’t hurt her feelings, must we?”
“I suppose that’s right,” said the witness unhappily.
“Now, Miss Box—” Mr. Summers’ voice took on a sterner note. “You probably know that in every criminal case – every sensational criminal case, the police invariably receive a number of communications from members of the public, who wish, from motives of notoriety, to identify themselves with the case?”
“I—”
“One minute, please. I am not suggesting that here. I am merely illustrating the point I wish to put to you. Is it not possible that the same sort of cause has produced a different effect? You read an account in the papers of this crime?”
“Yes.”
“Several accounts?”
“Yes. I read it in most of the papers.”
“Quite so. You were interested in it?”
“Certainly. Because I thought—”
“I am suggesting – it’s no more than a suggestion – that the idea that this house you sat behind on the night of March fourteenth came into your head, in the first instance, from those accounts. Then you went back to look – and it is not surprising that you found that it was so—”
“I’m not sure that I understand.”
“Counsel is suggesting,” said the judge kindly, “that you read about the hotel in Pearlyman Street, that you remembered that you must have passed through or near Pearlyman Street on the night these things happened, and that you, therefore, came to the conclusion that the house you took a rest behind on that night was the Family Hotel.”
“Well, I don’t know, sir. I’m sure I thought it was the house I sat down behind that night. I wasn’t making it up. It did happen as I said. But whether or not it really was the house, I thought I could swear to it, but now I’m not sure—or that is to say, I’m not so sure as I was when this gentleman started asking me questions.”
“Your witness,” said Mr. Summers, sitting down resignedly.
“Miss Box,” said Macrea, “when you finally made up your mind to come forward and give evidence in this case, did you discuss the matter with your friends?”
“Oh, yes. I did. I talked it over with several of them.”
“And what was their advice?”
“They said I’d be a fool to do anything of the sort.”
“I see. Did they give any reason for their opinion?”
“They said I’d be asked a lot of nasty questions and anything I said would be sure to be twisted round till it meant something else—”
“Thank you,” said Macrea. “Thank you.”
That night after the court had closed Macrea and Mr. Rumbold sat late in counsel’s chambers in King’s Bench Walk.
Both men were tired, but they were past the stage where they felt very much desire for sleep.
Their minds still pecked at the case, in a desultory way, as an overfed chicken might peck at a plate of scraps; not wanting the food but anxious that no tidbit should escape.
“I was afraid Summers would tie up Miss Box,” said Macrea. “Ever since the Yarmouth case that sort of witness has been meat for counsel. He only has to mention the ‘notoriety’ angle and the jury automatically disbelieve every word the witness says.”
“Yet you called her?” said Mr. Rumbold.
“I had to.” Macrea sounded irritable. “I’ve got a feeling that in a case like this, in the long run, a grain of truth is going to be worth a peck of prejudice. I believe Miss Box did sit behind the Family Hotel that night. I believe it was just about the time when Major Thoseby was being killed. And I believe that somebody did call somebody else Benny. When the truth comes out that’s going to be one of the tiny little pieces that will fit and clinch the matter.”
“Will the truth come out?” said Mr. Rumbold.
The room was so quiet that it might have been listening for the answer. The long shelves of lawbooks were in shadow, the reflected light from the green reading lamp engraved dark lines on the tired faces of the two men. From the direction of the Embankment came up, faintly, the double hoot of a ship’s siren.
‘This may shock you,” said Macrea. “I was going to say that it didn’t seem to me to matter. I think the truth will come out – sometime. I’m fairly confident that Miss Lamartine won’t be found guilty. You can never be quite certain with a jury, but that’s what I feel about it. I can’t be certain that they’ll acquit either. A disagreement seems the most likely. But it’ll be the sort of disagreement with too much doubt in it to make a retrial popular. The British public don’t love retrials.”
“Well, I suppose that will be a sort of a happy ending,” said Mr. Rumbold. “But, you know, it won’t satisfy me a bit. I haven’t got a technical mind. I want everything to come out. I want the knots untied and the crooked ways made straight. I want Miss Lamartine set free and the murderer hanged.”
“And the moon,” said Macrea. “Don’t forget the moon.”
“I want to know who killed Major Thoseby, and if it wasn’t Vicky, then the first thing I want to know is, what motive could anyone else have had. And it’s no good trying to persuade me that there’s an underground Gestapo organisation working in London polishing off our Secret Service aces – because that’s not the sort of thing I find it possible to believe in. If there is a motive it’s got to be quite simple and sordid and credible. Then, I want to know where Mrs. Roper – a currency smuggler or associate of currency smugglers – fits into the Family Hotel – or was her presence a coincidence? I want to know what happened on the Loire in September, 1943 – or was it yet another coincidence that more than half the people in this case seem to have been there – Thoseby and Wells and Monsieur Sainte and Vicky and Camino.”
“And a million Frenchmen – and several thousand Germans.”
“All right. Then I want to know how the murderer got up to Major Thoseby’s room unobserved and how he got down again. And I want to know who said ‘Benny’ and who they said it to. And why.”
“Anything else?”
“I wouldn’t mind knowing what’s happened to my son—”
“Yes,” said Macrea. “Yes. Well, we shan’t find out by sitting here, you know. I’m for bed.”
He got up, turned out the desk light, and both men went out. The front door slammed, and their footsteps clattered away up King’s Bench Walk.
In the empty room the telephone started to ring. It went on ringing for a long time and then it stopped.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Nap came to the surface very slowly. It took a long time and there did not seem to be any particular urgency about it. When he broke surface and started to breathe, then things started to hurt.
There was one pain in his lungs, which was the pain of the breath he had been holding. And there was another pain along the side and the top of his stomach, where the knife had gone into him – how deeply he did not know, and did not at the moment care to guess.
He could hear voices shouting along the north bank of the river, the bank he had just left: and he could see lights blinking. The current, however, was carrying him along more quickly than the voices and the lights could move, and this seemed so desirable that Nap set his teeth and did nothing. The merest movement of his legs was enough to keep him afloat, anyway, so long as the air was still in his clothes.
Death Has Deep Roots Page 20