“Certainly.”
“Attractive enough to live with?”
“I have said so.”
“On very short acquaintance?”
“Yes. Julian had a nature very sympathetic to a woman.”
“Why do you say
had
?”
“Monsieur?”
“You spoke in the past. I understand that it is your belief that he is still alive?”
“Yes. I do believe that.”
“Then why did you speak of him in the past?”
“I was confused.”
“It would not be true to say that you have exaggerated the incident of your brief acquaintanceship with Lieutenant Wells out of all proportion. That you have made all sorts of suggestions
knowing very well
that he is dead and cannot refute them?”
“Certainly not.”
“In order to conceal your very real and very unhappy relationship with Major Thoseby?”
“That is untrue.”
“Yet you admit that you do not know why you wanted to see Lieutenant Wells?”
“There was some doubt in my mind – at the last.”
“I see. Very well. We will leave it at that. Now on the day of the murder, you saw Monsieur Sainte and he told you that Major Thoseby was expected at the hotel?”
“Yes.”
“There seems to be some doubt as to whether or not he told you that Major Thoseby might be there in time for dinner?”
“There is no doubt in my mind.”
“Very well. We will say that there are two versions of what occurred. It is not in dispute that you decided to take your evening off, as usual?”
“That is so.”
“We have heard that you went to the cinema. By the way—” Mr. Summers’ manner was a shade overcasual—“perhaps you would tell us what film you saw?”
“I did not go to the cinema.”
“Oh, indeed. I believe Mr. Macrea stated—” Mr. Summers ruffled his papers.
“I did not say that I went to the cinema. Usually I went to the cinema. On that night, not.”
Macrea said something testy to Mr. Rumbold, and scratched a note on his brief.
“Then perhaps you would tell the court what you did do.”
“I had dinner first, at La Coquille. I did not hurry myself. It was after nine o’clock before I finished. Then I walked.”
“Where did you walk to?”
“I do not know.”
“Do you mean to tell the court that you have no idea where you went?”
“In London I never know where I go. When I have finished walking I take a bus back to somewhere I know.”
“I see. Why did you have this sudden desire for exercise?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Can you tell us why you took this walk?”
“Because I wished to think.”
“About what?”
“About what you have already questioned me – whether I still wished to marry Julian.”
“Stalemate,” said Macrea, who had been placidly watching this conversation come round in a circle. “She’s a beautiful witness, isn’t she? I wish she’d told me about the cinema, though.”
“At what time, then, did you get back to the hotel?”
“At half-past ten.”
“Who did you see when you got back?”
“Camino the waiter.”
“Did you say anything to him?”
“I may have said good night.”
“Nothing else?”
“I cannot remember saying anything else.”
“Isn’t that rather extraordinary?”
“I am afraid I do not understand you.”
“Did you not ask whether Major Thoseby had arrived?”
“No. I cannot explain why, but I did not.”
“Then I repeat my question. Is not that rather extraordinary?”
“Perhaps it seems so. I imagine that I thought that if he had arrived Camino would have told me.”
“You imagine that you thought . . . that is a very qualified answer, mademoiselle. Can you not be more precise?”
“I am sorry.”
“Would it not be true to say that you were determined at all costs
not to know
that Major Thoseby had arrived?”
“I do not understand.”
“Is that not why you went out – although he was expected that evening. Why you took care to arrive back
exactly at half-past ten.
Why you deliberately said nothing to Camino?”
“You are inventing.”
“I am making a suggestion.”
“It is not true.”
“Very well. Some ten or fifteen minutes later one of the bedroom bells sounded. A telltale dropped in the indicator board?”
“Yes.”
“Showing that the occupant of Number 34 bedroom required your services?”
“Yes.”
“You say that until that moment you had not known that Number 34 bedroom was occupied?”
“I have said so. That is correct.”
“If it had been occupied – earlier in the evening, I mean, before you went out – you would have known about it?”
“Certainly.”
