by C. P. Snow
The two women came up into the dock, their faces, beyond the lawyers, on a level with ours. Cora stared straight at me, without a sign of recognition. As she turned quarter-face to her left, listening to Kitty, she seemed like a painting I had once seen in the Uffizi, with a visage stormy, troubled, handsome (later I was puzzled to discover that the painting was, of all things, Lorenzo di Credi’s Venus). Martin, who had not seen either of them before, sat forward, tense. Kitty was saying something, eyes sharp and flickering. At the end she gave a quick, surreptitious, involuntary smile. Her skin appeared to have darkened, not become paler, through imprisonment, and now she looked older than her partner.
Through the door just beside our box, the procession entered. As he finished his bow to the jury, beaming, affable, the judge gave me an appraising glance.
The first part of the morning was routine: so much routine that there was a sense of let-down in the court, but Bosanquet was as undeterred as a batsman playing himself in for his second hundred. Questions from the judge: placid answers from Bosanquet, this was a matter of “filling in some pieces”. So there was evidence leading to the weekend of September 20–22. Identification of Cora in the village. A good deal of car and transport evidence. Proof that the story of a bus back to the town, late on the Sunday night, was a fabrication. Sighting of the car near Markers Copse on the same Sunday night. Sighting of the car, close to the cottage, early the following morning. Examination of the car (this was the first appearance of the forensic scientists). Blood on the floor, close to the back seat. Category of blood.
Martin, like Margaret, had not attended a criminal trial before. He wasn’t prepared for the patches of doldrums, the pauses for the judge to catch up with his longhand, the flatness of facts, or even the sheer numbers of the witnesses who came and went, names, addresses, occupations, units in the lonely crowd, just as we to them were units too. (How many people did one know? Intimately? A hundred, if one was lucky. Slightly? Perhaps ten thousand, if one had lived a busy life.) The witnesses came and went: so had the students before the university court the year before, most of us expecting never to see them again. There, but only by chance, I had been wrong: it hadn’t been my last sight of the Patemans. So that, as I looked back, that ridiculous set-piece appeal not only loomed stiffer and more formal than this present trial, but also took on a significance, a kind of predictive ominousness, that it hadn’t in the slightest degree possessed when I was sitting through it.
Already half past twelve. The court stirred. The prosecution was coming to the discovery of the body. Archibald Rose began to examine Mr Coe, the huntsman. The evidence was, of course, a matter of form, since no one could contest it: but it took some effort to drag it out. Mr Coe didn’t appear at all like the romantic picture of an open-air worker: his face was pallid, his hair jet black, his cheeks sunken. In addition, he was one of those witnesses who, when told to speak up, find it – just as my least favourite student had done – as impossible as a tone-deaf person asked to sing a tune. Archibald Rose had a fine resonant performer’s voice: in a cheerful reproving tone he kept saying – “You’re not to speak to me, you must speak to my lord and the jury.” Mr Coe looked lugubriously across to the jury box, raised his volume for a sentence, and then let his chin descend into his chest. My place was within touching distance of the jury, and though I had sharp ears I was missing one word in two. The judge broke in: he was a hunting man, and, though Coe didn’t become more audible, he nodded his head once or twice less sombrely, as though sensible men were talking about sensible things. It was a famous pack, the judge was saying, one of the best packs in the shires, wasn’t it? The judge had never seen or heard of hounds behaving as those two had done that morning, had Mr Coe? If they hadn’t been so cussed, would Mr Coe have thought of returning to the spot?
Coe gave a happy smile when told that he could leave the box, so happy that others smiled in response.
Exhibit. Policeman holding up a small plastic bag, testifying that within were the clothes found on the body. There was also a polythene wrapper, which, for some reason not explained, had been used to cover the boy’s head. The bag was opened: not many had attention to spare for the sight of bits of clothing; all round, as though there never had been any other and as though it would last for ever, was the charnel smell.
