“Yes, sir.” Butler looked unperturbed. He’d expected this line of questioning.
“Now, it’s right, isn’t it, that you were called to the House of the Four Winds again last Wednesday? To act as a crime-scene officer.”
“Yes, sir. I was called by Detective Sergeant Hearns, and I attended the scene at just before eight P.M.”
“Who was there when you arrived?”
“Thomas Robinson and two officers from Carmouth Police Station. Sergeant Hearns was also present.”
“You spoke to Thomas Robinson about what he said had happened?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell us in outline what he told you, Officer. Just a thumbnail sketch.”
“He said that he had heard a car pull up in the lane and that he had seen two men enter the property through the north gate and cross the lawn to the front door. That he had hidden in a bench in the hallway while the two men searched the house, and that they had left when they heard a police siren in the road outside. Thomas had called the police earlier when he first saw the men.”
“So he said. Now, Officer, you naturally searched all the areas in the property where Thomas said the men had been?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Looking for clues. For forensic evidence. For fingerprints, DNA, things like that?”
“That’s right.”
“And did you find anything like that, Officer? Anything like that at all?”
“No, sir, I didn’t.”
“On your visit to the house on July fifth you found nothing to suggest that anyone had gotten in. Isn’t that right?”
“Nothing to suggest they had and nothing to suggest they hadn’t.”
“Well, let’s examine that, shall we? Beginning on the outside and working in. Let’s start with the lane. Did you find any tire marks there?”
“No, sir. But it didn’t rain that night and it hadn’t in fact for some time before, and so I would not have expected to find tread marks unless the car was driven or turned at speed.”
“As it was on the night of the murder. But on this occasion Thomas Robinson told you that the intruders left because they heard the police siren. They ran from the house.”
“That was my understanding, sir.”
“I see. And the lack of rain explains the absence of footprints.”
“That’s right, sir. I wouldn’t have expected to find footprints if the intruders kept to the path.”
“Which they failed to do on the night of the murder.”
“It was dark then, sir. On this occasion it was still light when I arrived.”
“A strange time for breaking and entering.”
“Don’t answer that, Detective Butler,” interrupted Judge Granger. “Stop making points, Mr. Lambert. I’ve already told you once.”
“I’m sorry, my Lord. Now, about the door in the wall, Officer. Was it open or closed?”
“It was shut.”
“Locked or unlocked?”
“Locked.”
“No sign of the lock having been picked?”
“No, sir.”
“And what about the front door of the house?”
“Thomas Robinson told us that the intruders left the front door open when they ran off, sir.”
“But he also told you that it had been locked earlier on and that the intruders had used a key to gain entry. Yes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I see. Well, thank you, Detective Constable Butler. You’ve been most helpful.”
Miles Lambert sat down heavily and dabbed his cheeks with a crimson handkerchief. He felt pleased with his afternoon’s work. Just as he had hoped, Butler had had to give him exactly what he wanted. There wasn’t a scrap of real evidence that Thomas had had any visitors on that Wednesday evening, other than Butler himself and his fellow police officers. All the prosecution had was Thomas’s word for it, and Miles felt confident that that wouldn’t be worth much by the time he’d finished with young Master Robinson. Miles rubbed his pudgy hands together. He had a feeling that he was going to enjoy this case.
Sparling, however, looked even more morose than usual as he got to his feet to reexamine his witness.
“Just one more question before you go, Detective Butler. You agreed with Mr. Lambert that you searched all the areas in the property where Thomas Robinson said that the men had been last Wednesday.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, did you search upstairs?”
“Yes. I did.”
“And did you find anything?”
“The bookcase hiding place was open, sir. Like it was on the night of the murder.”
“Like it was on the night of the murder.” Sparling repeated the words slowly and then smiled at the crime-scene officer.
“Thank you, Detective Butler. That’s all. No more questions.”
Sparling resumed his seat, and Detective Constable Butler was gone with the swing doors of the courtroom closing behind him.
Judge Granger’s bright gray eyes did a circuit of the courtroom, taking in the jury, Greta, the barristers, and Miss Hooks, who was standing by the witness box waiting for orders.
“I think that’s enough for today, gentlemen,” he said. “We’ll meet again at half past ten tomorrow.”
“All rise,” commanded Miss Hooks in her shrill voice, but Miles Lambert had not yet made it to his feet by the time Judge Granger had gathered his papers and walked out the door to the left of his chair.
Chapter 13
On Friday the court did not sit until half past eleven. The Indian juror with the turban had had an unspecified problem that prevented him from getting to court on time, but he seemed entirely unperturbed as he took his place beside the Margaret Thatcher look-alike in the front row. His expression remained just as inscrutable as the day before. Mrs. Thatcher’s, however, looked even fiercer.
A witness called Margaret Ball was the first to give evidence. She’d traveled up to London from Flyte on the train, and it looked as if it was the first time she’d ever left home. It was certainly the first time she’d ever been in a courtroom. She peered about herself shortsightedly and answered John Sparling’s questions in an almost inaudible voice, which soon brought an intervention from the judge.
“Speak up, Mrs. Ball. We all want to hear what you have to say. I know it isn’t easy, but do speak up.”
The judge spoke kindly, but his urgings made Mrs. Ball unable to go on at all and there had to be a short adjournment while Miss Hooks revived the witness with several glasses of water and a tissue.
Eventually, with much prompting from Sparling, she got her evidence out. She was the mother of Edward Ball, who used to go to the same school as Thomas Robinson: St. George’s, Carmouth. She was very happy that her Eddy had a nice boy like Thomas for a friend. On one or two occasions Eddy had been to stay at Four Winds House, as she called it, and yes, Thomas had also been to stay with them in Flyte.
She did remember an evening in late May of the previous year when Thomas came to stay. How could she forget it? That was the night that those crazy men killed poor Lady Anne. No one in Flyte had had a proper night’s sleep ever since. It was terrible when you couldn’t feel safe in your own bed.
It was Sir Peter’s personal assistant who rang up to make the arrangement the day before. Sometime in the early afternoon. Mrs. Ball was sure of that. She’d never met the lady, but she had said who she was: Greta somebody. Wanted to know if Thomas could come and spend the night with them, and no, she didn’t say anything about acting on Lady Anne’s instructions. Mrs. Ball assumed she was. Naturally.
It was Jane Martin, Lady Anne’s housekeeper, who dropped Thomas off. It would’ve been sometime between five and six. She couldn’t be more precise. Jane was driving her car. One of those small foreign ones. A Renault or something like that.
Why did Thomas go home? Well, he got anxious when he heard that it was this Greta who had made the arrangement. Mrs. Ball had asked him about who she was. That was how the subject came up, and then Thomas rang his mother and there was no answer, even though he let it ring for ages and ages. He seemed upset, and so Mrs. Ball had offered to run him home. She couldn’t say when they got there except that it was quite a bit after eight o’clock, as that was when her husband called to say he would be late coming home.