Now his whole outlook was transformed. It seemed that it had not been an impersonal natural justice that had removed his enemy and allowed him to die peacefully in his bed. Not so. He had been murdered in cold-blood and what made this ending particularly sweet to Ramsay was that it seemed likely that he had brought it on himself.
He turned for his text to Ecclesiastes. ‘He that diggeth a pit shall fall into it; and whoso breaketh an hedge, a serpent shall bite him.’ For Ramsay, Mullen had taken on the role of the angel with the fiery sword, the minister of ultimate justice.
Finding it impossible to bring him back to his own country to a felon’s death, he had struck down Katanga where he stood.
His parishioners were astonished at their rector’s exultation. “Looks like he’s backed a long odds winner,” said the rector’s warden, himself a keen betting man.
On Monday morning, the car which brought Mullen from the police station to the Mansion House had started through back streets and it was only when it emerged into the open space in front of the Royal Exchange that he glimpsed the head of the crowd. They had been turned down Walbrook by the police. None of them had, now, any hope of getting into court, but it seemed that they were prepared to put up with hours of discomfort merely to catch a glimpse of the man all the papers were talking about.
There were a few scattered shouts and boos, but no real hostile demonstration as he was hurried up the steep front steps and into the building.
Once he was inside Mullen, who had started out in a sour temper from his night in the cell, found himself subtly flattered and mollified by the dignity of his surroundings: the white panelled walls, the enormous central light, the tall windows, the stamped leather chairs and benches. So different from the sordid functionalism of Bow Street.
To the blue-uniformed attendant who had shown him where to stand he said, “This is more like my idea of a court.”
“It is, in fact, a court,” said the attendant politely, “but it is not our custom to refer to it as such. We prefer to call it the Justice Room. And as you can see from the mace having been placed under the sword—” he indicated the dais with three chairs on it—”that indicates that the Lord Mayor will be sitting.”
“You mean he’s going to take the case himself?”
“Certainly, sir. He makes a point of sitting whenever an exceptional matter is involved.”
Mullen grunted. This, too, seemed to accord with his importance and dignity. The place was packed. The gallery had seats for fifteen. Thirty members of the public had been squeezed in before the closure was applied. The press were even less fortunate. There was hardly any room for them at all.
Looking down from the dock Mullen could see Martin Bull and behind him Roger Sherman. Roger had already spent half an hour with him at Wood Street and had explained to him the decision which had been reached at his early morning discussion with Counsel, a decision with which he was in full agreement.
“All rise,” said the clerk as the Lord Mayor appeared and took his place, flanked by his two senior aldermen. As soon as he was seated, Dudley Lashmar got up. He said, “I appear for the Crown, sir. My learned friend, Mr. Bull, appears for the defence.”
(The Attorney General’s opinion of Lashmar had not improved, but as Eileen Wyvil had said, “It’s only a formality. Let him do it. Even Dudley can’t make a mess of it.”)
The Lord Mayor identified the two Counsel, nodded towards them and said, “Yes, Mr. Lashmar.”
“The accused is charged with the murder of Jack Katanga on November 1st by the administration of weedkiller containing paraquat and other noxious substances. I have only one application to make at the moment. That is to ask for an adjournment.”
“I assume that the defence concurs.”
Martin Bull said, “If you please, my Lord Mayor. It was, of course, anticipated that such an application would be made and the defence has no objection to it. However, there is one further matter.”
“Yes, Mr. Bull.”
“At the moment when the accused was arrested he was on bail for a previous offence. A charge which is, I understand, to be dropped. My application is for an extension of bail to this charge—”
Lashmar was already on his feet.
“I hardly think my learned friend can be serious. Surely he is able to distinguish between a charge of shop-lifting and a charge of murder.”
Noting that Bull had not resumed his seat the Lord Mayor said, “I deprecate Counsel interrupting each other as though they were squabbling round the dinner-table. Yes, Mr. Bull.”
“I was about to explain, my Lord, that although the present charge is a serious one there are, I would submit, special circumstances which ought to be taken note of. The first is that, as a member of the South African military police, the accused is being subjected by the press to a campaign of vilification. If he is to defend himself properly it is essential that he should be at liberty – subject to the usual restraints which you will no doubt impose. Secondly I should say that his own government has so much confidence in him that it has expressed, through its Ambassador, its willingness to stand surety on his behalf for five hundred thousand pounds; or for more, should more be thought appropriate.”
Lashmar, who had resumed his seat unwillingly, was up again almost before Bull had finished speaking. He said, “I totally fail to see what the attitude of the newspapers towards the accused has to do with the grant of bail. His advisers will have full access to him to help him prepare his defence. Nor am I impressed by the sum of money which the South African government is prepared to put down in order to rescue him.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand that, Mr. Lashmar,” said the Lord Mayor. “Are you implying that the South African government would put down this money to secure Mr. Mullen’s temporary liberty and would then connive at his removal from this country?”
Exactly what you were implying, thought Roger. Interesting to see how you play that one.
