David Dickinson - Death of a wine merchant

In the end Pugh couldn’t resist. If Powerscourt’s realpolitik in the Pall Mall club was right, then Cooper might prove a godsend. It was worth a try.

‘Detective Inspector Cooper,’ an emollient, a charming Pugh began. ‘I believe you have made the acquaintance of a colleague of mine, Lord Francis Powerscourt, who has been investigating this case?’

‘I have indeed,’ said Cooper, smiling back at the defence barrister.

‘Lord Powerscourt told me right at the beginning of the case that Mrs Nash over there informed him that you thought Detective Chief Inspector Weir was going to arrest the wrong man. Is that the case?’

Albert Cooper thought about all the arguments brought to bear on him not to repeat his doubts at the trial. Weir himself had spoken to Charlotte when he was out, trying to persuade her to persuade him to deny it. He remembered the ploy that had finally brought him round. The Chief Constable himself had told his parents that if he didn’t do what he was told, his career in the Norfolk Constabulary or any other Constabulary would be over for ever. His mother, never strong, had grown ill. It was his father saying that he couldn’t bear to see his mother going downhill that finally turned him. What, asked his father, were a few white lies compared with his mother’s health?

‘That’s quite right,’ said Detective Inspector Cooper cheerfully, ‘I did think that at the beginning of the case.’

‘Could you tell the court what persuaded you into that judgement?’ Pugh was still emollient.

‘Well, sir, it seemed to me to be too obvious that the defendant had done it. It was as if somebody meant us to think like that.’

‘Really?’ said Pugh. ‘And what made you change your mind?’

‘I think there were two things, sir. Chief Inspector Weir is a detective of great experience. He has been investigating murders in Norfolk since before I was born. You have to take account of things like that, especially when you’ve only just been promoted like I had been at the time.’

‘And the second reason?’

‘I think I was influenced by the fact that there didn’t seem to me to be any other explanation. None of the guests at the wedding came up with anything and as time went by no other explanation presented itself.’

‘I see,’ said Pugh. ‘I put it to you, Detective Inspector, that your superiors put considerable pressure on you to change your mind. How much more convenient to have all the officers in the case singing the same tune. Did they talk to you about your future prospects? Did they put pressure on your family to make you come round?’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Inspector Cooper, but he had turned a shade of deep red.

Charles Augustus Pugh remained on his feet for half a minute or so, staring at Detective Inspector Cooper. Then he turned abruptly on his heel and sat down.

‘No further questions,’ he said.

Sir Jasper rose quickly to his feet, aware of the damage that might have been done to his case.

‘Detective Inspector Cooper, could you just confirm one or two points for the gentlemen of the jury? It is your belief that the defendant, Cosmo Colville, murdered his brother Randolph at Brympton Hall at a wedding in October of this year?’

‘It is,’ said Cooper, the red fading from his cheeks.

‘And you reached that opinion entirely on your own with no external pressure?’

Mistake, thought Pugh. The young man can control what he says but not what happens to the colour of his face.

‘I did,’ said Albert Cooper, the colour rising up his cheeks again.

Sir Jasper was quick to react. ‘No further questions,’ he said, and it so happened that right at that very moment he fell victim to a coughing fit that involved a great deal of noise and apologies to the judge while this storm raged about him. The fit also led to the production of a quite magnificent red handkerchief from his trouser pocket, an enormous kerchief about the size of a tea towel which appeared to bring some relief. Under cover of this display Albert Cooper was able to slip away with the gentlemen of the jury unaware of whether he had turned pink once more or not. Out of the corner of his eye Pugh caught an angry glower on the face of Detective Chief Inspector Weir, as though the young man had let them down. You could control his words but you couldn’t control the colour on his face. Weir in angry mode, thought Pugh, did have a remarkable similarity to an aged warhorse.

It was just after four o’clock now. Outside the lamps were being lit. A couple of hundred yards away the choir of St Paul’s Cathedral were preparing for the daily ritual of evensong. Sir Jasper thought he had chosen his last witness well. Willoughby Nash, husband of Georgina, owner of Brympton Hall, leading solicitor in the city of Norwich, chairman of this and director of that in the city where he worked, captain and leading run scorer for Aylsham Cricket Club, was a man of substance, a man of weight. Even in the alien territory of the witness box of the Old Bailey, seldom, if ever, the scene of courtroom encounters for the solicitors of Norwich, Willoughby Nash radiated an easy power. Sir Jasper hoped that he would prove a fitting final witness for the close of the prosecution case.

‘Mr Nash.’ Sir Jasper seemed to have recovered from his coughing fit by now. ‘Perhaps you could give us your account of the day of the murder. You were at the very centre of events after all.’

Willoughby Nash looked at the gentlemen of the jury as if he might be about to sell them at an auction and needed to determine the appropriate prices.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘of course. There was nothing untoward about the wedding itself apart from the fact that the organist fellow didn’t play what he’d been told to play. After that people milled around at the front of the church as they usually do, trying to kiss the bride or shake hands with the groom. Eventually they all drifted into the gardens at the rear – Brympton has gardens to the front as well as the back, being such a large house – and we served them champagne.’

Sir Jasper was now holding his hand up, rather in the manner of a traffic policeman.

‘Forgive me, Mr Nash, were there any strangers you could see, milling about in the crowds?’

Sir Jasper thought that the only viable defence Pugh might be able to run would be The Mysterious Stranger and he was determined to nip it in the bud if he could.

‘Strangers?’ said Willoughby Nash, and he began stroking his chin. ‘Well, as my wife told you this morning, there were some people one didn’t know. It’s not possible to have made the acquaintance of all the groom’s family before these occasions, but the Colville people looked absolutely fine to me. Quite a lot of them you’d be happy to go hunting with. A lot of medals on display, one or two people who’d obviously been wounded in the Boer War. You’d be hard pressed to find a more respectable body of people. I’d have been more than happy to propose the lot of them for my own club in Norwich.’

‘I see,’ said Sir Jasper, asking himself briefly if Willoughby Nash would propose him for the club. ‘Could you tell us now about the sequence of events leading up to the murder?’

Pugh suddenly noticed the prisoner in the dock opposite Willoughby Nash, the low wooden walls keeping him in, the stairs just visible to bring Cosmo Colville up and down from the holding cells below. He had been slumped in his chair for most of the day. Now he was leaning forward intently as if this was the witness he was most interested in.

‘Of course.’ Any slight nervousness Nash might have had at the beginning had gone now. Pugh wondered if this witness might not be too grand for the jury. They might prefer plainer men and plainer fare.