The Burden of Proof Read online

  Patricia served him and passed the plate across. Mrs. Blately had tried to wait at table, but that was one idea they’d managed to squash. “Sauce is on your right, Roger.” She watched him cover the shepherd’s pie with tomato ketchup. “How long is it since the police were here?”

  He thought. “It must be close on a week now.”

  “Does that mean it’s all over?”

  “Perhaps.” He’d been wondering whether it did, but had not said so aloud because it seemed to be daring fate.

  “Even the butcher’s stopped asking pointed questions.”

  “That swine.” He tasted the pie and then added more sauce. “If he were as good a butcher as gossip, we’d eat a great deal better.”

  “Did old man Wheeldon say anything to you last night when you had dinner there?”

  “He hardly had time to say good evening to me — had a pal from London down and they were busy discussing what business to take over next.”

  “Brentwood Wheeldon’s a funny man.”

  “He’s never convulsed me with laughter.”

  “Funny-very-damn-peculiar,” corrected Patricia. “Elizabeth’s been a real brick, Roger.”

  “Considering everything, she’s been more than a brick.”

  “She’s loyal, Roger, through and through. I don’t think it would matter what had happened, she’d stand by you… so long as she knew you’d told her the truth.”

  “That sounds like a sisterly hint to know whether I’ve told her all.”

  Patricia looked straight at him. “And have you?”

  “She knows the story from A to Z. Oddly enough, her one interest in the story was knowing what Margaret was like.”

  “Naturally. She wanted to know whom she’d beaten in straight fight.”

  Roger grinned. “Said as only Pat could say it! Elizabeth would never see it as a fight.”

  “You really are the most conceited male I’ve ever met. I’ll swear you’re sitting there — ”

  Mrs. Blately came into the room. “Excuse me, Master Roger, there are two men come to see you.”

  “In the middle of lunch? Tell them to go and starve somewhere until we’re ready. Who are they?”

  “I didn’t ask.” She became slightly flustered. “One of ’em’s that man who kept asking me stupid questions about you and I told him not to be so nosy.”

  Roger hesitated. “You’d better show them in then.” He turned and looked at Patricia and intended to make a facetious remark about talking of devils — and he saw that the pinched, frightened look was back in her face.

  Fisher and Ritter entered the room.

  Fisher said, “Mr. Ventnor, I am arresting you on a charge of causing a noxious substance to be taken by Margaret Stukeley with the intention of causing an abortion. You’re not bound to make any answer to this charge, but if you do I must warn you that such answer will be taken down in writing and may be used in evidence at your trial.” Then he added as pure anti-climax, “You’d better finish your meal before we go down to the station.”

  Chapter 12

  They escorted him to the charge room in Prestry central police station and there the chief inspector charged him. Did he want to say anything in answer? “I don’t know anything about the pills,” he shouted. “Why don’t you find the goddamn artist?” The answer was written down and he was asked to sign. The ritual struck him as the funniest thing he had ever come across.

  “You’ll be taken — ”

  “Have you really tried to find the artist? Have you questioned all of them? Found out — ”

  “I’m sorry, we cannot answer questions. You’ll be taken to a cell now and held there until tomorrow when you’ll appear before the magistrates… Meals will be served to you in the normal manner, but should you desire special food we will arrange to have it brought in from one of the restaurants. You will, of course, have to pay for such meals.”

  “I’ll start with caviar on foie gras.”

  “Very well. And some smoked salmon with the strawberries?”

  There was a short silence.

  “Will you go that way, please,” said the chief inspector with the same quiet courtesy he had shown throughout.

  Roger walked. He remembered the last words Margaret had said to him. “I’ll promise never to worry you again.”

  He and the uniformed constable entered a narrow corridor on the right of which were heavy steel doors with spy holes.

  “In this one, sir, if you don’t mind.”

  All very polite. In this one, sir, if you don’t mind. Were the police always so genteel?

  The cell was bleak as a cell should be. There was a bunk with a shallow mattress and khaki blankets, a wash basin and W.C., and a wooden chair.

  “Would you like a book?” asked the P.C.

  He was silent. Reading suggested a connection with the world and he was no longer certain there was such a connection.

  “Here — take this one. That bit of goods on the cover doesn’t really appear inside, but it’s not bad for all that.”

  He was handed the paperback with its erotic cover.

  The door of the cell was shut with a clang of steel against steel. Bolts were pushed home.

  *

  Yerby entered the cell and took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “I’ve brought these as an interim measure. Let me know if you can smoke them or if you’d prefer some other brand.”

  Roger accepted the cigarettes and forgot to thank the other for them. There was a question he had to ask but was fearful of putting because once he had the answer he’d have the facts. The need to know became too great. “Have you succeeded in finding the man?”

  Yerby sat down and put the briefcase on his knees. “The private detective we hired has been making his report every day but I haven’t passed it on because there’s been nothing to tell you.”

  “But there must be some sign of the man somewhere. He can’t just vanish into thin air.”

  “There’s no trace of him yet.”

  Roger sat down on the bunk.

