The End Of Solomon Grundy (15 page)

“I’m not enjoying it.” But the colour in Jennifer’s cheeks belied her words.

Back in Court, all the actors were in their places. Mr Justice Crumble’s fingers shook more than usual as he picked up his pencil – how had they managed to cut the charcoal-grilled steak he had eaten, avoided spilling the Guinness he had drunk? Eustace Hardy, an arm swept out in casual abandonment, rested, a greyhound out of the slips. Jennifer, a composed respectable schoolgirl, stood in the witness box. Magnus Newton got up, gave a preliminary cough, twitched at his gown.

Trial Transcript – 3

JENNIFER LOIS PAGET,
cross-examined by Mr Newton.

MR NEWTON “Are you proud of your powers of observation, Miss Paget?”

“Not particularly.”

“I ask because you seem to have shown them in this case. You were very much on the spot at the time things happened, weren’t you?”

“I just happened to be there, that’s all.”

“So you say. Take the evening of the party. You say you were in the lavatory. Did anyone see you when you came out?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You must have come down the stairs when all the commotion was over, but nobody noticed.”

“No. I stayed there afterwards for – oh, perhaps a minute. Or more.”

“I see. But you’d really seen everything that mattered, hadn’t you? Did you tell anybody?”

“My mother and father.”

“Nobody else?”

“No.”

“You were discreet. Then we will pass on to the following evening, Saturday. You were on the spot again in the right place at the right time. Did it strike you that these two people you saw were behaving in an extraordinarily foolish way?”

“Not particularly.”

“Anybody could have seen them?”

“I suppose so.”

“But it just happened to be you. Did it occur to you that they could have gone into the house straight away, and not stood about in the open?”

“I didn’t think about it.”

“But that’s true, isn’t it? If Grundy had wanted to go and see Miss Gresham in that house, it would have been sensible to go straight to it, isn’t that so? And extremely foolish to stand about in the roadway embracing – and so near a street lamp too?”

THE JUDGE “The witness has told you what she saw, Mr Newton. I do not think she should be required to provide any explanation of it.”

MR NEWTON “As your lordship pleases. I will be plain with you, Miss Paget. I suggest that the whole of your evidence is the product of your highly romantic imagination.”

“That is quite untrue.”

“We shall see. You have done this kind of thing before, have you not?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You have a short memory. Do you remember that last year you produced at school anonymous letters that you said had been sent to you? Do you remember that, Miss Paget?”

“Yes.”

“And that you suggested that a particular girl had sent them? And that an investigation was made, with no result except the strong suspicion that you had written the letters yourself?”

“That’s not true. They never found – the one who sent them.”

“Let us cast back a little further. Do you remember an incident three years ago, when you were at another school, before you went to Malhearne? Do you remember that some money was missing, and you accused another girl of stealing it? Answer me, please.”

“I – yes.”

“And was the money found simply to have been mislaid?”

“Yes.”

“And was it suggested to your parents that it would be as well for you to leave, because of the feeling of other pupils against you?”

“No. No, that isn’t true.”

“Why did you leave, then?”

“I didn’t like it there. I wanted to go. I asked to leave.”

THE JUDGE “You will be calling evidence in support, Mr Newton?”

MR NEWTON “The headmistresses of the schools, my lord. Do you long for the limelight, Miss Paget?”

“No.”

“I am bound to suggest to you that the whole of your evidence is an invention.”

“No.”

“You have made it all up, have you not, to gain a little notoriety, to become for a short time an important person.”

“No. No, you shouldn’t say such things.”

“You never saw the scenes you describe, any more than you saw the girl steal the money at school, one is just as much an invention as the other.”

“No, I did see them.”

Re-examined by Mr Hardy.

MR.HARDY “Please don’t distress yourself, Miss Paget. I just want to ask you this. Forgetting these incidents at school which occurred some time ago and have nothing to do with this case, you are quite sure of what you saw on the night of the party, and the following night.”

“Yes.”

“Everything happened just as you said, and you are sure of the identification?”

