Paradise Court (29 page)

‘Easy, take it easy.' Duke slammed the chair through the double doors at the back of the courtroom, to the sound of the gavel rattling down on to the desk and to the rising consternation of spectators in the gallery. Duke leaned his head back against the closed door. It had been too much to expect. ‘I'm sorry I put you through that, mate,' he said.

Robert sagged forward in his chair, hot tears stinging his eyes.

‘A pity,' Mayhew said to Sewell, shuffling papers into order on his desk. ‘If he could just have kept his temper . . .' The gamble hadn't quite paid off. He cast a cool eye over the jury to assess the effect of Robert's outburst, getting ready to repitch his summing-up speech. Meanwhile, Forster was making his own last push.

The jury heard again the mountain of evidence pointing to the guilt of the accused; the time, the opportunity, the motive, the forensic reports. They would recall the words from the accused's own lips: ‘I never meant to do it', and his intense secrecy after the event, so clumsily covered up by the sister, Jess. It was a poor defence, was it not, to simply ‘forget' one's exact movements in the room where the murder occurred, but it was the typical defence of a guilty man, not too bright, who saw all the fingers of accusation lining up ready to point in his direction.

Forster polished off his final speech with a common-sense touch, a sad but true tone which spoke regret that these things happened
when men of this type were pushed beyond their limit. Nevertheless, a conviction was imperative. ‘Despite your inevitable softer feelings of sympathy, gentlemen, which are perfectly natural when you see the distress of the accused as he sits in the dock listening to horrific accounts of his own actions, do not lose sight of the decision you must reach.

‘Do not believe, as defence counsel would have you believe, that Ernest Parsons is incapable of committing this crime. They say he is a simple man, unable to negotiate the streets of London alone. Certainly, he is simple, but not incapable, as we have seen from the testimony of Mr Henshaw. No, Ernest Parsons can hold down the very sort of job which requires detailed knowledge of these streets, as Henshaw's errand boy. Moreover, we are sure that he harbours the ordinary feelings of men towards the gentler sex; this much is clear. Those feelings include possessiveness and jealousy, do they not, gentlemen? No, you may discount the view proposed by Mr Mayhew that this is a saintly simpleton, a kind of divine idiot. This is a man; a man who snapped, who killed in a frenzy the woman whom he loved “not wisely but too well”. Can there be any reasonable doubt left in your minds that this is so? And likewise any hesitation that this man must pay the ultimate penalty which the law demands? Your duty is not a pleasant one, gentlemen. No man here says that it is. But it is plain, and it is a duty which we must carry out without flinching, in the name of justice: We must find the defendant guilty as charged.'

There was a terrible hush in the courtroom. Forster's speech was delivered watertight. It sent hopes spiralling down in the public gallery. It numbed the Parsons women, so that Mayhew's own summing-up speech had to beat its way with heavy wings through the gloomy atmosphere of the court.

He must rely on the unblemished family history, he must recall for the jury the whole-hearted support showered on the accused by his own family and community, not least from the mother of the supposed victim. ‘An unprecedented thing, in my experience,' Mayhew said. ‘A brave and selfless act by a woman who has suffered
much, yet driven here by her belief in the innocence of the man whom the prosecution would hang.

‘He sits before you, as he has sat through all these long weeks in prison, more boy than man, in utter sorrow and confusion. He denies nothing that is true, yet he does deny this brutal murder. His statement takes you as far as his own memory can possibly take you, and what this amounts to is that he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. As a result, his entire world collapsed, wiping out any observation of detail which might have helped him escape this charge; a shadow in a corner of the alleyway, a struggle overheard, a name called out in terror.' Mayhew's gaze raked the courtroom and the gallery, seeking out the guilty name to no avail.

He lowered his eyes to the jury once more. ‘No one can deny the hideousness of the crime you have to consider; the brutal murder of a beautiful and defenceless young woman by a man without a conscience, a man sufficiently cool and cruel to let another stand accused here, who would let
his
blame hang the man who stands before you now. Two victims of one crime, gentlemen; consider that. The shadow of doubt looms large under the hangman's noose, and so it should, for this is an irrevocable act. This is a decision which may colour the rest of your lives.'

‘Look around this court, gentlemen, and let your gaze rest on Ernie Parsons. Study him.' Mayhew led them with a gallant gesture to where Ernie sat looking at his sisters with a fixed stare, waiting for them to tell him what to do next. ‘This man is no liar, this man is no murderer. He is simply trapped by circumstance.' His final appeal was low, almost inaudible to all except the jurors. ‘For God's sake, gentlemen, release him from that trap, and find him not guilty!'

