David Dickinson - Death of an Old Master

‘Objection, my lord.’ Sir Rufus was up once more. ‘I fail to see what relevance this period in Rome can have to the present case.’

‘Mr Pugh?’ said Mr Justice Browne wearily. He knew that the juniors often placed bets on the number of successful objections, keeping score as if his courtroom were a tennis court. He had done the same thing himself as a young man.

‘My lord,’ said Charles Augustus Pugh, ‘if my learned friend would permit to me to complete the line of questioning I am more than confident that the relevance will become apparent to him. And,’ he added quickly, ‘to the members of the jury.’

‘Objection overruled. Mr Pugh.’

‘At the time of your residence in Rome, Mrs Buckley, you were between the ages of eighteen and twenty. Is that correct?’

‘Yes,’ said Rosalind Buckley. Suddenly she looked very very frightened.

‘And for most of your nineteenth year, Mrs Buckley, Rome was convulsed with a society scandal. You will forgive me, Mrs Buckley, if I convey the briefest of summaries to the court.’

Pugh paused and took a long drink from his glass. ‘A young nobleman, Antonio Vivarini, from one of the oldest families in Rome, was found dead at the bottom of the Spanish steps. It transpired that he had promised to elope with the wife of a high lay official in the Vatican. Then he broke his promise. He had laid plans to elope with another, the heiress to a great fortune. The scandal went on for a very long time because the police were unable to find the murderer. The Romans said the police had been bribed, by the heiress’s father, or by the Vatican, it doesn’t really matter. Can you remember who was convicted of the murder in the end, Mrs Buckley?’

Mrs Buckley looked as if she wanted to run away. ‘The wife,’ she said finally, ‘the wife of the man in the Vatican was convicted of the murder.’

‘And can you remember, Mrs Buckley, how Antonio Vivarini was killed?’

‘He was garrotted,’ she whispered.

Pugh had moved over to the table where the Exhibits were displayed. ‘Garrotted with what?’ he said in a loud voice.

The pause was almost interminable. Powerscourt and Johnny Fitzgerald both knew the answer. They knew that Rosalind Buckley must know the answer too. And they knew what the answer would mean.

‘With piano wire,’ she murmured.

‘Did I hear you correctly, Mrs Buckley? Piano wire?’ Pugh bent down and picked up the length of piano wire on the table, Exhibit A in the trial of Horace Aloysius Buckley for murder. ‘Piano wire,’ he was holding it up for the jury to see and twisting it slowly round his wrists, ‘piano wire, rather like this?’

Rosalind Buckley nodded. Some members of the jury were staring entranced at the length of piano wire, bending its way backwards and forwards round Pugh’s hands.

‘No further questions for the present. Call Samuel Morton.’

Samuel Morton, although he had not realized it, had been in protective custody all morning. William McKenzie had arrived very early at his little house in Richmond. He accompanied Morton to the railway station. He brought him to the Central Criminal Court well before the queues had formed. They had one of the best views in the house until this moment when Samuel Morton took the stand. Nobody in the court knew who he was. People asked their neighbours if he had been mentioned earlier in the proceedings. Sir Rufus Fitch felt his case slipping away from him, as more and more exotic and dangerous rabbits were pulled from Pugh’s hat.

‘You are Samuel Morton, of Morton’s Musical Supplies of George Street, Richmond?’

Morton had a clear voice. He sang in the local church choir every Sunday of the year. ‘I am.’

‘Perhaps you could tell the court what sort of musical instruments and other musical requirements you supply, Mr Morton?’

‘Of course, sir. We sell pianos and harpsichords, a few violins, recorders, flutes, the odd viola. We also supply all the relevant accessories.’

‘Do you sell piano wire, Mr Morton?’

‘We do, sir. Mostly to the piano tuners, sometimes to ordinary members of the public.’

‘Mr Morton, do you recognize anybody in this court to whom you have sold piano wire in the last few months? Take your time, Mr Morton.’

Powerscourt had been watching Mrs Buckley very carefully. Morton took less than a minute to reply. ‘I do, sir.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Pugh, ‘you could point the person out to us.’

Morton pointed his finger straight at Rosalind Buckley. ‘That lady there,’ he said, ‘the one in the black hat, sir.’

‘And did she come just once? Or were there several visits?’

Samuel Morton took out a notebook from his pocket. ‘I always make a note of the date of the purchases, sir. It takes a long time to order piano wire from our suppliers. We have to place the order well in advance if we aren’t going to run out.’

He turned over a few pages. ‘Her first visit was on 4th October, sir. Then she came back on 6th November, sir. Said she needed some more.’

‘Let me remind the gentlemen of the jury, my lord,’ said Pugh, speaking in his most measured tones, ‘that 4th October was a day or so before the murder of Christopher Montague.’ He paused briefly. ‘And that 6th November was three days before the murder of Thomas Jenkins.’ Pugh paused and took a sip from his glass.

‘One final question, Mr Morton. Remember you are under oath here, if you will. Are you absolutely certain that the lady you have identified in this courtroom is the same lady who came to your shop in Richmond and bought two separate lengths of piano wire on the dates you have given us?’

Samuel Morton did not hesitate. ‘I am certain,’ he said.

‘No further questions.’ Charles Augustus Pugh sat down.

‘Mr Morton,’ Sir Rufus was on his feet once more. ‘Would you say you were a successful merchant in the provision of musical services?’

‘I think we do all right, sir.’ Morton sounded like a very decent man. ‘My family have never lacked for anything, if you understand me.’

‘Quite so, Mr Morton, quite so.’ Sir Rufus managed to force out one of his rare smiles. ‘So how many people would you serve in your shop each day, Mr Morton? A successful man like yourself.’

‘Well, it varies, sir. We always do very well in late August and September when the parents are putting their children in for music lessons. And at Christmas when people sometimes buy pianos as a family present. On average I should say I serve between thirty and forty people a day, sir.’

Pugh was scribbling a note as fast as he could. He passed it back to Powerscourt, sitting one row behind him.

‘So in a week, Mr Morton,’ Sir Rufus went on, ‘in an average sort of week, you would serve about two hundred and fifty people or so?’

‘Somewhere between two hundred and two hundred and fifty, I should say, sir.’

‘Quite so,’ said Sir Rufus. ‘So in the ten weeks between the first alleged visit of Mrs Buckley to your store and today, you would have served between two thousand and two thousand five hundred people, Mr Morton. Is that correct?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Morton replied.

‘I put it to you, Mr Morton, that it is absolutely impossible for anybody, however well they know their business, to remember the faces and the appearance of all their clients over such a period. Particularly two thousand five hundred clients. Is that not so?’

Powerscourt passed the note to Johnny Fitzgerald, sitting by his side.

‘It’s not quite like that, sir, if you’ll forgive me.’

Sir Rufus’s eyebrows described a quizzical upward movement.

‘You see, sir,’ Morton went on, ‘almost all my customers are known to me by sight. Some of them have been coming to the shop for years and years. We always try to make them feel welcome, you see, sir. Nine out of ten are known to me personally, maybe more. Some of the ones I don’t know I may have seen about the town, or at church, or at the children’s school.’