“Please remove that,” said the judge. “And we will wait a moment before the next witness.”
The next witness had to be taken care of, for it was Eric Mawby’s mother. She should have given evidence the previous afternoon, but – so the Deputy Sheriff’s assistant, sitting at his desk in our box, told us as we waited, the smell still in our throats – she had not been well enough to attend. However, when she did step into the box, she was erect, and her voice was firm. She was a tall woman, with a high-nosed, proud, imperious face. As the judge asked after her health and told her she would not be questioned for long, she replied like one who enjoyed having attention paid to her.
Yes, Eric always went to play in the summer and autumn before his father came home for his tea (tea in that home must have meant a substantial meal). He always went to the recreation ground, which was a good safe place. Yes, he was always expected back by a quarter to seven. Yes, he was a good obedient boy, he’d never been more than a few minutes late. But that Friday night when he didn’t return– Enquiries. The police.
Bosanquet was asking her as few questions as he could manage: but he had to say: “On October 9, did the police tell you that a boy’s body had been found?”
“Yes, they did.”
“Did they ask you to identify the body?”
“They did.”
“It was your son’s body, Mrs Mawby?”
“It was Eric.” Her head was thrown back, her tone was not so much piteous, or even angry, as commanding.
“And the clothes – they were his clothes?”
“Yes, they were his things.”
Bosanquet thanked her, and finished. Defence counsel shook their heads. The judge thanked her, congratulated her on her courage, and gave her his sympathy. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, taking pity from no one, proud to act as though she were used to courts.
On the way out down the corridor – the court rose after her evidence – Martin was saying that our mother would have behaved something like that. As soon as we reached the entrance hall, Archibald Rose, the junior prosecution counsel, approached us, looking boyish now that he had taken off his wig. “Hallo, I was watching out for you.” He introduced himself; he was the nephew of my old chief Hector Rose. He said that Clive Bosanquet and he wondered if we would like to lunch with them.
In Rose’s car we drove into the centre of the town, talking about acquaintances. All four of us had been drilled in the compact English professional world, where, if you didn’t know someone, you at least knew someone else who did.
Sitting in the restaurant, the lawyers studied the menu. They had been working hard, they were hungry. Bosanquet allowed himself one drink. Close to, his expression was sadder and more authoritative than it seemed in court.
“What do you think of all this?” he said across the table, meaning the case.
I shook my head.
“If you’d stayed at the bar, you’d have done this sort of job, you know.”
“Do you all get used to it?” asked Martin with hard sympathy.
“Do you imagine anyone ever gets quite used to something like this?” Bosanquet was as direct as we were. Despite his comfortable senatorial frame, there was not much padding about him. Young Rose, whose spirits were less heavy, tried to talk of another case. Bosanquet spooned away at a plate of soup.
He looked up.
“I’ve had about enough of it,” he said.
He went on: “I’m afraid I’ve got to bring it all out. I warn you, this afternoon isn’t going to be pleasant.”
A week before, he told us, he had thought that they could “smother some of the horrors”. They weren’t good for anyone to hear. But �
�� he had to go on.
“Look here,” I interrupted, “I’ve been puzzled all along. What are the other side expecting?”
At that, Bosanquet and Rose glanced at each other, and Bosanquet suddenly got away from his revulsion and began to talk like a man at his ease. This was professional, this was clean. Neither of them could understand it. Something had gone wrong. The case was proved to the last inch. The defence counsel knew it, of course. Their only line was to make the best deal they could about the women’s mental states (“We shall go for them there, anyway,” said Archibald Rose). Ted Benskin was a first-rate lawyer. Bosanquet was certain that was how he wanted to plead. But something had gone wrong.
“I shan’t be surprised if they don’t cut their losses any moment now.” (That is, accept the prosecution’s case and make their plea.) “I tell you, no one will be better pleased than me. As it is, I’ve got to plod on through all this filth.”
