Dick Francis - Silks

‘Now, Mr Pleat,’ said the prosecution QC in his smarmy manner. ‘Were you present at Mr Mitchell’s property the day three new pitchforks were delivered?’

‘Yes, I was,’ he replied.

‘And can you recall the actions of Mr Mitchell when he saw that they had been delivered?’

‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘Steve, that’s Mr Mitchell, picked one of them up and thrust it forward and said something about sticking that bastard Scot Barlow with it.’

There was a moment of silence in the court.

‘Thank you, Mr Pleat,’ said the QC. ‘Your witness.’

I rose to my foot.

‘Mr Pleat,’ I said to him. ‘Were you frightened by this action you say Mr Mitchell performed?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘Why not?’ I asked him.

‘I figured Steve was only joking, like,’ he said. ‘He was laughing. We were both laughing.’

‘Thank you, Mr Pleat,’ I said. ‘No more questions.’

Fred Pleat left the court and, as a bonus to our side, he gave Steve a slight wave as he passed the dock. I hoped the jury had been watching.

‘My Lord, that concludes the case for the prosecution,’ said their QC.

The judge looked at the clock on the courtroom wall that showed ten past four, then he turned towards the jury.

‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,’ he said. ‘You are free to go now until tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. May I remind you not to discuss the case amongst yourselves, nor with anybody else, not even your families. You will get your chance to deliberate in due course.’

The jury was then ushered out of court.

‘Mr Mason,’ the judge said when the jury door had been closed. I had earlier informed the judge that I wished to make a submission at the conclusion of the prosecution’s case, and members of the jury were never present in court during legal argument.

‘Yes, My Lord,’ I said, struggling upright. ‘Thank you.’ I collected together some papers in front of me. ‘My Lord, the defence wishes to make a submission to the court that the defendant has no case to answer. The prosecution have presented nothing more than circumstantial evidence. There is nothing to show that my client was ever in Mr Barlow’s house, let alone being there at the time of the murder.’

I took my time going over each of the witnesses’ evidence in some detail.

‘In conclusion,’ I said. ‘The forensic evidence may be able to place my client’s pitchfork and wellington boots at the scene, but this does not prove that my client was there with them at the time. The prosecution may also be able to show that hair and blood from the victim were found in my client’s car, but they were not able to demonstrate that the car had ever been at Mr Barlow’s residence, nor that it had been locked throughout the afternoon and early evening on the day of the murder, while it sat on Mr Mitchell’s driveway.

‘While the defence readily accepts that our client and Mr Barlow held an ongoing and deep-seated antagonism towards each other, this is not evidence of murder. If it were, then half the nation would be so tainted. The defence further accepts that our client does not have an alibi for the time of the murder, but failure to have an alibi is not evidence of guilt. It is our contention that the prosecution has failed to present prima facie evidence of Mr Mitchell’s guilt. My Lord, we submit that you should direct the jury to return a not guilty verdict because there is no case for Mr Mitchell to answer.’

I sat down.

‘Thank you, Mr Mason,’ said the judge. ‘I will consider your submission overnight and make a ruling in the morning. Court adjourned until ten o’clock tomorrow.’

‘All rise.’

Eleanor finally did come to Oxford on Wednesday night. She was waiting for me in the dimly lit hotel lobby when I returned from court. I hadn’t expected her to be so early, and I was worried that there might be a message for me giving yet another good reason why she couldn’t make it tonight either. So I was caught unawares as I struggled with both my box of papers and the crutches. She came up behind me and took the box just before it dropped to the floor.

‘Oh, thank you,’ I said, thinking it had been one of the hotel staff.

Eleanor peeped at me round the side of the box.

‘Hello,’ I said with a grin from ear to ear. ‘How absolutely wonderful. You can catch my boxes any day you like.’

‘I thought I’d surprise you,’ she said. ‘I’ve been here more than an hour.’

‘Blimey,’ I said. ‘If I’d known that I would have been here more than an hour ago.’

‘Why weren’t you?’ she said in mock annoyance.

‘I was busy telling my client what a complete fool he’d been,’ I said.

‘Why?’ she said.

‘He shouted at one of the witnesses,’ I said. ‘What an idiot!’

I had indeed spent the last hour giving Steve a roasting in the holding cells beneath the court.

‘I’m sorry,’ Steve had whined at me. ‘I couldn’t help it. I was so mad. That bloody Clemens has been riding all my horses. He’d be delighted if I got convicted. Be laughing all the way to the bloody winner’s circle.’

‘But you still mustn’t do it,’ I had urged him again. ‘It is the very worst thing you could have done and now the judge has to make a decision about whether we carry on with the trial or if he lets you go, and he will not have been impressed by your actions. You showed him your temper. He might just think that your temper has something to do with the murder.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he had said again.

‘And,’ I had said, rubbing salt into his wound, ‘Clemens wasn’t even lying when you shouted at him. You have often said that Barlow was a Judas. I’ve heard you myself in the changing rooms.’

Steve had sat on the bare wooden chair in the cell looking very shamefaced. For a change, he’d seemed quite pleased when the prison officer had unlocked the cell door to say that the transport was ready and he had to go. Perhaps I had been a little hard on him but, if the trial were to continue, I needed him to remain sitting calmly and silently in the dock, no matter what the provocation.

Eleanor now leaned forward and gave me a brief kiss on the lips.

‘Do you want to go for a drink?’ I asked her. ‘It’s nearly six.’

‘No,’ she said emphatically. ‘I want to go to bed.’

In the end we did both.

I ordered a bottle of champagne and two glasses from the bar to take up to my room.

‘I’ve never made love in a prison before,’ said Eleanor excitedly as we came out of the lift onto one of the galleried landings of ‘A’ wing. ‘In fact, I’ve never even been in a prison before.’

‘They’re not usually like this,’ I said. ‘For a start, they always smell dreadful. A mixture of disinfectant and stale BO. Never enough showers.’

‘Ugh,’ she said.

All my apprehension about this encounter came flooding back with a vengeance and I was shaking like a leaf by the time we had negotiated the long gallery to my room, so much so that I couldn’t even get the cork out of the champagne bottle.

‘Here,’ said Eleanor taking it from my trembling hands. ‘Let me do that.’ She poured the golden bubbling liquid into the two tall flutes. ‘My, we are a nervous boy,’ she said as I took the glass with a tremor.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

‘Don’t be,’ she said. ‘I’m pretty nervous, too.’

I sat on the edge of the bed, kicked off my shoes and lay down, putting my feet up on the bedcovers. I tapped the hard plastic shell beneath my shirt.

‘This damn thing doesn’t help either,’ I said.

‘Let me look after you,’ she said, coming over and lying down beside me.

And she did.

All my apprehension drifted away to nothing and all my fears were unfounded. Maybe it really was like riding a bicycle, I thought. Once you had learned the knack you never forgot it.