A Deadly Marriage Read online

  “Mrs. Brakes, are you a friend of the accused?”

  She stared straight at Gretnor. “I’m more than a friend. I am going to marry him.” She said it as a challenge. She must believe that David would be freed to marry her.

  “Will you tell the jury whether you were in any way connected with the divorce proceedings brought by Mrs. Plesence?”

  “I was accused of committing adultery with David.”

  “And was this accusation true? Let me say at once that you are not obliged to answer this question.”

  “I was committing adultery with him. I loved him.”

  “Where were you actually living at the time of the twenty-sixth of June?”

  “With David, at Frogsfeet Hall. His wife had left him and we saw no reason for not living together.” As she spoke, she noticed the woman in the back row of the jury box and she suddenly wished she had not spoken so defiantly. Some people couldn’t understand the slightest breach of the conventions. This woman looked like an elderly spinster who thought sex was a very dirty word.

  “Were you there on the twenty-sixth?”

  “I was and I was also there when Catalina arrived early in the morning. She went mad when she saw me...”

  “I am only asking you about the twenty-sixth,” said Gretnor sharply. She could do so much harm to the case with her clumsy attempts to help the prisoner.

  Patricia swallowed heavily. “I...I was at Frogsfeet Hall. We got up late on Sunday morning.” She remembered how happy they’d been. For a second, she thought she was going to break down and cry. “Sometime after breakfast, there was a telephone call. David answered it and when he came back into the sitting-room he told me it had been Catalina and she’d said she must see him in the evening at the Swan Hotel. I told him not to go.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was so certain she was only going to try to make trouble.”

  “We know Mr. Plesence did not heed you. Can you tell us at what time he left the house?”

  “About five-thirty.”

  “What clothes was he wearing?”

  “A lightweight light grey suit.”

  “Was he carrying anything?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Can you tell us at what time he returned to Frogsfeet Hall, Mrs. Brakes?”

  “It was just before seven.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  “There was a television programme he wanted to watch which started at seven. He arrived back in time to see it. Please, you’ve got to believe me. I swear he was back in the house before seven o’clock.”

  “I’m sure the jury will appreciate the fact you’re telling them the truth. What was he wearing on his return?”

  “The same as before: the light grey suit.”

  “Was he carrying anything?”

  “No.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual about him?”

  “There wasn’t anything unusual to notice. He was the same as ever. He told me Catalina hadn’t showed up and he wondered what on earth it had all been about and then we went in and watched the TV programme. We sat together on the settee and there wasn’t any blood on him, anywhere. Oh, God, there wasn’t any blood. I’d have seen if there’d been any, but there wasn’t.”

  “How did he act?”

  “I told you, the same as ever. He couldn’t have been like that if he’d slashed that woman to death. He didn’t do it. And the handkerchief...”

  “The handkerchief,” repeated Gretnor. “I don’t think...” He tried to cut short whatever she had been going to say.

  She interrupted him. “It’s mine,” she said loudly.

  “What is yours?”

  “The handkerchief that was marked M C that was found in our bedroom. I’m Patricia Muriel and my maiden name was Cooper.”

  Gretnor stared at her and thought that she could have no idea of how obvious it was that she was lying. It was tragic she should love Plesence so much. Gretnor wondered if there was any way of avoiding trouble, decided there was not and sat down.

  Charlton stood up. He read through some of the notes he had taken during the examination-in-chief, then leaned back and had a very quick word with his instructing solicitor. He stood upright once more. “Mrs. Brakes, were you christened Patricia Muriel or Muriel Patricia?”

  “Patricia Muriel,” she answered, in a voice that shook slightly.

  “Is it not a fact that you are invariably called by your first name, Patricia?”

  “I...I’m sometimes called Muriel.”

  “How did you sign your name to letters and documents before your marriage?”

  She was silent.

  “Did you not invariably sign either Patricia, Patricia Cooper, or P.M. Cooper?”

  She hesitated.

  “Mrs. Brakes, you must answer me and I advise you to remember I can bring proof to show how you usually signed your name.”

