The reporters had gone back to talking amongst themselves, and in front of her the barristers were unpacking heavy files and law books onto the long tables at which they worked. To Miles’s left a tall, distinguished-looking man in wig and gown was listening to the police officer, Detective Sergeant Hearns.
They made a strange pair, thought Greta. Hearns in his ill-fitting suit and kipper tie standing almost on tiptoe to whisper what he wanted to say to the barrister, who leaned slightly to his left, allowing Greta to see his profile: the long, thin face and the aquiline nose. This must be the man that Miles had told her about, John Sparling, counsel for the prosecution.
As usual Hearns was waving his crude, stubby-fingered hands about for emphasis. Greta remembered this irritating habit from the interview that she had had to undergo with him before she was charged.
“I put it to you, madam, that you’re the brains behind this conspiracy,” he had said then.
“The éminence grise, Mr. Hearns?” Greta had asked, resorting at last to sarcasm.
“Don’t bandy foreign words with me, madam,” he’d countered. He had always addressed her as madam; never Greta or Miss Grahame. Perhaps that was something they’d taught him at the training college. Interrogation techniques for aspiring detectives.
“This is a very serious allegation, madam. A lady is dead and I’m putting it to you that you’re responsible.”
“And I’m putting it to you that you’ve been reading too many detective stories.”
And so it had gone on. Hour after hour in the dingy police station in Ipswich. At least she wouldn’t have to hear all the interviews played back. Miles had managed to agree with the prosecution that a summary would be read to the jury at the end of their case.
Greta pulled her mind back to the present. Hearns had finished putting whatever he had to put to Sparling, and as the lawyer turned back to his papers, his eyes met Greta’s for a moment. She could not read his expression. It was distant but knowing, cool but penetrative. She shivered.
A loud knocking on a closed door to the right of the judge’s chair brought everyone in the court to their feet. Immediately the door opened and His Honor Judge Granger swept in, preceded by the court usher. He was an old man with only a year or two left before his retirement, and yet he carried himself ramrod straight. His threadbare wig was perched forward on his head above a pair of bushy eyebrows. His face was very lined and his cheeks were sunken, but his bright gray eyes told a different story. They seemed as if they belonged to a much younger man as they darted around the room taking in everybody and everything before he gathered his black robes about him and sat down heavily in his high-backed chair. There was a shuffling and scraping as everyone else in the courtroom including Greta followed suit, but she was only allowed to remain seated for a moment.
The clerk of the court, dressed also in wig and gown, rose to his feet.
“The defendant will stand.”
Greta did so.
“Are you Lady Greta Robinson?”
“I am.”
Greta tried to keep her voice up, but the words that came from her lips sounded small and distant. Not how she wanted them to sound at all. She needed to remember what her elocution teacher had taught her before she came south. “Projection,” it was called. She hadn’t worked as hard on that part of the course, as her attention had been focused on changing her accent – losing the thick northern vowels and replacing them with the long
a
’s and
o
’s of the British ruling class.
The judge had heard her answer, at any rate. He treated her to a half smile and gestured downward with his hands.
“Sit down, Lady Robinson. Sit down.” His voice was surprisingly high, and its almost feminine tone was accentuated by the courtesy with which he always spoke. Loudness and rudeness formed no part of Judge Granger’s judicial vocabulary.
“Now, Mr. Sparling.”
The counsel for the prosecution got slowly to his feet. “Yes, my Lord.”
“What about bail?”
“There are conditions of residence and reporting, my Lord.”
“Reporting, Mr. Sparling?”
“Yes. On Wednesdays and Saturdays to Chelsea Police Station.”
“Well, I don’t think we need persist with that now that the trial is under way. Residence should be quite sufficient.”
“Very well, my Lord.”
“Now, there is one other matter that I want to raise with you both at this stage, gentlemen. I’ve been looking at these photographs.”
“Of the house, my Lord?” asked Sparling. “Or the victim?”
“Of the victim. There are five, I believe. Showing these very dreadful wounds. Now, I can’t see any need for them to be shown to Lady Anne’s son. The medical evidence is agreed as I understand it. Death occurred as a result of two gunshot wounds to the shoulder and the head, with the second shot being fired at close range.”
“That is correct, my Lord,” said Sparling. “The photographs will be given to the jury during my opening statement this morning, but the Crown will not show them to Thomas Robinson, who will by agreement be giving evidence last.”
“Oh, why is that, Mr. Sparling? He should surely be your first witness.”
“Ordinarily, yes, my Lord, but the Crown wishes to give him the maximum time to recover from the events of the fifth of July. Your Lordship has seen the new statements?”
“Yes, I have. Well, I suppose that does seem sensible in the circumstances. Now, Mr. Lambert, about these photographs.”
“I won’t show them to Thomas Robinson, my Lord,” said Miles Lambert, rising from his seat and pushing the table back a few inches as he did so in order to make room for his ample stomach.
“There is one matter of admissibility on which we will need your Lordship’s ruling,” added Miles, “but that is perhaps better done before Detective Sergeant Hearns gives his evidence.”
“Yes, Mr. Lambert, I agree. Let’s press on. Miss Hooks, we’re ready for the jury now.”
This instruction was directed at the court usher, a diminutive lady less than five feet tall. She looked out on the world distrustfully through an enormous pair of black-framed glasses with thick lenses that seemed to cover almost half her pinched little face. Her black gown fell almost to the floor, and Greta feared for a moment that she might stumble over it as she moved as quickly as her small legs could carry her toward the door in the far corner of the courtroom behind which the jurors were waiting.
The strangest thing about the jury was their lack of strangeness, Greta reflected, as each of the twelve stood in turn to swear or affirm that he or she “will faithfully try the defendant and give a true verdict according to the evidence.”
