Take No Farewell - Retail (63 page)

It was a strange journey. Weaver instructed the driver to go as fast as possible, and so he did, yet our progress still seemed agonizingly slow. Dusk – slow to advance at first, then hideously swift – seemed to press in upon us. Little was said. Pombalho exhibited only bewilderment at what had occurred. Weaver, I suspect, was secretly appalled at how close he had come to contributing to the death of an innocent woman. And we were all painfully aware that we had yet to avert the ultimate catastrophe, that any hint of jubilation might yet prove premature
.

We had reached the outskirts of London by half past six, and had driven like fury to do so. But patchy fog slowed us from that point on, though mercifully it did not thicken into a pea-souper. Even so, it was gone seven o’clock by the time we raced up the stairs of the Home Office. Windrush was waiting for us, as was Sir John Anderson’s secretary, who issued a tart reminder that we were late before ushering us into his presence
.

Sir John is a lean, lantern-jawed, dark-haired man with deep-set eyes, in manner and bearing the very quintessence of the
inscrutable
civil servant. He received us with distant politeness, then listened quietly while Weaver said his piece. Also present was Sir John’s deputy, Blackwell, an altogether less restrained and tolerant character, who frequently interrupted to ask pointed questions. He laid great emphasis on the superficiality of our evidence and the irregularity of some of the steps Weaver had taken. Weaver countered with one doggedly expressed argument: he was only acting in such haste because of the imminence of an execution which he believed subsequent investigations would show to be unjust
.

After about half an hour, we were asked to withdraw whilst the two mandarins deliberated. At a quarter past eight, we were recalled. Blackwell announced that, in our absence, he had spoken to Wright by telephone in Nice. Gleasure had now been questioned and his belongings searched. He had admitted nothing. Nor had anything of a suspicious nature been found on him. In the circumstances, said Sir John, they had concluded the ‘so-called new evidence’ would not justify them recommending a stay of execution to the Secretary of State
.

I was too dumbstruck by the bland finality of this answer to speak. Windrush alone seemed in command of his faculties, pleading with them to re-consider. But they refused. A hint of something far nastier than inflexibility emerged when Blackwell grumbled that the production of ‘last-minute evidence’ amounted to ‘the tactics of coercion’, to which he did not propose to bow. Then Sir John cut him short. They were grateful for our efforts in the pursuit of justice, he said, but were unable to agree that what we had told them exonerated Mrs Caswell. She had been convicted after an exhaustive examination of all the available evidence and their confidence in that conviction was undimmed
.

We were, I sensed, rapidly approaching the point of being asked to leave when Sir John’s secretary came in to announce the arrival of Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett, hot-foot from Norwich. He stood next to me, breathing hard while Blackwell reiterated their decision. Then, without betraying any disappointment or anger, he asked if he might clarify certain points with them. Sir John assented. At this, Sir Henry suggested that Pombalho and
I
might like to wait outside. His smile of re-assurance left us no choice; we left
.

Within ten minutes, we were joined by Windrush and Weaver. The superintendent excused himself, saying he wanted to see if anybody over at Scotland Yard had spoken to Wright. Once he had gone, Windrush revealed that the discussions had taken a disputatious turn. Sir Henry was deploying his courtroom virtuosity, thus far to little effect. But the battle was not lost until it was done. So long as it continued, there was hope
.

Shortly before nine o’clock, Blackwell emerged with a face like thunder and vanished into the bowels of the building. That left the two knights to argue it out. And argue, ever since, they have continued to do. Windrush has muttered darkly about old differences re-surfacing, about the ghosts of other clients whom Sir Henry has lost to Anderson’s severity seeming still to stand between them. So much that should not affect such a decision now seems bound to. Anderson may suspect trumped-up evidence is being used to panic him into recommending a stay of execution, knowing how difficult it is to re-impose a death sentence once it has been lifted. He may be reluctant to appear irresolute so early in a new Secretary of State’s term of office. He may be unable to differentiate between stubbornness and caution. He may simply be incapable of admitting that he is wrong
.

