A Matter for the Jury

by Peter Murphy

  ‘I see,’ she replied. ‘And how am I to picture the Spirit of Trials Yet to Come? With a long black gown covering his entire body and long, thin fingers to point at you?’

  ‘No. In fact, he has a perfectly normal suit and tie, quite normal fingers, and a Welsh accent,’ Ben replied.

  She laughed again. ‘Ah, now I understand. What has Gareth done to earn the title?’

  ‘He’s prosecuting me in my child molestation case,’ he replied. ‘I can’t believe it. I’ve just had a conference, I go to his room expecting the usual sage advice and he drops that bombshell.’

  ‘Good experience for you,’ she said. ‘And a chance to show off everything you learned during pupillage.’

  ‘Oh, yes? Just you wait till you have a case against Aubrey in the High Court.’

  ‘He will be a sitting duck,’ she smiled. ‘I know all his tricks. He will be defenceless.’

  He returned the smile.

  ‘Somehow I can’t quite picture Aubrey as a sitting duck,’ he replied, ‘any more than I can Gareth.’

  ‘How does the case look?’ she asked.

  ‘Difficult, to say the least. I’m not sure he will be a very good witness, and his explanation for the lies of this young choir boy is not the most compelling.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s guilty?’ she suggested. ‘God forbid a client of Ben Schroeder should be guilty, but you never know.’

  ‘No, you don’t’, he agreed. ‘Well, there’s nothing I can do about it. At least with Gareth I know I will have a fair prosecutor.’

  ‘True.’ She began to push her chair back from her desk. ‘Do you still want a natter?’

  Ben looked blank.

  ‘Before your conference, you said there was something you wanted to talk to me about.’

  He closed his eyes. ‘Oh, yes. This business with Gareth distracted me. Yes, I would like a word, but it would be better somewhere other than Chambers, and I can see you are busy…’

  He had been looking at the large stack of papers on Harriet’s desk.

  ‘Oh, this? No, that’s a long-term project, an advice I must get around to one of these days. I just have an application in the West London County Court tomorrow morning and I got that under control in the library. So I am as free as a bird. Do you want to take me for a drink?’

  ‘A very good idea,’ Ben replied. ‘Where shall we go?’

  ‘Why don’t you take me to the Club?’ she suggested mischievously, rising to her feet.

  ‘Ha-ha, very funny,’ he replied. ‘What about the Dev?’

  ‘The Dev it is.’

  It was after six. They walked unhurriedly down the stairs and into the chilly air of Middle Temple Lane. The Temple had fallen almost silent for the evening, and they made their way up the Lane, crossing diagonally in front of Middle Temple Hall, past the fountain, to the little gate which led out of the Temple and almost directly into the Devereux. The Devereux was a favourite resort of the Bar, mainly because of its convenient location, but it was also an old house, named after the turbulent Devereux family, and a convivial one. It was often very busy when the barristers were ready to abandon Chambers for the night, but on this evening it was quiet. They found a table in a corner to the right of the door, and Ben bought a pint of bitter for himself and a gin and tonic for Harriet. He allowed a couple of minutes to pass in silence and she did not try to rush him.

  ‘I want to know why I was taken on in Chambers,’ he said eventually.

  She took a long sip of her gin and tonic.

  ‘You mean, apart from the fact that you are a first-rate advocate who had a spectacular result in his first jury trial?’ she replied.

  ‘Yes, apart from that.’

  ‘Ben…’

  ‘Look, Harriet, you know that Chambers works on a blackball system. All it takes is one vote against you in the Chambers meeting. We both know that Anthony Norris opposed me because I’m Jewish. He didn’t even try to hide it.’

  ‘That was before you won a rape case at the Old Bailey for his favourite solicitor while he was away skiing in Switzerland,’ she replied.