“Yes.”
(end of transcript)

To understand the feeling of a trial, the impact of evidence upon a jury, it is necessary to have been present, as lawyers often tell us. The words are there on the printed page, but the emotion, the drama, the momentary sense of triumph or defeat, is missing. When Jennifer Paget, tear-stained and trembling, stepped down at last from the witness box, Eustace Hardy knew that he had lost the first round in the struggle to convict Grundy, and he knew too that the first round is often the most vital one, that the impression made on a jury’s mind at the beginning of a case may be very difficult to eradicate. He did not waste time in worrying about whether she had been telling the truth, or what inadequacies of staff work had failed to unearth the school incidents, but as he proceeded with the examination of Tony Kabanga, establishing his relationship with the dead girl, their love for each other, her agreement to the suggestion that they should get married, he was conscious that the case had got away to the worst possible start.

Magnus Newton was correspondingly pleased with himself. To Trapsell’s congratulations afterwards he replied modestly that it had been given to him on a plate, but still he hummed a little tune. “It was that friend of yours who did it,” he said to Trapsell.

“Weldon, yes. He’s a bit of a bore, but a good chap.” That evening Trapsell rang up Dick to thank him. The solicitor added that if Dick made any further discoveries or had any suggestions to make, he would be delighted to hear from him at any time.

Edgar and Rhoda drove their daughter home. Edgar maintained a flow of vituperation against Newton in particular and the unscrupulousness of defence counsel in general, almost all the way. When they got indoors his wife said, “That’s enough.”

“What?” He stared at her. “They rake up all this dirt out of the past, and make my girl cry, and I’m to say nothing about it?”

“It’s not that far past.” To Jennifer she said grimly, “You can go upstairs and change.”

The girl looked from one to the other of them and said in a high voice, “I did see them, I tell you, I did.”

“Of course you did, love,” her father said soothingly. He went across to the cocktail cabinet, poured two drinks.

“I want one,” Jennifer said. “I had one at lunch, didn’t I? I want one now.”

Edgar looked helplessly at his wife who said, “Upstairs.”

“Why? Why must I go upstairs? I’m seventeen, I’m not a child.”

“Upstairs.” When she had gone, shrieking and crying incoherently, Rhoda said, “I was afraid of this.”

“I don’t know what you mean. All that business about the money, I’d never heard about that.”

“We didn’t tell you. It was a secret between us, Jennifer and I. You knew about the letters.”

“It’s coming to something when a man’s wife and daughter keep secrets from him.” Edgar’s face was shifting, wobbling, as if he also were going to cry.

“Don’t be a fool.”

Feebly he said, “I, really, I just won’t be spoken to like that.”

She sat with thick legs placed apart like small tree trunks. “What you’d better be thinking about is the effect on business. People aren’t going to like it. It’s going to raise a lot of sympathy for Grundy.”

The movement to find further evidence to clear Solomon Grundy of the murder charge was already splitting The Dell into pro- and anti-Grundy camps. The leader of the Grundyites was of course Dick Weldon, who was inclined to take full credit for the information provided by Gloria which had been responsible for Jennifer’s discomfiture. Dick and Caroline called personally on almost every family in The Dell to ask them whether they knew anything that might help. “Any bit of information,” Dick said in his earnest way. “About Sol or about this chap Kabanga or about the girl – if anybody saw her talking to anyone else at some time, that kind of thing – anything at all that the police may have missed might help, if you see what I mean.”

And Dick talked at length about the iniquities of the identification parade, and the way in which Sol was being victimised. Most of the people they talked to were sympathetic, but nobody seemed to remember anything significant. Afterwards Dick and Caroline talked it over in their living-room. This was the sort of social experience they very much enjoyed, although they would not have put it in that way. Gloria was upstairs doing her prep. Cyprian sat, for once not watching television but reading. They drank Irish coffee.

“I’ll tell you something,” Dick said, pulling at his pipe. “Marion’s not been to see Sol. Not once.”

“She ought to come back. It looks bad for her to stay away.”

