Shades of Murder (11 page)

It was late when she got in and the first thing she did was relax in a hot bath. Then she got herself some supper. After that awful lunch she
needed decent nourishment. It was getting on for eleven and she was about to stumble off to bed, when she remembered the answering machine she’d left switched on that morning. Better check and see if there were any messages.

There were three. The first two were routine. The third drove sleep from Juliet’s brain at once.

A quavering voice, filled with shock and alarm, which she barely recognised as that of Damaris Oakley, pleaded, ‘Juliet? I realise you may not be there but if you are, please pick up the phone. I don’t get on very well with these message machines . . . Juliet? Oh, you aren’t there . . . Please get in touch as soon as you can. We need your advice. Something dreadful has happened!’

Inspector Jonathan Wood made his way home from a day in court. He felt weary, not just because it had been a long day, but because he anticipated the strain the days ahead would bring. Not that he expected to be called again to testify. His part was over, his role played. He would go about his daily business, here in Bamford, ostensibly occupied, secretly wondering what was going on in that courtroom. He’d find out like anyone else. One evening he’d buy a copy of the
Gazette
on his way home and there it would be. A verdict of Guilty or one of Not Guilty. If he were sensible, he’d put it out of his mind till then. But commonsense and emotion are old enemies.

Normally he never allowed himself to dwell on the outcome of a trial because that wasn’t his business. His business was to lay hands on the culprit and deliver him up to due process of law. What the law then did was its business.

But in this case he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of standing back, congratulating himself on having done his bit. He’d seized the opportunity offered to enquire further into a death he had felt, from the first, had been far too convenient, given Oakley’s circumstances. A second chance. Policework so seldom offered that. No wonder he’d grabbed it with both hands.

Now, in a burst of self-criticism, Wood asked himself if he’d become obsessed, convinced in his own mind of Oakley’s guilt, allowing personal dislike of the man to muddle cool assessment of the facts.

If he had, and he was wrong, it would be a black mark on his record not easily erased. The Home Office, he knew, continued to be unhappy about the whole thing. At least they were fortunate in having the prosecution conducted by a distinguished barrister in Taylor, whose angular figure and long neck put Wood in mind of a heron patiently fishing among the weeds and stones, waiting for that telltale flash of silver.

So far things were evenly balanced. Wood had lingered in court to
hear the evidence following his own brief appearance on the stand. The jury had heard that the exhumed body had indeed revealed traces of arsenic. However, as Sir Herbert had feared, the jury was also informed that arsenic had been found elsewhere in the soil of the churchyard, and contamination of the remains from this source was not impossible.

The manager of London Chemicals had been an interesting fellow, well aware which side his bread was buttered. His testimony had been a model of sitting on the fence. Yes, he remembered Mr Oakley’s visit. Yes, Mr Oakley had asked a lot of questions about the processing of arsenic ore. Mr Oakley was a gentleman who had always taken a very active interest in what went on in the factory. It made a great deal of difference to the manager’s life, dealing with someone who understood. They were always pleased to see Mr Oakley at London Chemicals. Were exact records kept of the amount of ore in stock? Yes, of course they were. Ah, well, it would depend how much went missing. A very small amount might not be missed. It was difficult to check now after so many months, if not impossible, as he’d told the police.

And then there was Martha Button. Please God Martha Button stuck to her story . . .

When the principal witness for the prosecution, Mrs Martha Button, was called to take the stand, it is fair to say the atmosphere reached fever pitch. One would have been forgiven for thinking oneself at a major sporting event
.

Stanley Huxtable squinted at the woman who was squeezing her bulk into the narrow confines of the witness box. To the crafted piece of copy above he had added the jotted notes:
Martha Button a stout person not above eight and forty. Decently dressed in brown. Hair a bit odd. Suspect henna or a wig
.

He glanced across at the prisoner’s handsome profile. His weeks in a cell awaiting this trial had not harmed his physical well-being, other than a touch of prison pallor. He’d probably been paying from his own pocket for meals to be sent in from a nearby cookshop. The man looked impassive, staring at the witness as if she were of no more importance than the sad little mouse that had found its way from the holding cells below into the courtroom, and now crouched bewildered by the closed door to the tunnel, unable to return.