  “Tomorrow,” said Yerby in his steady, almost monotonous, voice, “you’ll appear before the magistrates who’ll almost certainly remand you in custody. We’ll apply for bail, of course, but I’m afraid you must be prepared to be further charged with murder. They won’t grant bail on that.”

  “I hadn’t even seen her to kill her, so how the hell can I be charged with murder?”

  Yerby seemed to sigh. “Although under the fifty-seven act there was some relaxation of the laws concerning the penalties for killing in furtherance of another offense, there is still the possibility of a charge for murder. The killing isn’t murder now unless the actual killing is done with the same malice aforethought as would make the killing murder even though it didn’t occur in furtherance of another offense. Boiled down, malice aforethought here means that when you gave Margaret Stukeley the pills, you realised — as a reasonable man, of course; the law has a permanent affair with the reasonable man — that death or grievous bodily harm was liable to ensue if she took those pills.”

  “I didn’t give her the pills and even had I done so I wouldn’t have known they could kill.”

  “Didn’t Doctor Franch warn you of the danger of any abortifacient?”

  “Yes, but — ”

  “Quite, Mr. Ventnor. You’ll see that if they should decide you gave her the pills, the prosecution will not have much difficulty in proving malice aforethought. You’ll be remanded tomorrow and it’s my guess the hearing will be a week tomorrow. I suggest you have counsel to represent you then.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “For the trial, I strongly suggest silk — a jury always credits them with a far better case than they have. There’s a first-class chap on this circuit so there’s no question of having to bring him in special and pay the extra fee. Is that all right if I have a word with his clerk?”

  Roger wanted to say to hell with everyone and everything, but he was left with enough common s
ense to go some way toward pulling himself together. “Go ahead with whatever’s best.”

  “Good. In the meantime, I’ll get the facts from you for counsel. I know I’ve had them before but this is to enable me to draw up the brief. Will you start with your first meeting with the dead girl.” Yerby removed the cap from his Parker 51 and opened a foolscap-sized notebook which he brought out from his briefcase. “By the way, am I right in presuming your fiancée has a considerable private income?”

  “Yes.”

  “Um! Wonder if she’ll be called… All right, let’s start. When and where did you first meet Margaret Stukeley and when did sexual intercourse take place between you?”

  *

  They charged him with the murder of Margaret Stukeley and then took him into the magistrates’ court where he was on show for three minutes and thirty-nine seconds. He was led into the dock and he had time to clear his mind and realise Patricia was sitting on the bench immediately behind him, an expression of deep mental hurt on her face, and then it was over. The chief inspector had asked for a week’s remand in custody in order to make further investigations. Roger’s counsel requested bail and explained that although it might perhaps not be usual to grant bail on a charge of murder, this was not a usual charge of murder and there could be absolutely no fear occasioned by the defendant’s remaining free. The request was doomed the moment the J.P.s heard it was not usual to grant bail in murder cases: they were not the people to introduce novelties.

  The P.C. tapped Roger on the shoulder. “It’s back to your board and lodgings, mate,” he whispered.

  Roger turned to leave the dock. He saw Patricia as she stared at him and he had never before seen an expression of such helpless misery.

  Roger had expected counsel to be large, a little pompous, and filled with an aura of omnipotence. Those were the attributes he needed to find to gain mental support. But Pattern was small and a little stooped, and his manner seemed to suggest a certain degree of lack of self-confidence.

  They discussed his evidence and Pattern asked a number of questions and quite suddenly Roger realised he was faced with a mind quite as keen as the one he sought. He began to grow hopeful.

  *

  The preliminary hearing. The prosecution witnesses were called and they spoke slowly enough for the clerk to write down their evidence in longhand. At the end of each person’s evidence — and Pattern hardly cross-examined — he or she signed the deposition.

  At the conclusion of the prosecution’s evidence, Pattern submitted there was no case to answer. The magistrates retired and were away ten minutes. When they returned, the chairman ruled against the submission. Pattern reserved the defendant’s case.

  Chapter 13

  Roger was taken from Prestry to Winscon in the Black Maria. The driver was friendly and as the second occupant was being placed in the rear compartment, he said to Roger, “Swiped five thousand quid in one pound notes and they can’t find a single bloody one of them.” He winked. “Give me a chance like that and I’d be on. Couple of years nick for the lot, so it’s two and a half thou’ a year. Money for old rope.”

  Roger stared at the successful thief. Had he really stolen five thousand pounds or was he being charged with someone else’s crime? How many innocent people had been convicted in the history of English law? Suppose his crime had been a capital murder and he were found guilty and sentenced to death… The van drove off.

  He would be held at Winscon jail to await trial. He’d often driven around the walls of the jail because the road to London went along the south of them. They’d just been tall, not too ugly walls. Now he’d be on the inside looking out and they’d be the twenty-foot-high barrier between imprisonment and freedom.

  The jury had to find him not guilty or else they were cutting the throat of justice. Where the hell was the artist? Why couldn’t he come forward and bring about Roger’s release? Where was the bastard who hadn’t the guts to accept responsibility for his own actions? Perhaps he had died suddenly. That would really be one up to fate. The one man who could save him, being beyond saving anyone. But even so, there must be some trace of him somewhere. Had the police looked through Margaret’s letters? Had they — The van braked suddenly and he was half thrown against the steel bars that separated his compartment from the next.

