Mr Justice Parkins said: ‘There will be silence or I shall have the court cleared.’ His calm, unhurried words had effect where the loud cries of the officials had gone unheeded. Silence returned.
The judge picked up his pencil, stared at Tetley. ‘Are we to understand that you now say it was you who was present at the death of Mrs Lindy Cheesman?’ he asked in a hard voice.
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘In what circumstances?’
‘Precisely as I gave them at my own trial.’
‘You will tell the court exactly what you claim happened.’
Stuart spoke quite calmly. ‘I’ve already said that Lindy wanted me to have an affair with her. After that day in August things became such that I was terribly worried Mark would begin to suspect the worst. I tried to reason with Lindy, point out how ridiculous and dangerous the situation was, but she wouldn’t listen: she’d always had things her way and couldn’t conceive a change. I became desperate because soon Mark must begin to believe something was going on … One of my difficulties was to talk to Lindy on her own without attracting Mark’s attention which would have brought about the very situation I was trying to avoid. When we were out shooting that Saturday I suddenly realised I had my chance. I started driving the wood down then went across the field and entered the house. I met Lindy upstairs on the landing. She thought I’d come to … I spoke to her, told her the truth, and hurt pride made her lose her temper. She hit out at me, struck me, tried to claw my face. I grabbed hold of her arms to stop her and bring her round to some sense and the only effect was she struggled more heavily. We slipped and she fell backwards against the banisters with my weight on top of her … They broke.’
‘What happened then?’ queried the judge.
‘I went down below. There was no doubting she was dead. I left the house and returned to the wood, praying the death would be held to be a terrible accident. If it wasn’t, Mark would learn how it had happened and must believe Lindy and I were lovers. I was determined at all costs to protect him from that final horror.’
‘But it was you who gave a confession to the police.’
‘Yes, my Lord. I realised Mark was in imminent danger of being charged with the murder of his wife and I told the police the truth to place him out of danger. It had gone beyond trying to save him any knowledge of Lindy’s behaviour.’
‘This is criminally ridiculous, Mr Tetley.’
‘Why, my Lord?’
Mr Justice Parkins was silent for a few seconds before he spoke again. ‘You claim you were trying to protect Mark Cheesman yet at the trial at which you were charged with the murder you allowed him to make a confession which you knew to be false.’
‘That is so, my Lord.’
‘Why?’
‘Mark Cheesman is the kind of friend not many people have the fortune to have. After I was charged and the case had been through the lower court it was only too clear the prosecution were out to prove Lindy and I had been lovers. Mark came and saw me when I was in custody and demanded to know if it was true. I told him what our relationship had been, that although I had committed no murder I knew Lindy would not have died but for me and I felt I should pay whatever the penalty was to be — I never feared being found guilty of murder because I knew I had not been guilty of anything more than contributing to an accidental death. Mark swore he wouldn’t let me suffer because of something that was essentially Lindy’s fault and possibly even partially his own since he hadn’t given her the gay sort of butterfly life she wanted. I told him there was nothing he could do and his reply was he’d think it over. I’d no idea what that meant until he made a confession in court.’
‘At that time, if your story is true, you must have known that confession to be false?’
‘That is so, my Lord.’
‘Why did you not say so?’
‘A drowning man clutches at straws. The prosecution case was so very much stronger than I had believed possible … I knew there was every chance I might be found guilty and I was very frightened. When I was offered an avenue of escape, I accepted it as quickly as I could.’
The judge’s voice became still harder in tone. ‘Whatever the truth, wherever it lies, your conduct has been infamous.’
‘A man falsely put in peril of being convicted of murder doesn’t stop to study the ethics of the matter, my Lord.’
The judge leaned back in his chair, folded his arms. ‘Mr Gorton, I find myself at something of a loss.’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘We have an acquitted man telling us he really was the guilty person.’
‘The jury, my Lord, may well … ’
‘The jury, Mr Gorton, will have, as always, the last say in the matter. It will be by their decision that we learn who is to be believed.’ He looked at the clock, then at the jury. ‘Members of the jury, at the beginning of this trial I warned you that you must divorce your minds from the previous case. Now, that former case is thrust upon your notice. Later on, when you retire, you will be faced with a task of judging this case and to do that you will be forced to consider the former one.’
Union rose. ‘My Lord, I must respectfully submit that the jury can only be asked to say whether Mark Cheesman is guilty beyond all reasonable doubt. They cannot be asked to express their opinion on a previous verdict of not guilty found for Mr Tetley.’
‘I did not say they should so be asked, Mr Union. I was merely stating what seems to me to be an incontrovertible truth, that certain aspects of Regina against Tetley have an immediate reference to this case. When Mr Tetley comes here and says he was guilty of some connection with the death of Mrs Cheesman — and for the moment I reluctantly put it no higher than that — the jury may, indeed must, take cognisance of the fact. That Mr Tetley was found not guilty merely bars further legal proceedings: it does not bar our accepting his present statement and commenting upon it.’ Somewhere outside a clock struck the hour with thin, wavering chimes. It made me remember Stuart’s description of the building shivering to the memories.
