The Price of Love and Other Stories (3 page)

Cornelius seemed surprised to see me, but he also appeared sheepish and did his best to avoid looking me directly in the eye. Maybe this was because of the scratch on his cheek, though I took his discomfort more as a reflection of his surroundings and hoped to hell it wasn’t an indication of his guilt. After all, we were on his home turf now, where the coloured men had separate barracks from the whites and ate in different canteens. Already, I could sense the gulf and the unspoken resentment between Cornelius and the two white Americans. It felt very different from Obediah Clough’s clumsy and childish attempts at bullying; it ran much deeper and was more dangerous.

“Tell me what you did last night, Cornelius,” I said, the words out of my mouth before I realized what a mistake I had made, calling him by his first name. The colonel frowned and Lieutenant Clawson
smiled in a particularly nasty way. “Pfc. Jubb, that is,” I corrected myself, too late.

“You know what I did,” said Cornelius.

The others looked at me, curious. “Humour me,” I said, feeling my mouth become dry.

“We were celebrating the victory in Sicily,” Cornelius said. “We drank some beer in the Nag’s Head and then we went back to your house and drank some whisky.”

The colonel looked surprised to hear Cornelius talk, and I guessed he hadn’t heard his voice before. When you were expecting some sort of barely comprehensible rural Louisiana patois, what you got in fact was the more articulate and refined speech of the New Englander, a result of the time Cornelius had spent in the North.

“Were you drunk?” I asked.

“Maybe. A little. But not so much that I couldn’t find my way home.”

“Which way did you go?”

“The usual way.”

“Through Brimley Park?”

Cornelius hesitated and caught my eye. “Yes. It’s a good shortcut.”

“Did you notice anything there? Anyone?”

“No,” he said.

I got that sinking feeling. If I could tell that Cornelius was lying, what must the others be thinking? He certainly wasn’t a natural liar. And why was he lying? I pressed on, and never before had my duty felt so much of a burden to me.

“Did you hear anything?”

“No,” said Cornelius.

“Do you know a girl by the name of Evelyn Fowler?”

“Can’t say as I do.”

“About five foot three, good-looking girl. Wears nice clothes, makes a lot of them herself, has a Veronica Lake hairstyle.”

“Who doesn’t?” said Cornelius.

It was true; there were plenty of Veronica Lake look-alikes walking around in 1943. “She’s been in the Nag’s Head a couple of times,” I added.

“I suppose I might have seen her, then. Why?”

“She was raped and beaten last night in Brimley Park.”

Now, for the first time, Cornelius really looked me in the eye. “And you think I did it?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I’m only asking if you saw anything. It was around the time you left. And” – I dropped the grimacing monkey softly on the table – “I found this near the scene.”

Cornelius looked at the charm, then turned up his sleeve and saw the missing spot on his bracelet. Clawson and the colonel both stared at him gravely, as if they knew they’d got him now and it was just a matter of time. I wasn’t so sure. I thought I knew Cornelius, and the man I knew would no sooner rape and beat Evelyn Fowler than he would sully the memory of his own mother.

Finally, he shrugged. “Well, I did tell you I walked through the park. It must have dropped off.”

“But you saw and heard nothing?”

“That’s right.”

“Bit of a coincidence, though, isn’t it? The timing and all.”

“Coincidences happen.”

“Where did you get that scratch on your cheek?” I asked him.

He put his hand up to it. “Don’t know. Maybe cut myself shaving.”

“You didn’t have it last night, when you left my house.”

He shrugged again. “I shave in the mornings.”

“It doesn’t look like a shaving cut. Are you sure you didn’t get it when you were attacking Evelyn Fowler?”

He looked at me with disappointment in his eyes, and shook his head. “You don’t believe that.”

He was right; I didn’t. “Well, what did happen? Help me here.”

“I think that’s about enough for now,” said Lieutenant Clawson, getting to his feet and pacing the tiny room. “We’ll take it over from now on.”

That was what I had been afraid of. At least with me, Cornelius would get a fair deal, but I wasn’t sure how well his fellow countrymen would treat him. I was the one who had brought the trouble down on him, the one who couldn’t overlook something like the little monkey charm I found at the crime scene, even though I never suspected Cornelius of rape. But these men … how well would he fare with them?

“This girl who was attacked,” Clawson went on, “is she still alive?”

