City of Spades (22 page)

‘I don’t like that place. Everyone acts as if the wretched prisoner’s the only person there who doesn’t matter.’

The solicitor didn’t answer that, but said, ‘I wish your friend Miss Pace would hurry powdering her nose. I could do with a gin and orange.’

Crossing the corridor, Theodora was detained by a pale youth in a drape suit whose face was vaguely familiar. ‘Hullo,’ he said. ‘I let you in at Mr Vial’s party, don’t you remember? They call me Alfy Bongo.’

‘Oh, yes. Excuse me, please.’

‘I follow all Mr Vial’s cases whenever I can.’

‘Please excuse me.’

‘Just a minute, miss. You know your boy’s going down this afternoon?’

‘What do you mean – my boy?’

‘He is, isn’t he? I remember you two that evening. I know how you feel about him.’

‘Excuse me!’ She hurried on. He sidled after her. ‘There’s only one thing could help him, isn’t there.’ 

She stopped. ‘What?’

‘If there was some other woman to speak for him.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Someone like you who might have been his girl at the time they say he was poncing on that chick.’

Theodora looked at him intently.

The Inspector and the Constable were drinking Worthingtons in the saloon bar round the corner. ‘I was all right, then, sir? You’re not dissatisfied?’

‘All right for a beginner, Constable. Cheers!’

‘We’d never have had all this fuss if we could have kept it in the magistrates’ court.’

‘That’s out of our hands, lad, when the prisoner’s got the money. I wouldn’t worry about the result, though, and the sentence will be stiffer here.’

‘Why didn’t you just take him in for hemp, Inspector? That would have been more certain, wouldn’t it?’

‘Of course, but he might have got away with only a fine. Even with magistrates, you can’t be sure.’

‘I didn’t like the defending counsel. He’s murder.’

‘I’ll get that degenerate one day, if it’s the last thing I do.’

The court jailer, who’d heard how the case was going, was not quite so nice to Johnny. ‘Here’s your dinner,’ he said, handing him a paper bag.

‘I want no dinner.’

‘You’d better get into the habit of doing what you’re told, you know. It might come in handy after this evening.’

‘He’s being awkward,’ said the Brixton warder. 

Theodora dragged Mr Zuss-Amor away from Montgomery into the private bar. ‘At this stage,’ she said, ‘can we call any further witnesses?’

‘We could if we had one who’s of any use … Why?’

‘I’ve been Johnny Fortune’s mistress.’

‘Go on!’

‘I saw him during the time they say he was with that woman, and gave him money, and looked after him.’

‘Yes …? Now look, Miss Pace, it’s nice of you to think of trying to help him. But can you expect me to believe that – let alone a jury?’

‘I’m pregnant by him.’

‘Oh. You are? No kidding?’

‘Oh, don’t be so stupid and familiar! I tell you I’ve seen the doctor!’

‘Have you!’

‘I love Johnny – can’t you understand? I want to marry him.’

‘You do?’ The solicitor shook his head dubiously. ‘And you’re prepared to swear all this in court – is that it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well … I’ll have to see Mr Vial and hear what he thinks.’

‘Hurry up, then.’

‘You’d better come with me. He’ll want to question you a bit.’

When the trial resumed, Mr Vial asked the judge’s permission to call another witness. ‘I apologise, my Lord, to you, and to my learned friend, for any apparent discourtesy to the court. The fact is that 
my witness, who is, as you will see, a person of irreproachable character and reputation, has felt hitherto a quite understandable reluctance to appear in a case of this description; but since the evidence she will give—’

‘Is this a woman, then?’ said the judge.

‘Indeed, my Lord.’

‘I see. Go on.’

‘Thank you, my Lord. Since, as I say, the evidence she will give, with your permission, will be of capital importance in establishing the innocence of the defendant beyond all possible doubt, she has felt it her duty – greatly, I may say, to her credit – to overcome any natural scruples and appear before the court.’

‘Have you anything to say, Mr Gillespie?’ asked the judge.

‘Not at this juncture, my Lord. I think any observations I may wish to make would best be kept until I have an opportunity of hearing this witness, and of cross-examination.’

‘Very well, Mr Vial.’