Mr Justice Parkins resumed his questioning of Stuart Tetley. ‘When Mark Cheesman was arrested after his false confession at your trial why did you not admit the truth?’
‘I was too bewildered by all that had happened.’
‘I suggest such bewilderment was not perpetual.’
‘Eventually, I went to see Mark. He asked me to wait until this trial before I said anything.’
‘For what reason?’
‘So that in the most public manner I could show there was nothing in the suggestion that Lindy and I had had an affair.’
‘I have seldom heard an admission of so monstrous a perverted use of so-called truth,’ snapped the judge angrily.
*
Mark entered the witness-box. He took the oath, gave the preliminary evidence, reached the day of his wife’s death.
‘On the Saturday after lunch Stuart and I went down to Settle Wood. I took up position at the join of the two arms and waited. I was there until Stuart joined me having, presumably, brought the wood down.’
‘Did you at any time leave your position?’ asked Union.
‘No.’
‘Had you any indication of Tetley’s leaving his task of beating?’
‘None.’
‘What happened next?’
‘Stuart took my place as the standing gun and I walked out in the field to the end of the northwest arm, brought the wood down with Apples. After that was done, we returned home and … and found the house filled with people.’
‘What was your immediate reaction when you learned the police believed your wife had been murdered?’
‘I thought they had gone mad.’
‘And when it was clear they had not?’
‘I was completely bewildered.’
‘What were your feelings with regard to Stuart Tetley when he was charged with the murder?’
‘I was more hopelessly bewildered than ever. After a bit, I pulled myself together, went to Stuar
t and learned from him the truth. I discovered what you’ve already heard — that Lindy had been partially, perhaps wholly, responsible for the tragedy. From that moment, I was obsessed with the need to do something to make up for what Lindy had done to Stuart. I decided that if the trial went heavily against Stuart, I’d admit it was I who was in the house at the time of Lindy’s death.’
‘Did you realise what would be the results of your false confession?’
‘I knew I’d almost certainly be charged. With Lindy dead, I didn’t give a damn what happened to me.’
‘Had you no fear that you might not only be charged with the murder but also be found guilty of it?’
‘I knew Stuart would never allow that.’ Union sat down. He stared at the brief spread out before him and sighed heavily.
Gorton cross-examined. ‘You admit that the confession you made in court was a lie?’
‘Yes.’
‘A confession made on oath?’
‘Yes.’
‘Clearly, an oath means absolutely nothing to you.’
‘That’s not so.’
‘Not so, Mr Cheesman?’ Gorton’s voice was ironic. ‘Do you desire to tell the court that you regard with seriousness the taking of it?’
‘Can’t you understand that there can be a time so extraordinary an oath can become of little importance?’
‘Are you inviting the jury to believe that sometimes you tell the truth and sometimes you don’t, but that whenever you lie you’re completely justified?’
‘I don’t know how to express myself sufficiently clearly.’
‘I can well understand your difficulty.’
‘I’m certain what I did was right.’
‘You are not troubled by the fact you’ve committed perjury?’
‘I’m glad I was able to help Stuart.’
‘Mr Cheesman, since it is clear from your boastful admission that evidence previously given under oath was a lie, can you now suggest any reason why you should not be lying here, today?’
‘There’s no need to. Stuart isn’t in danger.’
‘Then it hasn’t yet occurred to you that you are?’
‘I didn’t kill Lindy. She was my wife.’
‘Husbands have been known to murder their wives.’
‘She wasn’t murdered — it was a terrible accident.’
‘That is your version: not the police’s.’
‘It’s not mine. I only know what happened second-hand.’
‘I beg your pardon, Mr Cheesman, and thank you for correcting me and underlining the fact that you’re relying on the evidence of a man who has been shown to lie on oath as readily as you.’
‘Wouldn’t you have done as he had?’
‘I hope I could find a better way of suggesting the innocence I protested.’ Gorton paced twice up and down the clear space on either side of him which was gained by raising some of the seats. ‘Mr Cheesman, so that I may offer you every chance … Have you any other suggestion you would like to put to the jury — no matter how weak — which would explain to them why they should try to believe a single word you say?’
*
Mr Justice Parkins folded his large red hands together and rested them on the desk. He turned his large red face towards the jury. ‘Members of the jury, your task is not an easy one. You are here to try the prisoner, Mark Cheesman, for the murder of his wife: a task which counsel for the prosecution in his opening address described as twofold but which now appears to be threefold. First, you have to decide whether the deceased was murdered or whether, perhaps, this is a case of manslaughter. In this connection you must remember that, as Mr Union so forcibly pointed out to you, it is conceivable you may regard the death as a purely accidental one. On these points I shall address you later on when I shall direct your attention most strongly to certain facts. Secondly, you have to decide whether you believe the accused or Stuart Tetley, whether you believe them both, whether you believe neither. Thirdly, you have to decide whether the accused is guilty of the death of his wife.
‘Members of the jury, it is for you and you alone to decide how far you believe the accused. I direct you on law, you decide on fact. If, in what I am now about to say, you gather I am suggesting certain facts to be true and certain other facts to be untrue, you are at perfect liberty to take no notice whatsoever of my words.
