David Dickinson - Death of an Old Master

Sir Rufus had not expected to find such treasure as this. ‘Do I understand you correctly, Mr Lucas? All your bills and so on are paid for by Mr Buckley? I’m sure you must be very grateful to him, is that not so?’

‘I am indeed grateful to him, sir.’

‘Would it be fair to say, Mr Lucas, that you would do anything you could to help Mr Buckley if he was in trouble?’

Paul Lucas may have been rattled but he could sense what might be coming.

‘Of course I would help my godfather,’ he said, taking his time, ‘as long as it was the right and proper thing to do.’

‘And would you regard it as the right and proper thing to do, Mr Lucas, to remember the precise date and time of a visit from your godfather when you cannot recall even the approximate date of his previous visit and the date his money arrived?’

‘Only if it was the proper thing to do,’ said Lucas.

‘I put it to you, Mr Lucas, that you are only able to pursue your studies at Oxford through the generosity of Mr Buckley. I further put it to you that you were more than willing to help him by fabricating the date of his visit to you on 9th November to help your godfather be acquitted on a charge of murder. That is the case, is it not?’

‘That is not true,’ said Lucas, now looking rather shaken. Sir Rufus sat down. Pugh rose to his feet once more.

‘Let us just make sure that the jury are clear in their minds here, Mr Lucas,’ he said, smiling once more at his witness. ‘On 9th November of this year did Mr Buckley come to visit you in your rooms at Keble between the hours of twenty past four and a quarter to five in the afternoon?’

‘He did,’ said Lucas.

‘Recall Chief Inspector Wilson.’

Wilson was a veteran of many trials. Indeed he was often used by the Oxfordshire Constabulary in the training of new recruits going to court and giving evidence for the first time. Always be respectful, he would tell the young men in their bright new uniforms. Don’t let them rile you. Look them straight in the eye. Sound as though you believe every word you say. Think before you speak.

‘Chief Inspector Wilson.’ Pugh had been deferential with the Dean, gentle with the future minister of the Church. He was now charming with the Chief Inspector, but hinting ever so slightly that Wilson might not be very bright. ‘I would just like to run through the prosecution account of Mr Buckley’s movements in Oxford, if I may. The post-mortem said that Thomas Jenkins was probably killed between the hours of four and seven o’clock. Your first statement,’ Pugh sorted through some papers in his hand, ‘stated that Mr Buckley was seen at the railway station at about ten to four. There is a London train that arrives five minutes before. Is that correct?’

‘That is correct,’ said the Chief Inspector.

‘And your second witness statement said that he was seen at the bottom end of the Banbury Road where Thomas Jenkins lived shortly before or about a quarter past four. Is that correct?’

‘It is,’ said the Chief Inspector, suddenly remembering Powerscourt’s doubts about the second murder. He looked quickly around the court. Powerscourt was sitting directly behind Charles Augustus Pugh.

‘You will forgive me, Chief Inspector, if I say that you are better acquainted with the geography of Oxford than the members of the jury I have here a map of the relevant areas of central Oxford to assist them.’

Pugh rested a large map on the edge of the table in front of him. Powerscourt had brought it back for him on his last trip to Oxford. Pugh’s junior came round to hold it steady. The map was clearly visible to the judge and jury.

‘Please correct me if I make any mistakes, Chief Inspector,’ said Pugh cheerfully. He took a pencil and pointed to a red line on the map that began at the railway station. ‘This is the position shortly before four o’clock. Mr Buckley is at the railway station here. Then he walks along this red line,’ Pugh’s pencil was tracing the route on the map, ‘from the station here, past the front of Worcester College here, along Walton Street, over Little Clarendon Street there and crosses the Woodstock Road. He arrives here at the bottom of the Banbury Road at about a quarter past four.’

The red line stopped. The jury stared in fascination at the map.

‘Now, Chief Inspector, you, like our friend the Dean, know Oxford well. Number 55 Banbury Road is some distance up that thoroughfare.’ Pugh’s pencil pointed to a large circle further up the road on his map with the number 55 written inside in large letters. ‘Would you say a further ten minutes away?’

‘Something like that,’ said the Chief Inspector, worried suddenly by the direction of the questions. Pugh’s pencil was back at the end of the red line, moving slowly towards the circled 55.

‘So, Chief Inspector, it would have taken Mr Buckley ten minutes to arrive at Number 55,’ the pencil stopped inside the circle, ‘let us say ten minutes for the despatch of Mr Jenkins, another ten minutes,’ the pencil was moving quickly now, ‘back to the bottom of the Banbury Road. That would make it four forty-five. Yet we know from the evidence of Mr Lucas that Mr Buckley was taking tea in Keble between the hours of four twenty and forty-five. The University of Oxford, Chief Inspector, is famed for its expertise in mathematics and metaphysics. Can you explain how the defendant could have been in two places at one time?’

Chief Inspector Wilson paused before replying. Pugh felt a momentary sense of triumph.

‘It is the prosecution case that the defendant did murder Mr Jenkins on that day,’ Wilson said, sensing that his face might be turning red.

‘Ah, but when, Chief Inspector? When? That is the question. Let us just make the remaining journeys of Mr Buckley in Oxford on that day last month perfectly clear to the members of the jury.’ Out came the pencil again. ‘At a quarter to five, as Mr Lucas told us, he leaves Keble.’ The second line was black. ‘He comes into St Giles here, past the Ashmolean over there, past Carfax and down St Aldate’s to Christ Church along this black route on the map. A journey, as Dean Morris told us, of some twenty minutes. And sure enough, he was seen in his position in the choir stalls shortly after five o’clock.’

Pugh paused. Chief Inspector Wilson looked more and more uncomfortable. Pugh’s pencil was hovering over the cathedral.

‘Let us just examine the final window of time in which Mr Buckley might, I stress the word might, have been able to go to 55 Banbury Road and murder Mr Jenkins. The Dean himself has just told us that the defendant left the Deanery shortly before seven. And seven is the latest time the doctors give for the time of death.’ The pencil of Charles Augustus Pugh began to make darting movements between Christ Church and the Banbury Road. ‘An angel of the Lord or one of the fastest runners in the University Athletics Club might have made the journey from Christ Church to Mr Jenkins’ lodgings in the time available. It would take half an hour or more.’ The pencil was shooting back and forth now between the two locations at a dizzying speed. ‘But it was surely impossible for a man of Mr Buckley’s age.’ Pugh paused. Chief Inspector Wilson looked as if he was about to speak. Pugh didn’t let him.

‘Tell me, Chief Inspector,’ he went on, ‘what other evidence do you have that the defendant murdered Mr Jenkins?’

The Chief Inspector looked defiant. ‘There is the tie, the tie found in his room which had gone missing from Mr Buckley’s wardrobe.’

‘Ah the tie, Chief Inspector.’ Pugh had turned charming again. ‘Have you ever lost any ties? I certainly have. There are often times when one simply cannot find them. Is that the case with you?’