The Inheritance (6 page)

“And did you then have any further discussions about the will with the professor?”

“Not until earlier this year. It would have been about a month or so before his death that we first discussed new arrangements.”

“Tell us about those arrangements, Mr. Blackburn,” asked Thompson encouragingly.

“Well, basically he was talking about setting up a trust to run Moreton Manor House as a museum, housing his collection of manuscripts.”

“Who were the trustees going to be?”

“The professor hadn’t finally decided. Sergeant Ritter was going to be one of them.”

“What about the sons?”

“Probably not. The effect of the change of will would have been to disinherit them.”

“I see,” said Thompson, pausing to allow the jury to absorb the full implications of the solicitor’s last answer. “Now I’d like to show you exhibit fourteen.
It’s the professor’s engagement diary, which was found on the desk in his study. It was open at the entry for June eighth. Read us the entry please, Mr. Blackburn.”

“Blackburn. Will. Three o’clock.”

“That’s right. Can you tell us anything about that?” asked Thompson.

“Yes. I had an appointment with Professor Cade at that time for him to give me final instructions, so that I could draw up the new will and trust documents.”

“But his death prevented him from keeping the appointment.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Mr. Blackburn. You’ve been most helpful. No more questions.”

Deep in the bowels of the Old Bailey, the gaolers allowed Swift a short interview with his client.

The barrister took off his horsehair wig and laid it down beside his file of papers on the iron table that separated him from Stephen. The headgear was useful sometimes for intimidating witnesses, keeping lines of division intact. But now Swift wanted to connect. He needed to get through to his client, make him understand that a change of direction was necessary.

“The will gives them the motive, Stephen. That’s the problem.”

“I wouldn’t have killed my father for money. Or anybody else for that matter. It’s so stupid. Can’t you see that?” Stephen’s sudden anger took the barrister aback, even though it was not the first time that Swift had seen it. The trial was clearly beginning to take a toll on the young man.

“Listen, Stephen,” he said. “You’ve got to calm down. Take a few steps back. Get a little less passionate.”

“Less passionate! You’d be passionate if you had to sit up there all day watching that old bastard twist everything round against me. I thought he was supposed to be impartial.”

“He is. But there’s not much we can do about it at the moment, and your anger just plays into the prosecution’s hands,” said Swift, putting sufficient urgency into his voice to make Stephen look him in the eye. “The jurors are
watching you, Stephen. They can see you boiling over, and it makes them think you’re capable of doing what the prosecution says you did. Capable of killing.”

“Whoever killed my father didn’t lose his temper. You made that point yourself when you were cross-examining that policeman. You called it an execution-type killing. Not the same as a crime of passion.”

“No, it isn’t. But don’t bank on the jury being as clever as you, Stephen. The case against you is too strong for you to stay out of the witness box . . .”

“I want to give evidence,” said Stephen, interrupting. “I’d insist on it, even if you tried to stop me. They’re going to hear the truth from someone before all this is over.”

“But the truth isn’t always enough in this place, Stephen. Can’t you see that? It’s what the jury decides is true that matters.”

“No, I don’t see it. I’m not a cynic like you. I believe in something, even if you don’t.”

“I believe in trying to keep you alive.” Swift stopped suddenly. He’d have given a great deal to take back his words, but it was too late now. His need to get through to Stephen had got the better of his own judgement and had led him to break one of his most important rules: Never talk about execution to a client on a capital charge; keep him focused on the past and the present, but never the future. He’ll fall apart otherwise.

“I’m sorry, Stephen,” he said, breaking the awkward silence. “I shouldn’t have said that. Please forgive me.”

“Okay,” Stephen agreed softly. There was a tremor in his voice.

“Let me start again,” said Swift. “My point is that you have to keep your emotions in check, particularly when you come to give evidence. Thompson will try to provoke you into anger, and if he succeeds, he’ll turn it against you. He’s clever at what he does. I’ve seen him do it before. Many times.

“You saw it, members of the jury, didn’t you?” Swift said in sudden imitation of Thompson’s voice, and Stephen was struck by the accuracy of the impression. “You saw the way his fists clenched in rage when I asked him just a few simple questions. Imagine those hands on a pistol, members of the jury. Imagine the fingers clenching around the trigger.”

“All right,” said Stephen, holding up his hands. “I get the point. I’ll watch myself.”

“Thank you. Now there’s one other thing. I need you to let me widen the net.”

“What net?”

“The net of possible suspects. This foreigner in the Mercedes just isn’t enough.”

“But I’m not the only one who saw him. That police officer, the one who first came to the house, says in his statement that there was a car parked on the other side of the road. By the phone box.”

“Officer Clayton?”

“That’s right. He says that it drove off while he was buzzing to be let in at the gate.”

“I know he does,” said Swift patiently. “But the man could just have been making a phone call.”

“Not all evening he wasn’t. I saw him twice earlier, remember.”

“There’s only your word for that.”

“Then what about the Frenchman in the Mercedes that was stopped for speeding? At eleven fifteen. The time fits. You said that yourself.”

Swift could hear the anxiety creeping back into his client’s voice. He didn’t want to press Stephen any further, but he felt he had no choice.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Clayton will give evidence, and I’ll make all the points about the Mercedes—the one at the gate
and
the one that was stopped for speeding. But the driver’s still never going to be anything more than a sideshow, whatever I say.”

“Why?”

