‘Yes. She must have been working there about a fortnight. We went and had a drink; she got a bit bombed, and then it all came out. She’d got a thing about this bloke at work, said she was mad about him, but he refused to do anything about her.’
‘Do you remember what his name was?’
‘I can. It was the same village near my home. He was called Canfield, Bobby Canfield.’
There was not much Batten could do with Mr Seaton, nor did he have much joy with the hotel manageress in the Cotswolds, who remembered Fiona and Gerry Seaton staying there.
‘They signed in as Mr and Mrs Seaton. I remembered her because she was so pretty. We didn’t think they were married. I mean they stayed in their room all weekend. We just took their meals up.’
The Wetherby Camp looked thunderstruck. Next moment Fiona was on her feet.
‘They’re lying, they’re all lying. It’s a frame-up.’
Jimmy Batten put out a hand to hush her and, rising to retrieve the situation, said smoothly,
‘M’Lord, I should like my client to go back into the witness box to refute these charges.’
The Jury looked shaken and undecided.
Fiona went back into the box. She had regained her sangfroid now. She denied that she had ever been away for the weekend, or even met Mr Seaton. There must be some mistake. She remembered she’d had a bad cold that weekend, her fiancé had been abroad, so she’d stayed in bed without going out for two days.
‘It’s a conspiracy,’ she said, her eyes filling with tears again. ‘I swear I’ve never set eyes on this man in my life.’
The barometer was wavering once again. I felt the Jury were going to believe her.
There was a long pause. Then it was Pendle’s turn.
‘Miss Graham,’ he said in his gentlest drawl, ‘you do realize that people who don’t tell the truth in court can be sent to prison?’
‘Of course,’ she said.
Pendle crossed the court and handed her a piece of paper.
‘Did you write this letter?’
She glanced at it. ‘Yes, it’s a thankyou letter for a wedding present.’
Pendle went back to his place.
‘My Lord, I have here a document in the same writing as this letter. Later I will call a handwriting expert to verify their similarity. Normally I wouldn’t resort to snooping and appropriating private documents, but when my client’s reputation is at stake…’
‘All right, Mr Mulholland,’ said the Judge irritably, ‘get on with it. What have you got to show us?’
Pendle picked up a kingfisher-blue, leather-bound book, which had been hidden in his papers; the lock was hanging from it.
‘I have here a diary belonging to Miss Graham in which she chronicles only too clearly the events of the past few months.’
Suddenly Fiona’s face twisted in horror. ‘No, don’t let him,’ she screamed. ‘He’s got my diary; he’s a thief.’
‘Be quiet, Miss Graham,’ snapped the Judge. ‘Proceed, Mr Mulholland.’
Jimmy Batten’s face never moved an inch, but he must have felt the floor give way beneath him.
‘M’Lord,’ he protested, ‘I must object to my learned friend’s methods.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ said the Judge. ‘Go on, Mr Mulholland.’
‘In a minute the ladies and gentlemen of the Jury can examine the diary themselves,’ said Pendle, ‘but first I’d like to read out one or two passages.’
The lack of expression in his voice made Fiona’s passionate outpouring sound even more dreadful. First there was her description of meeting Gerald Seaton and the weekend in the Cotswolds exactly as he had described them.
‘“It’s marvellous”,’ he read in his flat drawl, ‘“after Ricky, to find someone who knows what he’s doing in bed.” ’
Fiona’s lips were blue now. ‘It’s a forgery,’ she whispered.
Pendle flipped over a few pages: ‘Now,’ he said softly, ‘let us turn to her description of her first days of working for Mr Canfield: “My new boss is really sexy, I fancy him rotten.” Here on the 5th is a picture of Mr Canfield cut out of the Investor’s Chronicle.’
‘Nothing unusual in that,’ snapped Jimmy Batten. ‘Any girl would cut out a photograph of her boss.’
