Evidence of the Accused

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘I told you Mark and Stuart weren’t the kind to worry about money debts, but you wouldn’t believe me.’

  He grunted. I hoped I’d dimmed just a little of his pleasure.

  I left the mantelpiece and crossed the room to my wine cellar — a beer crate on its side. It contained six full and six empty bottles of beer. I refilled his glass, did the same to mine.

  He drank deeply before he spoke again. ‘D’you remember me asking you if there was anything between Tetley and Mrs Cheesman?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘And you said there couldn’t possibly be. Shocked you, it did, to be asked such a question.’

  ‘I didn’t like it.’

  ‘Never can tell, can you?’ He drank more beer. ‘All people are the same under the skin.’

  ‘Did you imagine human nature underwent a radical change as the money grew?’

  ‘You beat me,’ he said finally. ‘I’ll swear that right now you’re feeling sorry for Tetley. Don’t matter what he did to Lindy Cheesman. Maybe you even think he had a right to do what he did?’

  ‘I just feel sorry for all that’s happened.’

  ‘D’you feel sorry for Crippen, Smith, ’Eath?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I never met them.’

  He muttered something fierce, returned to his beer. I wondered how many pints he had to drink before he ceased to resemble a man dying from thirst?

  *

  Pope called again one day at a time when I was half-heartedly digging part of the garden. I looked upon gardening as being as great a waste of time and effort as washing-up.

  ‘You’ll ’ave to go deeper than that,’ he said, after he had studied my work for a while. He pointed at the spit of earth I was about to turn under. ‘What’s more, it’s no good just burying that bindweed.’

  ‘Keeps it out of sight.’

  ‘That’s all some people think about, that is. Don’t matter what happens so long as it’s kept out of sight.’

  I buried the long, twisting, obscenely white root of bindweed and silently hoped it would flourish exceedingly. I jammed the graft into the soil so that I could use it to scrape off some of the earth from my boots. ‘What do you say to a cup of coffee?’

  ‘I don’t say nothing — I was due back at H.Q half an hour ago to cope with a bloke who’s been mucking around with his own daughter. Castrate ’em, that’s what I’d do. None of this bloody psychiatry.’

  I offered him a cigarette. He didn’t refuse that.

  ‘Thought you might be interested in what’s happening,’ he said. ‘The D.P.P’s just made his decision. Straight charge of murder with the husband to be called as witness for the prosecution … Won’t like that, will ’e?’ Pope spoke with deep satisfaction. ‘Not done to give evidence against a pal, what?’

  ‘Satisfied?’

  He hadn’t heard me — or made out he hadn’t. ‘It ain’t no secret that at one time the two of ’em was on the line. We’d have landed them for murder, conspiracy, accessory, and everything else in the book. But the confession clears the field nice and tidy.’

  ‘Whatever had happened, in a charge of murder no other count is included.’

  ‘You can always get a bloke for an attempt, even if it ain’t in the indictment. Even an ignorant copper like me knows that.’

  ‘If a man’s found guilty of murder, the attempt becomes merged in the major crime, and although conspiracy doesn’t become merged, in practice no one would be allowed to prove it by proving actual consummation of the crime. These offences only come into it if the main offence isn’t proved.’

  ‘There ain’t no hope of that happening.’ He thought for a while, then cleared his throat and spat. ‘There ain’t no hope of that,’ he repeated.

  *

  December brought rain and wind. One storm tore across the Marsh at a reported ninety miles an hour. It left behind it a trail of damaged pylons, broken telephone wires, tileless roofs, turned-over chicken houses and broiler-sheds, shattered trees … The shed that was my garage took on a few extra degrees of list to starboard.

  The snow came in January. The Marsh became a treacherous plain because in places the dykes were filled with driven snow lying on top of the ice, and there was no way in which to judge where the dykes lay. Several sheep were drowned. Electricity supplies were cut — which, of course, didn’t affect me so that for once I had the laugh on all those people who suddenly had to search for candles.