  ‘Even so…’

  ‘No, Ben. Look, I agree with you that it’s tempting to blame all the ills of the world on Anthony Norris. I’m pretty sure he was against me at one stage, just because I’m a woman. But in all fairness, he did seem to change towards you after the Bailey case. I heard him singing your praises to Aubrey one day, telling him the story of how you stood up to Judge Weston when he wouldn’t let you cross-examine, and how the jury took it upon themselves to stop the case at half time. If he wanted to blackball you, he could have done it, but it would have been difficult for anyone to oppose you after that. I thought I was the one who would be moving on.’

  ‘But you’re a great lawyer,’ Ben replied, ‘and…’

  ‘And my father is the Master of the Cambridge college where Bernard Wesley and Aubrey both went, and because of his connections I have my own supply of work, and…’

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ Ben insisted. ‘I’m sure you remember, there was a lot of talk about Chambers not expanding too quickly. Peter and Roger were just getting started, and they were not sure there was room for two.’

  ‘That was always a silly excuse,’ Harriet interrupted. ‘With the explosion of legal aid cases, Chambers was too small to benefit from all the work that was becoming available. Even with the two of us, we still need to expand to take full advantage of it.’

  ‘I know that’s what Gareth thought,’ Ben said. ‘For a long time he was telling me that everyone would see sense and realise that they needed both of us.’

  ‘And apparently, they did,’ she pointed out. She laughed. ‘Ben, we shared a room for a year as pupils, and I think I have come to know you pretty well. I know you worry a lot because you are not sure your background is right for the Bar, and I don’t blame you at all. With people like Anthony Norris around, I couldn’t blame you – or me, for that matter – for being paranoid. But it’s not paranoia. It is real. There is prejudice against both of us at the Bar. We have to recognise that. But, Ben, the point is, it’s up to us to break it down, to change it, and we have made a good start. And now, we have to keep going, not look back. You know, that’s what Arthur Creighton would have said, and he would be proud of us.’

  Ben sat back in his chair.

  ‘God, I miss that man,’ he said quietly.

  ‘So do I,’ she replied.

  ‘Life dealt him so many blows, didn’t it?’ Ben continued. ‘He lost several years of practice because of the War. He got wounded twice, which meant he was always in pain. His practice never picked up again. It must have been galling for him to watch Bernard climbing to dizzying heights while he was running around the county courts and the magistrates’ courts, often doing stuff a pupil could have done; then his wife getting run over, getting killed. Then, finally, not being able to pay his clerk’s fees and his Chambers rent. And even with all that, I never once heard him complain about how unfairly life had treated him.’

  ‘Neither did I.’

  ‘Not once. And since he wasn’t busy, he chose to spend his time with the pupils. Giving us hours of his time, making himself available at all times of the day or night. And he was such a source of wisdom, you know. He had been around so long, he knew all the judges, and he could sum up a case perfectly in a minute. But he never boasted about it. He always made you feel that you would have come to exactly the same conclusion yourself if you had just had another minute or two to think about it. You could ask him anything without feeling stupid – which is not always the case with pupil-masters.’

  ‘Very true,’ she said. She finished her drink, and they both fell silent for some time.

  ‘Same again?’ he asked.

  ‘Please.’

  As he returned from the bar, she pulled herself up in her chair. They touched thei
r glasses without speaking. She smiled.

  ‘You earned your place, Ben. Why can’t it be as simple as that? You proved your worth, and they recognised it, if only belatedly. Can’t you accept that and move on?’

  He was silent for some time.

  ‘I hope I can,’ he replied.

  ‘It is also possible that the ghost of Arthur Creighton was looking down benevolently and putting in a good word for you,’ she added, smiling. ‘For us both.’

  He returned the smile.

  ‘If there are such things as ghosts, that’s exactly what he was doing,’ he said.

