A Matter for the Jury (22 page)

30

21 June

Martin Hardcastle checked
into his room at the George Hotel in Huntingdon at about 4 o'clock on Sunday afternoon, the day before the trial of Billy Cottage was due to begin. He was aware that Ben Schroeder and Barratt Davis were not planning to arrive until early evening, bringing with them all the case papers and a supply of notebooks and pens. He preferred to establish himself in his room before they arrived, so that he could make the arrangements he needed to make with the hotel staff without the risk of being overheard. A young man called John was assigned to carry Martin's bags and robes upstairs to his room. Martin had requested this particular room because it was situated at the far end of the corridor, to the right on the first floor of the hotel. As a result, instead of overlooking the High Street or the courtyard, the view was limited to a short terrace of rather ugly cottages on George Street. The view was of no concern to Martin Hardcastle. What mattered was that he was away from the hustle and bustle of the hotel, the endless comings and goings of guests and staff.

John was 18 years of age. He had short ginger hair and an unprepossessing appearance. His nose was short and stubbed and his face had not yet quite shed the last pimply blotches of adolescence. He was slightly built, but the effortless manner in which he carried heavy items up and down the steep staircase bore witness to a strength which the awkward angular shape of his body did not suggest. John trained hard in his spare time. He was a promising amateur inside right, and still harboured dreams of playing at a higher level. Martin noted the strength as he watched John carefully deposit the bags by the large wardrobe which stood against the wall opposite the bed.

John was turning to leave. Martin already had the ten pound note in his hand and, without actually offering it, was making no effort to conceal it.

‘The name's John, is it?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘How long have you worked at the George, John?'

The answer appeared to require some thought. ‘About a year, sir.'

‘A year. I see. Then you probably know by now the importance of discretion. You look like a trustworthy young man to me. Can you be trusted to be discreet, John?'

John grinned. ‘Yes, sir.' It was true. John had kept quite a few secrets during his time at the George, all related to finding people in rooms who should not have been there and who, when found, were not wearing much by way of clothing. And at his football club he was practising discretion by keeping quiet about the thing between his coach and the centre half's wife, which was now entering its second season.

Martin extended his arm slightly, bringing the ten-pound note into clearer view. John could not keep from grinning.

‘I know what you're thinking. But it's nothing like that, I assure you. What I would like from you, John, is room service. I shall take my breakfast and dinner in my room each day during my stay, and I should like you to bring my meals to me. In addition, I will sometimes require a bottle of Bell's whisky, for which I shall pay in cash. I require a bottle this evening, and there may be other evenings when I require the same. In addition, I require that you bring it to me without attracting any attention either to me or to the bottle. Finally, I require your discretion in not answering any questions you may be asked about me, by other members of staff or anyone else, and in reporting to me any questions that are asked. I have a number of associates who will be checking into the hotel later. Naturally, I will spend some time downstairs with my associates, and I will be in and out of the hotel during the day. Do not pay any special attention to me at those times.' He paused. The grin had vanished. ‘Do you understand everything that I have said?'

‘Yes, sir.'

Martin extended his arm fully, proffering the ten pound note. John's hand closed around the note but, as he tried to pull it towards him, Martin tightened his grip.

‘One moment,' he said. ‘This is for you, and there will be others where that came from, but first I need to know whether we have an agreement.'

John put a finger over his lips. ‘Yes, sir. We have an agreement.'

Martin smiled brightly and released his grip on the note.

‘Excellent.' He reached into his pocket for a further note. ‘Then you may bring the bottle now, and I will arrange dinner later.'

31

22 June

‘Where's my main
barrister?' Billy Cottage asked. It was a reasonable question. Billy had met his QC only once, on the occasion of a conference at Bedford Gaol.
Barratt Davis had assured him repeatedly that Martin Hardcastle would be fully attentive to the case. Yet, here he was at the Huntingdon Summer Assize; his trial was about to begin; and so far he had seen only his junior counsel and his solicitor. It was not helping that the cell in which Billy was confined was small and claustrophobic. It was on the outside wall of the building in a small corridor at the rear of Court 1. Paul, the usher, who liked to think of himself as a friend and confidant of Ben Schroeder and Barratt Davis now that they were in their second trial in his court, had cleared the corridor for them so that they could confer with Billy through the bars, and not make matters worse by crowding into the cell.

‘Mr Hardcastle will be here shortly,' Barratt replied.
‘It's the first day of the assize and he has a ceremonial duty to perform as Queen's Counsel.'