“Evelyn Fowler? Yes. She’s unconscious in hospital, but she’s expected to pull through.”

“Then maybe she’ll be able to identify her attacker.”

I looked at Cornelius and saw the despair in his face. I thought I knew why.

“Yes,” I said. “Perhaps she will.”

Within two days, Evelyn Fowler was sitting up and talking in her hospital bed. Before the Americans arrived, I managed to persuade Dr. Harris, an old friend, to give me a few minutes alone with her.

Not surprisingly, she looked dreadful. The Veronica Lake hair hung limp and greasy, framing her heart-shaped face. She was still partially bandaged, mostly around the nose, but the dark bruises stood out in stark contrast to skin as pale as the linen on which she lay. Her eyes had lost that light, cynical, playful look, and were filled instead with a new darkness. When she tried to smile at me, I could see that two of her lower front teeth were missing. It must have been a terrible beating.

“Hello, Constable Bascombe,” she said, her voice oddly lisping and whistling, no doubt because of the missing teeth. “I’m sorry, it’s a right mess you see me in.”

I patted her hand. “That’s all right, Evelyn. How are you?”

“Not so bad, I suppose, considering. Apart from my face, that is. And a bit of soreness … you know.”

I did know.

“He must have been disturbed or something,” she went on. “I suppose I was lucky he didn’t kill me.” She tried another smile, and some of her natural sweetness and playfulness came through.

“Did you see your attacker at all?” I asked, a lump in my throat.

“Oh, yes. I mean, you can’t help it, can you, when a great hulking brute’s on top of you, thumping you in the face? I saw him all right.”

“Did you recognize him?”

Here she paused. “Well, it was dark, what with the blackout and all that. But I suppose, in a way, that’s what made it easier.”

“What do you mean?”

“The blackout. His face – it just blended right in, didn’t it.” She lowered her voice to a whisper and turned her head towards me. “He was a nigger.”

“Evelyn, that’s not a polite word to use.”

“Well, it wasn’t a polite thing he did to me, was it?” She pouted. “Anyway, Jim – that’s my sweetheart – Jim’s a GI and he says them niggers are good for nothing and they have their way with white women at the drop of a hat. Said they’re hanging them over there for it all the time. They’re not the same as us. Not as intelligent as us. They’re just like big children, really. Or animals. They can’t control themselves. I know what folks thought of me, that I’d go with anybody, but I wouldn’t go with a nigger, not for a hundred pounds. No, sir.”

“Was it someone you recognized?”

“I’d know him if I saw him again.”

“But you’d never seen him before?”

“I didn’t say that. My head still aches. I can’t think clearly.”

“Did you scratch him?”

“I certainly tried hard enough … Funny thing … ”

“What is?”

“Well, it’s just a feeling I got, I don’t know, just about when I was passing out, but at one time I could have … ”

“What?”

“Well, I could have sworn that there were two of them.”

Apart from one or two brief consultations with Lieutenant Clawson and another U.S. military lawyer called William Grant, the case was taken out of my hands, and whatever investigation was done was carried out by the U.S. military. It’s a sorry state of affairs indeed when a British policeman has no powers of investigation in his own country.

Naturally, the Americans were tight-lipped, and I could discover nothing from them. Evelyn came out of hospital after a week and soon got back to her old self, and her old ways, though she seemed to be avoiding me. At least, she never came to the Nag’s Head anymore, and I got the impression that whenever she saw me approaching in the street, she crossed over to the other side. I guessed that perhaps the Americans had found out about our little chat and warned her off. Whatever the reason, they were keeping everything under wraps, and hardly a snippet of information even got out to the papers.

Of poor Cornelius, I had no news at all. I didn’t see him again until the General Court Martial at the base. As he sat there, flanked by a guard and his lawyer, he seemed lifeless and mechanical in his movements, and the sparkle had gone from his eyes, though the look of innocence remained. He seemed resigned to whatever fate had in store for him. When he looked at me, it seemed at first as if he didn’t recognize me, then he flashed me a brief smile and turned back to examining his fingernails.

I had never been to an American GCM before, and I was surprised at how informal it all seemed. Despite the uniforms, there were no wigs in evidence, and the language seemed less weighty and less full of legal jargon than the British equivalent. There were
twelve members of the court, all officers, and by law, because this was the trial of a Negro, one of them also had to be coloured. This turned out to be a young first lieutenant, new to command, who seemed nervous and completely intimidated by the other eleven, all of whom had higher ranks and much greater seniority.