Lashmar, already irritated, elected to say, in his most schoolmasterly tone, “I’m sorry that you should read anything so improbable into what I had hoped was a simple statement of fact. The object of sureties for bail is that people should be forced to pledge sums of money which they could not easily afford to lose. Surely it is obvious that five hundred thousand pounds or a million pounds means nothing to one of the wealthiest governments in the world.”
He had succeeded in side-stepping the question, but at the cost of annoying the Lord Mayor, who did not appreciate being told that he had overlooked something obvious. At the same time he realised that he was being asked to take an unusual step. There was a pregnant silence while he considered the matter.
Then he said, “I am not, although Mr. Lashmar appears to think so, unaware of the facts behind this case. I also appreciate his argument – it might, I think, have been put forward with a little more respect to the Court – that the object of bail is to ask for sums of money that the sureties concerned would be loath to lose. It appears that the accused is unpopular in this country. I propose, therefore, to adjourn this application for forty-eight hours. If, in that time, two members of the public are prepared to come forward and be bound in the sum of – shall we say five thousand pounds each – I shall feel inclined to grant bail, subject to conditions. The accused’s passport will be impounded and he will be obliged to report to the police station at Wood Street every evening. If there is nothing more, Mr. Bull—”
Martin bowed respectfully. Lashmar gave a petulant jerk of his head and the next accused, a motorist who had foolishly parked his car in the forecourt of the Guildhall, forced his way into the Court. Most of the people who were there seemed anxious only to get out.
The Attorney General said, “What the hell did that blazing ass have to go and put the Lord Mayor’s back up for?”
“I think,” said Eileen Wyvil, “that the real mistake was having him arrested by the City Police. If the application had been heard at Bow Street, the idea of bail would have been thrown o
ut straightaway.”
“Would it be any use if you turned up on Wednesday and tried to soothe the old boy down?”
“I’ll try if you want me to. But I don’t think it’ll do much good. I gather he’s an obstinate man.”
“He’s not a lawyer, for God’s sake. He’s a successful fishmonger. It’s high time that Court was abolished. It’s an anachronism.”
“Of course, there are still the two private sureties to find. There won’t be any rush for that job.”
“A couple of cranks will turn up.”
“Ready to put down five thousand pounds each?”
“Well, perhaps not.”
On the Tuesday afternoon a middle-aged lady, in well-cut tweeds and wearing the sort of hat which must have graced many a village fete, called in at The General Stores in Pipe Street. She seemed to be interested in garden appliances. Mr. Luck, who was alone at the time, was forced to rummage in his back room for rakes, trowels and spades. Finally she selected an electric hedge trimmer. The little shop was so badly lit that she had to take it out into the street to examine it properly. Mr. Luck followed her and was framed in the doorway for some seconds. Whilst this was going on a man standing back from an open window in the building opposite took two quick photographs. The lighting was not ideal, but it was an excellent camera and he thought that they would be what was wanted.
“I understand, Mr. Bull,” said the Lord Mayor, “that two members of the public have come forward in support of an application by the accused for bail.”
“That is so, my Lord.”
“And both of them have deposited the required security with the Court.”
“That is correct.”
“And they are both here?”
“They are here and ready to answer any questions you may have for them. Mr. Glaister, will you stand up?”
“Full name and address, please.”
“Gilbert Charles Glaister of 14 Mountview Court, Highgate.”
“Now, Mr. Glaister. The first question is this. Have you any connection with the accused?”
“No connection at all, sir.”
“Then your reason for taking this step?”
“I am the editor and proprietor of the Highside Times and Journal.” He said this slowly so that the reporters could get it down correctly. “Like all newspaper men I have been following both this case and the previous charge against Mullen very closely. I do not wish to make accusations of prejudice, but it seems to me that public opinion was being heavily weighted against the accused. That being so, he ought to have every facility to defend himself.”
“And in your view,” said the Lord Mayor, “the accused would be better able to conduct his defence if he were given his liberty. A somewhat restricted liberty, I should add.”
“That is correct, sir.”
“Thank you. You may sit down. Next, Mr. Bull—”
The Reverend Simon Ramsay was already on his feet. An arresting figure, dressed from head to foot in black, topped by a mop of snowy-white hair. When he had given his name and his address the Lord Mayor put the same question to him. Simon Ramsay said, “I have no connection with the accused and have never met him before.”
Eileen Wyvil looked up from her notes with a frown.
“And your reasons for taking this step?”
“They are the same as those very adequately expressed to you by Mr. Glaister.”
“Very well, then—” said the Lord Mayor and then noticed that Eileen Wyvil was on her feet.
“Before you finally decide on this matter,” she said, in the voice which one of her colleagues had described as being equal parts of honey and vinegar, “might I, on behalf of the Crown, ask this surety to clarify one point?”
“Only if you think it is relevant.”
“It arises directly from his reply that he had no connection with the accused. Which may, literally, be true. I would like to change the question somewhat and ask him whether he had any connection with the man Karl Mullen is accused of murdering.”
“Yes. He may answer that.”