  The snow lay for two weeks and its going was prolonged by nightly frosts. A car spun off the road two miles to the east of Sonningchurch, dived into an eight foot dyke, and drowned the driver.

  After the snow, returned the rain. It was raining steadily on the day the trial of Stuart Tetley began.

  Alterations had been made to the assize court with the object of giving the jury a better view of the proceedings than they had had before. Their box was moved to the right of the dais. From there they had an uninterrupted view of counsel’s benches and the dock behind, and, on the far side immediately before them, was the witness-box.

  Mr Andrew Union walked past the policeman and thanked him for opening the door. He entered the courtroom, went to a seat beyond the bar and sat down. His clerk followed and put several law books by his side. Union was short, tubby, very well stomached, balding, and had very bad eyesight which necessitated his wearing unusually powerful glasses. He was the antithesis of the popular image of a brilliant defending counsel. However, despite his looks, he was one.

  Below the judge’s desk, the clerk ruffled through papers as he tried to find one particular one. He was ill-tempered and looked it.

  An usher went into the witness-box and made certain there was a copy of both the Old and New Testament to hand.

  Gorton came into the courtroom, and sat down. He took off his wig, tried to clear a spare loop of hair in the tail that continually worried his neck. He replaced the wig with a sigh that suggested he had failed, undid his brief — in white tape because he was the prosecution-placed the papers that were inside in neat piles to his right and left along the desk. He was a tall, almost cadaverous-looking man who had gone prematurely bald. He moved across and spoke to Union.

  Patrick Spenser, Union’s junior, took his position behind his leader. Their instructing solicitor sat down in the front bench of all.

  There was a movement in the dock. Into it came a policeman and Stuart Tetley. They stood. The accused looked calm except for the nervous way in which he gazed about himself. He was smartly dressed in a charcoal-coloured pin-striped suit.

  The jury were called and took their place. Nine men and three women. Self-conscious, bewildered, nervous, and annoyed to find themselves in their present position.

  A loud call for silence. The door at the far end of the dais opened and Mr Justice Addair entered court.

  He was a small man, about five feet seven inches in height, with a strangely featured face. It was long with a very high forehead. His eyebrows were black and they formed a line which sharply divided his face. His nose had a tendency to hook, his mouth was over-straight, his chin was square with a slight cleft. In many ways, he looked an aesthete who found the world in which he lived highly distasteful.

  The judge bowed very formally, sat down.

  The arraignment was made, the plea taken, the jury sworn.

  Gorton made his opening speech.

  ‘Members of the jury, I shall make my address as brief as possible. Let me at the outset, though, stress one point. Your duty in this case is to do two things. First you have to decide whether a murder was committed: then, if your answer is in the affirmative, you have to say whether the prisoner was guilty of that murder. Most times, members of the jury, it is very obvious that a person has been murdered: there is the bullet wound, the broken flesh and bones caused by a blunt instrument, the marks of strangling. In this case we may not move so fast. Mrs Lindy Cheesman was found dead in her home, having suffered a fall. Two things could have c
aused that fall. She could have tripped or stumbled: she could have been pushed. It is the contention of the Crown that Lindy Cheesman was pushed, and to prove beyond all doubt that this was so we shall be calling a considerable amount of scientific evidence.

  ‘What will this and the other evidence be? Let me very briefly tell you so that as each point is proved in this court you will be able to appreciate precisely what part it plays in the whole … Lindy Cheesman’s body was discovered by the daily help, Miss Beryl Bishop, at about three twenty-five in the afternoon. She telephoned her doctor, Doctor Enton, and asked him to come out. Although he was not the Cheesman’s doctor he answered her call and drove out to Settle Court. Once there, he made certain life was extinct, telephoned the police. He will tell you he saw nothing then to suggest there had been a murder but faced with the accident he saw, he was of the opinion the police should be notified. By the end of the case, members of the jury, you may well feel that that was one of the wisest things Doctor Enton ever did.’