Cornelius pleaded not guilty, and his defence was that he had interrupted the attack and chased off the attacker, whom he had not recognized because of the blackout. When he had realized that a coloured American GI standing alone in a deserted park after nightfall with a raped and beaten white girl would immediately fall under suspicion, he did what any coloured man would do and hurried back to camp.

Naturally, I was called quite early in the proceedings to present my evidence, much as I would have been in an ordinary court. I described how I had been woken up and led to Brimley Park by Harry Joseph, what I had seen there, and what I had found in the grass beside Evelyn Fowler. I was then asked about my relationship with the accused, and about how we had spent the evening drinking previous to the attack. The problem was that, whenever I tried to expand on Cornelius’s good character, his virtues, and to emphasize that, drunk or sober, he was not the sort of man who could have carried out such a brutal rape, they cut me off. Even Cornelius’s lawyer never really let me get very far. As a policeman, of course, I was used to giving evidence for the prosecution, not for the defence, but this time, the limitations galled me.

Evelyn Fowler was a revelation. In court, she looked a lot more demure than she ever had in the Nag’s Head: no dirndl skirts, bolero dresses or Veronica Lake hairstyles for Evelyn today, only a plain Utility dress and her hair tied loosely behind her neck.

Lieutenant Clawson proceeded gently at first, as if afraid to stir up her feelings and her memories of the event, but I guessed that his apparent sympathy was merely an act for the court. When he got to the point, he made it brutally and efficiently.

“What were you doing in the park that night, Miss Fowler?” he asked.

“I was walking home from a dance,” she said. “My friends wanted to stay, but I had to get up early for work. It’s a shortcut.”

“And what happened?”

“Someone grabbed me and threw me to the ground. He … he punched me and tore my clothing off.”

“And he raped you. Is that correct?”

Evelyn looked down at the handbag clasped on her knees. “Yes,” she whispered. “He raped me.”

“Miss Fowler, do you see the man who raped you and beat you here in this courtroom today?”

“I do,” she said.

“Can you please point him out to the court?”

“That’s him,” she said, pointing at Cornelius without a moment’s hesitation. “The accused. That’s the man who raped me.”

“You have no doubt?”

“Not a shred,” said Evelyn, her lips set in a determined line. “That’s him.”

And did Cornelius’s lawyer attack her evidence? Not a bit of it. Did he challenge her character and question how she had arrived at her identification? Not at all. I knew that Evelyn hated and feared coloured people, and that she had been well versed in this by her beau, GI Jim, but did the lawyer ask her about her feelings towards Negroes? No, he didn’t.

I was willing to bet, for a start, that Evelyn hadn’t picked Cornelius out of a lineup of similar physical types, and that, as far as she was concerned, one Negro looked very much like another. And Cornelius did have a scratch on his face, after all. I wouldn’t even have been surprised if she had been told in advance that a charm from his bracelet had been found right beside her arm after the attack. She had told me that at one point she had sensed two men.
Couldn’t one of them have been Cornelius fighting off her attacker? But neither lawyer asked about that.

All in all, it was a disappointing affair, one-sided and sloppy in the extreme. I spent the entire time on the edge of my seat, biting my tongue. On several occasions, I almost spoke out, but knew they would only expel me from the courtroom if I did so. I could only pray for Cornelius now; and I wasn’t much of a believer in prayer.

After a short recess for lunch, which I spent smoking and trying, unsuccessfully, to gain access to Cornelius’s lawyer, there was little else to be done. Dr. Harris gave evidence about Evelyn’s condition after the attack, not forgetting to mention that the small piece of skin found under one of her fingernails was black.

In the end, it was an easy decision. Pfc. Cornelius Jubb admitted to being in Brimley Park on the night in question, around the time the attack occurred. It was a particularly brutal attack, and Cornelius and Evelyn, while they might have recognized one another in passing, had no earlier acquaintance, a factor that might have earned the court’s leniency. A charm from a bracelet the accused was known to wear habitually was found at the scene. He had a scratch on his face, and she had black skin under her fingernail. His defence – that he had seen a woman in trouble and come to her rescue – was too little, too late. They might as well have added that he was coloured, but they didn’t go that far.