I have no way of telling, of course, for I do not know the man. He is a stranger to me, as Consuela is to him. According to Windrush, his nickname within the Home Office is ‘Jehovah’. Never can it have been more appropriate than tonight, when he holds in his hands what, to my mind, no human should ever hold in relation to another: the power of life and death
.

The long night passed in a sleepless trance. I lay on the thin mattress in my cell, staring into the blackness above my head, thinking, imagining, visualizing – until I almost believed I could really see – Consuela, calmly counting away the final hours. But I could not see her. I could not hear or touch her. She was out of reach and would never again be within reach.

Breakfast – stale bread and a bowl of brackish coffee – arrived while it was still dark. From then on, it became impossible to pretend that the sky was not lightening. Dawn came, then full and implacable morning. The sun rose, stark and glaring, over Nice. The day gathered itself, pounced and rendered irretrievable what had merely been inevitable. I had no way of telling when it happened. I could neither sense nor calculate the moment of commission. Yet, at length, I realized that the counting must have stopped.

I had ceased to care whether it was morning or afternoon, had ceased indeed to think at all, when I was taken from my cell later that day and led to the interview room. Chief Inspector Wright was waiting for me. As ever, he was smiling.

‘Hello, Mr Staddon.’

‘What time is it?’

‘The time?’ He looked at his watch. ‘Why, it’s nearly twelve o’clock.’

It was over, then; long over. Already, they would have buried her in the prison graveyard and pinned a typewritten notice to the main gate, announcing what they had done.
We, the undersigned, hereby declare that judgement of death was this day executed upon Consuela Evelina Caswell
. ‘I hope you’re satisfied,’ I muttered, as much to those signatories I had never seen as to the man standing opposite me.

‘Oh, I am, Mr Staddon, I am.’ Still he was smiling. ‘Please sit down. I’ve something to tell you.’

Thursday, 21 February 1924 (11 a.m.)

I was too tired last night to write this postscript to yesterday’s events. Indeed, I am still tired now – more so, perhaps, than I should have allowed myself to become so soon after a bout of bronchitis. But I do not care, for my heart is lighter than it has been in months, my mind intoxicated with pure reviving joy
.

Shortly before ten o’clock last night, Sir Henry entered the room where we were waiting at the Home Office, smiled broadly and
said:
‘Gentlemen, I have good news.’ Sir John had surrendered. He had telephoned the Home Secretary to recommend a stay of execution. Mr Henderson had given his consent. And, even as Sir Henry was speaking, a messenger was en route for Holloway Prison
.

There was much shaking of hands and slapping of backs. Pombalho even went so far as to kiss Sir Henry. We were smiling and laughing. The miracle we had expected to be denied had been granted
.

Within minutes, my companions had set off for Holloway to share their jubilation with Consuela. I did not go with them. For me it was enough to walk out into the silence of Whitehall, to glance across at the Cenotaph and to know that the state would not be adding Consuela’s name to its list of victims. In that glad issue I rejoice
.

Chapter Twenty-Three

FOR A MINUTE
or more after Chief Inspector Wright had finished his explanation of Consuela’s reprieve, I stared at him in silence, disbelief tinging my delight. Then I said: ‘When did you know about this?’

‘Last night. Superintendent Weaver telephoned me from Scotland Yard with the news just after eleven o’clock.’

‘And you didn’t tell me? You just let me think it was going to happen – that it
had
happened?’

