Fog of Doubt (25 page)

‘Why not?' said Mrs. Evans, sharply. ‘Why shouldn't they convict him?'

‘Well, I thought you just said that you didn't believe he did it?'

‘My dear child, who on earth cares what
I
believe? I'm not on the jury, am I? And, after all, as you yourself say—who else?'

‘As far as the jury's concerned,' said Melissa, ‘anyone else. The jury don't know anything about the rest of us.'

‘They've all been reading the papers all this time. I know they're told to “put it out of their minds”, but after all, of course they can't really do that; I mean, they can't just forget that the police from the first were convinced that it wasn't an “outside job”, they can't just forget how few people that leaves in! And they must have read about Thomas being charged and released, and about me having arthritis and not being able to hit people over the head, worse luck; so that only leaves you and Matilda. And they know all about your alibi with that Belgian prince or whatever he was; no, he was a Pole, wasn't he?—or wasn't he? He never did turn up, did he?'

Melissa swung round on her, violently. ‘What do you mean by that?'

Mrs. Evans looked blank. ‘My dear child, what is the matter? I only said …'

‘If the police accept my alibi …'

Mrs. Evans sat for a long, long minute in silence staring down at the little, sparkly stones. She said at last, slowly: ‘I've been trying to think, Melissa, why I should have thought for a moment that that man was a Belge. I've remembered now: it was Raoul Vernet,
wasn't
it, who was a Belge? Everyone always goes on as if he'd been French, but he wasn't, he was a Belgian. He came from Brussels, he was on his way there when he died.' And she put out her hard old hand and caught Melissa by the wrist and said, ‘
When
was it you were at your finishing school in Brussels, my child?'

A uniformed arm pushed open the glass swing-door of the courtroom; a voice cried: ‘Next witness: Miss Melissa Weeks.…'

The light in the wooden canopy over her head turned Melissa's smooth hair to a casque of shining bronze. Devoid of other armour, she took refuge behind it, drooping her head so that the burnished sweep of it covered half her face; her voice was an almost unintelligible whisper, she clutched at the wooden ledge of the witness-box with shaking hands. Self-consciousness run riot, thought Sir William irritably; he had only a few routine questions to put to her, she had been through it all before at least twice in the Magistrate's court. The judge, sorting through his box with a forefinger in search of a certain kind of pill, glanced up and said impatiently that the witness had nothing to be afraid of and she really must speak up. It was very important that they should all hear what she had to say. (Not that it is, he thought; the jury know the verdict already—and nothing she or anyone can say will change their minds.) Now—would she please turn and face that gentleman over there, and he would put his question to her once again and this time they
all
wanted to hear her reply. Sir William, infected by the prevailing desire for more noise, bawled out his question once more; and Melissa, thus harried, croaked out harshly that yes, she had heard voices in the hall and gone up from her basement flat and seen them all standing there, Dr. Edwards and Mrs. Evans and Rosie, all standing there looking down. And she had seen the body lying there on the floor, croaked Melissa, concentrating fiercely on making herself audible, only this time the feet were sticking up in the air and she realized that they must have turned him over on his back.…

The hush fell by degrees; as though touched by the wand of the wicked godmother, first counsel, then judge, then jury, witnesses, spectators, officials, the prisoner and his wardens in the dock were stricken silent and immovable, till at last, for a long moment, all was absolutely still. It was like the lull before an earthquake when all nature holds her breath in terrified anticipation of the violence to come: heavy, oppressive, menacing, interminable. And yet it ended; there was a sharp crack as the judge snapped-to the lid of his cheap tin box, and he leaned forward, over the arm of his chair and said in a voice almost as sharp as the crack of the box: ‘
What do you mean by “this time”? Had you seen it before?
'

Melissa stood shuddering in the little box, her white hands gripping the ledge, her face like a dead face, white and blank with wide-open, sightless eyes. Her mouth opened and shut but no sound came. She tried again, and her jaw chattered like the jaw of a cat, watching flies on a window pane; but she managed at last to splutter out a single word.

Yes.