“Well, for a start, we can’t explain how he could’ve entered the house. He can’t have come through the gate because you closed it on him when you went up there before seeing your father, and any other route of entry is scotched by this damn security system. I’m sorry to have to tell you all this, Stephen, but it’s no use denying facts. I know you think everything’s related to the blackmail letter and what happened in France fifteen years ago. But it’s all just too tenuous. We did what you asked us to. I sent an investigator over to Rouen, and the records office told him there were no close living relatives of the murdered family or their servants.”

“Maybe he didn’t look hard enough?”

“No, he did. I promise you he did. He went to Marjean as well, but the place is a ruin and everyone in the village said the same thing: no survivors. Same with the local police.”

“Why couldn’t you go yourself?”

“Because that’s not what I do,” said Swift, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “I’m in court almost every day, and I can’t do two different jobs even if I wanted to. The man we sent is one of the best. You can take my word for it.”

“But didn’t you tell me before that some of the records got destroyed when the Germans invaded?” asked Stephen, unwilling to leave the subject.

“Only for the two years up to 1940, which aren’t relevant. The rest were in secure archives. Monsieur Rocard was an only child. His wife was from Marseilles and had a couple of brothers, but they were killed in the war. They married late and didn’t have any children. End of story. We did what you asked us to do, and it’s not really taken us anywhere, Stephen. We need something more than that your father had a murky past.”

“Like what?”

“Like an alternative suspect to you. Somebody real. Somebody the jury can believe in. Not some phantom foreigner who’s run away from a speeding ticket.”

“Well, there isn’t anybody else,” said Stephen.

“Yes, there is. Your brother Silas had just as much of a motive to kill your father as you did. You heard what the solicitor said. He was going to be disinherited too.”

“No,” insisted Stephen, suddenly angry again. “My brother wouldn’t kill anyone. He always got on better with our father than I did, for God’s sake.”

“Perhaps he was better at concealing his true feelings than you were.”

“No. I know him.”

“Do you, Stephen? How can you be so sure? He’s not your blood brother, is he?”

Stephen’s brow was creased with thought but he didn’t respond, and after a moment Swift got up, noticing the gaoler waiting impatiently outside the glass door of the interview room. Then, as Stephen was being handcuffed, Swift made one last effort to get through to his client. “Silas will be in the witness box the day after tomorrow, Stephen. If I’m to help you, I need you to help me.”

But Stephen didn’t reply. Instead he turned away from his barrister and allowed himself to be led away down the whitewashed corridor and out of sight.

Swift climbed up the stairs from the cells and found Stephen’s girlfriend, Mary, waiting for him in the foyer of the courthouse. She was clearly agitated, and her cheeks were flushed. It made her seem even prettier than he remembered.

“Have you seen him?” she asked.

“Yes. Just now. Down in the cells.”

“How is he?”

“All right. I’d say he’s bearing up pretty well, all things considered. There’s a long way to go yet.”

“He’s going to get off, isn’t he?” she asked. “He’s going to be all right.”

“I certainly hope so,” said Swift, inserting a note of optimism into his voice that he was far from feeling. His interview with Stephen in the cells had left him more downcast about the case than ever before. He smiled and turned to go, but Mary put her hand on his arm to detain him.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “I need to know. What are his chances?”

Swift paused, uncertain how to answer the girl. Was she looking for reassurance or an assessment of the evidence? Catching her eye, he decided the latter was more likely.

“It’s an uphill struggle,” he said. “It would help if there was somebody else in the frame.”

Mary nodded, pursing her lips.

“Thank you, Mr. Swift,” she said. “That’s what I thought.”

Moreton Manor in the morning was a pleasing sight. The dappled early autumn sunlight glistened on the dew covering the newly mown lawns and sparkled in the tall white-framed sash windows that ran in lines around the manor’s classical grey stone façade, which rose in elegant symmetry above the ebony-black front door to a slanting, tiled roof surmounted by tall brick chimneys. A single plume of white smoke was rising into a blue, cloudless sky, but otherwise there was no sign of life apart from a stray squirrel running in unexplained alarm across the Tarmac drive, which cut the lawns in half on its way down to the front gate. An ornamental fountain in the shape of an acanthus plant stood in the centre of the courtyard, but it was a long time since water had flowed down through its basin. The professor had found the sound of the fountain an unwanted distraction from his studies, and without it the silence in the courtyard seemed somehow solemn, almost oppressive.

Trave stood lost in thought, gazing up at the house. He’d been awake since before the dawn, restless and unable to sleep. He kept on turning over the events of the previous day in his mind: Stephen in his black suit looking half-ready for the undertakers; old Murdoch, angry and clever up on his dais; and the barristers in their wigs and gowns reducing a murder, the end of a man’s life, to a series of questions and answers, making the events fit a pattern neatly
packaged for the waiting jury. But it was all too abstract: a postmortem without a body. There was something missing. There had to be. Trave knew it in his bones.

And so he’d driven out to Moreton in the early light and now stood on the step outside the front door, hat in hand, waiting. It was Silas who answered, and once again Trave was struck by the contrast between Stephen and his brother. Silas was just too tall, just too thin. His sandy hair was too sparse and his long nose spoilt his pale face. But it wasn’t his physical appearance that predisposed Trave against the elder brother; it was the lack of expression in the young man’s face and his obvious aversion to eye contact that struck Trave as all wrong. Silas was concealing something. Trave was sure of it. God knows, he had as much motive for the murder as his brother. They were both going to be disinherited. But then Silas wasn’t the one in his father’s room with the gun. That was Stephen, the one who reminded Trave so forcibly of his own dead son.

“Hullo, Inspector. It’s a bit early, isn’t it?” There was no note of welcome in the young man’s flat, expressionless voice.

“Yes, I’m sorry, Mr. Cade. I was just passing. On my way to London for the trial.”