‘The assize begins with a service at the parish church,' Ben added, ‘with everyone in full regalia. After the service, the judge processes across the square to the court with his chaplain, the mayor, the sheriff, and Uncle Tom Cobley and all. The judge asked Mr Hardcastle to join the procession. As a QC he could not really say “no”. There's nothing unusual about it. There is always a lot of fuss on the first day of the assize.
Don't worry, he will be here to see you once all that is over. The trial won't begin straight away, in any case. There are some more ceremonial things to do in court, and then the judge has a plea of guilty to deal with, and a civil matter which has settled. They also have to sort the jury panel out, so it will be some time before they are ready for us. I know it's not very comfortable here. It's an old building…'

Billy had stopped listening.
His understanding of the world had reached its limits with all the talk of church services and full regalia, processions in which his QC was obliged to join with his judge, the mayor and all the rest of them. These were things which did not impinge on his world. His only previous experience of court was his appearance before the magistrates, which had lasted less than half an hour. What had this to do with a trial in which they would decide whether or not he would hang? For that matter, what did Ben Schroeder's wig and gown have to do with it? It was all a million miles away from the Fenstanton lock. The lock, he understood – understood it better than any man living. He understood Eve and he understood his house.
Beyond those limits he was a stranger. And being a stranger was an uncomfortable feeling. All he wanted was to get back to his lock and his house; to get back to Eve. Why couldn't they just get it over with instead of having services and processions? He had been waiting months already. Get it over with. Suddenly those words brought back the reality of his situation in sharp focus. His vision narrowed. He started to sweat and felt faint. He sat down on the narrow bench at the back of his cell.
It seemed to have become darker, and the old refrain filled his head again…

When I was bound apprentice in famous Lincolnshire,

Full well I served my master for nigh on seven years

‘Let's see if we can get him some water', Barratt said. ‘I will be back in a moment, Billy. Sit forward and hold your head down as low as you can between your hands.'

‘Do you think he will be all right in court?' Jess asked.

‘He will have to be. It's always the same in a case like this. They sit in jail pretending it's never going to happen, and then, suddenly, one day it does. The reality hits them. We will take care of him, Ben, if you want to go outside to wait for Martin.'

Ben nodded and they walked together along the short corridor to the door which led out into the foyer of the Town Hall. Barratt turned to speak to the two prison guards who had taken up their positions outside the door at Paul's request. Ben saw a familiar figure in wig and gown looking through a window at the front of the building, as if to see whether there was any excitement in the square yet.
He smiled and walked over to Andrew Pilkington.

‘Andrew. I see you are prosecuting me again.'

Pilkington turned with a smile. He cut an elegant figure. Well over six feet in height with piercing blue eyes, he eschewed the standard barrister's three-piece suit with its inhibiting waistcoat in favour of a black double-breasted jacket and dark grey trousers with the suggestion of a white pinstripe.

‘Indeed I am. Ben Schroeder. The rape case at the Bailey
, wasn't it? What was his name?'

‘Harry Perkins.'

‘Perkins, that was the chap. And you got him off after telling Milton Janner to bugger off and stop interrupting you. I've been dining out on the story ever since. So has the judge, I believe. How are you, Ben?'

Ben laughed. ‘Very well, thanks. I'm not planning on doing anything similar in this case. I have leading counsel to make sure I don't misbehave – or get out of my depth.'

‘Ah yes, the formidable Martin Hardcastle, no less.
Where is Martin? Not running late, I hope, if you know what I mean. You'll have to keep an eye on him, Ben, you know.'

‘As a matter of fact, Andrew, at this very moment he is attending church, fully robed and ready to process across the square with the judge.'

‘Really? Well, good for him.'

There was a silence.

‘I didn't know they let you Treasury Counsel types out of the Old Bailey to visit the provinces,' Ben said. ‘Are you being led, or are you on your own?'

Andrew took a deep breath. ‘I'm flying solo. I've done several capital murders as junior, led by more senior Treasury Counsel. But this is the first time they have let me loose on my own. It is easier away from home, and they thought this case
… well, you know…'

‘It's a strong case,' Ben interjected. ‘Yes, I know. You don't have to tell me.'

‘Even I shouldn't mess this one up,' Andrew added.

‘There's no question of your messing anything up, Andrew,' Ben smiled. He was remembering Andrew Pilkington's grasp of detail and his pleasant, understated, but precise manner with witnesses and the jury – a potentially lethal combination. ‘And I'm sure they know that about you already. They wouldn't have sent you otherwise.'

‘Thank you for the vote of confidence, Ben,' Andrew replied, returning the smile. ‘I hope I can live up to it. I don't expect you to hope for that, needless to say.' He turned back towards the window. ‘Oh, look, I think the procession is getting ready for the long trek. I am seeing a number of people in very silly fancy dress.'