  “Yes,” she said, in a low voice.

  “Can you produce any letter or document that at any time in your life you have signed just M C or Muriel Cooper?”

  She did not answer.

  “Were you at Frogsfeet Hall when the police searched the house under a warrant?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did any of the policemen tell you that a woman’s handkerchief had been found with the initials M C on it?”

  “I...I don’t remember.”

  “Then if the detective inspector says he did, you won’t deny it? Did he ask you what your initials are?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “He did and you told him they were P M B. Did you tell him that handkerchief was yours?”

  “No, but...”

  “But what?”

  She said nothing.

  “Were you at the preliminary hearing, held before the magistrates?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you give evidence and state that this handkerchief was yours and the initials were yours?”

  “No.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  She closed her eyes and shivered. Some thought she was going to faint.

  “Have you ever before claimed this handkerchief was yours?”

  She shook her head.

  “Can you produce any other article of clothing of yours with the initials M C on it?”

  “But that handkerchief’s mine,” she said desperately. Charlton sat down. He hated having done what he had just had to do.

  It was eight-thirty that night. In the jury room, ten men and one woman stared at the twelfth person, the sour looking spinster.

  “For God’s sake.” muttered the foreman. He mopped his face with a handkerchief. The room was hot, he was

  thirsty, and his wife would probably never believe his story.

  “She was lying,” said another man, speaking slowly and loudly as if to someone who was deaf. “That handkerchief wasn’t hers, never had been hers, and if you could look beyond your nose you’d realise that.”

  “The initials are the same,” said the spinster nervously. “Look, lady,” said the foreman, “if that had been her handkerchief wouldn’t she’ve yelled the fact from the rooftop the moment it was found? But she didn’t say a damn thing. And why? Because she knew, like everyone else knew, that M C meant Marion Cabbot. She thought that other nonsense up just now.”

  “I’m sorry to go on arguing...”

  “You’re not the only one,” said someone.

  “But if her maiden name was Cooper and her second name is Muriel...”

  “If you have your initials put on something, you don’t just use a middle name what you’re never called by. Use a bit of the common. Can’t you see she was lying?”

  “Of course she was,” said the second woman, a plump, matronly looking person. “And anyway, what about the man being at the hotel? And wasn’t it his knife, his fingerprint on the knife, a bit from his coat in the room? And weren’t him and that woman living in sin?”

  “Does that make any difference?” asked the
spinster, still more nervously. “I mean, it doesn’t prove she’s lying, does it?”

  “The knife, lady,” said the foreman, “the knife. It was locked up in his tool shed, in a drawer, in a cupboard. No one was going to find that by accident.”

  “You stupid old cow,” murmured a man at the far end of the table.

  It was just after ten o’clock.

  “Lady,” said the foreman hoarsely, “it had to be him. No casual tramp was going to go to his house, pinch the knife, pinch a thread from the coat, go to the hotel, slash

  the woman to death, bring out one of the woman’s handkerchiefs and make it appear the husband did it all. Now talk sense.”

  “Couldn’t it have been the wife?” asked the spinster, who hated scenes.

  “They couldn’t produce any proof at all for their wicked accusations,” said the plump woman. “It was disgusting the way they tried to put it all on to her.”

  “It was his finger-print,” said a man.

  “It was his knife,” said another.

  “It was his coat,” said another.

  “And what about the first death,” said another.

  “And that bloody handkerchief belonged to the dead woman,” said another.

  “But Mrs. Brakes may have called herself Muriel at some time of her life,” said the spinster. “I had a friend...”

  “Not for long, I’ll bet.”

  “We’re never going to agree,” said the foreman. He wished the spinster to hell.

  The judge did not hide his annoyance. “If the jury cannot agree and see no hope of their ever agreeing, then they must be discharged and the case heard again before a fresh jury.”

  He looked at the jury and wondered which of them had been stupid enough to believe the lie about the handkerchief? Probably the plump, matronly woman who was too much of a romantic to face up to the facts.