  The judge stared at the note-book in front of him. His expression was severe, yet that was not an accurate reflection of his character. He was not severe, per se, and would never approach a case in such a frame of mind. He could be severe, however, when it was his duty to sentence a man found guilty whom he decided needed a retributive term of imprisonment. He did not lean towards penal reforms which were suggested solely to ease the prisoners’ lot: he thought a prisoner should suffer mentally as well as physically. He believed a great deal in the biblical eye for an eye. He often wished the more vocal abolitionists could be made to look at the victim of some crime of violence.

  Gorton continued his address in his calm, even voice which was deliberately kept free of a suggestion of emotion.

  Union turned round and spoke to his junior: the latter opened one of the text books in front of him and searched the index.

  Stuart Tetley, now sitting down, studied the judge, then, at more length, the prosecuting counsel. There was a look of enquiry on his face: as though he were wondering whether Gorton ever thought of the people he was trying to convict as human beings.

  ‘And so, members of the jury,’ continued Gorton, ‘convinced that they were dealing with a case of murder, the police began to seek out the murderer. I need not enumerate the course of their investigations except to say that after much work had been done the prisoner volunteered a statement to the police.’ Gorton looked at Union who had hastily risen to his feet. ‘My Lord, I shall not refer to the contents of the statement until later.’

  ‘Very well. Does that satisfy you, Mr Union?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’ Union sat down.

  ‘Suffice it to say, members of the jury, that as a consequence of certain things Detective-Superintendent Pope charged the prisoner with the murder of Mrs Lindy Cheesman. At the preliminary hearing Stuart Tetley reserved his defence and called no witnesses.’

  Gorton poured himself out a quarter of a glassful of water and quickly drank it. He looked down at his note-book, checked with a deposition. ‘Beryl Bishop, please.’

  A policeman left the courtroom and those inside could hear him calling out the name.

  Beryl Bishop entered. To her, an appearance in court was as a wedding or funeral. She had to wear her best clothes. She had chosen her best coat, blouse, jumper, skirt, stockings, shoes. Unfortunately, none of these matched the others either in colour or style. Someone in the public gallery laughed. The judge looked up and the laughter ceased abruptly.

  She took the oath and gave her evidence. With annoying frequency she reached up and tried to pat into position the more defiant of the straggly hairs which dropped over her forehead.

  Gorton began to question her about the relationship between Lindy Cheesman, her husband, and the accused.

  ‘Would you have called the Cheesmans a happy couple?’

  ‘I would.’

  ‘During the three years or so you worked for them, did you at any time hear them have a row?’

  ‘They weren’t the kind of people to do such a thing.’

  ‘I imagine, though, they used to have their disagreements?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘You never heard the Cheesmans disagree on any single point?’

  ‘I never did.’

  Gorton looked up from his papers. She met his gaze with an expression of open hostility. It was clear she gave her loyalty completely and absolutely to the Cheesmans and nothing would ever stop her doing so.

  ‘While you were at work in the kitchen washing-up, the Saturday in question, did you hear any shooting from Settle Wood?’

  ‘I don’t know. Wouldn’t have taken no notice if I had.’

  ‘You couldn’t say whether you heard one, maybe half a dozen, maybe very many more, shots?’

  ‘I was busy.’

  ‘Did you know Mr Cheesman and the accused had gone shooting with their dogs?’

  ‘All I knew was Pears was outside and she came round to the back door and scratched on it for something to eat. Got a raving appetite for cold potatoes, she had, which I ain’t never seen satisfied yet.’

  ‘Quite so, Miss Bishop … Thank you.’ Gorton sat down.

  Union stood up, took off his spectacles, polished them on his handkerchief, checked they were clean by holding them horizontally before him, replaced them. He leaned forward, which pushed his rounded stomach against the edge of the desk in front of him, tucked his hands behind his back inside his gown, stared at the witness. ‘Did you ever suspect anything was going on between Mrs Cheesman and Stuart Tetley?’