As detail followed horrendous detail of her growing obsession for Canfield, I couldn’t bear to look at her, or at Ricky Wetherby, sitting stunned and unbelieving. I was mesmerized by the distaste and cruelty in Pendle’s voice. How he seemed to hate her. I could only think of a cobra striking again and again.
‘And now,’ he said suavely, ‘if you’ll bear with me, I’ll read the entry on September 28th, the day before the alleged rape:
‘“Bobby’s wife came in today. God I loathe her, the old frump. Bet she bores him to death in bed. Tomorrow is my last chance. I shall die if I don’t get him. If only Ricky’d let me go on working after we’re married. I’ll wear my new blue dress, and pretend I’ve lost my shorthand notebook and ask Bobby to give me the letters again after work. If we’re alone in the building, something’s bound to happen. I know he fancies me.” ’
Against my will, my eyes went to Ricky Wetherby, and came away again at once. It was crucifixion.
Pendle paused again, and looked slowly round the court. ‘After this the diary becomes rather anatomical, and moves into the realms of fantasy as to what Miss Graham would like Mr Canfield to do to her in bed. I imagine the ladies and gentlemen of the Jury would find it less embarrassing to read for themselves.’
But the next moment Fiona had jumped down from the witness box and was crossing the well of the court towards Pendle, screaming abuse.
‘Bastard! Bastard! Give it back to me!’
I thought she was going to claw Pendle’s face, but Ricky was too quick for her. He was beside her in a flash, his handsome face stone-grey as a pavement.
‘Leave her alone,’ he shouted at Pendle, putting his arms round Fiona. ‘Say it’s not true, Fiona darling, for Christ’s sake, say you didn’t write it.’
For a minute she glared at him.
‘Yes, I did,’ she hissed. ‘I wrote every word of it. Can’t you understand that I love him? I love him!’ And she collapsed, sobbing hysterically, into the arms of a policewoman.
A great sigh went through the court. For a minute the Jury conferred. Pendle was about to call his next witness. But the Foreman of the Jury forestalled him. If it so pleased His Lordship, they felt they had the evidence required.
‘What witness were you about to call, Mr Mulholland?’
‘A handwriting expert, M’Lord.’
The Foreman consulted with the Jury again.
‘M’Lord we have reached our verdict already. We are unanimous in returning a verdict of Not Guilty.’
‘Always thought she was a fast piece,’ said my neighbour, disconsolately, upending the empty red Malteser packet.
The Judge in his summing up congratulated Pendle on his handling of the case, admiring his tenacity, if not his slightly reprehensible methods of obtaining information. The moment he swept out in his scarlet robe pandemonium broke out. Fiona Graham was led away by the police and the Press made a most indecent dive for the public telephones outside. Across the court Pendle was being congratulated by a stunned Canfield contingent. His hands were shaking as he gathered up the papers. I knew he was dying for a cigarette. Looking up, he caught my eye over the crowd and waved. I made a double thumbs up sign. Then he mouthed that he was a bit tied up, but he’d pick me up at the flat at 8.30.
I took a bus to Sloane Square, and then walked home. I wanted some fresh air and time to think. Women in tweed skirts were raking up leaves in Chelsea gardens. An aeroplane trail was turning pink in the setting sun. Inside the houses, people were switching on lamps and lighting fires. A group of children were throwing sticks into a goldfish pond; a black spaniel ran round them barking with excitement. It all seemed so normal after the dramas in court. I was haunted by Ricky Wetherby’s stricken face. He had been so God-like and self-confident that morning. I kept thinking of Pendle, cruel and as merciless as Torquemada, turning and turning the thumbscrew on Fiona Graham. In a kinky way, though, the whole day had been so erotic. Fiona’s feverish craving for Canfield had been uncomfortably near to my own feelings for Pendle. If he didn’t make a pass at me soon, I should burst. I had been rattled too by Jimmy Batten’s comments. Perhaps Pendle was queer, and if so what was the point of seeing any more of him? But after today, I knew I was in too deep to get out. I felt restless, uneasy and horribly carnal. I’d better have a cold bath before I went out.