Forster turned to his own assistant, as Mayhew returned, head bowed, to his seat and the jury received the judge's directions. ‘Heart versus head,' he said drily. ‘Let's see which way they swing now.'

When word came back that the jury had reached a verdict, Sewell
took Duke aside one last time. ‘There is a procedure,' he warned. ‘In all these cases it is the same.'
‘The black cap? Is that what you're getting at?'
‘Yes. Innocent or guilty, the cap will be there in readiness. You mustn't jump to conclusions.'

Duke nodded. ‘I'll tell the girls,' he promised as they took their places in court. The unreality of the occasion was only heightened by speaking of these things, when in truth he thought his heart must stop dead at the awful irresistibility of it all.

The jury returned to complete silence, each man in procession, his gaze set straight ahead, tight-lipped, narrow-eyed. They sat as three loud knocks announced the re-entry of the judge. The Sheriff and Mayor followed in robes of crimson and ermine. An official carried the square of black cloth ceremoniously outstretched, and last of all came the chaplain, all in black.

Then Ernie was brought up from the cells into the dock. He looked anxiously for Duke, found him in his usual place, and fixed his eyes upon him.

The thing was played out in a daze. They knew in their hearts by the grim, fixed look of the foreman what the verdict was to be.

At last the clerk to the court cleared his throat. ‘How do you find the defendant?'

‘Guilty, m'lud.'

A scramble began in the gallery. Reporters left to be first on the telephone to their editors with the news. Uninvolved spectators nodded and drifted off into the next courtroom. Friends stood stock-still. The morbid hung on for the last details.

Judge Berry placed the cap on his head. It was over. He was satisfied, reciting the words which sealed the man's fete.

‘Taken from this place . . . Eight o'clock on the fifth day of January 1915 . . . hung by the neck until you are dead . . . and may God have mercy on your soul.'

Ernie was taken stumbling from view, and life lurched on around the vortex, the black certainty that he was to die.

Mayhew came to shake hands with Duke. He felt it had come about partly through lack of other suspects. ‘There's a strong urge to convict when public opinion is roused. They need to blame someone, and of course we were unable to implicate anyone else.' He shook his head. ‘I am truly sorry, Mr Parsons.'

Duke couldn't trust himself to speak. The girls wept and clung to one another. Robert covered his face with his hand.

‘Can I see the boy?' Duke said at last, turning to Sewell, who went off to arrange it.

Maurice came down to help Jess and the women. Walter came for Robert. Annie sat in the rapidly emptying gallery next to Florrie and Dolly. She'd sent Tommy off home with the news, and now she turned to comfort Duke's sister. ‘You go ahead, have a good cry, girl.' The old woman's stricken face streamed with tears. Annie put an arm around her shoulder.

Florrie choked back the tears, for the family's sake. She didn't want to make a fuss. ‘Only, when I think what they're gonna do to Ern, it breaks my heart!' she wailed, overcome once more.

Annie drew a sharp breath. ‘Don't say that, girl. I can't bear it.'

And it was Dolly's turn to put her strong arms around skinny Annie and let her weep.

Duke was taken along dark, bare corridors to the cells below the courtroom. Two warders guarded the door to Ernie's cell, and they
avoided the father's eyes as he was silently marched inside the room. One officer remained there with them.

The boy seemed bewildered. He sat hunched over the table, hands clasped. He looked up at Duke in mute appeal, then turned away. At last he realized that even Duke couldn't help him now. For the first time in his life, Ernie recognized the limits of his father's power; up till now he'd thought he was invincible.

The turning away was too much for Duke. He stood by the door immobile, as cold as stone. In that windowless room, where condemned men accepted their fate, the electric light glared.

Ernie looked back and saw his father's weariness; the shadows on his face, his weakness and age. He got up and approached him. ‘Don't worry about me, Pa. Tell Ett I remembered my prayers. Tell them all to come and see me.'

Duke nodded. ‘We'll be there, mate.' He held his son close to him. ‘We won't let you down.'

The weeks in prison had taught Ernie new rules. You did as you were told and never spoke your fears. He glanced at the warder. ‘I gotta go now, Pa.' He began to ease himself free.

Duke released him. ‘We never let you down, did we, son?' He wanted to be able to walk out with Ernie's trust restored.

‘You never, Pa. I let myself down. I never remembered, what happened to Daisy. I think I should've.' Ernie had walked across to the warder, but he turned again for a moment. ‘That's right, ain't it, Pa? I should've remembered?'

Duke nodded. ‘I know you tried, Ern. But it ain't easy for you, and it don't do to think of it now.'

Ernie shook his head. ‘Would it've helped her? Would my remembering wake her up?'

‘No, son, but we could've helped you.'

Ernie sighed. ‘I'm sorry, Pa.'

