Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett’s cross-examination of Victor Caswell filled the afternoon. It was a delicate and demanding encounter for both men. Neither could afford to seem discourteous, far less to lose their temper. Sir Henry knew he would earn a judicial rebuke – and a black mark in the jury’s minds – if he pressed too hard. Therefore, he played a cautious hand.
Once more we reviewed the afternoon and evening of 9 September, almost, it seemed, minute by minute. Whatever was doubtful or ambiguous Sir Henry dwelt on, whatever was damaging to his client he defied Victor to emphasize. It was a skilful and well-judged performance. Yet Victor could not be persuaded to say that he had known his niece and sister-in-law might call. Nor could he be shifted from his contention that he had found Consuela alone in the drawing-room with the tea-trolley. The only issue on which he gave any ground was that of his marriage. He agreed that it had not ‘for some years’ been as happy as he had implied at the hearing. Gleasure’s assessment was probably correct. He and Consuela had grown apart as they had grown older. He even disclosed that they had slept in separate rooms since the birth of their daughter. But infidelity on his part he strenuously denied. The letters, he maintained, were completely without foundation, probably written by somebody with a grudge against him. Several candidates came to mind, but he did not wish to name them. The judge assured him that his discretion was admirable. And the judge’s intervention left Sir Henry no option but to concur and move on. Had Victor ever contemplated divorce in view of his admitted incompatibility with Consuela? If so, her religion would have been an insurmountable obstacle. All could see where such a question might lead. It was therefore no surprise when Victor insisted that he had not. Sir Henry concluded by asking him if, after sixteen years of marriage, he genuinely believed his wife was capable of murdering him. But, even then, Victor did not stumble. ‘No, sir, I don’t. But, in the light of all the evidence, what else am I to think?’ It was an impressive note to end on.
And it brought down the curtain, we shortly discovered, on the Crown’s case. Tomorrow, Sir Henry will commence his presentation of the defence. He will have his work cut out.
Saturday 19 January 1924
This morning, Consuela’s resolution faltered. The mask of expressionlessness she had worn for five days slipped and revealed the face of one who sees and knows the peril of her position. It happened as soon as she entered the dock, when, instead of staring unwaveringly ahead as the proceedings commenced, she glanced up at the public gallery. What or who she saw there I do not know. Perhaps it was just the cluster of human eagerness contained there, the greed to learn her fate, that penetrated her defences for the first time. At all events, the change in her was dreadful and moving to behold. She sat with head bowed where before she had held herself erect. There were twitches and tremors about her face. She dabbed frequently at her lips with a handkerchief and fiddled with the bow of her blouse. The years fell away and a frightened girl emerged into the spotlight of our collective gaze.
If Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett was worried by the change in his client’s demeanour, he hid the fact well as he made his opening speech. The evidence against Mrs Caswell, he said, whilst it might seem compelling, was wholly circumstantial, and the jury would have ample opportunity to assess her character and personality, which, he felt sure they would agree, were not those of a murderess. Such was to be the burden of his defence. There was to be no forensic complexity, no legal trickery, no legerdemain. It was to be all or nothing.
Without further ado, Sir Henry called his first witness: Hermione Caswell. Geoff had prepared me for this, but there was a gasp from others in the court who realized that Victor Caswell’s sister was about to testify in his wife’s defence. Talbot curled his lip. Mr Justice Stillingfleet manipulated his jaw as if some gristly morsel of the judicial breakfast had lodged between his molars. And Victor Caswell, I suddenly realized, was not in court.
Hermione, his elder by ten years, is a keen-eyed spinster of sixty-five, spirited, alert, perceptive and given, it might be suspected, to mischief-making. Since she had not been among those present at Clouds Frome on 9 September, she could, of course, contribute nothing to our understanding of what had taken place there. What she could do, with Sir Henry’s encouragement, was disrupt certain notions that had imperceptibly crept into the jury’s minds. Her brother was no paragon, her sister-in-law no violent compound of foreign blood and pathological jealousy. She had made a study of Consuela over the years – because, she explained, she was the most exotic and interesting of her relatives – and the dominant characteristic she had noted in her was gentleness. She would not swat a fly, far less poison an innocent young girl. If – which Hermione did not believe – Consuela had poisoned the sugar, she would have intervened to prevent Rosemary consuming any.