Did Oakley give any thought to his own return through that nightmare-inducing
tunnel at the end of the day? What had been in his mind as he’d walked the short underground distance today? Had he been afraid? Not, it seemed, of anything Martha Button might say. What, then, confident? Why? Justice is notoriously blind. Did he trust in a clear conscience? Or in his own audacity to save his guilty neck?

Either way, he’d made an impression on the public benches, all right, especially on the fair sex represented there. Stanley transferred his gaze to Inspector Wood who’d taken the stand earlier. Wood was scowling at the witness. He’s worried, thought Stanley, tapping the pencil on his notepad. He’s depending on her.

The witness was taking the oath in a nervous but clear voice. Mr Taylor’s opening questions were clearly designed to put her at ease and she had visibly relaxed by the time she’d begun to describe the events of the fatal evening.

‘Poor Mrs Oakley had had a tooth pulled and was in terrible pain. It upset me just to see her suffer. Of course, it wasn’t the only thing upsetting her.’

Mr Taylor leaned forward, his voice soft and coaxing. ‘What do you mean by that?’

The witness responded in kind, tipping her upper half over the edge of the witness stand. She said in a hoarse whisper, ‘There was Mr Oakley’s behaviour.’

‘You must speak up,’ said the judge.

‘What about his behaviour?’ asked Taylor. ‘You mean his behaviour that evening?’

‘Oh no, sir. That evening he was all kindness. He rode to Bamford and fetched laudanum for her. He took it up to her himself on a tray. It was the least he could do, seeing as he’d been carrying on with that flighty girl, Daisy Joss—’

At this, counsel for the defence bounced to his feet. It was perhaps a pity that he was as small and round as his prosecuting confrère was tall and lean. ‘Objection! This is not evidence, this is below stairs gossip!’

The witness took offence and retorted robustly, ‘I don’t gossip, sirs! It’s plain fact and what’s more, she wasn’t the first.’

One or two on the public benches sniggered.

‘I shall over-rule the objection in this instance,’ said the judge. ‘You may continue, Mr Taylor. But the witness will remember she is giving evidence and must only tell us facts of which she is sure.’

‘That’s what I’m doing, isn’t it?’ demanded the witness, nettled.

‘Please go on, Mrs Button,’ said Taylor hastily, obviously worried his
prize witness was going to upset the judge.

Mrs Button regained composure and took up her tale. ‘Mr Oakley ate alone in the dining room. Roast chicken,’ she added, ‘and a tapioca pudding.’

‘I don’t think we need to know what he ate, Mrs Button,’ said the judge wearily. He’d met witnesses like this one before. First all nerves, then, when they got talking, you couldn’t stop them and half of it was inadmissible or irrelevant. He glanced at the clock on the wall above the jury. He was to dine with the Lord Lieutenant that evening, and did not intend to let matters drift on. Garrulous servants were the very devil.

‘Well, I’m telling you anyway,’ countered Mrs Button, ‘so you can see I remember the evening. It’s not gone fuzzy in my memory. It never will. I’ll remember every detail of that night to my dying day! After his dinner, he went off to the library to smoke his cigar. That was his habit. I supervised the skivvy as she washed the dishes, then I sent her off home. She lived nearby.’

‘So who was in the house that night, after the skivvy left?’ enquired Mr Taylor.

The mouse had disappeared. Stanley drew his feet up under his seat apprehensively.

Mrs Button was reeling off names. ‘Mr and Mrs Oakley, sir. Myself. Lucy, one of the maids. I sent her up to bed straight after she’d cleared the dinner table because she’d been sniffling. She’d a bit of a cold. Jenny, the other maid, wasn’t there because she’d been given permission to attend a family funeral and wasn’t coming back till the next morning. Mr Hawkins, Mr Oakley’s man, wasn’t there that night either, because the master had sent him off to London on some business or other. The nursemaid, Daisy Joss, was up in the nursery with her charge. Watchett, the gardener, looked in during the evening to discuss vegetables and fruit. He told me what he’d got at its best in the garden and I told him what I should need in the morning. Then he left to go to his cottage. I locked up the back door and I set off to my own bed after I’d checked the downstairs doors and windows. It was about eleven o’clock.

The public benches were silent, hanging on every word.
Could hear a pin drop
! wrote Stanley in his notebook.

Taylor was asking, ‘And had you seen any more of Mr Oakley?’