Theodora entered the box and took the oath. She looked firm, tranquil, dignified and womanly, though with a slight hint of the repentant sinner.

Mr Vial quickly established that her name was Theodora Huntington Pace, her age twenty-eight, her state a spinster, and her occupation that of Assistant Supervisor of Draft Planning at the BBC. She had known the defendant since the previous summer, when she first met him at an interview in connection with his 
participation in a series of radio programmes. ‘Please continue, Miss Pace,’ said Mr Vial.

‘I got to know Mr Fortune very well,’ she said, in steady, almost semi-official tones. ‘I grew to admire his qualities of character and intelligence, and soon became very fond of him.’

‘And this feeling of yours, Miss Pace. It was reciprocated?’

‘Yes,’ said Theodora. ‘I think it was.’

‘Please tell the court what happened then.’

Theodora slightly lowered her voice, and looked up steadily. ‘I became his mistress.’

‘I see. And then?’

‘I asked Mr Fortune to come and live with me, but he is very independent by nature, and preferred we should have separate establishments.’

‘And during the period that we have heard about in court this morning. You saw the defendant?’

‘Frequently.’

‘And is it not a fact that you were able to help him financially when this was necessary?’

‘I know Mr Fortune comes from a substantial business family in Nigeria, and that he would have no difficulty in calling on them for money if he needed it. He is, however, I’m sorry to say, something of a spendthrift …’ (she paused slightly) ‘… and on occasions when he was hard up I had no reluctance whatever in lending him whatever money he might want to tide him over.’

‘So that during the period in question, he was in no need of money?’ 

‘Why should he be? No. He had only to come to me.’

‘Thank you, Miss Pace.’

Mr Gillespie got up.

‘Miss Pace,’ he said. ‘In view of what you have told the court this afternoon, why did you not come forward this morning to speak for the accused on this very serious charge?’

Theodora glanced towards the dock, then said quietly:

‘Mr Fortune forbade me to.’

‘He forbade you? Why?’

‘He wished to face this charge alone. Knowing his innocence, and being sure of an acquittal, he did not wish my name to be mentioned in any way.’

‘I see, I see. And now he’s
not
so sure of an acquittal – is that it?’

‘I heard Mr Fortune giving evidence this morning. English is not his mother tongue, and an African has greater difficulty in expressing himself clearly than many of us realise. With this language handicap I didn’t feel he was doing his case justice, and I therefore felt I ought to appear myself, even if against his wishes, to tell the court what I knew.’

‘Did you, Miss Pace! Then please tell my Lord how you account for the fact that if the accused, as you say, had only to come to you for money, he chose to live with a prostitute in an East End slum?’

‘Mr Fortune, as I have said, is a very independent man, and preferred to live his Bohemian student life in a quarter inhabited largely by his fellow countrymen. He told me, of course, of his staying for a while in the
same house as this woman – which he regarded as an interesting way of catching a glimpse of the seamier side of London life.’

‘So this man, who has admitted he was a penniless labourer, prefers living in squalor with a prostitute when he has a rich mistress willing, and no doubt anxious, to accommodate him at any time?’

‘I need hardly say that I would have preferred him to live in more conventional surroundings.’

‘With you, in other words.’

‘Yes.’

‘But he didn’t. Miss Pace: you have heard the accused admit that he had intercourse with this woman. Did you know of this?’

‘No. I expect he was ashamed to tell me of this momentary lapse.’

‘I expect so, indeed. How old did you say you were, Miss Pace.’

‘Twenty-eight.’

‘And the accused is eighteen?’

‘Nineteen, now.’

‘Is there not a considerable discrepancy between your ages?’

‘Yes, unfortunately.’

‘And you ask us seriously to believe—’

The judge leant forward. ‘I don’t wish to hinder you, Mr Gillespie. But as the witness has admitted her relationship with the defendant, I really don’t think you need press this point any further.’

Theodora turned towards the judge, and said softly, 
‘I am pregnant by him, my Lord. I hope to marry the defendant.’

The judge nodded slightly and said nothing. He turned to Mr Gillespie. ‘I have no more questions, my Lord,’ said the Crown counsel.