Talbot declined to cross-examine Hermione. He did so arrogantly, almost flippantly, hoping, I suppose, to defuse her testimony simply by ignoring it. So it was that Hermione departed with the slightly disappointed air of one who has anticipated an enjoyable scrap but been denied at the last moment. The effect she had had on the Court was difficult to assess. At best, it seems to me, she may reinforce other defence evidence. But she cannot achieve anything in its absence.
Sir Henry’s next witness was Cathel Simpson, Consuela’s maid. She is a pretty, sullen, rather cross-grained creature, and of all the staff at Clouds Frome patently the least fitted by nature to the status of a domestic servant. She lost no time in pointing out that Victor had dismissed her from her post only a few days after Consuela’s arrest. This she seemed to attribute to her loyalty to her mistress. She had been Consuela’s maid for four years and expressed her complete satisfaction with how she had been treated by her in that time. The most significant statement she made was that she was certain neither the arsenic nor the letters had been in the drawer where they were found earlier than the day of the search. She had removed and replaced articles of underclothing at daily intervals and would have noticed anything hidden amongst them.
Talbot’s cross-examination was cunning. He provoked Simpson into expanding on her resentment of her dismissal, then forced her to admit she had no grounds for such resentment. Victor had given her a good reference and recommended her to a reputable family in Birmingham. Since he knew his wife would be absent for a prolonged period, what else was he to do, given that he had no need of a lady’s maid himself? These exchanges, during which Simpson became impertinent enough to earn a dressing-down from the judge, effectively wiped out the impact of her testimony concerning the contents of the underwear drawer. They left the jury with the impression of an envious and unreliable girl quite capable of lying in order to settle a score with a former employer.
Sir Henry did his best to retrieve the situation with his third witness: Herbert Jenkins, Hereford postmaster. Mr Jenkins was asked to scrutinize exhibits B, C and D – the anonymous letters – and give his opinion as to the authenticity of the postmarks. He said they conformed in every particular with franking practices in the Hereford sorting office, but he expressed surprise at how consistent they were. He explained that he would expect a random sample of postmarks to display differences in ink density, clarity and positioning. This was because the stamping pad was refilled with ink only when postmarks became noticeably faint and because some operatives took greater pains than others to avoid blurring or skewing the mark. It was remarkable, therefore, that three letters posted at weekly intervals seemed to have received exactly the same treatment.
A Saturday afternoon was not perhaps the ideal time for a jury to absorb the significance of this testimony. To underline his point, however, Sir Henry recalled Danby, the butler, who explained how post was received and distributed at Clouds Frome. He or Noyce would most probably have delivered such letters to Mrs Caswell. Danby, for his part, could not remember handling any of the three, but he emphasized that he was not in the habit of studying letters addressed to members of the family. Noyce, when he was also recalled, said the same.
There was much in this to console the defence, but it was consolation of a fragile kind. At the weekend adjournment, Sir Henry indicated that his next and final witness would be the accused herself. Once she has entered the box, the jury will surely find it difficult to concentrate on anything else, especially the finer points of Hereford postmarks. What has always seemed probable now seems certain. Consuela will be saved or condemned by her own efforts.
I returned to Hyde Park Gardens Mews that evening in despondent mood. Nothing Imry had told me, then or on previous evenings, had given me much cause for optimism. As the crucial phase of the trial drew near, I felt more helpless than ever to influence its outcome. For as long as Imry had been able to assure me that Consuela’s nerve was intact, there had been some frail basis for hope. Now, even that was in question.