“Why don’t you try to arrange it?”

“Me?” Caroline was one of those women whose physical vivacity is so abundant that they find it impossible to sit down to read a book, and fidget if they are compelled to watch a film or a play right through. Now her eyes positively sparkled at the prospect of action.

“Do you really think—”

“Why not? After all, you’re a friend of hers. She must realise what people think about her staying away like this. She’s got to come back and face the music.” It is difficult for the utterer of a cliché to distinguish it from a profundity, and Dick rolled out this last phrase with satisfaction.

“Do you really think I should go down? Where is it her father lives, Hayward’s Heath?”

“‘Doesn’t belong to me, this Heath, you know’,” Dick mimicked. Caroline laughed encouragingly. “In the meantime I’ll make a few inquiries about friend Kabanga.”

They were interrupted by Cyprian saying “—off,” to the cat, Timmy, which was digging its claws into his knee.

“Cyprian. You are
not
to use that word.”

“Why not?”

“Because I say so.”

“Now, darling.” Dick’s voice took on a patiently reasonable tone, through which could be faintly heard a sort of whinnying annoyance. “I’ve explained before Cyprian, that the objection to bad language is that it is crudely anti-social. It may relieve your feelings—”

“It does.”

“But it’s disagreeable for others. This is a social custom, polite manners.”

“Not any more. I’ve heard girls say—”

“Not nice girls.” Caroline, more conventional than Dick, ignored his frown.

Cyprian shrugged. “I think it’s stupid. But all right.”

“Please don’t use bad language any more,” Caroline said.

“I won’t. Not when you’re around, anyway. I’ll tell you something.”

“What?” Caroline was nervous of some fresh enormity.

“That girl who was strangled. I’d seen her before. On television. You might get a lead out of that.”

Dick and Caroline looked at each other. Dick said, “It’s an idea.”

“She wasn’t raped, so it might have been a queer who did it,” Cyprian said. “I believe television’s full of queers.”

“I give up.” Caroline took the cups out to the kitchen.

Cyprian smiled happily at his father. “Did I say something wrong?”

The Weldons did not call on Jack Jellifer, because they had heard that he was a witness, but Caroline had called upon Peter Clements, who had told her with an air of offended dignity that he did not wish to be involved on either side. When she had gone, he said sheepishly to Rex, “A bit difficult. I didn’t like to tell her I was giving evidence.”

“Giving evidence?”

“You remember I told you I saw his car near Cridge Mews, the place where—”

“I know, of course, I know.”

Peter said falteringly, excusingly, “I was with Jack Jellifer. He saw it too.”

“You didn’t give evidence at the Magistrate’s Court.”

“I hadn’t made up my mind then.”

“Oh, really.” Rex walked out of the room. Peter watched him go, helplessly. Five minutes later Rex came down carrying his two suitcases. He came into the living room wearing his sheepskin, velvet-collared coat, went across to the telephone. Peter asked what he was doing.

“Calling a taxi. I’m moving out.” When he had put down the telephone Rex said, “We’re finished. We have been for a long time.”

“Because of Grundy?”

“Oh, he’s just part of it. Helping the rozzers, that’s something you don’t do in my book, you wouldn’t understand.” He stood with his hands in the pockets of the sheepskin coat, looking at his friend with contempt and curiosity.

“I mean, what will you do, where will you go?”

“I’ll manage. I’ve got friends.”

“Please don’t go. You don’t know what it – means to me.”

“For Christ’s sake don’t let’s make a performance out of it.” Rex gave his foxy smile. “As a matter of fact I should be careful if I were you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Just be careful, Peter boy, when you get up in that witness box.”

Shrilly Peter said, “Are you threatening me?”

“I’m not. I wouldn’t touch the police with a barge pole.” The taxi could be heard outside. Rex paused at the door. “But somebody else might. Think about it. So long. No hard feelings.” Then he had gone. Self-respect forbade Peter to watch the cases being put in the taxi, but he did lift the curtains in time to see the rear lights going away down the gravel path. He stood looking out into the night for several seconds, and when he turned to face the empty room his eyes were wet.