Theodora left the box, and the two lawyers addressed the jury.

‘You must not attribute,’ said Mr Gillespie, ‘any undue weight to the testimony of Miss Theodora Pace. Remember that this woman who admits – indeed, I should say, glories in – an illicit relationship with the accused, is no doubt under the domination of her obsession. Keep firmly in your minds, rather, the contrast between the evidence you have heard from the two police officers, and that of the accused himself. If there may be, in the evidence of these officers, some slight discrepancies – of which my learned friend has naturally tried to make the most – you must surely conclude that the evidence of the accused is totally, utterly incredible. It simply cannot be believed! No, members of the jury: your duty in this matter is quite clear. Banish from your minds any thought that a verdict against the defendant might be imputed to anything in the nature of racial prejudice. In a British court, all men are equal before the law: and if you believe the defendant to be guilty, as you are bound to do, you should return a verdict in that sense with the same impartiality as you would show were he a fellow citizen of your own.’

To which Mr Vial, raising himself like Moses bringing down the tablets from the Mount, rejoined: 

‘My learned friend has asked you to discount the evidence of Miss Theodora Pace. But is her testimony not supremely to be believed? Here is a woman – a courageous woman, I would say, whatever you may think of her moral conduct (which is not what is on trial today) – who is prepared to risk – possibly even to sacrifice irrevocably – an honoured and established position in society, to bear witness to the truth, whatever the cost! Is this mere infatuation? Is this what my learned friend has called the consequences of an obsession?

‘But even more to be believed – yes, even more – is the evidence of the defendant. My learned friend has told you that this evidence is “incredible”. But is it? Is it incredible? I have no small experience of hearing witnesses in court, and from this I have learnt one important lesson.’ Mr Vial, who contrived to speak not like an advocate, but like the impartial spirit of justice itself, now looked very grave. ‘Only a too fluent witness, members of the jury, is to be mistrusted! Only a story that has no flaw – one which the witness, or witnesses, have carefully manufactured, polished and rehearsed – is likely to be untrue. Did you not notice – and were you not impressed by it? – that the defendant at no time sought to deny facts that might have seemed prejudicial to his case? Did you not hear how he freely admitted to some few, small, discreditable facts because he knew, in his heart of hearts, that on the major issue – the essential issue you are called upon to decide – he was without guilt of any kind?’ Mr Vial stood a second, hand raised aloft. ‘The defendant was an angry witness, members of 
the jury! He was angry because he is honest: he is honest because he is innocent!

‘Have a care how you deal with John Macdonald Fortune! This young man is a guest among us, who possibly has behaved foolishly, as young men will, but who has not behaved dishonourably. In this country he is a stranger: but a stranger who, coming from a country that is British, believes he is entitled to receive, and knows that he certainly will receive, that fair treatment and equal justice from his fellow men and women which has always been the glory of the British jury.’

Mr Vial sat down. The judge, his moment come at last, began his summing-up.

When he recapitulated the case of the prosecution, which he did in meticulous and admirably balanced detail, the case for the prosecution sounded quite unanswerable; but when he came to recapitulate the case for the defence, this case sounded quite unanswerable too. It was, in fact, impossible to tell what the judge thought, or even what he recommended; though he did, at one point in his dry, interminable, penetrating survey of the evidence, look up a minute at the jury and say this:

‘I need hardly remind you, I suppose, that you should attach great importance, not only to the substance of the evidence that has been put before you, but equally to the demeanour of the witnesses, and to the force, the weight, I might say, of the actual words they used. Now the defending counsel, you will remember, asked the accused at one point’ (the judge consulted his notes) ‘if he had ever lived off the immoral earnings of any woman. To 
which the defendant answered in these words: “Never. Never would I give my blood to such a person. Never.”’ The judge blinked at the jury. ‘You will have to decide whether these words which the defendant used convey to you the impression of veracity … of authenticity …’

When the judge finished – rather abruptly and unexpectedly – the clerk put the fatal question to the jury. After some slight muttering, they asked if they might retire.

‘Will you be very long, do you think?’ the judge asked the foreman.

‘There seems to be some considerable disagreement, my Lord,’ the foreman answered, glancing round at the eleven.