Indictment for Murder Page 3

Shelbourne, struggling to retain the serious look that on such occasions he assumed for the cameras, hissed under his breath, ‘We’re being photographed.’

  Harold dropped his hand and looked about him wildly.

  ‘Good heavens!’ he said. ‘I had no idea.’

  When the cameramen had what they wanted they gave a cheery wave to Shelbourne, packed their gear into their cars and, amid much shouting and laughter, drove away.

  ‘They’re enjoying themselves,’ Harold said.

  Shelbourne grunted. So was he, until Benson had butted in. He looked at his watch. ‘You can walk with me to the hotel, if you like. But I want to get away as soon as I can.’

  They set off down the private path, reserved for lawyers and officials, which led from the court in the castle to the city.

  * * *

  Six months ago Shelbourne’s clerk, Isles, had announced that a Mr Harold Benson, a Hampshire solicitor of whom Isles had never heard, was on the telephone wanting to speak urgently about the former judge Sir Jonathan Playfair. At the time Hugo Shelbourne had some recollection of reading something in the newspapers about Jonathan Playfair and the death of a friend, but when he picked up the telephone he had certainly not expected what he then heard. For Harold Benson told him that the local chief superintendent of police had asked that Sir Jonathan be brought to the police station tomorrow morning at ten o’clock when he would be charged with murder.

  ‘Murder!’ Shelbourne exclaimed. ‘Playfair to be charged with murder! Of whom?’

  ‘A man called Colonel David Trelawney. Can you come immediately?’

  He did not hesitate. As it happened he had never appeared in court before Playfair when Playfair was a judge and he did not know Playfair personally for, even when younger, Playfair had never been a man for drinking champagne in the bar at the Savoy; nor for parading on the lawns at Epsom or Ascot – all regular haunts of Hugo Shelbourne. So Playfair as a person meant little to him. But Playfair as a client meant much. The trial of a former High Court judge on a charge of murder was the kind of case in which Hugo Shelbourne revelled. It would be, he knew, a spectacular.

  If Shelbourne had been elated, Harold Benson was not. He had been uprooted from his quiet country practice, drafting his neighbours’ wills and conveying their land and houses, into an unnerving and to him unfamiliar world of policemen and police stations. When Jonathan Playfair had asked Harold to act for him and said it was a matter that involved the police, Harold had protested. ‘You don’t want me, Sir Jonathan. You need someone who knows about criminal law. I’ve never been in a court. I know nothing about trials.’

  ‘But I do,’ Jonathan had replied.

  ‘But why me?’

  Jonathan had smiled and said he had his reasons.

  They had met the year before at a charity function in the grounds of Pembroke House, and discovered they both had an interest in old books. Jonathan had taken Harold to his rooms to show him his library and thereafter Harold had often come to visit. He was a lonely man, living alone, mourning his wife, Margaret, who had been killed six months earlier in an accident on the motorway. On his visits he and Jonathan would sit under the great cedar tree on the lawn at Pembroke House or stroll through the rose garden, talking about books. Quite often Harold spoke about Margaret. Although remaining on formal terms they had become very friendly, so when Jonathan Playfair insisted that he wanted him for his solicitor, Harold could not refuse. But when he heard that the police intended to arrest Sir Jonathan Playfair and charge him with murder, he knew he needed help. He would not be able to handle this on his own. But it was only when Shelbourne was already on the road that he had told his client what he had done.

  After a lengthy pause, Jonathan said, ‘Well, Mr Benson, if that’s what you want, so be it.’

  ‘It’s not what I want,’ Harold had cried. ‘It’s what you need.’

  When Shelbourne saw Harold Benson for the first time, in the hotel where they had arranged to meet, he was astonished. In his tweed coat with leather patches on the elbows, crumpled shirt and frayed tie, Harold Benson was unlike any solicitor Shelbourne had ever worked with in any trial anywhere. He looked, Shelbourne thought, more the kind to go brass-rubbing with than defending in a sensational murder case. Some weeks later, after Shelbourne had insisted that an experienced junior be included in the defence team, he had suggested that they really needed a solicitor with greater experience of criminal law.