  CHAPTER XII

  Detective Inspector Cathart waited in the detective superintendent’s office at H.Q. After he had been there for a couple of minutes, the detective chief inspector came in. “Hallo, Fred, waiting for the chopper?”

  Bloody funny, thought Cathart. “Not as far as I know, sir.”

  “I reckon next time you’ll check up on all the maiden names of all your suspects, eh?”

  “I expect so.”

  Danby hurried into the room, muttered a greeting, and went round his desk and sat down. “So there’s to be a retrial. If you want my opinion, someone in that jury should be examined and certified by a psychiatrist.” He lit a cigarette. “Before the next trial, Fred, you’ll check that handkerchief sideways, forwards, and backwards and prove it belonged to the Cabbot woman and no one else. Something you should have done a long time before.”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Cathart tightly. He was surprised that Danby was so restrained in his criticism.

  “You’ll also find out what initials that Brakes woman has on the rest of her clothes. God knows how you’ll get round her, though. She’s like a tigress defending her young.” He flicked the slight deposit of ash from his cigarette.

  Catalina looked at the bottle of gin. Already she had drunk half. Should she have any more? There was so much to worry about.

  The hearing to decide the amount of her maintenance would be soon. Her solicitor had said that normally she’d be given a third of their combined incomes, unless her husband’s income was so large that the courts didn’t allow this full amount. How much was David’s income? Perhaps it was larger than she had ever imagined: he might have been putting a lot of it back into the firm. She might yet get five thousand pounds a year. She would be able to travel. She would meet people, real people, people who knew how to appreciate her.

  She poured herself out another gin and added a little French. She drank eagerly. When she was living in the warm sunshine, with a host of admirers around her feet, David would be in jail, breaking up stones. That was funny. That was so funny it made her laugh. David had thought he could insult her and get away with it. Just like Patricia. She’d thought she was on to a good thing and clever enough to supplant Catalina Mary Magdalene. She’d learned differently.

  Catalina was surprised to discover her glass was empty. She looked at the bottle again. At a time like this, liquor was truly a medicine. She’d suffered as few women had. She needed something to support her through her terrible troubles.

  She drank again. Suddenly, out of the back of her mind swirled that nightmare that had been haunting and terrifying her.

  There was the face of a woman, covered with blood: the woman was trying to scream, but there was no sound: blood spurted everywhere: the woman’s hands began to claw, reaching for someone: for Catalina Mary Magdalene: they were trying to drag her down into hell.

  With trembling hands, she poured herself out yet another gin and French.

  Patricia stared at the television without seeing what it was showing. She could not stop herself imagining what David was doing, feeling, and suffering. He was a man who thrived on the challenge of life and the defeat of captivity could so easily destroy him.

  She had visited him in prison the day before. Visiting time was ten minutes and for the whole of that period he had talked about how he was going to prove his innocence at the next trial. She must get the police to discover who the Cabbots really were because then they would discover why Catalina had killed them. He had spoken as if that was going to be so easy, but hadn’t the police already done what they could? Weren’t these hopes just wishful thinking?

  Her lie about the handkerchief had probably brought about the disagreement of the jury, but if she tried to say the same thing at the next trial her lie would immediately be exposed once and for all for what it was. She had done all she could for David, but the net effect of all her efforts was merely to postpone the inevitable and prolong the torture.

  She lit a cigarette. To-morrow she was going to see the detective inspector and beg him to do more to uncover the truth about the Cabbots. Yet both of them would know how hopeless this was. Would he be angry, helpful, or just plain pessimistic? She felt certain of only one thing. He would not lose his underlying sense of sympathy.

  The programme on the TV changed and this momentarily captured her attention. A comedy series about a married couple began. She found her eyes pricking with tears. It was a very bitter reminder of the fact that there were happily married couples in the world.

  Her attention wandered again. She thought of Catalina and hated her even more than she had hated the man responsible for Michael’s death.

  She longed for the relief of tears, but none actually came. There was an agonising ache inside her and her mind hammered at itself until her head seemed filled with silent screams.

  Patricia drove David’s Aston Martin into Borisham and through the crowded streets to the central police station.