* * *

Mr Justice Lancaster was not particularly fond of pomp and ceremony. Before his appointment as a judge of the Queen's Bench Division of the High Court some seven years earlier, Steven Lancaster had practised in Silk at the commercial bar. He accepted a judicial appointment at the third time of asking. On the first two occasions he had declined because, having two sons still at expensive schools, he preferred to avoid the reduction in income that the judicial salary would entail. But on the third occasion, the Lord Chancellor made it clear that the offer would probably not be made again, and he duly accepted the reduced income, albeit with the considerable compensation of the prestige of the High Court and a knighthood. He accepted the complicated formal dress as part of the job, though he was sure that, without his clerk Simon, who had a thorough understanding of such mysteries, he would never have sorted out the various robes appropriate to criminal and civil cases, summer and winter sittings. Simon could be relied upon to have the correct dress laid out for him in his Chambers, whether in London or on circuit. Like most High Court judges, when he was first appointed, Lancaster's knowledge of criminal law was almost non-existent. It was a field into which most likely candidates for the High Court bench rarely strayed. But, unlike many of his colleagues, instead of trying to bluff his way through until he got the hang of it by sheer dint of experience, Steven Lancaster took a more practical approach. At his first sitting in a criminal case, which happened to be at the Old Bailey, he called counsel into his Chambers, admitted his almost complete ignorance of criminal law and practice, and asked for their help. It was given without hesitation and induced respect, rather than contempt, in the eyes of the barristers practising before him. Within three years, he was generally held to be as good as any judge of the Division in criminal cases.

It was still a bit of an ordeal getting dressed up in his formal robes, including full-bottomed wig, tights, and black buckled shoes, and walking in procession in public. But at least at Huntingdon the walk across Market Square was a short one, and once in court he could revert to his everyday robes, shorter wig, and normal footwear. He had already sat through a rather tedious service in a chilly All Saints Church, and listened to the traditional sermon on the virtues of justice given by his chaplain for the assize. As he waited for the procession to form, he felt some impatience. He knew, of course, that a capital murder case awaited him. He had dealt with such cases before. He had no particular views for or against capital punishment in principle, though he was sceptical about its claim to act as a deterrent. The persistently constant murder rate seemed to suggest that it was not.

On the other hand, perhaps there was a certain justice about it. But the physical reality of it all disturbed him. The process of pronouncing the death sentence wearing the black cap was grotesque, its effect on the defendant and his family devastating. Facing a man he was to sentence, knowing that he would almost certainly be dead within a few weeks, was something no judge relished – even though the public and press sometimes entertained speculations to the contrary – and most were heartily glad when the moment passed and they could escape from the bench to the sanctuary of their Chambers. He forced his mind away from the subject while he waited. At last they were ready.

Philip Eaves, acting today as clerk of assize, led the way in
formal morning dress, bearing a box perched on a small cushion. The box contained the Queen's Commissions of Assize, Oyer and Terminer, and Gaol Delivery, which authorised the judge to sit on circuit. Behind Eaves walked the chaplain in clerical garb; behind the chaplain, the High Sheriff, wearing a morning coat resplendent with medals, breeches and buckled shoes, a ceremonial sword hanging from his belt on the left side; behind the Sheriff, Simon in morning dress; behind Simon, Mr Justice Lancaster in his summer criminal robes. Behind the judge came the Mayor of Huntingdon, wearing his chain of office and, behind him, the Town Councillors. Behind the Councillors walked Martin Hardcastle, Queen's Counsel, fully robed. Uniformed police officers flanked the procession on both sides.

As the judge entered the Town Hall, Ben and Andrew bowed respectfully. Martin Hardcastle detached himself from the procession and walked over to join them. Mr Justice Lancaster was conducted to his Chambers, where someone from the office was making him a nice cup of tea.

Martin nodded briefly to Andrew.

‘Pilkington, a word outside, if you please. Schroeder, would you please go into court and make sure that our instructing solicitor has brought all the necessary papers with him? Please make sure you have all the documents in place in front of you to hand to me when needed. Mr Davis may place my brief, unopened, in my place on the Silks' bench.'

Smiling, Andrew raised his eyebrows towards Ben.

‘Certainly,' Ben replied. ‘Are you coming to see Mr Cottage before we begin?'

Hardcastle waved the question away.

‘Later. I have a number of matters to discuss with Pilkington and I am not sure how long we may have before the judge is ready to start the trial.'

He placed an arm around Andrew Pilkington's shoulders and ushered him quickly outside. Turning to make his way into Court 1, Ben saw Martin light a cigarette as he stood close to Andrew, the two engaged in an animated conversation. In court, Barratt Davis and Jess Farrar were unpacking the documents from the boxes in which they had travelled and placing them on the second row, reserved for junior counsel, and the third row, in which they would sit. The courtroom was a hive of activity. The public gallery was filling up, resulting in constant movement and a hubbub of conversation. Simon, assisted by the High Sheriff's secretary, was busy arranging the judge's papers on the bench. Philip Martineau, prosecuting solicitor for the County, was talking to a representative of the Director of Public Prosecutions. Paul was conferring with Philip Eaves, who was doing his best to talk to him while at the same time tying the ribbons of his bands securely behind the back of his head. Counsel appearing in the matters listed before the trial of Billy Cottage were jealously guarding the small space they had been able to claim in counsel's row as Philip Martineau and Barratt Davis gradually encroached on it with their mountain of papers. The courtroom looked as though it had shrunk, and had suddenly become very small.

‘He wants his brief placed, unopened, in front of his place in the Silks' row,' Ben said, with more than a hint of frustration.

‘I know,' Barratt replied. ‘I've been through this before with His Majesty. Where is he, by the way? I thought the procession had finished.'