“That is their job. Have they done it?
“Is their chain of reasoning so cogent that you
must
say to yourselves, “There is only one reasonable explanation. We are satisfied that the prisoner struck the blow’?
“I suggest that when you come to examine the evidence critically you will find no such thing. Rather you will find that it adds up to some proposition such as this.
“The prisoner
could
have murdered Major Thoseby. It was physically possible. She could have left the reception desk, walked up that flight of stairs, along that corridor, and opened that door. Major Thoseby would, no doubt, have got to his feet when he saw her. That is in accordance with the evidence. She could have pulled out that knife and thrust it, upward, in the way she had been taught, into Major Thoseby’s body. She could then have hidden the knife.
“None of that is impossible.
“But – and here is where I want your full and critical attention—” Macrea swiveled round and glanced briefly at each member of the jury in turn—“this proposition is supported, in a positive way, only by a line of evidence which rests on the flimsiest reasoning. The prosecution is asking you to say that because the prisoner was the only person in the hotel who had previously known Major Thoseby, the only person who had a history of association with him, the only person, so
far as we know,
who was making actual efforts to see him again—therefore, she must be the person who killed him.
“She knew him. She could have killed him. She did kill him.
“When the proposition is put as baldly as that, I hope you begin to perceive its weakness.
“I will deal with the two parts of the proposition separately, and in some detail. I will then conclude by summing up for you what I might call the additional, or extrinsic evidence.
“The prisoner knew Major Thoseby in France. It is not denied. But look what an elaborate structure the prosecution is trying to build on that simple foundation. An attempt has been made to persuade you on evidence so flimsy that I think I can, in this case, say without exaggeration that it is no evidence at all – that the prisoner and Major Thoseby were lovers. That Major Thoseby was the father of an illegitimate child, a boy, who has since died. The only positive evidence put forward in support of this is that the prisoner and Major Thoseby once spent a night together, with fifteen other people, in a barn!
“The danger of this sort of suggestion is that it is easier to make than it is to demolish. It instills a poison which it is impossible entirely to eradicate. However, I propose to make the attempt. Our contention has always been, as you know, that the father of this child was a Lieutenant Wells, a British officer who fell into the hands of the Gestapo, and subsequently disappeared. Now the normal method of establishing this would, I suggest, have been by examination of the persons most closely concerned. One of the candidates, however, has disappeared. The other has been murdered. Different methods will, therefore, have to be employed. And, at the last moment, as the result of our investigations, a reasonably convincing method of proving this matter has presented itself.”
The pressmen all looked up.
“The defence is often accused of concealing witnesses and springing them on the prosecution at the last moment. I plead not guilty to that. The evidence about which I am now speaking came to light at four o’clock yesterday afternoon. We can hardly be accused of delay in bringing it to your notice.
“I will leave that for the moment and go on to point two. The significance – the only possible significance – of the often recited fact that the prisoner
could
have committed this murder lies, I take it, in its corollary: that no one else could have done so. The prosecution have themselves used the expression ‘a sealed box’ in this connection.
“Now it has often been said, and I will repeat it again, that it is no part of the defence’s business to suggest who, in fact, did the murder, and I will not, therefore, attempt to do so. In the face of the above allegation, however, it is open to us to show that the ‘box’ far from being ‘sealed’ had a number of cracks or loopholes in it.
“I will pass over the obvious fact that at least one other person – Mrs. Roper – had considerably easier access to Major Thoseby than did the prisoner – and will remark on two other points. First, at almost any time in the evening, an outsider, choosing one of those moments when the waiter Camino was absent from his post, serving Colonel Alwright with a drink – quite a frequent occurrence – any outsider, I say, could have made his way into the hotel and slipped, unnoticed, up the back stairs. He could then have hidden – in the empty bedroom – come out at his leisure later and killed Major Thoseby. All right so far, you say, but how did he get down again? There is nothing obscure about that, either. When he had killed Major Thoseby he
rang the bell
and retired to his hiding place. As soon as Miss Lamartine came past and entered Major Thoseby’s room the way was clear. He calmly walked downstairs and disappeared.