He gave a sweet, irritated smile.
“And old Jumbo doesn’t make it any easier. I wish he wouldn’t try to run my case for me.”
“Old Jumbo” was Mr Justice Fane. This too was professional, this was clean – in a different compartment from blood, cruelty, the smell of death. Just as Mansel was intent upon his professional problems while I, in a different compartment, was speculating about going blind. Bosanquet was happier now. Everyone loved old Jumbo, he was saying. He had been kind to Bosanquet himself all through his career. But there was no doubt about it, he hadn’t much of a lawyer’s sympathy with a well-built case.
Bosanquet was assessing the old judge like a man who, in the nearish future, might become a judge himself. It would be a good end to his career: and, unlike Mr Justice Fane, he had no private means. As with a writer or an actor, he wasn’t secure from illness or old age. The barrister’s life had altered since my time, they told me. How much had I made in my first year? Under a hundred pounds. Nowadays one would make a decent income, getting on for two thousand. Rose said that he had done so himself. But he appeared to have some money – which surprised me, for his uncle had none, and his father was a suffragan bishop. Anyway, Rose had acquired a house in the country when he joined the circuit. He was inviting us all there, including the defence lawyers, in a couple of nights’ time.
Martin, lacking my nostalgic interest in legal careers, put in a question. He said, getting back to a preoccupation of his own: “Have you any idea which of those two was the prime mover?”
Bosanquet said, once more clouded: “No, we don’t know.”
“I suppose it might have been the butch,” said Rose.
“We don’t know,” said Bosanquet. He said it in a subdued tone, but with authority. “There are plenty of things about this case that we don’t know.” He addressed Martin, who might not have realised how much information police and lawyers possessed, but couldn’t prove or use: “But we do know two things. They had planned this, or something like this, literally for months beforehand. And they were going to kill, right from the beginning. That was the real point all along.”
Martin nodded.
“It’s ten past two,” said Bosanquet, without changing his tone. “We ought to be going.” He added, as old Herbert Getliffe used to say before going into court, like a captain calling to his team in the dressing-room: “All aboard.”
The afternoon began quietly. In the dock Kitty was sitting, pen in hand, but for the moment not writing. The first witness, examined by Rose, was an experimental officer from one of the Midland forensic laboratories, an unassertive friendly man, his manner similar to those of the meteorologists who predicted the weather before the television news. Yes, he had examined samples of blood after Eric Mawby’s body was discovered. These came from another laboratory (“We shall have a deposition to establish,” said Archibald Rose, more emphatic than his senior, “that these samples were taken from relics of dried blood still remaining on his head wounds and also on his clothes.”) It had been possible to determine the blood group. The blood group was the same as that already given in evidence for specimens of blood found on the floor and walls of Rose Cottage.
Another experimental officer. Blood found on a piece of clothing, a woman’s nylon blouse not completely burnt, in the garden of Rose Cottage. Identical blood group.
Deposition about taking samples of blood from K M Pateman, C H P Ross. Another witness, from another laboratory, tested these samples (at this stage, the scientific tests seemed mysteriously ramified). Neither belonged to the same group as that of the other specimens.
All muted, abstract as a chart of last year’s trade returns, except for Rose’s ringing voice.
A new witness mounted into the box, and Bosanquet stood up himself. Laurence McQuillin. Home Office pathologist. His arms were folded, he was short, sturdy, unvivacious as a Buddha. He was practised at giving evidence, and he also enjoyed exposition: so that, though he was extremely positive, people did not react against him, but wanted to listen. Bosanquet must have examined him before, and carefully let him give an answer about the problems presented by a body buried for three weeks. “In some matters,” said McQuillin, “there is an area of doubt. I shall indicate to my lord and the jury where the conclusions have to be tentative.”
“But you have reached some definite conclusions?”
“I have.”