Ramsay said, placidly, “He was my son-in-law.”
“And in spite of this fact, you are prepared to assist Mullen.”
“I did not allow it to weigh with me in any way in my desire to see that justice was done.”
Eileen Wyvil said, “Thank you.” And to the Lord Mayor, “I felt that the position should be made clear.”
The Lord Mayor said, “The object of questioning sureties for bail is to make certain that they have no ulterior motive for assisting the accused. In this case, it seems to me that the opposite is the case. In spite of feelings which might have been supposed to lead him in a contrary direction, the Reverend Simon Ramsay has put the interests of justice above other more personal considerations. Very well, subject to the conditions which I mentioned on Monday, I am prepared to grant bail in this case.”
Roger had a taxi standing by in Mansion House Lane and as soon as the necessary formalities had been completed he installed Mullen in it and they were driven back to Dr. Johnson’s Buildings. Martin Bull, who had gone ahead, was waiting for them in de Morgan’s room.
“No trouble, I hope,” said de Morgan.
“Some mindless yapping from the crowd,” said Mullen. The dignity of the Court and the success of the bail application had gone far to restore his self-possess”Yes. I suppose we must expect exhibitions of that sort. Let me update you. An inquest on Katanga has taken place and, as expected, has been adjourned. The next step will be committal proceedings. The prosecution will produce its witnesses, who can be examined and cross-examined in the usual way. It will then be for the Magistrate to decide whether a prima facie case has been established, so that the matter can go forward to the Central Criminal Court at the Old Bailey. You understand me, Mr. Mullen?”
“Sounds to me like taking two bites at the same cherry.”
“In a way. But it has advantages for us. We can see the whole case we have to meet. Also, recently, a useful alternative procedure has been introduced. Instead of appearing in person, the witnesses’ statements are served on us in written form. I propose, on your behalf, to agree to that.”
“We’re in your hands,” grunted Mullen. It was clear that he was in some awe of the ex-Attorney General.
“Very well. Let us look now at our side of the case. First, I’d like you to tell us how and why you went to see Katanga on that Thursday morning.”
This dive into the heart of the matter produced a visible tension in Mullen. After a pause he said, “I had heard some news from Pretoria which I felt it was my duty to pass on to Katanga.”
“Yes?”
“I was informed that his mother and his two sisters had been taken into custody and that charges were pending.”
“Charges of what?”
“Of conspiring against the State.”
“And you felt that he could help them?”
“He could certainly have helped them. For instance, if he had been prepared to drop the absurd and unfounded evidence which he seemed prepared to give against me, that would naturally have been accepted as willingness to co-operate with our government.”
De Morgan considered this statement carefully. The chop-logic in it was clear to all of them, but instead of pursuing it he said, “Let me go back a little. Exactly how did you set up this meeting?”
“By telephone. From Yule’s office. Before going all the way to Putney, I naturally needed to be certain that Katanga would be there.”
“Of course. And you were told—?”
“That the Katangas were both out. He had some business to transact with his publishers – about a second or third edition of his precious book, no doubt – and that he would be back at some time between eleven thirty and twelve.”
“And his wife?”
“I had no interest in her movements. But I think that the girl – Anna – did tell me that she was out shopping and would be back at about the same time.”
“Between
eleven thirty and twelve.”
“Yes.”
“You are sure about that?”
“I’m sure that’s what she said about Katanga. I think she said it about his wife. I didn’t listen carefully to that. I had nothing to discuss with her.”
“Nothing?”
Mullen looked up sharply. He said, “What are you getting at?”
“Surely your news concerned her mother-in-law and two sisters-in-law.”
“Oh, that! I wouldn’t discuss that sort of thing with a woman.”
De Morgan thought about this for a moment. He was visualising what Mullen said as answers to questions in cross-examination. None of it made him very happy. He said, “And you’re quite firm on the time of Katanga’s return?”
“Do you want me to say it again?”
“I’m pressing you because you are certain to be pressed on it by the Attorney General. You realise, I hope, that the half-hour between eleven thirty and twelve is the most important thirty minutes in the whole case.”
Mullen said nothing. Roger thought, He’s not a fool. Surely he can see it.
De Morgan said, “I am assuming, of course, that it was the only time you were alone in the room. When your discussion finished, did you go out ahead of Katanga, or did he lead the way to the front door?”
“We went out together. Why does it matter? What’s it all about?”
Instead of answering him, de Morgan extracted one of the documents from the folder in front of him. He said, “We have had a word with our own medical adviser. Dr. Thoroughgood of the London Laboratory. We cannot put him fully in the picture until we see their medical evidence, but it is already clear that the suggestion will be that someone had been able to add an irritant liquid to the olive oil in which the bougie was standing.”
“Bougie?”
“You don’t know, then, about Katanga’s previous accident and the treatment he was having? There was a lot about it in one of the Sunday papers.”
“Sunday papers were not delivered to my cell at Wood Street.”
“No. Of course not. I’d better explain then.”
The Queen v. Karl Mullen Page 20