Simon Tolkien - The Inheritance

“You say the defence have Mrs. Ritter, but what do you think about her evidence?” he asked. “What about the man in the courtyard?”

“I don’t really see her as a problem, to be honest with you, Inspector,” said Thompson patiently. “The Crown takes the view that the poor woman can no longer be seen as a witness of truth. It’s quite clear that she changed her evidence and perjured herself at the last moment, because of what she overheard in the cafeteria just before she went into court. Your colleague Detective Constable Clayton has provided us with a most helpful statement about what happened, and you yourself heard the Ritter woman admit her feelings for Silas when she was giving her evidence.

“Of course, it’s really unacceptable that prosecution witnesses aren’t kept isolated from one another in important cases like this. It’s something I’ve already raised with the people in charge over at the Bailey, although I doubt I’ll get anywhere. The court staff tend to be a law unto themselves. More coffee, Inspector?”

“I don’t think you understand what I’m trying to say, Mr. Thompson,” said Trave, ignoring the offer. “I actually believe Mrs. Ritter did see a man in the courtyard crossing to the front door. Her evidence fits with Stephen Cade’s interview. And Silas had a motive. He stood to be disinherited. Now, if we carry on, he’ll get everything. I don’t believe a word of his alibi, Mr. Thompson. Not a word of it.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Inspector,” said Thompson, taking off his glasses and fixing Trave with a cold stare. “Fortunately, however, you’re not the one conducting this case. That task has been entrusted to me. And I’m carrying it out without fear or favour, as is my duty. Perhaps you should bear that in mind, Inspector. You seem to have become rather clouded in your judgements recently, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“What the hell do you mean by that?” asked Trave angrily.

“I mean that you appear to have developed something of a personal interest in the defendant in this case,” Thompson replied evenly. “I understand that you lost your only child in a motorcycle accident several years ago and that he would have been the same age as young Mr. Cade if he’d lived. It must have been terrible for you, Inspector.”

There was no sympathy at all in the prosecutor’s voice to match his words, and he continued to stare coldly at Trave across his desk.

“My son’s got nothing to do with it,” said Trave, trying to sound sure of himself, although he couldn’t prevent a flush of colour rising to his cheeks. The prosecutor’s well-directed thrust had cut right through his defences.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” said Thompson, with a thin smile. “Let’s just say that a reminder of where your duty lies should not go amiss, Inspector.”

“I am doing my duty and obtaining this statement was part of that,” said Trave, drawing two sheets of folded paper from the inside pocket of his jacket and banging them down on the desk so that the two cups rattled in their saucers.

“Please, Inspector. This isn’t one of your police stations,” said Thompson, injecting a note of contempt into his voice, designed to irritate Trave even further. “You’d better tell me what this is,” he said, nodding at the documents without picking them up. “I hope you haven’t done something you’re going to regret.”

“I’ve done my job. That’s all,” said Trave, finding it easier to regain his composure, now that Thompson had become so obviously rude. “The statement was made to me yesterday by Esther Rudd. I wrote it down and brought it to you, which is correct police practice, I think.”

“Who’s Esther Rudd?”

“She was a housemaid at Moreton Manor at the time of the murder.”

“Ah, yes. Now I remember. One of your colleagues took a statement from her. It wasn’t very helpful, as I recall. All about how she was a heavy sleeper and only came downstairs shortly before the police arrived. Have you helped her remember something else, Inspector? Is that what all this is about?”

“She’s saying that when she got to the top of the stairs, she looked down and saw Mrs. Ritter in the hallway by the front door with a man’s hat in her hand,” said Trave, ignoring Thompson’s accusation that he’d manipulated the witness. “There was no one else in the hall, and Mrs. Ritter hung the hat on the coat stand.”

“Whose hat was it?”

“She can’t say. She went straight to the east wing when she got to the bottom of the stairs because that’s where all the shouting was coming from. There was no reason for her to worry about Mrs. Ritter and a hat.”

“Which is, I suppose, why it didn’t find its way into her first statement.”

“Yes. But what she says now backs up Mrs. Ritter’s account. If Silas came running into the house after committing the murder, then he might well have dropped his hat on the floor before he went to his room.”

“If he went to his room. He says that he was with Miss Vigne in her room, and she backs up his account. Remember that this is not the only new statement that we have, Inspector,” said Thompson tartly. “Anyway, I better read what this Rudd woman has to say.”

It didn’t take the prosecutor long. He carefully put his glasses back on and held the statement between his thumb and forefinger as he read it, as if it was something offensive that it pained him even to look at, and then when he was done, he dropped the two sheets of paper back onto his desk with a look of derision.

“So the good Esther saw Madame Ritter with a hat,” he said, with a sneer. “She can’t say whose hat. Only that it was a hat. But with no coat to accompany it, as we might have hoped for. And she says nothing about anyone locking the front door. You remember Mrs. Ritter’s evidence, don’t you, Inspector? She saw Silas come inside, and so she went downstairs and put his hat and coat back on the hat stand and locked the front door. I don’t really think that any of this helps your friend in Wandsworth, Inspector. What’s missing from the statement is more significant than what’s in it.”

“Mrs. Ritter could already have locked the door,” said Trave. “The statement at least puts her in the right place at the right time. And why would she have the hat unless she was trying to cover for Silas?”

“I don’t know, Inspector. Perhaps because Mrs. Ritter was the housekeeper and didn’t like things lying around on the floor. And, more important, I don’t understand what you mean by ‘the right place.’ It was Stephen Cade who was in the right place, complete with gun and key and his dead father. He killed his father, and he’s going to have to pay for it. It’s as simple as that. And now I’m afraid I’ve got work to do, even if you haven’t,” said Thompson, getting up from his chair.

“So you’re not going to do anything about this?” Trave stayed where he was, meeting the prosecutor’s stare across the desk.

“I’m going to send Esther Rudd’s statement to the defence, and they can do with it what they will. Or perhaps I should leave it to you to take it round to them. Swift’s chambers are only four doors down the lane. After all, you appear to have become a fully paid-up member of the defence team, Inspector,” added Thompson sarcastically.

Trave could think of nothing else to say. All he seemed to have achieved was to increase Thompson’s determination to get his man. Trave picked up his hat and coat and turned to go, but at the door, the prosecutor called him back.

“I think you said that Esther Rudd was a housemaid, Inspector.”

“That’s right.”

“So she isn’t any more?”

“No. Not at the manor house.”

“Did she leave, or was she fired?”