Death of an Old Master (38 page)

‘Were you the minister taking the service of Evensong in Christ Church Cathedral in Oxford on 9th November this year?’ said Pugh.

‘I was.’

‘Could you tell the court at what time the service commenced?’

‘The service started at five fifteen that day. It would have lasted about forty-five minutes.’

‘So it would have finished about six o’clock?’

‘That is correct.’

‘Dean, I would ask you to take a look at the prisoner in the dock. Please take as long as you like.’ Pugh paused while the churchman looked closely at Buckley. Buckley stared
impassively back.

‘Do you recognize this man as a member of your congregation on that day?’

‘I do.’

‘Could you tell the court when you first saw him?’ Pugh thought the Dean was proving an impressive witness.

‘I usually take a brief look at the worshippers shortly before the service is due to begin,’ said the Dean, addressing the jury as though it were attending a service in his
cathedral. ‘It sometimes helps to know the size of the likely congregation. I should say I first noticed him, sitting very near the choir stalls, at about five past five.’

‘And was he present throughout the service?’

‘He was.’ The Dean stroked his crucifix.

‘And did you see him afterwards?’

‘I did. It is my custom at that time of year to invite those members of the congregation who wish to come back to the Deanery for tea and sandwiches, or a glass of sherry if they prefer.
Some of the destitute from the city come to Evensong. It is an unobtrusive means of feeding them, getting some nourishment into their poor bodies.’

Pugh noticed the church party among the jury nodding in approval. Feed the poor. The feeding not of the five thousand but of the impoverished of Oxford.

‘And did Mr Buckley attend this function?’

‘He did.’ Dean Morris permitted himself a slight smile. ‘We had a long conversation about an expedition he was planning, to attend Evensong in all the great cathedrals of
England. I gave him my blessing for the project. I should say Mr Buckley left the Deanery shortly before seven, maybe slightly later.’

‘One last question, Dean,’ said Pugh. ‘You know Oxford well, I presume? You have lived there for some time?’

‘I have lived there for ten years now.’

‘Could you tell us how long it would take a man like Mr Buckley to walk from the railway station to the bottom of the Banbury Road?’

‘Objection, my lord!’ Sir Rufus Fitch was on his feet. ‘We are here to try Mr Buckley on a charge of murder, not to recommend walking routes for tourists on their first visit
to Oxford!’

‘Mr Pugh?’ the judge inquired politely.

‘My lord, the defence intends to show serious flaws in the prosecution’s account of Mr Buckley’s movements while he was in Oxford. Central to that argument is the length of
time it would take to walk from the railway station to the bottom of the Banbury Road, and from Keble College to Christ Church, if you will permit me, my lord. What more reliable witness could we
find for such matters than the Dean himself?’

‘Objection overruled, Sir Rufus. Mr Pugh.’

‘Let me repeat the question,’ said Charles Augustus Pugh. ‘How long would it take to walk from the railway station to the bottom of the Banbury Road?’

‘It would take about twenty-five minutes,’ said the Dean firmly.

‘It is the contention of the defence, Dean, that Mr Buckley went on his arrival in Oxford to visit his godson in Keble College. Would that route take you past the bottom of the Banbury
Road, just here?’ Pugh pointed to the road on his map.

‘It could do,’ said the Dean circumspectly. ‘It could certainly do so.’

‘And how long,’ asked Charles Augustus Pugh, ‘would it take you to walk from Keble to Christ Church?’

‘About twenty minutes, I should think.’

‘Thank you, Dean. No further questions.’ Pugh returned to his desk. Sir Rufus declined to cross examine the witness, sensing perhaps that character assassination attempts on a Dean
might not go down too well with the jury.

‘Call Mr Paul Lucas.’

A pale, rather frail-looking young man was sworn into Court Number Three of the Central Criminal Court. Pugh rose to his feet once more, with a friendly smile to welcome his new witness.

‘You are Paul Lucas, currently an undergraduate of Keble College, Oxford?’

‘I am,’ said the young man.

‘And what are your plans,’ asked Pugh in his gentlest voice, ‘when your time at Oxford is completed?’

‘I hope to be ordained as a priest of the Church of England, sir.’ Lucas gave his future profession with pride.