‘Don't be, Ern. What's done is done.'

The boy bowed his head and submitted to being led away. Another warder came in for the old man, gave him one brief, sympathetic glance, turned and took him off up the corridor, up the stone steps
back into the courtroom. Duke heard heavy doors slam and lock. They battered his heart with grief and loss.

There was no cheer in the court as Christmas week drew near. People drifted in and out of the Duke, but they lost their natural rhythm when talking of Ernie and the terrible outcome in court. Some, like Arthur Ogden and even Syd Swan, refused to mention it at all, though it must have preyed on their minds.

When Syd took Amy out to the Gem in the week after the verdict, her heightened sense of drama made her want to chatter to Syd about the awful prospects facing Ernie now; the hangman's noose and the condemned man's last request before he went to meet his Maker. Syd refused to listen, as he ushered her through the shiny doors, relieved when their turn came up at the ticket office and they could sidle in for the latest Keystone adventures. Amy was all very well, but she never knew when to stop. Maurice Leigh watched them take their seats without his usual courteousness, and at home, later, he openly warned Amy off her association with Swan.

Dolly Ogden treated the subject of Ernie with an outpouring of powerful sympathy. She went the opposite way to Arthur and Syd, but her interest wasn't prurient, like Amy's. ‘You come and tell that girl how sorry you are,' she chivvied Charlie. ‘You gotta act like a man. They need all the help they can get these days.'

So Charlie went up to the Duke and asked to see Sadie. He was shown up to the living room, where the women sat. He said his awkward sentence, cap in hand, aware of the inadequacy of the words. He wondered for a moment if Sadie would turn on him.

But Frances thanked him for her, and said they appreciated his coming. It was a kind thought. Sadie sat in a chair by the fire, looking young and lost.

‘Is there anything I can help with?' he faltered.

Sadie looked up at him through her grief.

‘I don't think so, Charlie,' Frances said softly. ‘But we're very grateful for the offer.' She showed him downstairs and closed him out of their misery.

If Dolly talked too much, running through the trial time after time with Flo at the bar, pouring out venom against Forster and the prosecution witnesses, it was accepted in good spirit and taken as a sign that Dolly realty did care. In one way, Flo was glad to talk about things. She trod on eggshells around the place herself, now that the verdict had sunk in, not knowing how anyone was going to react in the long run. ‘I went up the Post Office and telephoned to my Tom,' she told Dolly. ‘He couldn't hardly believe it, said for me to save the newspaper account for him to read, but I told him I couldn't bear to have it near me. Not with the things they write!'

The
Express
had followed up its early reports on the case with an expression of righteous indignation on the subject of lawlessness and the evil of wrongdoers such as Ernest Parsons, who made it unsafe for respectable women to walk the streets at night. They looked forward to his punishment with ghoulish pleasure.

‘Don't take no notice,' Dolly consoled her. Florrie's flamboyant style had taken a knock this last week. Her rouge was put on crooked, her black hair showed grey at the roots. ‘They can write what they like, no one round here thinks he done it!'

Florrie raised her pencilled eyebrows. ‘Thanks, Dolly.' In private, she thought the touching faith might make things worse. She heard Sadie sobbing her heart out night after night, and Hetties prayers, and Jess questioning everything, urging Frances to work on Sewell for an appeal. Florrie sighed. ‘We're worn out with worry, I don't mind telling you.'

To make things worse, she had noticed a severe falling off in trade at the pub, since the government had decided to restrict opening hours for the duration of the war. It was to encourage sobriety and to concentrate people's attention on the war effort, but Florrie's point of view was that folk needed to drown or share their sorrows up at the Duke. She worried about the empty bar stools and full barrels in the cellar, the dwindling takings in the till. But she wouldn't trouble Duke with it, as Christmas approached, and the dreaded New Year.

Annie was one of the customers who stayed loyal, and she dealt
with Duke in a dear, matter-of-fact manner which encouraged him to talk things through. ‘Ain't no need to put on a show for me, Duke,' she advised. ‘I don't expect it.' A couple of draymen had just finished rolling fresh barrels along the corridor to the cellar, and Duke had helped heave them on to the gantry. Now he stood at the window watching the men jump on to the cart, raking up the reins and positioning the splendid shire horses, ready to set off and merge into the busy traffic on Duke Street. He didn't shift position as he felt Annie come up alongside.

‘Will they get rid of them in the end and all? What do you think, Annie?'

‘What you on about?'

‘The horses. Will they put them out to grass and go for the motor car?' He watched them take the strain and lift their huge hooves. They were great dappled grey beasts, with creaking leather straps, silver bits, golden brasses.