Edwin Robert Edwards—
not guilty
of the murder of Raoul Vincent Georges etcetera, etcetera; for if Melissa had seen the body lying there before Tedward's car ever arrived at the house, then that was the end of the case against the accused.…

Both counsel were on their feet, looking for guidance to his lordship. He sat for a long moment looking down at the little box in his hand, and then opened it and replaced the digestive tablet. ‘Let the witness sit down and rest for a moment.' He motioned to the woman police officer, standing uncertainly on the steps leading up to the witness-box. ‘I daresay she would like some water—or perhaps you have something a little more stimulating …?' He swung round and hooked himself over the other arm of the chair. ‘Well, Sir William—this was
not
in the depositions?'

‘No, indeed, m'lord,' said Sir William ruefully.

‘No. The question now arises …' He leaned his chin on his hand and gave himself over to earnest consideration; but already his breakfast sat more lightly on that uneasy stomach of his, for the thought that he would not be called on to pronounce the death sentence on this sad-eyed man, who through the long hours had sat with bowed head and sagging shoulders in the dock before him.

Tedward's head was bowed no longer. He sat straight in his chair, his hands gripping the edge of the box, his eyes blazing in his haggard face. All about him the court seethed with the slightly hysterical excitement of those who rejoice in holy places. Tilda sat gripping Thomas's hand, trying to see over the edge of the dock, to signal her triumphant happiness to the prisoner there. The fashionable ladies could or could not see what on earth the girl had said that had made all this difference, and explained it to each other with greater or less sense, usually in opposite ratio to their greater or less sense of dress. Up in the gallery, a young man shoved his way through the protesting crowd and, his own face very white, stared down at the white face in the witness-box.

The consultation ended, Sir William shrugged and smiled a little ruefully again, and sat down. James Dragon rose to cross-examine. The Judge said: ‘If the witness would like to remain seated …? Would you like to stay sitting down?' In stalls and upper circle and gallery and pit, the audience settled back in their places in eager anticipation, for though the first act might have dragged a bit, the curtain had been terrific and now things looked like speeding up. Melissa shook her head mutely in response to the judge's invitation and got to her feet and, with the back of her hand, brushed aside her hair. It immediately fell forward, heavily, over her cheek again.

Mr. James Dragon. ‘Um—Miss Weeks: you say that when you came up and found them all standing over Raoul Vernet's body in the hall—that was not the first time you had seen it there? Is that what you say?

‘Yes,' whispered Melissa.

‘You had seen it there earlier?'

‘Yes,' whispered Melissa.

‘How much earlier? How long before?'

‘About two or three minutes.'

‘Can you tell us more exactly? Two minutes? Or three minutes?'

‘Three minutes,' whispered Melissa.

‘Perhaps you had better, just in your own words, tell us under what circumstances you saw this body in the hall?' He glanced at the judge and opposing counsel; you see, I can't extract it by questioning, his glance said—I don't even know myself what we're talking about. ‘Now—just in your own words.'

‘And I'm sure you will do your best to let us all
hear
your words,' said his lordship, benignly.

Melissa pushed back her hair again and lifted her head. ‘I—I came up into the hall.… No, first I went out to pool the dog. I went out by the basement door, by the garage in the front of the house. And then I went up to the hall by the basement stairs and I saw him lying there.' She stopped.

‘I see. He was lying there.'

‘Yes. He was lying on his face with his head towards the bureau, and one arm sort of still half-way up the bureau; it looked as though his feet had sort of skidded away from under him and he'd slithered down the bureau. He had the telephone receiver in his other hand. It was sort of lying outwards, on the floor.'

Counsel shifted about among his papers. ‘Perhaps, m'lord, the jury might see, er, Exhibit six; that's the police photograph of the body arranged as it was alleged to have been found. When the police saw it, of course, m'lord, it had been turned over.'

The jury were by now fairly well inured to photographs of Raoul Vernet's dead body and they passed it along the rows, earnestly studying it, two at a time, like people in church sharing hymn books. Allowing for a good many ‘sort of's', Melissa had described the position of the body accurately enough.