Trial, Second Day

Kabanga made upon the whole a good impression in his evidence in chief. Slight, neat, perhaps a little too well-dressed, he spoke of the dead girl with such evident sincerity, such an obvious sense of loss, that it seemed the jury must be impressed. He looked only once at the man in the dock, when he was speaking of the incident at the party, but then the look in his brown eyes was one of such dislike, almost hatred, that Newton raised his brows when he saw it. The most dramatic moment in his evidence came when Hardy asked him to say what had happened when they left the party.

“We went home, I mean to this house I have bought in The Dell. Sylvia was upset. I asked what had made this man attack her. She told me that he was somebody she had known a long time ago, and he had wanted her to – take up with him again. She refused and said she did not want any more to do with him. Then he attacked her, and she defended herself.”

“She told you that he had attacked her.”

“Yes.”

“And you believed her.”

“I did. She was very upset.”

On Saturday night, Kabanga said, he had attended the committee meeting, and then had driven back to London, where he had spent the night at one of his clubs, The Windswept. He had not seen Sylvia that evening.

The question of how a cross-examiner should treat a dead woman of dubious character is an uncertain one. By using kid gloves he may lose an opportunity of making valuable points, by attacking the dead who cannot answer back he runs a risk of outraging a jury’s sense of fair play. Newton had no doubt, however, that this was a risk he should be prepared to take. His manner throughout cross-examination was one of sustained hostility, verging on deliberate insult.

Trial transcript – 4

ANTHONY KABANGA,
cross-examined by Mr Newton.

MR NEWTON “You said you had known Sylvia Gresham for seven weeks, Mr Kabanga. How long had you known her when she became your mistress?”

“I think two weeks.”

“You think – you are not sure?”

“It was about that time.”

“I suggest to you that this was a casual affair, and that you both understood it as such.”

“That is not the case. We were in love.”

“Have you had other mistresses during your stay in this country.”

“Yes.”

“How many, would you say?”

“I am not sure.”

“Come now, you must have some idea. You have been here, what is it, almost five years? Have you had two mistresses, thirty, two hundred?”

“Perhaps six.”

“That is a round number. Suppose I said it was eight, would you contradict me?”

“Perhaps that might be so, but these were not like—”

“Just answer my question. Could it have been eight?”

“Yes, but these were not the same thing. They were just – nothing.”

“And this was true love. Is that what you are trying to tell the jury?”

“We were going to get married. That was why I bought a house.”

“Are you going to tell me that you regarded Sylvia Gresham as a pure young virgin?”

“No, but—”

“Just answer my questions, Mr Kabanga. You know of the pair of knickers that she was wearing when she was found, and what was written on them. Here they are. May they be passed round for the jury to look at, my lord.”

(Exhibit 19 was shown to the jury.)

MR NEWTON “Perhaps you gave them to her?”

“No, I did not. She bought them herself.”

“What did you think of them? Did they excite you?”

“I thought there was no harm in them.”

“You know that certain photographs were found in her flat? May these be passed to the jury also, my lord?”

(Exhibit 20 was shown to the jury.)

MR NEWTON “Perhaps you gave these to her – as a token of your love?”

(Witness did not reply)

THE JUDGE “Will you be good enough to rephrase the question, Mr Newton, in a form that is not offensive to the witness.”

MR NEWTON “Very well, my lord. Did you know that Sylvia Gresham had these photographs?”

“I have never seen them before. I do not believe that Sylvia would have—”

“We are not concerned with what you believe, only with the facts. I suggest to you that you know perfectly well that she was the kind of woman who took a new lover as casually as – as she bought a new pair of knickers, shall I say?”

“No. It is not true.”

“And that you knew she was a woman likely to distribute her favours among three or four men at the same time.”

“It is not so. Sylvia was not like that. She was not like that.”

(The witness appeared distressed.)

“By your own account you saw her only three or four nights a week. Have you any idea what she did on the other nights?”

“She was working.”