  She parked the car and as she did so she wondered whether it would be as antique as a 3 litre Bentley was now before David had the chance to drive it again? Would he ever drive it again?

  She parked and switched off the engine. She had always believed that right triumphed, simply because it was right. But now right was beaten into the ground and out of sight. What kind of a bloody world was it, she thought wildly, where a woman as viciously evil as Catalina could get away with all that she had? Justice had become a word of mockery. And no one cared, no one believed, except herself.

  She went into the police station and asked a uniformed constable if she could speak to Detective Inspector Cathart. The constable used the internal telephone to check that the D.I. was in and free. “He won’t be a moment, Mrs. Brakes. Would you like to sit down over there.”

  She sat down. She wondered whether policemen enjoyed closing in on their human quarry and caging him? Or was it just a job to them? Were they indifferent to anything but the facts of the case, perhaps even unaware of the emotions involved? Did any of them realise even a tenth of the hatred that lay inside Catalina?

  Cathart came along the passage, said
good morning, and escorted her along to the nearest interview room.

  “I had to come,” she blurted out, as she sat down. Forgotten were the words with which she had intended to open the meeting and which she had so carefully rehearsed.

  He nodded.

  “You won’t understand, but I love him. I had to come.”

  “Are you certain it won’t needlessly distress you?” he asked, in a quiet voice.

  Hearing this sympathy, she almost found the tears that had deserted her the night before. “It doesn’t matter what it does to me,” she said simply. “He didn’t kill the woman. He couldn’t do a thing like that. It was Catalina.

  She poisoned the husband. David wouldn’t believe that to begin with because he’s so loyal. Even after she’d begun divorce proceedings he remained loyal to her and refused to believe what part of him said must be the truth. But when Mrs. Cabbot was slashed to death, he had to understand that Catalina was mad and ready to do anything to try and gain revenge. Can you begin to understand?” Cathart nodded.

  “But you can’t believe him when he says he knows nothing about the murders?”

  “I have to deal with facts, Mrs. Brakes. My beliefs aren’t of any importance.”

  “Are you trying to excuse yourself now?”

  “Why should I?”

  She swallowed heavily. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be insulting.”

  “You weren’t, Mrs. Brakes.”

  “You see, I’m so desperate I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m the only person in the whole country who believes in him. I know he didn’t kill Mrs. Cabbot...Please help.”

  “But how can I?”

  “Find out about the Cabbots. Who were they? Why did Cabbot come and see David? If you knew that, you’d know why Catalina murdered them.”

  “Mrs. Brakes, although we’re the police, we’re as much concerned with proving a man’s innocence as we are with proving his guilt. The one tells us about the other. We asked the American police to discover what they could about the Cabbots because the answers were important to us in helping to clear or incriminate Mr. Plesence.”

  “And they...they couldn’t tell you anything?”

  “George Cabbot met his wife, Marion Ulyett, at a party. According to the father who didn’t pretend to like him he’d discovered she’d some money of her own and that’s why he immediately proposed to her. The parents — both were living at the time — tried to dissuade her from the marriage, but she wouldn’t listen to them. She didn’t care that she knew nothing about his background, she loved him and that was all that mattered. She was nearly forty so I suppose one could be cynical and say it was her last chance to marry. The parents knew Cabbot was born in Cuba but hadn’t been there since the time of the Castro revolution. He boasted about having been very wealthy in the past, but it was obvious to them that however much he talked he didn’t have any money when he married. Since George Cabbot almost certainly wasn’t his baptismal name, the police tried to discover what it had been, but they failed. The passport was a clever forgery, forged in Miami where there’s a trade in such things amongst the Cuban refugees. The only personal thing they ever learned about him was that his Christian name had been Gual. Inevitably, Marion Cabbot had a nasty row with her parents and once the wedding was over, she refused to have anything more to do with them. So much so that from that day to this, the parents never saw her again — the mother died not very long ago. Very occasionally, they received a brief letter from her, but it never told them anything.” Cathart gestured with his hands. “We came up against a dead end.”