William Deverell - Trial of Passion

MS. BLUEMAN:

Yes, but -

THE COURT:

Let’s have no more buts.

MS. BLUEMAN:

Your honour, they’re very personal.

MR. CLEAVER:

We haven’t a single written account from the complainant.

THE COURT:

Do these tapes contain a narrative about the case, Miss Blueman?

MS. BLUEMAN:

I’d be prepared to edit them -

MR. CLEAVER:

She has to be joking -

THE COURT:

Order. Miss Blueman, are you familiar with the Stinch-combe decision? The required rules of disclosure?

MS. BLUEMAN:

I -

THE COURT:

Everything. You have to give the defence everything.

MS. BLUEMAN:

I can’t -

THE COURT:

You will! That’s an order!

Q

My objection is on the record. Constable Peake, you told us you went to Mr. Brown’s house in the early-morning hours.

A

Yes, I knocked on the door -

Q

Can you describe this house?

A

Well, it was pretty big. Three floors, I don’t know how many bedrooms. Posh area, the British Properties. I was met by Mr. Brown at the door and he led me in. I noticed his hands were smudged with what looked like lipstick, and his clothes, too. He was pretty angry. He said his girlfriend -

THE COURT:

It’s hearsay, Miss Blueman.

MS. BLUEMAN:

You can’t tell us what he said.

A

Well. . that was it for a while. We just sat there in his living room and he carried on talking in an angry voice. She was sleeping. His girlfriend. Kimberley Martin.

Q

Did you do anything as a result of your conversation with Clarence Brown?

A

I phoned headquarters and instructed them to send an officer to

141

Palmer Avenue.

Q

Did you ultimately interview Ms. Martin?

A

I told Mr. Brown we should wake her up, or otherwise I was wasting my time. So he left and eventually he came back, and he led me upstairs to one of the bedrooms. Miss Martin, the complainant, was sitting up in bed in a nightgown with the sheets over her legs.

Q

Okay, you can’t tell us what she said to you, but did you make any observations about her person?

A

She showed me some bruises on her wrists and ankles — the skin was torn there, on her left ankle. She said she had bruises on her chest -

MR. CLEAVER:

Well, here we go.

THE COURT:

Miss Blueman, get your witness under control.

MS. BLUEMAN:

Just what you saw, officer.

A

Sorry. The thing is, normally we would have a female officer, but we’re usually short of officers on the overnight shift. And, well, after some discussion, she showed me her breasts.

MR. CLEAVER:

The complainant makes better disclosure than my learned friend. (Laughter.)

MS. BLUEMAN: THE COURT:

Mr. Cleaver, really, this is a very serious matter.

Q

Order. Excuse me. Order.

A

And what did you see?

Q

I saw a small area of discolouration on the inner, ah, surface of her left breast. Check that. . My notes have it as the right breast.

A

Then what did you do?

Q

I asked both of them if they would like to accompany me to the North Shore Hospital for a more thorough physical examination and some tests. We then proceeded to that hospital and I left her there while they called in the examining pathologist.

Q

And did you have anything further to do with this case?

A

No, I turned it over to the detectives.

Q

Please answer my learned friend’s questions.

CROSS-EXAMINATION BY MR. CLEAVER

Q

Constable Peake, as you examined Miss Martin, did you observe any of the usual physical indicia of rape — scratches, cuts, that sort of thing?

A

No, I did not.

Q

Any signs of what might have been lipstick on her lower body?

A

No.

Q

While Miss Martin was displaying herself to you, did you get close enough to smell her breath?

A

She smelled mostly of fresh soap. But I also detected a faint odour of alcohol from her breath.

Q

Soap. I don’t understand.

A

It appeared to me that she had bathed recently.

Q

Bathed?

A

Her hair was wet. There were damp towels in an ensuite bathroom.

Q

Constable, did you not find that unusual?

A

I didn’t find anything usual about this case.

Q

Did you seize the towels?

A

No. I took a tie. Also a gold necklace.

Q

Pretty odd that a supposed rape victim would crawl into bed after her ordeal and have a nice nap.

A

I thought so.

Q

Did you believe a word she said?

MS. BLUEMAN:

This is becoming too much -

THE COURT:

I will decide who is to be believed, Mr. Cleaver.

MR. CLEAVER:

You said Mr. Clarence de Remy Brown spent a fair bit of time with Miss Martin before he ushered you to her bedroom.

A

It seemed quite a while.

Q

Time enough to have a good long conversation with her.

A

Well, I wasn’t there.

Q

You said Mr. Brown was angry. He was fuming, swearing, carrying on like that?

A

Like that.

Q

Okay, I take it you knew that Mr. Brown’s father is a wealthy industrialist. The Brown Group of Corporations.

A

I didn’t at the time. I do now, yes.

Q

Did you see an engagement ring?

A

A big diamond, yes, on her finger.

Q

The heir to a great fortune would be quite a catch for any young lady, wouldn’t he?

A

I guess so.

Arms folded, Mrs. Margaret Blake stands sternly at my doorstep amid the rubble of my former veranda. Her cocker spaniel, an energetic creature named Slappy, sniffs me with contempt.

“So you are tearing down the house.”

“Merely alterations, my dear Mrs. Blake.”

“It’s a historic old place. There should be a law against this sort of thing.”

“I am sure you will find one if you look hard enough.” I intend to say this in a jocular tone, but the words emerge with gruffness. I am not in a good mood this morning.

“Well, I’m afraid I’ve had my fill of laws and lawyers.”

Perhaps the source of her enmity to me is some wound suffered at the hands of my ever-maligned profession. But she doesn’t elaborate. Slappy keeps sniffing at my feet, as if detecting something unusual or foul.

I try to be pleasant. “Can I offer you a morning coffee?”

Her tone softens slightly. “Thank you, but I have a zillion things to do. I just dropped by to ask if you’ve seen one of my sheep.”

“I presume that’s the animal I chased away this morning upon finding it defecating on the back porch.”

“Oh, dear, I don’t know how they get through the fence.”

“Perhaps they use the holes.”

Again I have been brusque, and this comment riles her. “Mr. Beauchamp, I have built and rebuilt that fence with my own two hands, and I think you should be prepared to take some responsibility for your share of it. I mean. . you obviously have money to burn.”

The resentful tone, together with her apparent fondness for rules and regulations, suggests this feisty woman is some manner of socialist. She seems determined to distrust me, and I find no reason to apologize for or explain myself.

But as she and Slappy take their leave, I reproach myself for my unkind thoughts about her. She lost her husband not many years ago, and grief shows its colours in ways often harsh. Eventually, perhaps, she will learn I am merely a harmless pouf who prefers to be alone with his dead Latin poets.

Her visit, however, causes some inner rumblings of disquiet that remain with me through the day. In former times, the antidote was usually a bracing tumbler of Beefeater gin, a cure that sad experience taught me was worse than the disease. But as the days pass, I feel a slow ebbing of strength, of will. In every cell of my body, I can still taste that dulcet syrup, can sense its seductive offering of warmth and courage.