The night was cold and moonless, a steely rain falling at intervals as I made my way through the park. I had endured a week of Consuela’s ordeal and had experienced its every pang at one remove. My spirits had soared with each fleeting promise of salvation and slumped with each reverse. Of late, the reverses had seemed to come thick and fast, too numerous and severe for Sir Henry to deflect. Small wonder, then, that as I crossed Bayswater Road and entered the mews, all I could think of was the grinding succession of adverse and unavailing testimonies.
The mews was empty and silent, stray slashes of rain visible in the haloes of the gas-lamps. I reached the door of number forty-nine and fumbled beneath my raincoat for the key. As I did so, I was aware of a movement in the darkness behind me, a detachment of one shadow from the rest. Too preoccupied to feel any alarm, I turned towards it. And found Rodrigo towering at my shoulder, bareheaded and black-clad, his breath steaming in the chill damp air. Instinctively, I shrank back, but too late to evade his grasp. He closed one hand about my wrist like a manacle.
‘Staddon!’ There was the same quality of stress for both syllables that I remembered, the same hissed note of menace and loathing.
‘What … What do you want?’
‘You, Staddon. I want you. We must talk. Now.’ He glanced around. ‘You live alone here?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘We will go in.’ His hold tightened. ‘Agora memo!’ He was standing between me and the nearest lamp. In my face trepidation must have been clear to see. In his there was only the shadowy hint of a smile. ‘You have nothing to fear, Staddon. I will not hurt you.’
‘All right.’ I lifted his hand from my wrist, gazed at him for a moment to satisfy myself that there really was nothing to fear, then nodded and turned away to open the door.
He followed me up the narrow stairs to the sitting-room and stood on the threshold while I went ahead to switch on the lamps. When he finally stepped forward into the light, I nearly gasped with shock at the change three weeks had wrought in him. There was more grey in his face and hair, less flesh on his enormous frame. His eyes were red, sunk in sockets so dark that they could have been bruised, his shoulders hunched as if to support for a little longer yet the crumbling roof of his world.
‘I have been to the court today,’ he said wearily.
‘You were at the Old Bailey?’
‘Yes. I paid a … um marinheiro … ten pounds for his place in the line.’
‘Consuela was upset today. Was that because she saw you?’
‘How do you know she was upset? You were not there.’
‘A friend of mine was, though. He’s been every day. He said she was disturbed by something or someone in the public gallery.’
Rodrigo nodded. ‘It was me. She sent a message asking me not to go. Did she send you a message also?’
‘Yes.’
He nodded again. ‘I could not stay away. It was too much to ask. Even for Consuelinha. But now … I wish I had not gone.’
‘Why?’
‘Because—’ Suddenly, he clapped his hand to his brow and squeezed his eyes shut. Then, as if a wave of acute physical pain had been held at bay, he slowly lowered his hand to his side and looked at me again. ‘They will hang her, Staddon. They will hang my sister.’
‘Not necessarily. There’s still—’
‘They will hang her, I say!’ Some portion of the old strength and certainty was restored to his voice. ‘Do not treat me like a child! I was there. I saw. I heard. And I know that they mean to hang her. That is why I am here. That is the only reason why I do not—’ Venom flashed into his gaze, then was snuffed out. ‘Listen to me, Staddon. Listen to me carefully. The trial will be over soon. They will sentence Consuela to death. Nothing will stop them. Unless …’
‘Unless what?’
‘You must help me. You must help me to save her.’ He was speaking almost through gritted teeth, speaking words at which his massive pride rebelled. But, for once, his pride was not his master.
‘I would do anything. If there was anything I could do.’
‘Why did you burn the plans of Clouds Frome?’
‘For the reason you gave yourself.’ Our differences seemed drowned now, our recriminations swamped by one compelling allegiance. ‘To help me forget Consuela.’
‘I need them, Staddon. I need the plans that are in your head.’
‘Why?’
‘To learn who tried to kill Victor Caswell. Somebody tried to murder him. Someone who will let them hang Consuela. We must find out who they are. Now. Imediatamente. We cannot delay.’