  9

  29 January

  Detective Superintendent Stanley Arnold gingerly lowered his large frame into the hard wooden chair. It was not the most comfortable of circumstances. It wasn’t like his home station at Cambridge, where he had room to move and people to help him. These country police stations were all the same, he reflected. Far too small, no real space to work, lucky if you had a phone and a serviceable typewriter most of the time. A decent cup of tea, if you were really lucky, and that was it. There were usually only one or two officers attached. Hopefully one would be a sergeant, or at least a constable with a good few years of experience – like Willis, a good copper if ever Arnold had seen one, a copper who kept his eyes open and knew how to look after a crime scene until help arrived. You couldn’t always rely on local officers for that. Arnold had lost a good few cases over the years because of some inexperienced young officer trampling all over the evidence without even realising it. Why didn’t Willis have his sergeant’s stripes by now? He must remember to mention it to the Assistant Chief Constable. Still, what on earth did they find to keep themselves busy at St Ives? Look for stolen bicycles, arrest the odd shoplifter, deal with a few vagrants and drunks, get the ladder out and bring the odd cat down from a tree? The occasional serious burglary would offer some real excitement, but chances were they would call for help from Huntingdon or Cambridge even for that. And this case was going to be a headache – a big headache.

  After so many years in the job, Arnold was no longer easily surprised, but he had been surprised by the violence of the assault on Frank Gilliam. It suggested an onset of blind rage, of an uncontrolled frenzy. The pathologist’s report would take some time. Whatever the murder weapon was, it was large and heavy, and it had not been left at the scene. Probably metal, the pathologist said, but he would need to check the wounds before he could be sure. Gilliam had died during the early hours of Sunday morning, probably not long after midnight. A more accurate time would also be available in due course. Frank’s parents said he was a popular boy who made friends easily; they could not even understand the idea that someone could hate him enough to do him such violence. But whether because of hate or some other cause, someone had.

  Jennifer Doyce was unconscious and still in a critical condition at Addenbrookes Hospital in Cambridge. She had almost certainly had sexual intercourse. The bruising and lacerations around her vaginal area suggested a violent act of rape by the assailant, though it was not clear whether she had also had sex with Frank. Jennifer’s mother said that there had been no boyfriend before Frank; there was no one who wished her harm, no one she knew of. But that was not all she said. Even in the midst of her overpowering grief and lack of comprehension, she wanted to know what had happened to Jennifer’s gold cross and chain. It was valuable and it had belonged to Jennifer’s grandmother. Arnold wanted to know, too. Willis did not remember seeing it on her when she was taken to hospital. At Arnold’s request, he had searched the Rosemary D again, without result.

  That was another headache. He had talked to the prosecuting solicitor. It was a fair inference that the assailant had taken it. If so, the killing of Frank Gilliam might have been in the course or furtherance of theft. That made his murder a capital crime. If Jennifer Doyce died, that would make two capital murders. When the killer was caught, he would hang. The Director of Public Prosecutions would be taking an interest in the case. That fact would not escape the attention of his Chief Constable, whose first instinct would be to call in Scotland Yard. Arnold would try to talk him out of it unless they ran into a serious forensic problem that could not be solved locally. Too many cooks often spoiled the broth, in his experience. The only real reason for the Chief Constable to call in the Yard was to cover his own back if something went wrong. Arnold had no intention of allowing that to happen. And, after all, he was a detective superintendent. Who would the Yard send to tell him what to do?

  Promotion to detective superintendent had come as a surprise to Stanley Arnold. He had fully expected to retire as a detective inspector, the rank he had held until about three years earlier. Not bad, for an officer who had worked his way painstakingly up through the ranks. There had been none of this nonsense about graduate entrant schemes back then. In his day, you pounded the beat and learned your craft the hard way before they trusted you to put on a suit and tie and investigate serious crimes. Even then, promotion was usually slow. But in the early hours of a frigid December morning in 1960, Arnold had been called out to look into the death of a Cambridge undergraduate called William Bosworth, who had been thrown into the river Cam by a group of his fellow students who had got drunk at their annual rugby club dinner. Arnold had quickly arrested the young men concerned. It had not been difficult. Several had been arrested near the scene for being drunk and disorderly, which had led to the discovery of Bosworth’s body. The rest, including the apparent ring-leader, Clive Overton, had returned to college to sleep it off. Arnold remembered Clive Overton in particular. His father, Miles Overton QC, was a leading figure at the Bar. Arnold had been the victim of his powers of cross-examination earlier in his career. Arnold had these young men all ready to appear before the magistrates at 10 o’clock that same morning. As far as he was concerned, they were all bang to rights for manslaughter, if not murder.