  ‘I’m quite satisfied with Mr Benson,’ Jonathan had replied. ‘You and your junior, Mr Benjamin, can supply the expertise.’

  At the hotel on their first meeting, after Shelbourne had registered, Harold led the way into the lounge. Shelbourne called for a large whisky-and-soda, while Harold Benson began to tell him about the behaviour of their client. ‘He’s not being at all easy. I can’t get him to say what happened. He’ll hardly tell me anything.’ ‘He will me,’ Hugo Shelbourne had said confidently. But Jonathan hadn’t, and as the weeks passed all Shelbourne himself could get from their client was that he could remember very little of what had been said or had happened when he’d been with Colonel Trelawney when he died. If Colonel Trelawney had died from a massive overdose of diamorphine, Jonathan Playfair said, it was not he who had administered it.

  As Shelbourne drank his whisky Harold Benson confirmed that he was to bring Sir Jonathan to the police station at ten o’clock on the following morning.

  ‘It’ll be intriguing for them, charging a former High Court judge with murder,’ Shelbourne said. ‘The next best thing to a Home Secretary.’

  When he saw Harold’s expression of indignation, he smiled. ‘Haven’t you noticed, Mr Benson, that recently the police have been on the receiving end of a great deal of judicial criticism, for falsifying confessions, bullying during questioning, and so on? Moreover I understand that Playfair was never a favourite of theirs when he was on the bench. They thought him far too soft on the villains they’d caught. So you see, they’ll be intrigued to have him in the dock.’

  ‘But that’s most improper,’ Harold replied. ‘Why didn’t the Director of Public Prosecutions stop it?’

  ‘The DPP? Stop the police? You don’t seem to be very aware of what goes on in the world of the criminal courts, Mr Benson. The DPP is new, and he’d never have the balls to turn down the police if they’d made up their minds to prosecute. He’d be too scared they’d run off to the press – as they very often do – and he’d be pilloried for showing favour to one of his friends.’

  About this Hugo Shelbourne had not been far wrong.

  Colonel Trelawney’s death had not at first been reported even in the local paper. Then Leslie Bramley, the chief crime reporter of a tabloid, the Globe, heard that the local police had brought in a car salesman for questioning over the deaths of a number of prostitutes in the Southampton area. He sought out an old acquaintance, Detective-Inspector Johnson. ‘He’s probably the right man,’ Johnson said, ‘but there isn’t sufficient evidence for us to hold him – so far.’ Then he’d added. ‘Not as much as we have in that case of the old colonel who died recently, although I’m still looking into that.’

  Bramley had pricked up his ears. The policeman had told him more and Bramley began to make enquiries.

  A few days later a paragraph appeared in the Globe referring to the death of ex-Commando Colonel David Trelawney DSO, at the very time when an ex-judge, Sir Jonathan Playfair, had been visiting him.

  ‘It is believed,’ the paragraph went on, ‘that a police investigation has been commenced and a report sent to the DPP, who, many years ago, was a pupil of Sir Jonathan at the Bar. They are said to be close friends.’

  Over the next few days more references appeared about Colonel Trelawney’s death, now described as ‘mysterious’, and it was again reported that Sir Jonathan was the last person to have seen Colonel Trelawney alive.

  ‘What intrigues some enquirers is that Sir Jonathan, even though present when the Colonel died, did not at the time report the death and has
given, so far, no explanation for his silence.’

  Next day there followed a description of the ex-judge’s career, commenting on what the Globe described as ‘some of his strangely lenient sentences’. Alongside this article was a picture of James Tyson. The caption read:

  Mr Tyson was recently appointed DPP by the present Attorney General, to the surprise of many who considered that others with better qualifications should have been preferred. The Attorney General, Mr Tyson and Sir Jonathan are all Benchers of the Inner Temple, and the Attorney General, like Mr Tyson, was also once a pupil of Sir Jonathan Playfair. All three are known to be good friends.

  The next day the Globe published a report that the local police were satisfied that Colonel Trelawney’s death was due to foul play. ‘If that is true,’ the Globe asked, ‘who reported the death, and when? Is there any evidence as to who might be responsible? If so, why has there been no arrest? Is anyone being protected?’