‘You are also, Mr Lucas,’ Pugh went on, ‘the godson of the defendant in this case, Mr Horace Aloysius Buckley. Perhaps you could tell the court about his visit to you on the
afternoon of 9th November of this year, the day, I would just remind the members of the jury, that Thomas Jenkins was killed.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Paul Lucas composed himself. ‘My godfather called on me in my rooms at Keble somewhere around twenty past four in the afternoon. He said that he was going to attend
Evensong in Christ Church. We had tea together. He left me at a quarter to five to walk to Christ Church. I remember the precise time because Mr Buckley said something like “Quarter to five,
I should be on my way.”’

‘Thank you, Mr Lucas. One final question. You are absolutely sure of those times?’

‘Yes, sir, I am,’ said Paul Lucas firmly.

‘No further questions,’ said Pugh.

Sir Rufus had decided not to cross examine the Dean. But now he could see a very plausible alibi being established in front of the jury’s eyes. He rose slowly to his feet and moved into
the attack.

‘Mr Lucas, could you tell the court how often your godfather comes to visit you in Oxford?’

‘He normally comes two or three times a term, sir.’ Paul Lucas was feeling slightly overwhelmed by his surroundings.

‘So what was the date when he came to see you on the previous occasion?’

Paul Lucas looked thoughtful. ‘It must have been sometime in October, I think.’

‘Sometime in October, but you cannot remember the precise date? Let us see what else you might be able to remember, Mr Lucas. Did your godfather send you money after his visit in
November?’

‘He did, sir.’

‘And can you recall the date the cheque or banker’s order actually arrived with you?’

‘I am afraid I cannot, sir,’ said Lucas after another pause, now looking rather desperately at Pugh as if he could save him from his ordeal.

‘Perhaps you can help me here, Mr Lucas.’ Sir Rufus was trying to kill the young man with kindness. ‘You cannot remember the date when your godfather came to see you in
October. You cannot remember the date when his cheque or banker’s order arrived after his visit, even though that is the most recent event. But you are able to remember the precise date and
time in November. Is that so?’

Paul Lucas was going quite red now. ‘That is true, sir,’ he said finally.

‘Tell me, Mr Lucas,’ another line of attack suddenly came to Sir Rufus, ‘are you financially dependent on your godfather?’

‘I’m not quite sure what you mean,’ said the young man.

‘Does he support you financially at Oxford, Mr Lucas? It takes quite a lot of money to keep an undergraduate there for three years.’

Paul Lucas looked again at Pugh. ‘He does, sir. My father is dead and my mother has very little money.’

Sir Rufus had not expected to find such treasure as this. ‘Do I understand you correctly, Mr Lucas? All your bills and so on are paid for by Mr Buckley? I’m sure you must be very
grateful to him, is that not so?’

‘I am indeed grateful to him, sir.’

‘Would it be fair to say, Mr Lucas, that you would do anything you could to help Mr Buckley if he was in trouble?’

Paul Lucas may have been rattled but he could sense what might be coming.

‘Of course I would help my godfather,’ he said, taking his time, ‘as long as it was the right and proper thing to do.’

‘And would you regard it as the right and proper thing to do, Mr Lucas, to remember the precise date and time of a visit from your godfather when you cannot recall even the approximate
date of his previous visit and the date his money arrived?’

‘Only if it was the proper thing to do,’ said Lucas.

‘I put it to you, Mr Lucas, that you are only able to pursue your studies at Oxford through the generosity of Mr Buckley. I further put it to you that you were more than willing to help
him by fabricating the date of his visit to you on 9th November to help your godfather be acquitted on a charge of murder. That is the case, is it not?’

‘That is not true,’ said Lucas, now looking rather shaken. Sir Rufus sat down. Pugh rose to his feet once more.

‘Let us just make sure that the jury are clear in their minds here, Mr Lucas,’ he said, smiling once more at his witness. ‘On 9th November of this year did Mr Buckley come to
visit you in your rooms at Keble between the hours of twenty past four and a quarter to five in the afternoon?’

‘He did,’ said Lucas.

‘Recall Chief Inspector Wilson.’

Wilson was a veteran of many trials. Indeed he was often used by the Oxfordshire Constabulary in the training of new recruits going to court and giving evidence for the first time. Always be
respectful, he would tell the young men in their bright new uniforms. Don’t let them rile you. Look them straight in the eye. Sound as though you believe every word you say. Think before you
speak.