‘I don’t understand. Why would it help to know the layout of Clouds Frome?’
‘Because there is a safe hidden in one of the rooms. Behind a false wall, in a … an alcove, blocked up, so that it does not seem to be there. And, in it, there is a safe. And in the safe, um testamento.’
‘A will?’
‘Yes. Victor’s. The will that names his heir.’
‘Surely Consuela—’
‘No! Not Consuela. Not even Jacinta. Another. Somebody else. Do you not understand? It has to be somebody else. It is they who tried to kill him. That is why they tried to kill him. For his money. His land. A sua fortuna. He made a will after Jacinta was born, a new will. Why would he do that?’
‘Well, to provide for his daughter, I suppo—’
‘Your daughter, Staddon! That is what I think. Jacinta is your child, not Victor’s. That is why he hates Consuela. That is why Jacinta means nothing to him. That is why he made the will and hid it and told nobody what was in it.’
I turned away. ‘Jacinta may be my daughter. I cannot—’
Suddenly, he was at my shoulder, swinging me round to face him. ‘I do not care any more! Once I would have killed you for this. Now Consuela matters more. Only her. Not you. Only what you can do to help me save her.’
‘But what can I do?’
‘Find where the safe is hidden.’
‘How do you know there is a safe? How do you know there’s a will, for that—’
‘I bribed his valet! Gleasure. Um viboro traiçoeiro. I almost pity Victor for having such a man close to him. Yet I rejoice that he does. From Gleasure I learned that Victor made a new will in nineteen twelve, one month after Jacinta’s birth. Consuela knew nothing about it. Gleasure was told that she must never know about it. Victor’s … tabeliao … Quarton, he drew it up and took it to Clouds Frome for Victor to sign. Quarton and Gleasure were the witnesses.’
‘Does Gleasure know what’s in it?’
‘No. There was a … paper … over the will when he signed it as a witness, so that he could not read it. Why would that be, I ask, unless I am right? It was put in the safe. And there it has been ever since.’
‘Well, perhaps so, but I may as well tell you now that I installed no false walls at Clouds Frome. There was—’
‘Not you, Staddon! It was done after you finished the house. Gleasure told me that Victor had the safe put in and the wall built to hide it the winter after they went to live at Clouds Frome. That is why I need you. To tell me which wall is the false one. To me, there is no difference. But, to you, o arquitecto …’
&n
bsp; He was right. I – and only I – would be able to identify the alteration at once. He had wanted the plans in order to deduce its location for himself. In their absence, he had been driven at last to ask for my help. ‘What exactly are you suggesting we do, Rodrigo?’
‘Find the safe. Open it. Look at the will. Then we will know who the murderer is.’
‘But how? I’m no cracksman. Nor, I suspect, are you.’
‘Cracksman? What is this?’
‘I mean that neither of us is capable of opening a safe without knowing the combination. Locating it would be pointless unless—’
‘I have the combination!’ He smiled. ‘You understand now? If you can find it, I can open it. Gleasure told me how.’
‘Gleasure? How would he know? Surely Victor wouldn’t entrust—’
‘Victor thought he was dying! He thought the poison was going to kill him! So, that night, ninth of September, he told Gleasure how to work out the combination. He wanted to be sure the safe could be opened after his death. He wanted to be sure the will would be found. He was … delirante … raving. By the morning, he had forgotten even saying it. But Gleasure remembered. For a little money, he was willing to tell me.’
‘He’s taking a big risk. If Victor ever finds out he’s betrayed him …’
‘No, no. Gleasure thinks there is no risk at all. He thinks I cannot find the safe. He would not tell me where it is, though I offered him much money, very much money. He thinks the combination will be no use to me. That is why he was willing to sell it. But he is wrong. Together, Staddon, we can prove he is wrong.’
‘How? Victor’s turned Clouds Frome into a fortress. If you’ve seen what he’s done, you’ll know there’s no way we can get inside.’
‘I have seen. The walls. The locks. The dog. I have seen them all.’
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