“Now don’t start saying to yourselves—” Macrea swung round on the jury again—“‘Oh, that’s just a theory.’ Of course, it’s just a theory. But so is the prosecution’s case. There is no more and no less evidence for the one than the other. Again, the prosecution has very lightly laughed away the idea that an outsider may have made his entry by ladder from the passage at the back. No real attention was paid to the theory. It was set up just to be knocked down. I propose to treat the idea with a little more respect. I shall be producing evidence for you that there
was
some sort of secret activity in that quiet passage at the back of the hotel—”
“My God,” said the
Evening Echo to
the
Banner,
“Macrea’s beating his own record.
Two
surprise witnesses—”
“You will admit, I think, that if I can make good my promises on these two main points – and I assure you I shall do my best to do so – then there will be very little of the prosecution’s case left. If I can show first, that the prisoner had no conceivable motive for killing Major Thoseby, and secondly, that there
is
evidence that several other people had at least as good an opportunity, then you will admit that most of the positive side of the case has gone.
“Before calling my evidence on these two points, however, I should like to sum up for you what I referred to as the minor inconsistencies of the prosecution’s case. Some of them have been brought out already in cross-examination.
“First, there was the question of fingerprints on the knife. You all saw how the police witnesses were driven to shift their ground over this. At the outset we were meant to believe that the prints on the knife handle were the prints left on it by the prisoner when she drove that knife into Major Thoseby. This was shown to be, at the least, unlikely. Whereupon, there is a remarkable change of front. Now, say the police, the prisoner did
not
make the prints at the time of the murder. She made them in the kitchen. Therefore, she must have been wearing gloves at the time of the murder. An odd feat then emerges. No gloves were found either on the prisoner or on the scene of the crime, although the prisoner had clearly no opportunity for getting rid of them unobserved.
“Secondly, there was the curious spotlessness of the bell-push. Astounding hotel, where they polish their bell-pushes!
“Thirdly, there was the knife itself. Has it occurred to anyone to wonder at what precise point in the proceedings the prisoner is meant to have got hold of the knife? Did she take it with her to the cinema? Remember that after she came back she went straight to the reception desk and stayed there. She could not have gone to the kitchen without being seen by Camino.
“Fourthly, there was this peculiar, this elusive ‘thud’ which Mrs. Roper either did or did not hear. You will yourselves have formed your own opinions on Mrs. Roper’s reliability as a witness. But allow for a moment that she did hear this thud. Was it not an extraordinary performance? Can you visualise a girl walking into a room, walking straight up to a man she had not seen for three or four years, and sticking a knife into him? No words, no recriminations, no arguments, no threats, no tears. The whole thing accomplished as coolly as a surgical operation. Is that your idea of the character of the prisoner? Were her screams – the most horrible, one witness said, he had ever heard – were they then faked screams?
“Is it not an extraordinary character the prosecution are asking you to believe in? A woman who can nurse a passionate hatred for three years, and yet can be so unmoved when the time comes that she will not even stay in to meet her victim. It is her night out, so she takes it – a cool customer. She walks up unobserved and stabs Major Thoseby quietly, and quickly. Then, instead of creeping away again, she clumsily hides the knife
on
the spot
and breaks into screams loud enough to attract everyone in the hotel – everyone, I should say, except Colonel Trevor Alwright, sleeping a soldierly sleep, on nine whiskies. I will be excused, perhaps, if I say that the whole thing looks to me like a jigsaw puzzle which has been half done by an inexpert child. Any bit that seems to fit has been left in. Any bit that doesn’t fit has been disregarded.
“Now I say again, it is no business of mine to finish this jigsaw. If, when I have done, a recognizable face should happen to appear in the puzzle it will only be by chance. But let me at least demonstrate that the picture which the prosecution is trying to fashion cannot be put together.