‘Very well; now, you'd come up from the basement (where as we've heard, your room is) into the hall? Why?'

‘Why?'

‘Yes; why did you go up just then?'

‘Well, I—just went up,' said Melissa. ‘I … Well, you see, I'd been pooling the dog and the dog wanted to go up. I expect he wanted to go to the kitchen; for a drink, he always wants a drink when he's been for a walk.'

‘Had you been for a long walk with him?'

‘Oh, no,' said Melissa, ‘only two trees down the road, the fog was too bad.'

‘I see. And he wanted a drink, so you were taking him upstairs to the kitchen?'

‘Yes; and when I got up to the hall—I saw—the dead body.'

‘Did you know it was a dead body?'

‘Well—yes,' said Melissa, shrugging doubtfully.

‘How did you know?'

‘Well, I suppose I couldn't know he was
dead
. I just—thought he was. He was quite still and his head was all—horrible.'

‘What did you do?'

‘I … Well, I went back downstairs,' said Melissa, whispering again.

‘You went back downstairs. All right, don't be frightened: we only want to know what happened. What did you do then?'

‘I was upset, seeing him there. And I couldn't have done him any good by staying,' said Melissa, beginning to bluster. ‘There it was, he was dead, and I couldn't do anything for him. At least, anyway, I thought he was dead. And in fact he was, because then Dr. Edwards came in and he said at once, “He's dead,” so he
was
dead.' She looked at Mr. Dragon quite triumphantly.

‘
You-heard-Dr.-Edwards-come-in
?' said James Dragon. He repeated it after her, slowly, in a voice that was almost terrible. ‘
You heard Dr. Edwards come in, and he said at once
, “
He's dead.
”' He paused. He said: ‘Well, now—who did he say that to?'

‘He said it to Rosie Evans,' said Melissa.

A long silence. James Dragon stood with his thumbs hitched into the sleeves of his gown and frantically searched his mind for discrepancies and snags that ought to be dealt with now. The Attorney-General leaned back with his hands in his pockets and Jingled through a last-ditch speech for the Crown. Melissa had been his own witness, he could not now turn round and cross-examine her; all that was left to him was to pour scorn on her story, when the time came for him to address the jury. ‘Friend of the accused—impressionable girl—case going against him—chance to assist—no one to contradict her—unsupported evidence—unlikely story.…' chattered the Attorney-General's Mr. Jingle; he added in a whisper to his junior that as a matter of fact there
were
bits of her story that didn't ring true. That drink for the dog.…

Mr. Dragon again. ‘Did you
see
Dr. Edwards and Rosie Evans?'

‘No, I was on the basement stairs; I was on my way down when I heard the front door, and I heard them come in and then he said that; and then I—well, I crept down, because I was too—too upset to face them then.'

‘And later you came up and pretended that this was the first time you had seen the body?'

‘Yes.'

(‘Case of Cox and Box?—man killed while she's out with dog—Edwards back to car to fetch Rosie—this girl pops up—
he
‘back with Rosie—
she
pops down.…?')

‘Now, Miss Weeks, just let's go back a little way. When you went out with the dog—was there a car outside the house?'

‘No,' said Melissa.

‘Can you be certain—considering the fog?'

‘Well, Dr. Edwards' car wasn't there if that's what you mean,' said Melissa. ‘It's supposed to have been across the entrance to the garage and that's the way I went, so I'd've bumped into it.'

‘And did you go straight upstairs?'

‘Oh, yes,' said Melissa. ‘I absolutely ran.' She added quickly that Gabriel, well, that was the poodle, had run up and she had run after him.

So not Cox and Box after all; for in that brief space, the accused could not possibly have committed the crime and gone back for the girl. If Melissa's story was true, the case for the prosecution had gone up in smoke.

If it was true.

‘Now, Miss Weeks, I want you to understand quite clearly that you need not answer any question which might incriminate yourself; you see, you've put us all in a very difficult position here, we don't know what we can ask you and what we can't; but if an answer will put you in the wrong, criminally in the wrong I mean, just don't say anything and I shan't press the question. On that understanding —can you explain to us
why
you have never told this story before?'