Simon Tolkien - The Inheritance

“What did you do?”

“I got out of bed and ran downstairs.”

“What about your wife?”

Ritter didn’t answer at once. He closed his eyes, and the look of strained concentration on his face showed how hard he was trying to remember.

“I think she was already out of bed and over by the window when I got up. She probably left the room about the same time that I did. There was no time for me to say anything to her. I don’t remember her being in the corridor outside the colonel’s study. In fact, I don’t think I saw her until quite a bit later,” Ritter added.

“Tell us about what happened in the corridor.”

“The shouting had stopped by the time I got downstairs, but I could hear someone moving about inside the room. I tried the door but it was locked. I know it was, because I kept trying to turn the handle. And that really alarmed me, because the colonel never locked the internal door, the one leading out into the corridor. So I started banging on the door, shouting that I wanted to be let in. I was hammering on it for at least thirty seconds, before I heard a key turn in the lock and Stephen opened the door.”

“You heard the key turn. Are you sure about that? This is very important, Mr. Ritter.”

“I’m one hundred percent sure. And when I got into the study, the key was in the lock on the other side of the door.”

“What else did you find when you got inside?”

“The colonel was dead. I could see that right away. He was looking straight at me. Sitting in his armchair with a game of chess on the table in front of him. And I could see what had killed him too. There was a bullet hole in his forehead, right between his eyes, and the gun was on a table by the door. I didn’t pick it up because I knew it would be evidence. And I didn’t let Stevie get near it either. He’d done enough for one night.”

“What was the defendant doing?”

“Walking round the room. Running his hands through his hair. Muttering things. I think it was Silas who got him out into the corridor. Or it might have been Sasha. I stayed in the room and called the police. I didn’t bother with an ambulance. There was no point.”

“Did the defendant say anything?”

“When?”

“When you got into the study. After he opened the door.”

“He said that his father was dead.”

“What was his tone of voice?”

“Quite matter of fact. Just like, he’s dead, call the funeral director. I slapped him across the face with the back of my hand. I don’t know what he was saying after that. He was muttering, like I said before.”

“Why did you hit the defendant?”

“Because of what he’d done. It was obvious. You didn’t need to be a mathematical genius to see what had happened in there.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ritter. I’ve no more questions,” said Thompson. He allowed himself one glance across at the jury as he sat down, and then had to hold himself back from rubbing his hands with glee. Almost all of the jurors were sitting forward in their chairs, looking alert. Ritter’s evidence had obviously had a powerful effect on them. If he didn’t have any doubt about what had happened in the study, then why should they?

“You assaulted my client, Stephen Cade, because you believed he’d killed his father. That’s your evidence. Yes?” Swift asked his first question as if it was a challenge, and Ritter responded in kind.

“I didn’t just believe it. I knew it,” he said.

“No, you didn’t. You weren’t there when it happened. You came in afterward and jumped to a conclusion.”

“The right conclusion.”

“Well, let’s examine that, shall we? You said that there was a bullet hole in the colonel’s forehead, right between his eyes.”

“Yes.”

“And that didn’t give you pause for thought?”

“Why should it?”

“Because you knew that Stephen was a terrible shot, that’s why. You set up a target in the garden, and he missed every time. And yet he’s capable, according to you, of dispatching his father like some gangland executioner.”

“It was four years ago that I took him and Silas out in the garden. Anything could have happened since then. He could have learned to shoot like a marksman.”

“I see. Well, let me ask you this, then. Did Stephen Cade try to escape?”

“No. He probably didn’t think there was much point. He wouldn’t have got far. I’d have seen to that.”

“What he did do was cry out for help, and then open the door and let you in.”

“I don’t know whether it was his shouting that woke me up. It could just as well have been the colonel. And he didn’t let me in straightaway. He waited and then he unlocked the door. I’d been hammering on the outside for at least thirty seconds.”

“Why didn’t you go round into the courtyard when you found the door was locked? You could have cut off his escape route that way.”

“I didn’t think of it. I wanted to get in the study. I was worried about the colonel.”

“But when you got inside, the french windows were open, weren’t they?”

“I believe so.”

“Stephen Cade could have escaped?”

“I suppose so. He was probably just too shocked by what he’d done. He was behaving pretty strangely after he let me in. Like I said before.”

Swift changed tack, realising that he’d gone as far as he could with the night of the murder. Ritter was proving to be a stronger witness than he had anticipated.

“I want to take you back in time, Mr. Ritter,” he said. “Back to the summer of 1944. To a day when you and Colonel Cade went to a small country house outside the town of Marjean in northern France.”

“We went there with Corporal Carson. There were three of us,” interrupted Ritter. He spoke quickly and confidently. He’d been expecting this line of attack.

“Why did you go there?” he asked.

“The Germans were falling back all across the front. There were reports that they’d been using the house as their local headquarters. The colonel wanted to stop them from getting away and to ensure the safety of the French family living there. But we were too late. The Germans set the house on fire before we got there, and there were no survivors.”

“What about the Germans?” asked Swift. “What happened to them?”

“We ambushed two trucks on the drive. I don’t know if any others had already left.”

“Why wait to ambush them? Why not go straight to the house, if it was on fire?”

“It wouldn’t have been safe. There were only three of us.”

“And why was that? Surely it would’ve been most unusual for a colonel to go on a dangerous mission like that, taking just two soldiers with him?”

“I don’t know about that. I was just a sergeant. I was following orders.”

“Your orders were, in fact, to kill the French family, not to save them, and to take something that was theirs. A valuable book. Isn’t that right, Mr. Ritter?”

“No, it’s a lie.”

“You set the house on fire after you murdered them. To hide what you had done.”

“No.” Ritter half spat out the word. It was almost as if he was back on the parade ground issuing commands. “There was an investigation by the army,” he went on after a moment, having regained his composure. “We were fully exonerated. They found German bullets in the bodies.”

“But why would there have been an investigation? It was war time, and you say you’d done nothing wrong.”

“I don’t know. The colonel wanted one.”

“You’re lying, Mr. Ritter,” said Swift. “Both the colonel’s sons heard you and him in his study, talking about what you’d done.”

“No.”

“Silas Cade has told this court what you said. And his brother will do the same.”