‘Not before you and me are six feet under, if you want to know. I say they can keep their electric tramcars and their motor omnibuses for all I care. No, them drays is a sight for sore eyes, and they'll see us out, Duke.'

‘I hope you're right.' He seemed happy to reminisce, briefly caught up in the shallows of memory, ignoring the approaching tidal wave. ‘My old man brought us up over a carter's yard up in Hackney. Did I ever tell you that, Annie? There was one old grey in the yard, a bit like them two out there, and we called him Major, and my pa would hitch him up to a cart of a Sunday and take us kids out in the country for a day, riding back high on a load of hay, just smelling the sweet smell of the countryside all the way between the factory walls, down the cobbled streets back home. I could lie on that hay at the journey's end and stare up at the stars. Then Ma would come out with a face as long as a poker and shout where the bleeding hell did we think we'd been. I remember once Pa told her we'd stopped for a dog that he ran over on the road. He tried to save it, but it was too far gone. He had to bury it. Ma said never mind burying no stray dog, our bleeding supper was
burnt to cinders. She made us pay for that day out, make no mistake.'

Annie smiled. ‘We never got no days out in the country when we was kids. My old man was a bootmaker, and poor as a bleeding church mouse, with eight mouths to feed.' She stared down at her old standbys. ‘That's why I knows a good pair of boots when I sees one.'

‘Ain't it time you gave those up to the rag-and-bone cart, Annie?' Duke turned and frowned down at Wiggins's ugly legacy.

‘Waste not, want not, I say,' came the gruff reply. Then she drew a small, slim wallet out of her pocket and showed it to her friend. ‘Now look here, Duke, I had an idea what Ernie might like.' She opened the small brass clasp on the blue velvet wallet. It opened to reveal a concertina of small, framed photographs. ‘I went up and down the court and I asked your girls and all, and they dug out a photograph for me, and I stuck them in here so we could get Ernie to remember that all the folks round here are thinking of him and praying for him. What do you think?' She handed the album across. ‘I know he ain't one for books or letters, or nothing like that. But I thought he might like photographs. He can sit and look at his friends in a picture, can't he?'

Duke studied the brownish photographs. There was Tommy O'Hagan standing behind his fruit barrow, a grin splitting his face. There was Charlie Ogden on the back row in a Board School picture, with Sadie, neat in her white smock and black buttoned boots, sitting cross-legged at the front. There was a hand-tinted, glamorous head and shoulders one of Amy. Frances had provided a photo of the whole family, taken four or five years earlier, of them standing on the front doorstep of the pub. Ernie stood in the centre of the group, between Duke and Robert. And Mary O'Hagan had given up her favourite picture of Daisy, onstage, with white flowers in her hair and a sparkling laugh lighting up her face.

Annie grew uneasy at the long silence. ‘If you think it'll only upset the poor boy, I'll take it back,' she suggested.

But Duke shook his head. ‘It's just the thing, Annie.' His voice was hoarse. ‘I'll take it in to him tomorrow.'

Now Hettie prayed fervently each morning and night, and went over to Lambeth to see her Army friend, Freda Barnes, as often as she could. Freda still helped to run the industrial home, dishing out soup and blankets to the poor creatures who came in off the streets at night. She was a plain-featured, grey-eyed woman in her mid-thirties, broad-faced beneath her navy bonnet, very down to earth and not at all smug. She encouraged Hettie to throw in her lot with them. ‘“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”' Hettie clung to her belief, seeing that it bolstered Ernie in his hour of need. She even invited Robert to attend an Army meeting with her.

Robert went once, but he preferred his old haunts. He allowed Walter to wheel him down to the gym, where Milo devised some weights which Robert could lift from a sitting position in his wheelchair, and a special punch-bag to exercise with. The hospital hoped he would soon progress from chair to crutches, and they promised an eventual artificial limb which would restore him in many ways to his old lifestyle. He worked at his recovery with fierce fanaticism. Nothing, nothing in life could be as bad for him as being treated like a cripple. They looked down at him in a wheelchair, and saw him as something less than human, so his pilgrimage took him through terrible pain on to crutches, too soon, and with several relapses before he could stand face to face with the next man once more. Now they admired him at the same time as they shied away from him. His experience was too raw, too recent, and he raged against each day as it brought him closer to the one set for Ernie's execution.

Maurice came in whenever he could, and took over some of the heavy tasks in the pub which Robert had once helped Joxer with. It gave him time with Jess, when the doors were closed and she came down into the bar, sometimes with Grace, sometimes alone.

She'd relented in this run-up to Christmas over her intention to keep her life with her baby daughter separate from her life with
her lover. Maurice was especially tender after the verdict. She decided to trust him with getting to know the child.