‘Yes.’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘I’m sorry to have left you in the dark. But it was necessary.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of Gleasure. We brought him in yesterday afternoon. As soon as I started questioning him, I knew he was our man. I’d thought you were, granted, but that’s all it had been: thought; guesswork; a balance of probabilities. With Gleasure it was different. It sometimes is, you know. You can just sense it, halfway between the brain and the nose. I suppose it ought to make a policeman’s job easier when that happens, and so, in one way, it does. But, in another way, it makes it more difficult. Because you have to do more than sense guilt. You have to prove it. And if you can’t, when you know in your bones it’s there, why, that’s the very devil, take it from me. All I had on Gleasure was what Weaver had: one pretty dubious witness to what might have been the theft of arsenic and a cache of letters providing a sort of motive. Too flimsy by far. But good enough, I’d assumed, for calling off
the
execution. When Weaver ’phoned me and said the bigwigs were digging in their toes, I was astonished. It meant we could be about to hang an innocent woman. So, I had Gleasure in again. It was late by then. Gone ten. Gone nine in London. He was still saying nothing. I tried the ploy I’d used on you about the guillotine and how he could dodge it by admitting to both murders. It didn’t wash. I didn’t expect it to. I realized from the first he was one of those it’d take days to wear down. But we didn’t have days. So, I told him we’d found arsenic in the turn-ups of his trousers. He knew I was lying. He’d been too careful to make a mistake like that. But he knew we could make it stick, knew – because I as good as told him – that I’d twist every rule in the book to nail him if he let Mrs Caswell hang. He was in two minds. I could see that. It’s what I’d hoped for. But he’s an obstinate blighter. I was asking for too much too soon. He was still recovering from the shock of being rumbled. He wasn’t ready to throw in his hand. In the end, I had to send him back to his cell.’

‘But then you heard about the reprieve,’ I put in. ‘Why couldn’t I be told?’

‘I didn’t tell anybody, Mr Staddon. I couldn’t take the risk that Gleasure might get wind of it. I’m sorry to have left you believing the worst, but I think you’ll agree it was worth it. Gleasure cracked, you see, as I’d hoped he would. At eight o’clock this morning, he asked to see me and said he was prepared to confess to the murders of Rosemary and Victor Caswell. He thought that by owning up in time to prevent the hanging he’d ensure he stood trial in England and earn some credit for saving Mrs Caswell’s life. Well, I let him believe the hanging was still due to go ahead and that, subsequently, it was only called off on his account. I haven’t told him the truth yet. I don’t know how he’ll react. Not that it matters. He’s signed his confession now. There’s no way back.’

‘He’s admitted everything?’

‘Yes. He gave two reasons. Firstly, he claims to bear you
and
Mrs Caswell no ill will. Secondly, he doesn’t want his accomplice to evade justice. I dare say he also hopes—’

‘He’s named an accomplice?’

‘With some relish.’ Wright grinned. ‘Why don’t you read his statement, Mr Staddon?’ From the valise beside his chair he drew a clip of papers and slid it across the table towards me. ‘I shouldn’t really show it to you, but we’re a long way from Scotland Yard and it seems only fair in view of what I’ve put you through.’ His grin broadened. ‘I think you’ll find it an interesting document.’

I, John William Gleasure, having been cautioned by Chief Inspector Wright that anything I say may be used in evidence hereafter, wish to make the following statement.

I have worked for the Caswells since 1891, when I started at Fern Lodge as a kitchen-boy. I was twelve years old then and Victor was twenty-three, just down from Cambridge and fretting at having to work for the family firm. I saw very little of him in the early days, but, whenever I did bump into him, he would have a kind word for me, which is more than I can say for any other member of the household. He used to tip me for polishing his boots with extra care. Later, he took to sending me on secret errands. Down to the betting shop, for instance, to put money on a horse. His father disapproved of gambling. If the horse won, Victor would give me something from his winnings. I liked him for that. I suppose you could say he was my hero.

In 1895, Victor was sent to Brazil to work for a bank. I found out later he had been sent away in disgrace, though only rumours of that reached the likes of me at the time. A few years passed, then we heard he had been sacked by the bank and had vanished without trace. Then, after a few more years, we heard he had reappeared, complete with a fortune made in the rubber trade. He returned to Hereford in 1908, bringing his beautiful Brazilian wife with him. By then, I was a footman working for his brother Mortimer, who had taken charge of the family firm when old Mr George Caswell
died.
Victor and his wife moved into Fern Lodge until they could find a suitable piece of land to build a house of their own on.

I was glad to have Victor back, unlike most of the household. He added a bit of zest to life. And we still got on well. So, it was no real surprise when he asked me if I would like to come and work for him when they moved. I jumped at it. I could see promotion was more likely under him than his skinflint of a brother.

Mrs Caswell – Consuela, that is – disliked me from the first. I think it was because I was the one servant on good terms with Victor. She resented that. In those days, she wanted him all to herself. I suppose she felt insecure and homesick in drab old Hereford. You could hardly blame her.