“It simply does not exist.”
“Your name is Victoria Lamartine?”
“Yes.”
“Now, Miss Lamartine, you speak English well – we can hear that – I should just like to ask you whether you fully understand and appreciate the significance of all that you hear.”
“You mean, do I understand what goes on here?”
“Yes.”
“Very well, thank you. I was puzzled by the former proceedings—”
“The police court proceedings.”
“Yes.”
“If there is anything,” said the judge courteously, ‘that I can explain to you, I am entirely at your service.”
“You are very kind. I understand now perfectly.”
“Very well. Mr. Macrea.”
“I wish it to be quite plain,” said Macrea, “that the prisoner understands the nature of the questions that I am putting to her. A sort of convention has grown up that they are put to a prisoner at the end of the evidence. I consider them of sufficient importance to place them at the beginning. Now, then, did you kill Major Thoseby?”
The question was rapped out like a word of command.
“I did not.”
“Did you have any reason to wish Major Thoseby any harm?”
“No reason at all.”
“Was he the father of your child?”
“No.”
“Very well, mademoiselle. I wish the jury to hear your answer to those questions. Now, before dealing with the night of the murder there are one or two points I should like to clear up about the earlier history of this affair. I should like you to take your mind back to the events of September twenty-sixth, 1943.”
“Shall I ever forget them?”
“Would you tell the court, then, in your own words, what happened on that day.”
“In the early afternoon, after lunch, I was sent out by the patron, Père Chaise, on a mission. I had to take a message – it concerned the distribution of some arms and ammunition – to another Maquis post. This post was a farm – called the Ferme du Grand Puits. It was some distance away, and stood on a hill. I took a bicycle, and part of the way I rode, and the last part I walked, through the woods. It was very hot. It was about three o’clock when I arrived. The two brothers who owned the farm, Pierre and André Marquis, were out—”
“You knew these men?”
“No. I had never met them. In fact, I never did meet them. I waited for them until nearly seven o’clock, then I started back. It was not safe, in those days, to be out after dark. As it was, I went on foot, wheeling my bicycle by a way that I knew—not along the main roads at all. It was this that led to my capture. Had I gone by the road, one or other of the Maquisards who had been posted there would have stopped me. As it was, I got back to the farm unobserved and was immediately taken by the Germans, who were waiting there hidden. One does not complain. That was how it went, in France, in those days. You turned to the left, and you lived, you turned to the right and you died. One could not foresee everything.”
“Yes.” Macrea took a quick look at the jury to see what they were making of this.
“Now, mademoiselle, let us turn to your stay in England. You came here in 1947?”
“That is right. In May of 1947.”
“After the death of your child.”
“That is so. I came here to find work. I was fortunate to find a job at Monsieur Sainte’s hotel.”
“You were happy there?”
“As happy as I could be anywhere.”
“During that time did you make efforts to contact Major Thoseby?”
“Yes. Many efforts,”
“Can you give us your reason for this?”
“Certainly. It was through Major Thoseby alone that I could hope to find Julian Wells.”
“Could you be more explicit about that?”
“Major Thoseby was of your Intelligence Service. His work in Germany was concerned with tracing the victims of the Gestapo. He was my friend. It was natural that I should turn to him.”
“Quite so. And did he help you?”
“He did what he could. Toward the end, I must admit, I felt that his efforts on my behalf were becoming less.”
“Why do you suppose that was?”
“I think he was more and more convinced that Julian was dead.”
“You mean he had found no trace of him in the Gestapo records?”
“No trace at all.”
“Did you think Lieutenant Wells was dead?”
“I knew he was not.”
“You
knew
he was not. Did you have any evidence?”
“No evidence at all. It is a thing one feels.”
“Very well. Now what happened in March of this year? We have heard that Monsieur Sainte received a letter from Major Thoseby.”