“That is what she told you. Now let us come to the evening of the party. When Sylvia Gresham told you that the prisoner had attacked her, by your account she said that she already knew him.”

“Yes, that is right.”

“And did you not then ask her how and when she knew him, under what circumstances they had met?”

“No. I thought this was not my business.”

“Not your business! And she was to be your wife – !”

(end of transcript)

The end of this savage cross-examination left Kabanga almost in tears. What had it achieved? It was difficult to know. Newton was satisfied with it, and so was Hardy, the one feeling that Sylvia Gresham had been shown conclusively to be little other than an amateur tart, the other believing that this aspect was not really important, and that the cross-examination had enlisted sympathy for her and for Kabanga.

Hardy was calling his evidence so as to trace Grundy’s movements throughout the day of the murder, with the object of building up a cumulative picture of a man driven to desperate action by his internal frustration and by the pressure of external events. The evidence of Theo Werner, supported by that of Mrs Langham and Miss Pringle, was therefore important to him. Theo, when he took the stand, was obviously nervous. Hardy established that he was giving evidence only with reluctance, and then launched into a long series of questions about the interview with Clacton, and Grundy’s extreme disappointment about the rejection of the strip cartoon. Mr Justice Crumble began to show signs of impatience. His thick red shaking fingers moved up to touch the great red ruin of a nose, explored the recesses of pendulous wrinkled ears, picked up and relinquished a pencil. At last he spoke, gently enough.

“What is the object of this part of your examination, Mr Hardy?”

“To show the prisoner’s state of mind on the day of the murder, my lord.”

“And do his feelings about this strip cartoon character, Guffy McTuffie, really carry your case forward?”

“I think so. If your lordship will permit me to develop the matter a little further, I think the jury will appreciate its relevance.”

“Very well, Mr Hardy.” Mr Justice Crumble gave up the struggle with a still-amiable sigh, and with such a fierce rubbing of his nose that it seemed likely to fall off.

Hardy moved on to the quarrel in the office. Werner said that there had been an argument between them about the reasons for the rejection of the strip cartoon. He had maintained that there was too much social comment, Grundy had said that the social comment was what gave the cartoon its flavour.

“What happened then?”

“Sol was angry.” Theo smiled nervously at his red-haired partner, who stared stonily back at him from the dock. “He took hold of me, I pulled away from him, and he caught my bow tie and tore it a little. Then I went out.”

“You were annoyed?”

“At the time, yes, very.”

“Did you say to Miss Pringle in the outer office that your tie was ruined?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“And now another point, Mr Werner.” Hardy leaned forward to emphasise it. “Do you sometimes exchange memoranda with the accused?”

“That is so, yes. If I am working at home, or he is, and we want to put forward some idea which, you know, has to go on paper.”

“How does he sign such memoranda? With his name or initials?”

“No. He just puts a little drawing of Guffy at the bottom.”

“That is, a drawing of your strip cartoon character, Guffy McTuffie?”

“Yes.”

Finally, Hardy took Theo through the conversation he had had with Grundy on the day of his attempted departure. It was perfectly true, Theo said, that he had suggested Grundy should take a holiday to let everything blow over. At the time Grundy had rejected the idea. He, Theo, had tripped and fallen over as he was leaving the office, it was nothing more than that, there had been no attack. Yes, it was true that he had been surprised that his partner should have tried to leave without telling him, but no doubt he would have sent word as soon as he had arrived. Newton left the cross-examination to Toby Bander. It was brief.

“I suggest to you, Mr Werner, that this little squabble was a storm in a teacup.”

“Oh, precisely, yes.” But Theo spoilt the effect of this answer by adding, “It was something that had never happened before.”

“On the following day you had both forgotten it?”

“Forgotten and forgiven, yes.” Theo smiled sweetly.

Tony Bander read a note handed down by Grundy from the dock, and said, “I suggest that you are mistaken in saying that your partner always signed memos to you with this little figure. I suggest that he sometimes signed them Sol.”

Theo smiled at Grundy. “It is possible, yes.”

“Can you confirm that?”