One definite conclusion was that the boy’s body showed two types of injury. The first type was wounds which could not have caused death and which had, with reasonable certainty, been inflicted some considerable time before death. These wounds included lacerations on the back, buttocks, and thighs. The exact number could not be decided. Well over twenty. There were also cuts on the breast and groin. A number of burns on the upper arms and shoulders. Not less than ten. Marks on the ankles and wrists.
“What were these wounds inflicted with?”
“There must have been different instruments. The lacerations on the back and buttocks could have been caused by a stick. If so, it must have been used with severe force.”
“And the others?”
“The cuts would have needed a sharp instrument. A knife could have been used. Or scissors.”
“The burns?”
“I cannot be certain. They are quite small in area. Perhaps a lighted cigarette end, but that is only a speculation.”
The marks on the ankles and wrists were minor. They were consistent with the child’s arms and legs having been tied, but that also was a speculation.
“None of these injuries had any connection with the victim’s death?”
“None at all.”
McQuillin added to his answer: they would have caused extreme pain, but a healthy child, or a healthy adult for that matter, would have recovered physically in a comparatively short time.
“How do you reach your conclusion that they were incurred a considerable period before death?”
There were two reasons, McQuillin said. One was simple and didn’t require technical explanation. Blood, in considerable quantity, had been found on the outside of the boy’s clothes. This had come from the head wounds. Almost none had seeped through to the inside of his shirt and shorts. On the other hand, some of the body wounds, not all, but many of the lacerations as well as the cuts, had resulted in the effusion of blood. There was no trace of this blood on the inside of his clothes. He had been killed when he was fully dressed. Thus he must have received the body wounds some time before: possibly, and in fact probably, over a period of hours: presumably while he was naked.
The second reason was technical – McQuillin described the physiology of flesh wounds, and their rate of healing. If the body had been discovered sooner, he could have been precise about the relative time of the head and body wounds. As it was, all indications pointed in the same direction, that there were hours between them.
“There is no other explanation for those body wounds than the one you have given?”
“I see no other explanation except systematic torture.”
McQuillin had
not raised his voice. The judge, leaning forward, spoke even more softly.
“I think it is better for us, Doctor McQuillin, if you restrict yourself to your scientific findings.”
“I am sorry, my lord,” said McQuillin.
“I understand,” said the judge.
The head injuries – these had been the cause of death? He was killed, said McQuillin, by multiple head injuries, multiple fractures of the skull. There had been seven blows, and possibly more. Any one of several blows would have been sufficient to cause death. One group of five had been delivered by something like a heavy poker or an iron bar. The others, by a solid obtuse weighted surface, such as the anterior wooden portion of an axe handle. Yes, the bleeding would have been copious. “Nothing bleeds so copiously as the scalp,” McQuillin added. “There must also, with such wounds, have been a discharge of brain tissue. And fragments of bone thrown out, though these have not been found. The vault of the skull showed a number of gaps.”
The blows had been delivered from in front (here McQuillin beckoned a policeman, like a lecturer carried away by his subject and needing to illustrate it), or at least the first one had been. The head had been held back by the hair – like this – possibly not by the person delivering the blow. The remainder of the blows could have followed when the body had sunk to a kneeling or recumbent position–
Benskin interrupted. “This doctor in my submission is going beyond the evidence of a medical expert.”
The judge said: “Mr Benskin, I think I agree with you. Doctor, you have told us your conclusions about the cause of death? You are quite certain about them?”
“I am quite certain, my lord.”
“Then I hope we might leave it there, Mr Bosanquet.”
Bosanquet stood, thinking, and said: “I am content.”
Both defence counsel cross-examined. They were sharp and edgy about the doctor’s reconstructions. Neither of them was free from the miasma which had during his evidence settled on the court. It was a miasma which both rotted the nerves and at the same time held them stretched. Glances at the dock were furtive. The doctor had been imagining how the blows had been struck. Creeping glances at the two women. They knew whether he was right.