‘When do you believe a man? When you know a man has lied in the past, are you then ready to believe him merely because he says he is now telling the truth? One lie, members of the jury, does not make a liar, but I suggest that, putting the matter as charitably as possible, it means that what such a man says must be treated with great reserve. With what greater reserve then, must you view the evidence of a witness who admits to having lied not once, not twice, but countless times, so as to fabricate an entire story? … Can motive alter a lie? The most it can do is explain it and if that explanation satisfies then one can, with some slight show of logic, believe that when the motive is removed then it is conceivable the liar has no further inclination to lie.
‘Can you believe in the motive that has been suggested to us as the cause for the perjury, the perjuries, we know to have been committed? Two persons have been guilty of perjury on their own admission, one of whom, the prisoner, originally said he was in the house at the time of his wife’s death but who, in court today, has said he wasn’t. In both these admitted perjuries, the motive offered might be summarised by saying that the person concerned was desperate to help his friend because of the latter’s relationship with the deceased. Members of the jury, ponder this motive, discuss it, decide whether you consider it to be feasible, whether you can reasonably think that friendship and a guilty moral sense because of a relationship with the deceased would twice force men to place themselves in peril of being found guilty … and do not forget that on each occasion the interruption was greatly to the advantage of the accused. Suppose you believe this possible, then remark how you are attributing to the accused and Tetley a most martial and acute sense of moral philosophy, yet when Tetley, with a desire to save his friend and suffer what he believed he deserved, was on the point of attaining his professed aim of suffering, he allowed the prisoner to make what he now admits to have been a false confession. Does that point to moral highmindedness?’
Union rose. ‘My Lord, it is with great regret that I venture to interrupt your Lordship’s summing-up, but I would ask you to make certain the jury understand they are not here to judge Mr Tetley.’
‘They are here to believe, or disbelieve, the evidence they have heard in this court and so say whether the prisoner is guilty of the murder with which he is charged: to carry out their duty they must be certain how they are to treat Mr Tetley’s evidence.’
‘Quite so, my Lord, but with very great respect, it sounded as though you were inviting them to sit judgement on Mr Tetley.’
‘I think, Mr Union, my words could not have been so misunderstood.’
Union sat down.
The judge continued. ‘While you are considering these matters, members of the jury, consider one more very significant fact. Consider that if a man is charged with murder and is found not guilty he can never again be charged with that murder no matter what he says or does. That is the English law and very rightly so: but like everything else, there is room for abuse. Suppose two men commit a murder wish to escape penalty for their heinous crime … ’
Union hurriedly stood up. ‘My Lord, with respect, I really must protest. The accused is charged with murder, not conspiracy. Mr Tetley was charged with murder and found not guilty. Surely, it is not within the province of this court to suggest there has been a murderous conspiracy when it needs two to conspire and one of those two has been found not guilty of the murder?’
‘I think I may suggest a hypothetical case to the jury if I so desire, Mr Union?’
‘My Lord, a hypothetical case can be so very similar to an actual one that it ceases to be hypothetical.’
‘I intend to discuss th
e matter fully, Mr Union, since I believe it to be of very great concern. I may be wrong, in which case, should the verdict go against the prisoner, there will undoubtedly be an appeal on this point. In the meantime, I would ask you to allow me to continue my summing-up uninterrupted.’
Union bowed stiffly, sat down.
The judge continued speaking.
*
The sun was near to setting and its light came low through one window. The dock was picked out in orange light and above it the drifting dust seemed to be playing a violent game of tag.
The courtroom was in a state of undress. A few of the public had had to leave for home. Those who remained talked, sneezed, coughed. The dock was empty. Spenser was the only counsel present and he was reading the sporting page of the Evening News. Two rows in front of him sat Union’s and his instructing solicitor. The latter stared vacantly into space and sucked the end of a gold pencil. The reporters’ box was empty, the occupants were outside smoking, telephoning, talking. The clerk had removed his wig and thus showed to the world the extent of his baldness.
I looked at the clock. Poor old Pears. Any minute now she would almost certainly have to flood the kitchen and nothing so horrified or embarrassed her as that.
I decided I wanted a cigarette, stood up, walked past Beryl Bishop after I’d said a few quick words to her. Her clothes were not the same as those she had worn at the first trial but they were equally bizarre. She looked like an immoral cross between a Silkie and a Melanistic Mutant. I came to the gangway, passed the witness-box, reached the door. The policeman standing there opened it for me.
As I stood in the corridor outside, I lit a cigarette. Pope saw me and came across. ‘They’ve been out over ninety minutes now … What the ’ell’s keeping ’em?’
‘Obviously, they can’t agree.’
‘Can’t do what? Twelve ’alf-baked morons couldn’t take more ’n a minute to come to a unanimous decision. I tell you … ’
He had no chance. The nearest door into the courtroom opened and a policeman looked out. ‘They’re coming back in.’
I dropped my cigarette to the ground, stamped it out, joined the rush. For a moment the door was jammed but the policeman soon good-naturedly cleared it and we entered the courtroom in a steady flow.
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