Inspector Malcolm Rodgers was an ambitious career policeman who’d hitched his wagon to Superintendent Bentley’s unstoppable express but who now detected the vibrations of an impending fatal crash. And who had decided, the previous night and then again listening in court so far that day, that it was time to disconnect the coupling. He studiously avoided the staccato and truculent answers that Bentley had given, repeating again and again that he’d gone through every stage of the investigation under the command of a superior officer. He regretted that superior officer had not insisted upon Mrs Lomax’s fingerprints being taken. And would obviously have himself ordered it done by a junior officer – or done it himself – had he not automatically assumed the order for such basic routine had been given while he was otherwise engaged. He could offer no explanation or suggestion for the disparity between the fingerprints and the blood. Certainly, from none of the sixteen eyewitnesses was there evidence of anyone other than Gerald and Jennifer Lomax being in the totally visible room at the time of Gerald Lomax’s death.
‘Who then, in your opinion, killed the man?’ demanded Hall.
‘I do not know, sir,’ dutifully replied the responsibility-avoiding detective.
Which brought Jeremy Hall to Ross Hamilton Forest II, senior partner in the Washington DC law firm of Forest, Pilton and Camperstone, a white-haired, cultivated man with practised, courtly manners and a clipped, New England accent. Forest had reached the court fifteen minutes before the afternoon resumption, giving Hall ample time to read and discuss the documentation the man carried. It was, in fact, that documentation that finally decided Hall upon the application he intended making. But which now – while Forest was being formally sworn and thanked by Sir Ivan Jarvis for his Atlantic dash (‘an act of unprecedented legal cooperation between our two countries and our two legal systems,’) to Forest’s repeated assurance that it was nothing, nothing at all, sir – Jeremy Hall had stomach-hollowing second thoughts.
He had sufficient to create reasonable doubt, the corner-stone of defence. To seek more – which he could – would turn what the following day’s newspapers and television would build into a legal and public phenomenon, for which there wasn’t an adjective extravagant enough to describe. And for whom would he be doing it, by going further? For Jennifer, whose categoric instructions had been to prove her not guilty of murder? Or for his impatient, ambitious self, cynically grabbing the opportunity to pole-vault ten, maybe fifteen mundane, ladder-climbing years with one mighty leap to the Sir Richard Proudfoot ice-capped echelon? Yet more questions for which he couldn’t find an answer. Maybe never would.
After the pleasantries from on high, Hall went through the ritual at his level, tempering the sycophancy by coupling it with the establishment of Ross Hamilton Forest’s legal qualifications.
That done, Hall said, ‘At the request of my instructing solicitor, Mr Perry, did you some time ago establish in the United States of America the marriage of Gerald James Lomax to Jane Mary Herbetson?’
In Jennifer’s head there was again the sound of sharply indrawn breath. ‘ I don’t want to hear this.’
You don’t have a choice: isn’t that what you’re always telling me? thought Jennifer.
‘ Shut up! ’
Tables turned!
‘I did, sir,’ beamed Forest. He had the tanned face of a man who conducted a lot of business on a golf course or from a yacht on the Potomac.
‘Jane Mary Herbetson was Gerald Lomax’s first wife?’
‘She was indeed, sir.’
‘The daughter of one of the most respected families in Virginia?’
‘Proud history going back over two hundred years, according to my enquiries: one of the founding fathers of our great and good country,’ said the American lawyer, proudly. ‘Her father was the Episcopalian bishop: there’s a bust in his cathedral, commemorating the work and the impact he made within his diocese. Mrs Herbetson was an extremely rich woman and throughout their lives together – and after her unfortunate death – the bishop was an extremely generous benefactor. He personally paid for two schools and a clinic for the disadvantaged. In his will he left a substantial bequest in trust to benefit the poor.’
‘What do you mean by Mrs Herbetson’s “unfortunate” death?’
‘The poor lady drowned, in a boating accident when Jane was just fifteen years old.’
‘ Pompous legal prick. Probably first generation descent from some Irish shit-kicker! ’
‘As I understand it, Mr Forest, there is a certain statutory health requirement in your country – certainly in the State of Virginia – prior to marriage?’
‘There most certainly is, sir.’
‘ Bastard! Bastard! Bastard! ’
‘Of particular importance in view of a condition from which Jane Mary Herbetson suffered from birth?’
‘The poor child was a diabetic’
‘ Poor child, my ass! ’
‘Quite so, as this court has already heard. What is the requirement we’re talking about?’
‘Blood tests, sir. To ensure compatibility: a protection for offspring. And for any hereditary disease.’
‘Such tests were conducted upon Gerald Lomax and Jane Mary Herbetson?’
Despite the judge’s earlier warning there was a growing murmur of anticipation from the media coral. Jarvis looked sharply towards it: the noise lessened only very slightly.
‘They were, sir.’
‘And are retained, on file?’
‘For a statutory period.’
‘You were able to gain access to those records and have an affidavit from the doctor who compiled them sworn before a judge in Washington DC yesterday? And which you produce to my Lord and to this court today?’
On cue the American took an impressively bound folder from his briefcase and handed it to the waiting usher.
‘Would you tell the court the blood group registered as that of Gerald James Lomax?’
‘AB Rhesus Positive.’
Here we go, thought Hall, the moment of no-turning-back commitment: saving Jennifer from one fate without any idea of what other she might be thrust into by what he was going to say and do. ‘And would you tell the court the blood group registered as that of Jane Mary Herbetson?’
‘O Rhesus Negative.’
The court exploded, beyond any control. The predominant reaction was, predictably, from the media in a virtual mass exodus from the room. But there was a lot of noise, discernible gasps, from the jury. An aviary of sound descended from above from the public gallery.
The time it took to restore order gave Jeremy Hall the opportunity finally to make up his mind. His primary duty, always, was to Jennifer. And the only course open to Sir Ivan Jarvis was now a positive direction that to proceed upon the newly available evidence would be unsafe, in law. Which fell short of a verdict of not guilty. So, Hall convinced himself, he had to press on. He turned, to smile at the strained-faced Jennifer, aware as he did so of several of the returning journalists bunched around Humphrey Perry, who was making rapid, dismissive hand gestures.
There was still some noise when Jarvis hurried Hall on, but it ended abruptly when Hall turned back to the American, no-one wanting to miss a single word of the exchange.
‘Those findings are written ones, the result of pathological examination carried out prior to the marriage?’ Hall resumed. ‘The actual samples themselves no longer exist.’
‘No, sir. Storage would be an impossible task.’
‘Mr Forest, you have travelled an extremely long way for what may seem a very short period of time to give evidence in this court. But, in thanking you, I assure you your help and your evidence has been invaluable.’
Once again Keflin-Brown declined to examine and there was a hiatus of several minutes while Jarvis effusively thanked the American lawyer, who, equally effusive, insisted it had been a pleasure.
‘Mr Keflin-Brown?’ invited the judge, after Forest stood down.