She had to admit, reluctantly, that Ethel stood up well in the witness box. Under examination and cross-examination, her jaw stood out like a rock and her eyes never flickered, and she spoke in a clear voice.
Yes, she had undertaken cleaning duties for the deceased. Yes, she had arrived as usual on the morning of Wednesday the eleventh. At about eight forty-five, sir. On entering the hall, she had heard raised angry voices coming from the apartment belonging to the deceased. What did she do then? She opened the front door of the flat. And what did she find? Nothing, sir. What did she hear? She heard the sound of hurried footsteps from the lounge. When she went to investigate, she found the French windows open, and at the end of the garden, she saw a running figure open the garden gate and disappear into the road. Then what did she do? She went to the study, where she expected to find Mr. Mervyn Fincham. And did she find him? Yes, sir, but he was sitting slumped in his chair, with blood streaming from a horrid wound. He was clearly without life? Yes, sir. Yes, the witness would like a glass of water, thank you, I’m sure, Your Lordship. And what had she done then? She had called the police, who arrived in ten minutes. Was she able to identify the person she had seen at the end of the garden? No, sir. She had only seen him for a second. Did she know of any bad feeling between the deceased and the person in the dock, Mr. Jolyon Carstairs? No, she didn’t meddle in the affairs of her employers, sir, it wasn’t her place to. Very commendable. And after she had been interviewed by the officer in charge of the investigation, what had she done then? She had taken her bag and gone round to Mr. Carstairs’s apartment. But this was a Wednesday. Was not her day for Mr. Carstairs a Thursday? Yes, but she had been feeling a bit wobbly recently, so she had previously asked if she might change the day to give herself a full day free on Thursday to relax. And when she arrived at Mr. Carstairs’s apartment, what was his comportment? Comportment? Behaviour. How did he behave? Objection: Calling for an opinion on the part of the witness. The witness might answer. He behaved peculiarly, he appeared a bit doolally. Doolally? You mean not in command of himself. That’s right, sir. Did he appear to you as a man might if he had recently committed a serious crime? The jury were to disregard that scandalously disgraceful question.
A snarling cross-examination full of inference and nuance if not outright accusation failed to shake any of the witness’s evidence, or to produce anything new. The witness left the box with the warm commendations of the judge on her courage and forthright testimony.
Vera and Ethel went for a restorative drink in a pub opposite the court.
“Well,” said Vera, “that was a performance and no mistake. You didn’t half give ’em what for.”
Ethel wiped her forehead. “I will not hide from you, Vera,” she said, “that it was a real ordeal.”
“Well, you did really well. Do you have to go back again?”
“I don’t think so. Don’t know as I shall. Makes me go all peculiar, all that. Brings back some awful memories.”
However, Ethel did consent to go back, at the invitation of the prosecution three days later to hear the judge’s summing up, which was a masterpiece of impartiality.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he said, “this has been a difficult and painful case for you to listen to. You have heard the evidence; it now falls to you to deliberate and pronounce on the guilt or otherwise of the accused man. You will disregard the behaviour of the prisoner, whose violent outpourings early in this hearing did little to advance his cause, indeed served only to reinforce the prosecution’s case that here is a violent and calculating individual eminently capable of committing a heinous and calculated crime.
“You may of course choose to believe the accused when he avers that he is the victim of diabolical machinations and that he is entirely innocent. That is entirely a matter for you. But you will, in coming to your decision, recall the facts as presented in the admirably marshalled testimony of Chief Inspector Wickersley. The search of the effects of the deceased man — who was a writer of short fiction, and who was apparently in the throes of what I believe is called ‘writer’s block,’ an affliction that I am told is common in the writing fraternity — revealed, in the correspondence on the deceased’s desk, a letter from the accused, on his letterhead, couched in threatening and abusive language, and, recklessly, you will think, signed by him. The most telling passage in this vicious missive, you will remember, ran:
“‘You think you’re a writer, Fincham, but you’re nothing but a miserable failed scribbler. You deserve everything that’s coming to you. So watch out, because I am going to get you, you long streak of piss.’
“This note led to the police interviewing the accused and conducting a search of his apartment, where they found a pair of shoes bearing traces of soil that matched exactly the soil in the deceased’s garden. And which fit exactly the footprints found in the deceased man’s garden. You will recall the evidence of the forensic expert to this effect. You will also recall that the police also found in the course of their search an overcoat, which, when subjected to scientific examination, revealed minute spatter traces of the victim’s blood. You will remember the expert testimony in this regard as well. You will also, I am sure, have noted the fact that among the effects of the accused, in his wastepaper basket, in point of fact, was found a crumpled letter from the deceased, in his distinctive handwriting, which addressed the accused in uncomplimentary tones. A significant passage reads, you will recall, ‘You are a pretentious, untalented, unprincipled little swine.’
“The police also found, and you may have found this significant, a group of statuettes of African origin. And you will remember that Chief Inspector Wickersley explained to you that the deceased was beaten savagely with a statuette of the same material and origin, and which, in his opinion, belonged to that very group. Evidence to support this assertion came from Dr. Eriq Ebouaney, an acknowledged expert on indigenous African art. The statuette, and I am sure the significance of this did not escape you, bore the fingerprints of the accused man.
“We shall never know with any certainty the cause of the ill-feeling between these two men. The deceased cannot tell us, and as for the accused, he amply demonstrated his contempt for this court and these proceedings by retreating, as you have seen, into a mulish and obstinate silence. From this stubborn mutism I fancy you will draw your own conclusions, if conclusions to be drawn there be.
“But perhaps we may imagine that the two men, both being writers and inhabiting the same neighbourhood, may have frequented the same public tavern. And perhaps, having drink taken, which I am told is common among persons of their calling and kidney, a quarrel broke out, founded on some imagined slight. We shall never know. And whatever be the cause, it has no bearing whatsoever on your deliberations. If quarrel there were, it soon mutated, as learned counsel for the prosecution told you not altogether fancifully, into a fully fledged blood feud, conducted at first through the mails, and finally and fatally translating into physical assault.
“You may believe it significant that the accused can give no account of his actions or whereabouts on the fateful morning, can produce no witnesses to support his assertion that he was elsewhere. All he could find to say was that he slept until midday. You may choose to believe him, you may not. You are at liberty to believe his assertion that he had been drugged, although a medical examination, admittedly thirty-six hours after the event, revealed no trace of drugs.
“As for the accused man’s railings and phantasmagoric accusations against another person, it is for you to decide whether these are the last desperate stratagems of a guilty man who seeks to direct the blame elsewhere, or the pleas of an innocent man caught in the snares of a devious and Machiavellian master criminal in the person of an honest widow, a hardworking cleaning lady from North London. (laughter in court) That, too, is entirely a matter for you.