Dick Francis - Silks

Our prison van had then delivered us right into the court complex through the security gates round the back, just as it would have done if we had been defendants on remand. We had emerged into court number 1 along the cell corridor beneath, and then via the steps up to the dock. Eleanor, who had called the equine hospital to say she wasn’t coming in to work, now sat right behind me in court, next to Bruce.

‘Very well,’ said the judge. He nodded at the court usher, who went to fetch the jury. As we waited for them, I looked around the courtroom with its grand paintings of past High Sheriffs of Oxfordshire. On the wall above the judge there was the royal crest with its motto, HONI SOIT QUI MAL Y PENSE, written around the central crest. Evil to him who evil thinks was a translation from Old French, the medieval language of the Norman and Plantagenet kings of England. How about ‘Evil to him that evil does’, I thought. That would be much more appropriate in this place.

The press box was busy but not quite so full as it had been at the start of the trial the week before. Public interest had waned a little as well, and only about half of the thirty or so of the public seats were occupied, with Mr and Mrs Barlow senior sitting together in the front row, as ever.

The five men and seven women of the jury filed into the court and took their seats to my left in the jury box. They all looked quite normal. Mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, professional people and manual workers, all of them thrown together into a panel by simple chance. There was nothing unusual or extraordinary about any one of them, but collectively they had to perform the extraordinary task of determining the facts, and deciding if the defendant was guilty or not. They’d had no training for the task, and they had no instruction manual to follow. Our whole legal system was reliant on such groups of people, who had never met one another prior to the trial, doing the ‘right’ thing and together making exceptional decisions on questions far beyond their regular daily experiences. It was one of the greatest strengths of our system, but also, on occasion, one of its major weaknesses, especially in some fraud trials where the evidence was complex and intricate, often beyond the understanding of the common man.

I looked at the members of this jury one by one, and hoped they had been well rested by four days away from the court. They might need to be alert and on the ball to follow what would happen here today, and to understand its significance.

‘Mr Mason,’ said the judge, looking down at me from the bench.

It was now time.

‘Thank you, My Lord,’ I said, rising. ‘The defence calls…’ Suddenly my mouth was dry and my tongue felt enormous. I took a sip from my glass of water. ‘The defence calls Mr Roger Radcliffe.’

Roger Radcliffe was shown into court by the usher, who directed him to the witness box. He was asked to give his full name. ‘Roger Kimble Radcliffe,’ he said confidently. He was then given a New Testament to hold in his left hand and asked to read out loud from a card. ‘I swear by almighty God that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.’

One could but hope, I thought.

I stood up but, before I had a chance to say anything, Radcliffe turned to the judge.

‘Your Honour,’ he said. ‘I have no idea why I have been asked to come here today. I knew Scot Barlow only by reputation. I have never spoken to him and he has never ridden any of my horses. Your honour, I’m a very busy man running my own company and I resent having to waste my time coming to court.’

He stood bolt upright in the witness box looking at the judge with an air of someone who had been greatly inconvenienced for no good reason. His body language was clearly asking the judge to allow him to get back to his business.

‘Mr Radcliffe,’ the judge replied. ‘The defence have every right to call whomsoever they wish, provided that their evidence is relevant to the trial. As yet, I cannot tell if that is the case here because I haven’t yet heard any of the questions that Mr Mason wishes to ask. But rest assured,’ he went on, ‘if I consider that your presence is a waste of your time, or of the court’s time, then I shall say so. But that decision shall be mine, not yours. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Your Honour,’ Radcliffe said.

‘Mr Mason,’ invited the judge.

‘Thank you, My Lord,’ I said.

I had been thinking of nothing else all weekend except how to conduct this examination of my witness and now, when I had to start, I felt completely at sea. I had intended opening by asking him how well he knew Scot Barlow, but that point seemed to have been covered already.

I took another sip of water. The silence in the courtroom was almost tangible and every eye was onme, waiting for me to begin.

‘Mr Radcliffe,’ I said. ‘Could you please tell the jury what it is your company does?’

It was not what he had expected and he seemed to relax a little, the stress-lines around his eyes loosened a fraction and his furrowed brow flattened slightly.

‘My main business,’ he said, ‘is the running of the Radcliffe Foaling Centre.’

‘And could you please explain to the jury what that involves?’ I asked him.

Roger Radcliffe looked imploringly at the bench.

‘Is this relevant?’ the judge asked me, getting the message.

‘Yes, My Lord,’ I said. ‘I will show the relevance as my examination proceeds.’

‘Very well,’ said the judge. He turned to the witness box. ‘Please answer the question, Mr Radcliffe.’

Roger Radcliffe blew down his nose with irritation. ‘It involves exactly what the name implies.’

I waited in silence.

He finally continued without further prompting. ‘We have about two hundred mares come to us each year. The foals are delivered in special conditions with proper veterinary care on hand and a team of specially trained grooms. The whole set-up has proved very popular with owners of mares as they feel more comfortable with the care their animals receive.’

Two hundred was about double the number of mares that Larry Clayton had claimed ten days previously while he had been resting his cowboy boots on his desk, but I was hardly going to accuse Roger Radcliffe of perjury over a minor exaggeration of the size of his business.

‘And how long has your business been in operation?’ I asked him.

‘About seven or eight years,’ he said. ‘But it has become much bigger recently, and it continues to expand.’

‘And are there specific reasons for that expansion?’ I asked.

‘We are doing well,’ he said. ‘And over the last twelve months I have been able to inject a substantial investment into the business.’

‘Would that investment have been possible due to the success of your horse Peninsula?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Exactly so.’

‘Mr Radcliffe,’ I said. ‘Some members of the jury may not be familiar with horse racing so perhaps you could tell them about Peninsula.’

I glanced at the judge. He was looking at me intently and raised his eyebrows so that they seemed to disappear under the horsehair of his wig.

‘Technically, Peninsula is no longer my horse,’ said Roger Radcliffe. ‘He was syndicated for stud at the end of last year and is now part owned by a number of individuals or organizations. I have retained only two shares in him out of sixty.’

‘But you did own him throughout his racing career?’ I asked.

‘Yes, I did.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘And I bred him. I owned his mare and he was foaled at my place. I decided to keep him rather than sending him to the sales, and now I am so glad I did.’

‘So he was a success on the racecourse?’ I asked.