“Then you knew that during your absence a guest had arrived?”
“Yes.”
“One guest only?”
“Yes.”
“Did it occur to you that it might be Major Thoseby?”
“At the time, no.”
“Is not that rather extraordinary?”
“I cannot explain the workings of my mind.”
“You knew Major Thoseby was expected. You had been trying to see him for years. You were eagerly looking forward to his arrival. During the greater part of your evening you were thinking, as you admit, of matters connected with him. When you came back, you find that a guest –
one guest –
has arrived.”
“Yes.”
“And you wish the court to believe that it never occurred to you that it might be Major Thoseby?”
“I can only say – that is the truth.”
“Hm! Very well, mademoiselle, what happened next?”
“I went upstairs.”
“Yes.”
“I knocked on the door. There was no answer. I knocked again and went in. I saw Major Thoseby.”
“You recognised him at once?”
“Certainly. He was lying on the floor, his head was on one side. I could see his face.”
“I see; and then?”
“Then I believe I screamed.”
It was late in the afternoon when Macrea rose to re-examine. The lights in the court had not yet been turned on, and in the lengthening shadows the observers in the gallery thought that his face looked unusually grim.
“Just two or three points arising out of my learned friend’s questions. You said that you were in some doubt as to whether you still wished to marry Lieutenant Wells?”
“Yes. I said so.”
“However, that is not, I take it, the same as saying that you were in doubt as to whether you wished to meet Major Thoseby?”
“Certainly not. Him I was always anxious to see.”
“I mention this because the two things seem in danger of becoming confused. Your immediate wish was to see Major Thoseby?”
“Yes.”
“And to have a few words with him?”
“I wished to know what he had found out. I understand that this time his information would be definite. What has happened to Julian? Whether or not he was still alive?”
“Quite so. And having got this information – if his information was that Lieutenant Wells was alive, and that you could see him – then you could make up your mind whether or not you really wished to take any further steps?”
“Yes.”
The crime reporter of the
Banner
was a sharp and observant young man. It occurred to him at this point that Macrea was being unusually heavy-handed. Not only this, it occurred to him also that he seemed to be doing it on purpose. The point he was making was not a very profound one, and yet he was dragging it out as if—
Almost as if he was waiting for something. Something unconnected with the cross-examination.
With this idea in his mind he allowed his eyes to stray round the body of the court and he was thus the only person to see exactly what did happen.
A whispered confabulation at the door, the quiet entry of a woman. Nothing very remarkable about her. A plain good-tempered face, brown hair, light eyes. Not unlike the prisoner, he thought. She had a boy with her. A child of about five. At a word from the attendant, a space was made, and they sat down quietly together on the end of the front bench.
“I have one more matter to put to you.” Macrea had drawn himself up and his voice had changed. It was no louder, but it had the clean edges of a word of command. He held all eyes for a moment.
“In cross-examination it has once again been suggested that Major Thoseby was the father of your child?”
“That is not so.”
“The father was Lieutenant Julian Wells?”
“Yes.”
“Mademoiselle. Is there anyone in court that you recognise?”
There was a moment of complete silence. By some instinct all eyes seemed to turn towards the newcomers. The boy, frightened by the sudden attention, caught hold of the arm of the woman beside him.
“Jules.” It was the faintest whisper. “Jules.”
The prisoner swayed for a moment. Then she seemed to be trying to leave the witness box.
A wardress laid a hand on her arm.
Then she started to scream.
“I have closed the court, Mr. Macrea,” said Mr. Justice Arbuthnot, “in order that your explanations, if any, may be given to myself and the jury alone. If they are not satisfactory, I shall have to consider whether it is not my duty to empanel a new jury and take the case again.”
“My lord—” began Macrea. He sounded contrite but not overwhelmed; it was in cases like the present that his long career of legal guerrilla stood him in good stead. “My Lord, I am very glad that you have decided, in view of this interruption – may I say, the
quite unforeseen
interruption – to take this part of the hearing
in camera.
