David Dickinson - Death of an Old Master

‘I, Oliver Morris, do solemnly swear that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.’

Pugh glanced briefly at the jury Four of them, he thought, were impressed by this patriarch of the Church, three indifferent, the rest curious.

‘Were you the minister taking the service of Evensong in Christ Church Cathedral in Oxford on 9th November this year?’ said Pugh.

‘I was.’

‘Could you tell the court at what time the service commenced?’

‘The service started at five fifteen that day. It would have lasted about forty-five minutes.’

‘So it would have finished about six o’clock?’

‘That is correct.’

‘Dean, I would ask you to take a look at the prisoner in the dock. Please take as long as you like.’ Pugh paused while the churchman looked closely at Buckley. Buckley stared impassively back.

‘Do you recognize this man as a member of your congregation on that day?’

‘I do.’

‘Could you tell the court when you first saw him?’ Pugh thought the Dean was proving an impressive witness.

‘I usually take a brief look at the worshippers shortly before the service is due to begin,’ said the Dean, addressing the jury as though it were attending a service in his cathedral. ‘It sometimes helps to know the size of the likely congregation. I should say I first noticed him, sitting very near the choir stalls, at about five past five.’

‘And was he present throughout the service?’

‘He was.’ The Dean stroked his crucifix.

‘And did you see him afterwards?’

‘I did. It is my custom at that time of year to invite those members of the congregation who wish to come back to the Deanery for tea and sandwiches, or a glass of sherry if they prefer. Some of the destitute from the city come to Evensong. It is an unobtrusive means of feeding them, getting some nourishment into their poor bodies.’

Pugh noticed the church party among the jury nodding in approval. Feed the poor. The feeding not of the five thousand but of the impoverished of Oxford.

‘And did Mr Buckley attend this function?’

‘He did.’ Dean Morris permitted himself a slight smile. ‘We had a long conversation about an expedition he was planning, to attend Evensong in all the great cathedrals of England. I gave him my blessing for the project. I should say Mr Buckley left the Deanery shortly before seven, maybe slightly later.’

‘One last question, Dean,’ said Pugh. ‘You know Oxford well, I presume? You have lived there for some time?’

‘I have lived there for ten years now.’

‘Could you tell us how long it would take a man like Mr Buckley to walk from the railway station to the bottom of the Banbury Road?’

‘Objection, my lord!’ Sir Rufus Fitch was on his feet. ‘We are here to try Mr Buckley on a charge of murder, not to recommend walking routes for tourists on their first visit to Oxford!’

‘Mr Pugh?’ the judge inquired politely.

‘My lord, the defence intends to show serious flaws in the prosecution’s account of Mr Buckley’s movements while he was in Oxford. Central to that argument is the length of time it would take to walk from the railway station to the bottom of the Banbury Road, and from Keble College to Christ Church, if you will permit me, my lord. What more reliable witness could we find for such matters than the Dean himself?’

‘Objection overruled, Sir Rufus. Mr Pugh.’

‘Let me repeat the question,’ said Charles Augustus Pugh. ‘How long would it take to walk from the railway station to the bottom of the Banbury Road?’

‘It would take about twenty-five minutes,’ said the Dean firmly.

‘It is the contention of the defence, Dean, that Mr Buckley went on his arrival in Oxford to visit his godson in Keble College. Would that route take you past the bottom of the Banbury Road, just here?’ Pugh pointed to the road on his map.

‘It could do,’ said the Dean circumspectly. ‘It could certainly do so.’

‘And how long,’ asked Charles Augustus Pugh, ‘would it take you to walk from Keble to Christ Church?’

‘About twenty minutes, I should think.’

‘Thank you, Dean. No further questions.’ Pugh returned to his desk. Sir Rufus declined to cross examine the witness, sensing perhaps that character assassination attempts on a Dean might not go down too well with the jury.

‘Call Mr Paul Lucas.’

A pale, rather frail-looking young man was sworn into Court Number Three of the Central Criminal Court. Pugh rose to his feet once more, with a friendly smile to welcome his new witness.

‘You are Paul Lucas, currently an undergraduate of Keble College, Oxford?’

‘I am,’ said the young man.

‘And what are your plans,’ asked Pugh in his gentlest voice, ‘when your time at Oxford is completed?’

‘I hope to be ordained as a priest of the Church of England, sir.’ Lucas gave his future profession with pride.

‘You are also, Mr Lucas,’ Pugh went on, ‘the godson of the defendant in this case, Mr Horace Aloysius Buckley. Perhaps you could tell the court about his visit to you on the afternoon of 9th November of this year, the day, I would just remind the members of the jury, that Thomas Jenkins was killed.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Paul Lucas composed himself. ‘My godfather called on me in my rooms at Keble somewhere around twenty past four in the afternoon. He said that he was going to attend Evensong in Christ Church. We had tea together. He left me at a quarter to five to walk to Christ Church. I remember the precise time because Mr Buckley said something like “Quarter to five, I should be on my way.”’

‘Thank you, Mr Lucas. One final question. You are absolutely sure of those times?’

‘Yes, sir, I am,’ said Paul Lucas firmly.

‘No further questions,’ said Pugh.

Sir Rufus had decided not to cross examine the Dean. But now he could see a very plausible alibi being established in front of the jury’s eyes. He rose slowly to his feet and moved into the attack.

‘Mr Lucas, could you tell the court how often your godfather comes to visit you in Oxford?’

‘He normally comes two or three times a term, sir.’ Paul Lucas was feeling slightly overwhelmed by his surroundings.

‘So what was the date when he came to see you on the previous occasion?’

Paul Lucas looked thoughtful. ‘It must have been sometime in October, I think.’

‘Sometime in October, but you cannot remember the precise date? Let us see what else you might be able to remember, Mr Lucas. Did your godfather send you money after his visit in November?’

‘He did, sir.’

‘And can you recall the date the cheque or banker’s order actually arrived with you?’

‘I am afraid I cannot, sir,’ said Lucas after another pause, now looking rather desperately at Pugh as if he could save him from his ordeal.

‘Perhaps you can help me here, Mr Lucas.’ Sir Rufus was trying to kill the young man with kindness. ‘You cannot remember the date when your godfather came to see you in October. You cannot remember the date when his cheque or banker’s order arrived after his visit, even though that is the most recent event. But you are able to remember the precise date and time in November. Is that so?’

Paul Lucas was going quite red now. ‘That is true, sir,’ he said finally.

‘Tell me, Mr Lucas,’ another line of attack suddenly came to Sir Rufus, ‘are you financially dependent on your godfather?’

‘I’m not quite sure what you mean,’ said the young man.

‘Does he support you financially at Oxford, Mr Lucas? It takes quite a lot of money to keep an undergraduate there for three years.’

Paul Lucas looked again at Pugh. ‘He does, sir. My father is dead and my mother has very little money.’