  Other newspapers then began to show interest.

  In the evening of July 14th the Director of Public Prosecutions went to see the Attorney General. The DPP was a mild-looking man with red hair streaked with silver, a moderately successful silk on the Home Circuit who had accepted the surprising offer of the appointment as Director of Public Prosecutions with alacrity. When he entered the room, the Attorney General greeted him cheerfully. ‘Good evening, James. What’s brought you here?’ the Attorney boomed. He was a large man, disliked by many but useful in the House, where he was a combative performer at the despatch box. ‘Nothing too terrible, I hope, but Tom tells me’ – he indicated the Legal Secretary, the Head of the Law Officers’ Department, sitting beside him – ‘you didn’t want to talk about it on the phone. When that happens, I get nervous.’ He looked genially at the DPP. ‘I think of one of my predecessors who years ago was standing in front of the fire in his room when the DPP called unexpectedly. “Sit down, Attorney, sit down,” the DPP said. “You’ll need to – because we’ve arrested a spy who’s a bugger – and is the private secretary of one of the Defence Ministers”.’

  The Attorney laughed happily. ‘He sat down pretty sharp, I can tell you. So I hope what you’ve come about tonight is nothing like that. In any event, I’m already sitting.’ And he laughed again.

  ‘No, Attorney,’ said the DPP. ‘It’s nothing like that. But it is sensitive, and that’s why I’ve come to you.’

  ‘Is it to do with a colleague, a minister?’

  ‘No, and if there’s a prosecution it doesn’t need your permission. But there’s a public-interest element, and you should be informed. It concerns Jonathan Playfair.’

  ‘Old Jonathan? What about him?’

  ‘Have you read any of the recent press references to him?’

  ‘No. What have they been writing about him? Whatever interest can he be to the press?’

  ‘It’s mainly in the Globe.’

  The Attorney laughed genially. ‘I don’t read that rag, James.’

  ‘There have also been references to the story in some of the broadsheets, Attorney,’ said the Legal Secretary gravely. ‘It’s becoming a matter of some public interest. The Lord Chancellor’s private secretary spoke to me earlier today about it.’

  The Attorney looked at him balefully. ‘Well, make sure the Lord Chancellor keeps his judicial nose out of my business.’

  ‘There have also been references in the press to you and me,’ said the DPP.

  ‘To you and me? What are you talking about?’

  The Attorney’s previous good spirits had by now evaporated. The interest of the Lord Chancellor and the DPP’s reference to press comments about himself had seen to that.

  ‘Perhaps you should read the police report.’ The DPP handed it across the Attorney’s desk. ‘The press are asking why no action has been taken.’

  When he had finished reading the Attorney laid the report on his table in front of him. ‘There’s not a great deal there, James. And what conceivable reason would there be for Jonathan to do what they suggest he did?’

  ‘Money. Trelawney while alive kept Jonathan from family money, and he’s recently been very badly hit by claims from Lloyd’s. He has also refused to say anything about what happened when he was alone with Trelawney. He’d sent the nurse away and he knew she was due back but he didn’t even wait for her to return. He informed no-one when Trelawney died. He just left.’

  ‘Is the old fellow ill?’

  ‘The doctors say not. The press are asking why nothing is being done. Some of the press always had it in for Jonathan when he was a judge, but now they’re linking all three of us. The Old Pals Act, that’s what they’re hinting.’

  The Attorney remained silent, thinking. He hadn’t at all liked what the DPP had just said. The government was going through a nasty patch. Even its usual supporters in the press were hostile. Now there were hints that an old friend was being protected. At last he said, ‘You consider there’s enough here to prosecute?’

  ‘The police, and the officer in the Crown Prosecution Service in charge of the case, Patrick Trent, think there is,’ the DPP replied.

  ‘And the police are obviously leaking stories to the press about the progress of the investigation,’ the Legal Secretary added. ‘We can’t ignore the interpretation the media would put upon a rejection by the DPP and you of a recommendation to prosecute made by both Mr Trent and the police.’