  *

  His cell was light and airy. An estate agent would have said, “In the heart of Winscon with fine view over distant Ailey Hills, self-contained flat with all mod. cons, and central heating. Very secure.”

  They looked after him very well. Books whenever he needed fresh reading, as many cigarettes as he wanted. Either Patricia or Elizabeth had made certain he didn’t starve because the meals with which he was served were excellent. Even fortification of the inner man was dealt with. A warder, once satisfied Roger was a reasonable fellow, offered whisky at five shillings the tot. They looked after him, all right. They fed him and exercised him, and watched over him with loving care and made certain he didn’t come into contact with any convicted prisoner because until he was convicted he mustn’t be contaminated.

  Two weeks after he’d been taken to Winscon, Yorker, O.C., and Pattern and Yerby, came to the prison for a consultation. He met them in the conference room. Yorker was a rugged man with extraordinarily large eyebrows that looked rather like two miniature dhow sails. He had a mouth that was very mobile and apparently always ready to break into a smile. He’d become fashionable in the past four or five years and the papers always awarded him an income of twenty thousand or more.

  Yorker laid out papers on the circular table, looked up, and then spoke in the abrupt tones which often made people think he was trying to be rude. “We’d better start off by saying that the evidence against you looks pretty conclusive.” His eyebrows became question marks as he waited for an answer.

  “I didn’t give her the pills,” said Roger. He wondered if the words were sounding as tired and banal to others as they were to him.

  “No.” Yorker made the word neither agreement nor disagreement. “You’d known the girl for some time, hadn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you and she had sexual intercourse together?”

  “I’ve never said we didn’t.”

  “Quite so. I’m merely checking facts.” Yorker wrote in his notebook, then looked up. “Did you have sexual intercourse with her after you’d met your fiancée?”

  “Not since March.”

  “You’re quite certain of that? You saw Margaret Stukeley in May and when she died she was two months pregnant.”

  “That doesn’t prove I was the father.”

  “No, Mr. Ventnor, it doesn’t prove anything, but the coincidence will not have escaped the prosecution. You saw her again on the first and seventh of July?”

  “The sixth.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Yorker shuffled through his papers and picked out the one he was searching for. “You say it was the sixth but the prosecution claims it was the seventh and has a witness to that date. Any way in which you could prove it was the sixth?”

  “My sister saw me leave the house.”

  “Did she know where you were going?”

  “No.”

  “Did you go out in your car at all on the seventh?”

  “Yes.”

  “The cinema manager testified he saw you pick up Miss Stukeley at seven-thirty, or thereabouts, on the seventh. You’ve no alibi for the relevant time on the seventh, have you?”

  “I’ve been over this time and time again.”

  “Nevertheless, if you wish me to defend you, you’ll have to go over it again.”

  “I was out on the farm on the seventh.”

  “Did you meet anyone? Any of your workers?”

  “None. Nor was Patricia at home when I got back.”

  “At what time did you meet your fiancée?”

  “Sometime after nine.”

  “Then you can offer no proof that your meeting with the dead girl took place on the
sixth and not the seventh?”

  “Proof, proof! You keep asking for proof as if I could suddenly find a whole heap of it.”

  “It’s the material I deal in, Mr. Ventnor, and what I so obviously lack at the moment.”

  “Since you haven’t any, tell me this — what do you believe really happened?”

  “I believe what you tell me.”

  “Is that honest? Or are you like the rest of the world? You believe I gave her the pills?”

  Yorker looked across at Yerby and there was an expression of annoyance on his face. “If a client has any sense, he tells counsel the truth in order to give counsel a straight run. Or if for obvious reasons he can’t tell the truth, he makes his lies believable.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  “It wasn’t meant to.”

  Roger stood up and he spoke with the anger of desperation. “You think I’m being a bloody fool to keep calling out I’m innocent. I gave the girl the pills and now she’s dead I’ve got to face the consequences. But I didn't give her those pills and no one can rightly prove I did. I saw her on the sixth and told her I couldn’t help her gain an abortion and that was that. But I’m not reckoning on anyone believing the truth because I’ve found that it’s only when the truth’s interesting that it’s believed.”

  “On the contrary, Mr. Ventnor, you’re asking the three of us to believe you and until I’m forced to do otherwise that is what I shall do, In the meantime, it would help if you’d sit down and continue going over the facts with me.”

  Roger sat down.

  *

  Winscon assize court had been built in the 1880s and although plans had existed since 1930 for its rebuilding nothing had ever been done to it so that it remained cold in winter and hot in summer, uncomfortable, and acoustically poor. The courtroom was not the only reason why the visiting judges disliked Winscon. They still were housed in the vast Victorian mansion their predecessors had been forced to sleep in, and they gained the same kinds of colds, aches and pains from the same old drafts.

  The case of Regina v. Ventnor was first in the lists after those cases had been dealt with in which the prisoners pleaded guilty.