  But at that point, something very odd had happened. The Master of the college had appeared at court; Arnold had been instructed to limit the charge to assault, occasioning actual bodily harm; the accused had been granted bail; and within a day or two he had been told, politely but firmly, by someone very high up, that the matter would go no further. Not long after that, Arnold was promoted to the rank of detective superintendent, a rank for which there was no obvious vacancy at the time. His regular detective sergeant, Ted Phillips, who had been at his side on that fateful evening, was promoted to detective inspector. Since then, they had continued to work together, much as before. Arnold had heard that, after spending some time in America, Clive Overton was on his way to becoming a barrister. Perhaps he would cross-examine Arnold one day. All very strange, but there it was. Nothing to be done but to keep working the cases. And this one was going to take some work.

  Arnold’s reflections were interrupted by Phillips and Willis, who had just returned to the station together. Arnold looked up inquiringly.

  ‘Nothing so far, sir,’ Phillips said. ‘Forensic are working on the boat. It’s going to take them some time. We’ve got two frogmen in the water looking for a murder weapon, just in case the murderer chucked it overboard. It’s not going to be easy to find, even assuming it’s there. It might have drifted downstream a bit, and the water is very murky. We have some of our lads searching the immediate area around the boat. If that doesn’t turn something up we may have to start working the whole fen. We will need some serious local help with that.’

  ‘Anything on Jennifer Doyce?’

  ‘No. She’s still unconscious, and nobody’s putting money on her waking up again.’

  ‘You haven’t seen Hawthorne, have you, sir?’ Willis asked.

  ‘No.’

  Willis shook his head. ‘That’s young coppers for you these days. Never here when you need them.’

  Arnold smiled.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about where we go from here’ he said. ‘I want leaflets asking for information distributed in every town
and village within a radius of 20 miles. The local stations can help us with that while we continue inquiries here’.

  ‘You want to limit it to 20 miles? You reckon he’s definitely local, do you, sir?’ Phillips asked. He sounded surprised.

  Arnold’s mind took him back to the Rosemary D. The extraordinary frenzied level of violence, the horrific injuries, the quantity of blood at the scene, the sheer brutality of it all. This had been about the boat and about those who visited her. He nodded.

  ‘I’m certain of it.’ He turned to Willis. ‘We need to speak to as many of the young couples who were using the boat as possible. Do you have any information at all about them?’

  ‘No names. We know it’s been going on for a while. We’ve been up there and banged on the door once or twice, to discourage it. But we don’t have the manpower to do more than that. Besides, trespass is a civil matter, sir, as you know. We wouldn’t go in unless we had information that an offence was being committed, and even then I would have to get a warrant. I could make a few inquiries, put the word around.’ He paused. ‘Of course, sir, they may be a bit nervous about coming forward… in the circumstances, you understand.’

  ‘Put the word out that no one is going to get into trouble, and that any statements given can be kept private,’ Arnold suggested. ‘All we are interested in is the information. I want to know whether they may have noticed anything suspicious – anyone lurking on or around the tow path while they were walking to or from the boat – even if it didn’t seem significant at the time. Any description might help.’

  ‘Right you are, sir,’ Willis replied.

  ‘We can’t rule out the possibility that the assailant used the boat himself,’ Phillips pointed out. ‘He might have got to know about the boat through going there. Perhaps that’s what gave him the idea.’