‘Chief Inspector Wilson.’ Pugh had been deferential with the Dean, gentle with the future minister of the Church. He was now charming with the Chief Inspector, but hinting ever so
slightly that Wilson might not be very bright. ‘I would just like to run through the prosecution account of Mr Buckley’s movements in Oxford, if I may. The post-mortem said that Thomas
Jenkins was probably killed between the hours of four and seven o’clock. Your first statement,’ Pugh sorted through some papers in his hand, ‘stated that Mr Buckley was seen at
the railway station at about ten to four. There is a London train that arrives five minutes before. Is that correct?’

‘That is correct,’ said the Chief Inspector.

‘And your second witness statement said that he was seen at the bottom end of the Banbury Road where Thomas Jenkins lived shortly before or about a quarter past four. Is that
correct?’

‘It is,’ said the Chief Inspector, suddenly remembering Powerscourt’s doubts about the second murder. He looked quickly around the court. Powerscourt was sitting directly
behind Charles Augustus Pugh.

‘You will forgive me, Chief Inspector, if I say that you are better acquainted with the geography of Oxford than the members of the jury I have here a map of the relevant areas of central
Oxford to assist them.’

Pugh rested a large map on the edge of the table in front of him. Powerscourt had brought it back for him on his last trip to Oxford. Pugh’s junior came round to hold it steady. The map
was clearly visible to the judge and jury.

‘Please correct me if I make any mistakes, Chief Inspector,’ said Pugh cheerfully. He took a pencil and pointed to a red line on the map that began at the railway station.
‘This is the position shortly before four o’clock. Mr Buckley is at the railway station here. Then he walks along this red line,’ Pugh’s pencil was tracing the route on the
map, ‘from the station here, past the front of Worcester College here, along Walton Street, over Little Clarendon Street there and crosses the Woodstock Road. He arrives here at the bottom of
the Banbury Road at about a quarter past four.’

The red line stopped. The jury stared in fascination at the map.

‘Now, Chief Inspector, you, like our friend the Dean, know Oxford well. Number 55 Banbury Road is some distance up that thoroughfare.’ Pugh’s pencil pointed to a large circle
further up the road on his map with the number 55 written inside in large letters. ‘Would you say a further ten minutes away?’

‘Something like that,’ said the Chief Inspector, worried suddenly by the direction of the questions. Pugh’s pencil was back at the end of the red line, moving slowly towards
the circled 55.

‘So, Chief Inspector, it would have taken Mr Buckley ten minutes to arrive at Number 55,’ the pencil stopped inside the circle, ‘let us say ten minutes for the despatch of Mr
Jenkins, another ten minutes,’ the pencil was moving quickly now, ‘back to the bottom of the Banbury Road. That would make it four forty-five. Yet we know from the evidence of Mr Lucas
that Mr Buckley was taking tea in Keble between the hours of four twenty and forty-five. The University of Oxford, Chief Inspector, is famed for its expertise in mathematics and metaphysics. Can
you explain how the defendant could have been in two places at one time?’

Chief Inspector Wilson paused before replying. Pugh felt a momentary sense of triumph.

‘It is the prosecution case that the defendant did murder Mr Jenkins on that day,’ Wilson said, sensing that his face might be turning red.

‘Ah, but when, Chief Inspector? When? That is the question. Let us just make the remaining journeys of Mr Buckley in Oxford on that day last month perfectly clear to the members of the
jury.’ Out came the pencil again. ‘At a quarter to five, as Mr Lucas told us, he leaves Keble.’ The second line was black. ‘He comes into St Giles here, past the Ashmolean
over there, past Carfax and down St Aldate’s to Christ Church along this black route on the map. A journey, as Dean Morris told us, of some twenty minutes. And sure enough, he was seen in his
position in the choir stalls shortly after five o’clock.’

Pugh paused. Chief Inspector Wilson looked more and more uncomfortable. Pugh’s pencil was hovering over the cathedral.

‘Let us just examine the final window of time in which Mr Buckley might, I stress the word might, have been able to go to 55 Banbury Road and murder Mr Jenkins. The Dean himself has just
told us that the defendant left the Deanery shortly before seven. And seven is the latest time the doctors give for the time of death.’ The pencil of Charles Augustus Pugh began to make
darting movements between Christ Church and the Banbury Road. ‘An angel of the Lord or one of the fastest runners in the University Athletics Club might have made the journey from Christ
Church to Mr Jenkins’ lodgings in the time available. It would take half an hour or more.’ The pencil was shooting back and forth now between the two locations at a dizzying speed.
‘But it was surely impossible for a man of Mr Buckley’s age.’ Pugh paused. Chief Inspector Wilson looked as if he was about to speak. Pugh didn’t let him.