  ‘I didn’t. Never.’ Beryl Bishop spoke to him with the same hostility with which she had replied to Gorton. She was unable to differentiate between the duties of the two counsel.

  ‘If there had been a relationship between them do you think you would have known about it?’

  ‘Can’t say, really.’

  ‘Don’t you think you’d have gained a slight impression if such a thing had been?’

  ‘Can’t say.’

  ‘Would you believe such a relationship as has been suggested would have been possible?’

  ‘Can’t say.’

  Union shrugged his shoulders, noticed the judge was smiling sardonically, sat down, turned round. ‘It’s like trying to break up ironstone with a tube of toothpaste.’

  ‘Reminds me of an aunt of mine,’ replied Spenser. ‘The dotty one.’

  ‘Never knew you had a dotty aunt.’

  ‘Good lord, yes. Used to sign cheques for millions of pounds. Once gave me one for five million two hundred and twenty-seven thousand pounds, four shillings and a farthing.’

  ‘What did you do with it?’

  ‘I was fourteen. Tried to cash it at the local bank and was very greatly upset when they refused to honour it.’

  While counsel had been talking — and there were many who imagined the discussion had centred around defence tactics — Doctor Enton had been called.

  ‘I arrived at about twenty to four, went into the hall and examined the body. As soon as I was satisfied life was extinct I decided to call in the police.’

  ‘Was there any particular reason why you did this?’

  ‘I saw nothing to lead me to believe that death had been anything but accidental. In certain circumstances, however, I make it a practice to call in the police so that there can be absolute certainty that everything that should have been done, has been.’

  ‘May I say, Doctor, that if ever such a principle were proved to be right, this was the time … I believe it was Detective-Inspector May who came to the house. Did he ask you to do anything?’

  ‘To ascertain the approximate time of death.’

  ‘Were you able to do this?’

  ‘I took the temperature of the body, studied the approach of rigor, and estimated the time of death at two-thirty of the same afternoon.’

  ‘Would that be an accurate time?’

  ‘It would not be inaccurate due to the short interval elapsing since the time of death but no su
ch estimate can really be termed accurate. There are far too many facts that have to be taken into account. The outside temperature, the clothes being worn, the state of health of the person concerned … and so on.’

  ‘I would be correct, then, if I say you give a time of death you believe to be accurate but that you would be the first to allow that death might actually have taken place at some slightly different time?’

  ‘That is quite correct.’

  ‘Was a search made of the body?’

  ‘While I was there Inspector May carried out a very general one and during the course of it he discovered a hair under the nail of the middle finger of the right hand which he pointed out to me.’

  ‘Would this be the hair? … Exhibit number one, my Lord.’ Gorton handed a plastic test-tube to the usher. The latter carried it to the witness, to the judge who glanced briefly at it, finally to the jury.

  The doctor smiled. ‘Not having been in charge of the hair I can’t swear that this is the one in question.’

  Gorton nodded his head. ‘Quite so, Doctor, but would you say that this hair is exactly similar to the one found on the body?’

  ‘I should.’

  Gorton sat down. Union cross-examined. ‘Doctor, I’m going to ask you a question to which I should like you to give great thought before you answer it.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Would you say that in the course of a normal day a woman working about a house could pick up a hair which lodges under her fingernail and which she does not notice because she is so busy?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Come, Doctor, that’s no answer. Isn’t it more than possible that a housewife might pick up a hair from somewhere in the house?’

  ‘I suppose so. I should never call that a medically considered reply, though.’

  ‘Could we please have your answers without comment.’

  The judge spoke. ‘The witness, Mr Union, is fully entitled to differentiate between the answers he gives as a medical man and the answers he gives that are based on no more than observations any man in the street could make.’

  ‘As your Lordship pleases.’ Union shrugged his shoulders, looked ironically at the jury. ‘Speaking medically, Doctor, and let us be absolutely clear from which of the many possible expert angles you address us, speaking medically then, is there any reason for claiming that the hair was caught under the finger-nail at or about the time of death?’