It will allow me to explain very much more fully than would perhaps have been the case in open court how the recent unfortunate occurrence came about.”
“Very good, Mr. Macrea.”
“I trust,” said Claudian Summers waspishly, “that the explanations will not prove more irregular than the circumstances that have given rise to them.”
“I can assure my learned friend,” said Macrea, “that anything I may say now could properly be put in evidence and will be so put if his lordship rules. My meaning was that this evidence closely concerns the private life and happiness of a third party who has no direct connection with this case. I am, therefore, glad that the opportunity should be given to discuss it, first, in closed court.”
“On those grounds then—” said the judge.
“My lord. One of the greatest difficulties which the defence has laboured under in this case – I have touched on it before – is that an allegation has been made which we believe to be false but which we have no normal method of disproving. The alleged motive here turns entirely on the parentage of a dead child. The prosecution says that Major Thoseby was the father. The defence says Lieutenant Julian Wells. That is the matter in a nutshell. Unfortunately one of these men is dead, the other has disappeared. The child is in a French grave. All ordinary methods, therefore, of proving or disproving this allegation fall to the ground. The prisoner, of course, gives her testimony and states that the father was Lieutenant Wells. I do not expect this to carry much weight, since, whichever way you look at it, she is bound to be a biased witness.
“What must the defence, then, do? Admit the damning suggestion? Or use every legitimate method of casting doubt on it?
“You will have noticed that in my cross-examination, I put to every witness who was likely to have knowledge of the matter, the following proposition. In your opinion was Major Thoseby a man to have immoral associations with women? You heard the answers. A clear negative in each case. On the other side of the proposition, evidence was harder to come by and was bound to be a delicate matter to produce. But I was convinced that Lieutenant Wells was the type of man who is, by nature, a pursuer of women. A lady has come forward – and it is a great credit to her that she has done so – and she is prepared, if your lordship rules her evidence to be admissible, to tell the court that she was living with Lieutenant Wells shortly before he left this country for France. I hope that her name will be withheld from the press reports and that she will be given the protection of the court. If it is thought desirable, I am ready to produce a
second
lady who will also testify to a similar course of conduct on the part of Lieutenant Wells.”
“By this testimony, Mr. Macrea,” said the judge, “are you hoping to establish the positive proposition that Lieutenant Wells was a man who was inherently likely to have immoral relations with any woman he met?”
“Yes, my lord. I am hoping to establish that, and something further. I am hoping to show that a certain type of woman made an especial appeal to him. A type which I should describe as a small brunette, of pleasant rather than aristocratic features. A type, may I add, to which the prisoner demonstrably belongs.”
“I do not know what Mr. Summers has got to say about all this,” said the judge doubtfully.
“With respect, my lord,” said Mr. Summers who was clearly bursting to say a good deal, “I think the proposition is nonsensical. I do not think that the dictates of passion can be classified in any such analytical way. You cannot lay it down that certain types of men appeal to women, or that certain types of women only appeal to certain men.”
“My learned friend is oversimplifying my proposition,” said Macrea. “I do not think that the physical type of the man has anything very much to do with the matter. I do not believe, for instance, that women are necessarily attracted to a man because he is large, strong, athletic or superficially handsome. Indeed, if we may judge by some of the notorious lady-killers who have from time to time come before the criminal courts of this country, they were often small, timid-looking, sometimes rather effeminate men. Possibly such a type arouses some maternal instinct in women which later turns to passion when it is reciprocated – I do not know. What I am certain about is this. A man either is or is not a ‘lady’s man.’ Further, if he is, then human nature being what it is, his friends will know about it. You will recollect I put precisely this point to two witnesses. And you will remember their answers. The English witness agreed with me. The Frenchman did not. I must confess that I prefer the English viewpoint. It may well be that Frenchmen are more reticent than we are in affairs of the heart. I simply do not believe that any Englishman will be a ‘squire of dames’ without his friends knowing all about it.”