Mrs Button shook her head. ‘No, I hadn’t seen him but I had heard him in the hall and going up the main stairs. I supposed he was going to bed. That would’ve been a little before ten.’

‘You are sure of the time? Take care. This is important.’

‘Oh, I’m sure, sir,’ replied the witness. ‘I took notice of it by the kitchen clock because he didn’t usually go up so early.’

‘Did he not, indeed?’ asked Taylor rhetorically for the sake of the jury. To Mrs Button, he said, ‘I see. So you set off to bed? By what route?’

‘I went up the backstairs, sir. On the first floor, the stairs come out by Mrs Oakley’s room. It’s what we called the turret room.’ At this point the witness began to show signs of distress. ‘As I was just turning to go up the next flight to the top floor, where I had my room – oh, I can hardly speak of it. It brings it all back! I heard a dreadful noise. It curdled my blood and that’s a fact. I’ll never forget it, never!’

‘Compose yourself, Mrs Button,’ urged Mr Taylor. ‘Can you describe this noise?’

Mrs Button knew her moment had come. She drew herself up. ‘It was a shriek, sir, like a soul damned!’

There were gasps of horror and anticipation from the public. The Reuter’s man was scribbling furiously. Prosecution, thought Stanley, looked like the cat that had got the canary. Defence was fidgeting with his papers. Inspector Wood was watching intently. Only the accused man sat impassive, as disdainful as ever.

‘And what,’ purred Mr Taylor, ‘did you do next, Mrs Button? After you had heard a shriek?’

‘Why, sir, I ran to Mrs Oakley’s door. I could hear her making a strange gurgling and gasping. I threw open the door and then, sir, I saw a dreadful sight. I pray I never see another such. The mistress lay on the floor in her nightgown and it was all ablaze! She was twisting and writhing on the carpet, the flames were crackling . . . She held out her hand towards me, poor soul, as if she couldn’t speak. She couldn’t seem to draw breath. I saw the lamp lay on the floor broken. She must have fallen and brought it down. And her hair, sirs, her hair. It just burst into flame and fizzed and was gone like a firework.’

Mrs Button began to cry and several ladies among the public joined in.

The judge picked up his gavel and struck the bench. ‘The court understands your distress, Mrs Button, but you must pull yourself together. Please go on.’

Subdued, the witness told them how she had seized the coverlet from the bed and thrown it over the burning woman to quench the flames. ‘She was in dreadful pain, the skin peeling from her arms. But she couldn’t speak. I believe she would’ve done if she could. She hadn’t the breath
left. I wasn’t surprised. There was a dreadful smell in the room, burnt flesh and hair and something like garlic, really strong.’

‘You are familiar with the smell of garlic?’ interposed Mr Taylor.

Mrs Button assured him she was. She had once had a place where the lady of the house had been French and insisted she, Mrs Button, use the stuff to spoil her good English cooking. ‘I went to throw open the window. I could hardly breathe myself for the nasty smell of it and my head was beginning to ache just by being there.’

Mr Taylor, his manner nicely balanced between satisfaction and decent horror, turned towards the jury. ‘You could hardly breathe yourself. I beg the gentlemen of the jury will note these words.’

The jury tried to look like men noting important evidence. Some managed it better than others. One of them, Stanley recognised him as a local grocer, was looking a little sick.

‘What else did you notice, Mrs Button?’

The witness raised a gloved hand and jabbed her forefinger at the court in emphasis. ‘Now, that was an odd thing. There was a sort of pot lying on the floor by the mistress, a common thing, and some bits of metal, metal rods. Not the sort of things you’d expect to see in a lady’s bedroom. Nor was any of it there normally –
that
I can tell you!’

Mrs Button announced the last words defiantly and paused as if waiting to see if anyone would take up the challenge. When no one did, she continued on a slightly disappointed note, ‘Anyhow, I hadn’t got time to worry about any of that then. I hurried to fetch the master. He made like he was very upset, of course, when he saw her lying there. He told me to run down to the stables and tell Riley, that’s the groom, to ride for Dr Perkins. So that’s what I did. When I came back, Mr Oakley said Mrs Oakley was dead and I do believe she was. He asked me to sit with her while he went to get dressed, before the doctor came. So he went out and I sat there. It was then I saw the pot and metal rods had gone. It’s my belief he slipped it all into the pockets of his dressing gown. It had big pockets, plenty of room.’