Felix Francis - Guilty Not Guilty

I stopped. I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

‘Dead,’ said the detective, over my head.

‘My God, Bill. That’s awful.’

Jack laid a comforting arm across my shoulder.

‘Doctor, can you just hurry up and check him over?’ the detective said impatiently. ‘Mr Gordon-Russell needs to come with me.’

‘For God’s sake, man,’ the doctor replied, looking up at him. ‘Have some sympathy. The man’s just heard his wife has killed herself.’

‘She didn’t kill herself ,’ Detective Sergeant Dowdeswell said bluntly. ‘She was strangled.’

If Jack was shocked, he didn’t show it.

‘There must be some mistake.’

‘There’s no mistake,’ replied the detective. ‘Mrs Gordon-Russell was found on her kitchen floor with a ligature still round her neck.’

I wondered if the policeman had again said more than he should. It was certainly more than I wanted to hear. I felt ill again.

‘But you surely can’t suspect Mr Russell,’ said the doctor.

‘Mr Gordon -Russell,’ — the detective placed the emphasis on the Gordon — ‘needs to come with me in order to assist us with our inquiries.’

‘And if he won’t?’

‘Then he will be arrested for obstructing a constable in the execution of his duty.’

At least it wasn’t for murder.

I looked forlornly at the doctor and he stared back at me.

‘I didn’t kill her,’ I mouthed at him.

He wrinkled his forehead with incredulity and shook his head as if the thought had never crossed his mind.

It had mine.

I had often wondered if I could have done more to alleviate Amelia’s mental anguish. Had I done enough? Was her death now a further manifestation of her psychiatric problems? Or was it something entirely different and infinitely more sinister?

Murder?

I still couldn’t quite believe it.

‘I’m not at all sure that Mr Russell is well enough to go with you,’ Jack declared, standing up. ‘I consider that he needs to go to hospital for a full medical check-up.’

To say that DS Dowdeswell was unhappy with this announcement was an understatement — he was apoplectic.

‘He will be seen by a doctor at the police station,’ he said decisively.

‘No!’ Jack replied loudly with even greater determination. ‘Mr Russell should go to hospital now. And I trust you won’t be arresting me for obstructing a constable in the execution of his duty.’

I knew what he was doing. He was trying to protect his friend. But it was like attempting to hold back the tide — hopeless and impossible.

‘It’s all right, Jack,’ I said to him. ‘I’m feeling a bit better now. I’ll go with the police. I have nothing to hide.’

‘Are you sure?’ he asked, looking straight at me. ‘I can still insist that you go to hospital.’

‘No, Jack. I’m fine. It’s best if I go with them now. They won’t give up.’

He smiled. ‘I’ll send you a cake with a file in it.’

I glared at him. ‘I didn’t do it.’

‘No, of course not.’

But I could see a touch of doubt creeping into his eyes.

‘Please tell George Longcross that I can’t act as a steward today after all.’

‘He won’t like it.’

‘Tough,’ I said. ‘It’s not as if I have any choice.’

George Longcross was the designated chairman of the stewards for this day’s racing, and he was a stickler for everything to be done exactly by the book. He abhorred absence or lateness and was determined that nothing should go amiss on his watch.

As if on cue, George Longcross walked into the Stewards’ Room, no doubt having enjoyed a lavish luncheon courtesy of the directors of the racecourse. Not that I hadn’t been invited. But I had learned from experience that a plate of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding in the middle of the day, together with all the trimmings and a dessert, was no good for my waistline, and also had a tendency to send me to sleep at the very time when I needed to be alert and on my mettle.

George took a quick look around the room, and then settled his stare on the uniformed policeman.

‘What is going on here?’ he asked in his usual booming authoritarian voice.

There was a brief pause before the detective sergeant answered.

‘Mr Gordon-Russell has had some bad news,’ he said.

The chairman of the stewards transferred his gaze to the detective in his open-fronted leather bomber jacket over a black T-shirt, blue jeans and trainers. George Longcross, meanwhile, was, as always, attired in a dark pin-stripe suit, highly polished brogues, white shirt and silk tie, with a matching handkerchief in his breast pocket. I couldn’t imagine that he even possessed a black T-shirt or a pair of jeans, and certainly not a leather bomber jacket.

‘And who are you?’ he asked in an accusing tone.

‘DS Dowdeswell, Thames Valley Police.’ The detective again flashed his warrant card. ‘Mr Gordon-Russell needs to leave.’

‘But I require him here,’ George said. ‘He’s a steward.’

‘Find somebody else,’ said the detective decisively. ‘He’s coming with us, and right now.’

It seemed to take the wind out of George’s sails.

‘Oh,’ he said. He looked at me. ‘It’s all very inconvenient. Very inconvenient indeed.’

I felt like telling him that it was not as inconvenient as one’s wife having been found murdered, but I said nothing. I just turned away and accompanied the policemen out of the door.

I may not have been arrested but it certainly felt as if I had, especially if the reaction to my departure was anything to go by.

The weighing room was filling up as the time for the first race approached, with trainers and officials milling around completing their duties, and jockeys weighing out.

However, as I was being escorted through the throng by the police, the general hubbub died away to silence and I could almost feel the stares of those watching.

‘You are being interviewed under caution,’ said the detective sergeant formally. ‘You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

We were sitting in a stark windowless interview room at Banbury Police Station. Alongside the sergeant was another plain-clothed policeman who was introduced as Detective Constable Parkinson.

‘So I am under arrest?’

‘Not at all,’ said the DS with a forced smile. ‘This is simply an opportunity for us to ask you some questions concerning the death of your wife. I have cautioned you solely to ensure that whatever you say can be used in future court proceedings if there are any. Hence, we are recording this interview, but you are free to leave whenever you like.’

‘Should I have a solicitor here?’ I asked.

‘Is there any reason why you need one?’

‘No,’ I said. But I wasn’t sure if it might not be a good idea anyway.

The detective nodded as if pleased. ‘For the recording, state your full name.’

‘Bill Russell.’

‘Your full name, please.’

‘The Honourable William Herbert Millgate Gordon-Russell,’ I said. ‘The last two are hyphenated.’

‘Quite a mouthful.’

I ignored him but he was right. That’s partly why I called myself just plain Bill Russell.

‘How do you get to be an Honourable?’ the DS asked.

‘My father is an earl.’

The ninth Earl of Wrexham, to be precise.

‘So you’ll be an earl when he dies?’

‘No chance,’ I said. ‘I have two older brothers. And they both have two sons apiece. Far too many members of the family would have to die first for me to inherit the title.’