“If Sol says so, I am sure it is right.”

“I suggest also that some of your own memos to him are signed with this little figure, that you both used it occasionally?”

“Yes, that is so.”

Theo agreed readily, or rather repeated, that he had mentioned the question of a holiday, and that there had been nothing in the way of business to prevent his partner from going. Toby Bander left it at that, but he could not prevent Hardy from establishing in re-examination that Theo could not remember receiving any memo signed “Sol”. There followed Mrs Langham and Miss Pringle, eager for their moments of glory, ready to testify to Grundy’s bad temper on Monday morning and drunkenness on Monday afternoon. Followed the landlord of The Wild Peacock, who said that Grundy had come in about seven-thirty on Monday evening and left twenty minutes later. The pub was just round the corner from the office, but Grundy had been wearing an overcoat, and the implication that Hardy tried to draw from this was that he had finished work for the night. Cross-examined, the landlord agreed that it had been a cold night, and that he could not remember whether Grundy was carrying a briefcase. Followed Jack Jellifer, handsome, plummy, grave.

Trial Transcript – 5

JOHN JASPER JELLIFER,
examined by Mr Hardy.

“I am a journalist and an expert on matters connected with food and drink. I live in The Dell, and am well acquainted with the prisoner and also with his car, which is distinctive, as it is an old gunmetal grey Alvis. At approximately nine o’clock on the evening of Monday the 23rd of September I was walking along Curzon Street, and saw the prisoner’s car pass me. I pointed it out to my companion, Mr Clements. I am quite sure of the identification of the car.”

MR HARDY “Could you see who was driving the car?”

“No, sir, I could not.”

“Then how can you be sure that it was the accused’s car?”

“His car has a rent in the hood, on the driver’s side, just above his head. I have commented on it more than once, as a joke, asking when it would be mended. I noticed the rent in this car.”

“When did you come forward?”

“As soon as I knew that the – ah – that Grundy’s name was connected with the case.”

“One final question. Do you bear a grudge of any kind against the prisoner?”

“Absolutely none. One has a duty in these matters, that was my feeling.”

Cross-examined by Mr Newton.

MR NEWTON “You are an expert on wine and food, Mr Jellifer. That involves you, I expect, in eating a good deal of delicious food and drinking some remarkable wine.”

“That is my duty.”

“You are much to be envied. I hope that I may consult you about my own cellar.”

“I shall be delighted to advise you, Mr Newton.”

“Not today, however. Now on this particular evening, Mr Jellifer, I wonder where you dined?”

“I dined with my friend Peter Clements at a little restaurant recently opened, called The Emperor’s New Clothes.”

MR JUSTICE CRUMBLE “I trust that the food is not imaginary, in accordance with Hans Andersen’s fable?”

“No, my lord, I can thoroughly recommend the restaurant.”

MR NEWTON “I am happy to hear it. No doubt you were a welcome guest. Perhaps you would tell us what you ate.”

“I always like to eat the speciality of any restaurant. Here we began with a
bisque d’homard
, and I can assure you that it was one that did not come out of a packet, and then we shared a duck which had been prepared in quite a special way with cherries, nuts and olives. We finished with
fraises de bois,
specially flown over from Southern Italy.”

“That sounds a memorable meal. I hope the wines did not disgrace it?”

“Not at all. With the soup we drank a Gewurztraminer, fine but a little too aromatic, with the duck an excellent Aloxe Corton, with the
fraises de bois
a Barsac, Chateau Coutet, that complemented them perfectly, and with our coffee a Napoleon brandy.”

“Does it not occur to you, Mr Jellifer, that this consumption of wine and spirits impaired your faculties of observation?”

“No. I am accustomed to it.”

“A bottle and a half of wine at a meal, and brandy on top of it? Come now, Mr Jellifer.”

“I don’t regard that as excessive. Drink has no effect on me.”

“Really? No doubt the jury will take note of that fact. Now, you had just one guest.”

“Yes, Mr Peter Clements, the television producer, who is a neighbour of mine.”