Here were her judges. A motley assortment of men and women plucked at random from the capital’s population. An Indian man with a turban and another without. An Italian in an expensive suit, who she caught out of the corner of her eye giving her an admiring glance. Two middle-aged ladies with big hair and large busts on either side of a young man in a crumpled T-shirt with a picture of Kurt Cobain on the front. An Asian girl with a tiny voice, who had to be made to take the oath twice because nobody could hear her the first time round. Four other men of nondescript appearance, who would hopefully have Greta’s pretty face well in mind when it came to reaching their verdict; and finally a woman in her forties, who looked exactly like Margaret Thatcher might have looked at that age if she’d had short black hair and worn a trouser suit. She took the oath in a determined voice that made everyone in the courtroom sit up while she held the Bible above her right ear, in the manner of a president on inauguration day.
The names of the other jurors had flown past unnoticed, but Greta caught this one as it was read out by the clerk: Dorothy Jones. Greta thought that there was nothing Dorothy-like about her at all as she extracted a black pen from her clutch handbag and tapped it menacingly on the table in front of her.
In the well of the court John Sparling allowed a half smile to momentarily crease his thin lips. Here was a juror who wouldn’t have trouble obeying his instruction to put all pity and sympathy aside in her search for the truth. She’d be like a hound on the trail of a wounded fox when it came to that task.
To Sparling’s left, Miles Lambert moved his bulk uneasily about on his chair as the Indian man without the turban stood up to take the oath. He didn’t like the look of the woman in the trouser suit. The rest seemed all right, and he’d gotten what he wanted with eight men to four women, but the Margaret Thatcher look-alike would no doubt try to take over and get herself elected as forewoman before the day was out.
Miles knew the type, and he thought nostalgically of the good old days when the defense had the right to get rid of up to three jurors for no reason at all. Now there was nothing one could really do unless the jurors knew the defendant or one of the witnesses. It was one area in which Miles felt that the American system was decidedly better. He’d have liked nothing better than to cross-examine this Jones woman about her beliefs and prejudices, but still it wasn’t to be, and she was only one of twelve. Perhaps the men would rebel and elect the youth with the grungy T-shirt to chair their deliberations.
“All sworn, my Lord,” said the usher in the shrill voice of those who go through life suffering from an incurable doubt that people won’t hear what they are about to say.
The jury settled themselves in their chairs and looked up expectantly at the judge, but it was the clerk of the court who claimed their attention. He rose to his feet holding up a piece of paper.
“The defendant will stand.”
It was the second time the clerk had said these words. The third time would be for the jury’s verdict.
Greta stood, holding herself steady with her hands resting on the brass rail of the dock.
“Members of the jury, the defendant stands charged on indictment 211 of the year 2000 with one count. That between a date unknown and the thirty-first day of May 1999 she did conspire with persons unknown to murder Lady Anne Robinson. To this charge she has pleaded not guilty, and it is your task having heard the evidence to say whether she is guilty or not.”
Guilty or not. Guilty or not. Guilty or not. Greta held hard to the rail as the courtroom suddenly swirled in front of her and the words echoed in her mind. Her trial had begun.
Chapter 7
JUDGE GRANGER allowed his eyes to travel down the two rows of jurors as they shifted in their seats, still trying to adjust themselves to the formality of the courtroom and the stress of taking the oath.
Lord knows what petty prejudices they brought into court with them, thought the old judge. What colored spectacles they used to view the evidence. He was glad he wasn’t able to hear the discussions that they would have shut up in their jury room, as it would only have made him want to interfere. And he had learned over the years that the best way to a fair trial was to interfere as little as possible. Juries weren’t infallible, but they were better than lawyers or civil servants, and they must be allowed to reach their own verdicts.
The judge turned his head toward the counsel for the prosecution and nodded imperceptibly.
John Sparling got slowly to his feet and gathered his gown about him.
“Good morning, members of the jury. Let me begin by introducing myself to you. I am John Sparling, and I am appearing for the prosecution in this case, and on my right is Miles Lambert, who is representing the defendant. She is sitting in the dock.”
Sparling paused after the word
dock,
on which he had laid a heavy emphasis, as if he wished to imply that that was where the defendant should be.
“Members of the jury, I am now going to open this case to you, and that has nothing to do with keys and doors.” Sparling laughed gently, eliciting the same response from several of the jurors. He knew the importance of making contact with the jury, and he never made the mistake of talking down to them, treating them instead with an unwavering courtesy. “No, the opening is designed to help you.”
Miles Lambert grimaced. Sparling always used this trick of portraying himself as the jury’s assistant helping them to reach the only possible verdict: guilty as charged.
“To help you to understand the evidence by giving you a framework within which to place it. This is particularly necessary because the Crown’s most important witness will be giving evidence last.”
Sparling did not say why. He did not tell the jury that Thomas Robinson was too traumatized to come to court to give evidence today. Instead he made it seem as if this were the Crown’s decision. To save the best for last.
“And so, members of the jury, let me tell you what this case is about. It is about an old house and the people who lived there. The House of the Four Winds was built in the sixteenth century and is famous for its rose gardens and an ornamental staircase that curves up from the front hall to the first floor above. The staircase is important, and I shall come back to it later.
“The house is on the outskirts of a fishing town called Flyte on the coast of Suffolk. The Sackville family have lived there for generations. Lady Anne Sackville was born in the house, and her mother had no other children. At about nine-thirty on the evening of the thirty-first of May last year she was murdered in the house by two men, who have not to this day been identified. The hunt to apprehend them continues.
“Lady Anne married Peter Robinson. You may have heard of him, members of the jury. He is now Sir Peter Robinson, and he is the minister for defense in the present government. They had one son, Thomas, who is now aged sixteen. You will be hearing from him next week.