  Both the Attorney and the DPP looked at him. The DPP broke the silence. ‘The advantage of a prosecution is that it would bring it all—’

  The Attorney interrupted him. ‘Bring it out into the open, eh?’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Still, a former High Court judge in the dock on a charge of murder!’

  ‘A press campaign against the law-enforcement officers for protecting a personal friend,’ said the Legal Secretary quietly, ‘would be very ugly.’

  The Attorney got to his feet. He put his arm around the DPP’s shoulders as he led him to the door. ‘Poor old Jonathan,’ he said. ‘I’m desperately sorry for him, but we can’t be seen to be showing any favouritism, can we, James?’

  ‘So your advice is—’

  The Attorney was not so easily trapped. ‘It’s your decision, James, but I see the sense of what you have in mind.’

  Later that evening the DPP telephoned the local chief superintendent of police and authorised him to proceed. ‘Get him to come to your office with his solicitor and charge him there. And see there are no leaks before he appears in front of the magistrates for committal for trial.’

  It was then that the chief superintendent had arranged with Harold Benson to bring Jonathan to the police station at ten o’clock next morning and Harold had summoned Hugo Shelbourne from London. But soon after dawn on the following morning two police cars swept up the drive of Pembroke House. The household was woken by the thundering on the front door. Mason came in his dressing-gown. The police, led by Detective-Inspector Johnson, shouldered their way past him into Jonathan’s rooms. Jonathan was roused, ordered to get dressed and driven away to the police station. At the entrance to the drive the police car stopped. It remained stationary for quite a time before it turned very slowly into the lane, giving ample opportunity for the many photographers and television cameras to take their pictures. More were waiting at the entrance to the police station. Inside, the old man was placed in a cell.

  Mary had at once telephoned Harold Benson, who had collected Shelbourne and they both arrived just in time to hear Jonathan being charged. Harold, stuttering with rage, leaned across the table and shouted at the detective-inspector, ‘I arranged with the chief superintendent to bring Sir Jonathan here at ten o’clock. Why did you arrest Sir Jonathan at his home?’

  Shelbourne pulled him away.

  The chief superintendent arrived at nine o’clock, and took the detective-inspector into his office. Shelbourne again quietened Harold. ‘What they’ve done may help us,’ he whispered.

  They waited in an interview room until ten o’clock, when the magi
strates sat in the court next door. From the magistrates court Hugo Shelbourne drove at once to the city where the Presiding Judge of the circuit was sitting at the court in the castle. Shelbourne recounted the arrangements Benson had made with the chief superintendent and told of the dawn arrest in the presence of the media. The judge asked the police for an explanation, but received none. Shelbourne then applied for bail. Sir Jonathan, he said, was an old man under the constant supervision of his doctor; he possessed no valid passport as he had long since given up travelling abroad; and there was no conceivable likelihood of his avoiding any trial. He lived in the house of his cousin, Mr James Playfair, who had now arrived at the court and would stand surety for his cousin. There was no need to keep Sir Jonathan in custody pending the trial.

  Harold had been impressed by the way Shelbourne argued the application. The judge was not impressed by the police behaviour. When asked, the police, now somewhat abashed, had not objected to bail. Finally, Mr Justice Templar, while he acknowledged that it was rare to allow bail where there was a charge of murder, accepted that the circumstances in this case were exceptional, especially having regard to the facts surrounding the alleged killing and the accused’s record, age and frailty. He granted bail.

  That had been six months ago, in the previous summer. Now, in the late afternoon of the Friday in February when the trial had begun Jonathan Playfair’s lawyers – the one so elegant, the other so shabby – were walking to the hotel in the city where they had originally met in July. They went for some time in silence, Harold thinking about Jonathan; Shelbourne about the visitor whom he was expecting for the weekend.

  ‘I wish he’d not been fit enough to stand trial,’ Harold said suddenly.

  ‘Then they’d have been forced to put him away,’ Shelbourne replied coolly.

  ‘That might have been better than what he’s now going through.’

  Again the two men walked in silence. Then Harold said, ‘Here we are with the trial begun and he still won’t give us any details of what happened that afternoon.’