The Inheritance. Simon Tolkien

of his consciousness. When he opened them again he was looking at Gerald Thompson, and he was still looking at the prosecutor when he gave his reply.

      ‘It was a prosecution decision,’ he said quietly.

      ‘But was it your decision?’

      Gerald Thompson gave Trave no chance to answer Swift’s question. ‘With respect, Mr Swift’s question is an improper one, my lord,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘The decision to charge the defendant was based on very strong evidence of motive, opportunity, and fingerprint connection to the gun and the locked door of the study. The defendant’s interview did not change any of this, and it is not for the prosecution to build a defence.’

      ‘No, you’re quite right. It isn’t,’ said the judge nodding emphatically in agreement. ‘If you have an alternative explanation for the victim’s murder, then advance it in the proper way, Mr Swift. Don’t attack the prosecution for not doing your own work.’

      Swift turned his head away from the judge’s glare and made a series of mental calculations. He itched to take on Murdoch, who seemed intent on conducting the trial on just the legal side of bias. But the unanswered question might play best on the jury’s mind if it remained unanswered, and he could make more mileage out of Marjean when it came to cross-examining Ritter. He had one good question left to ask the officer. He’d ask it and leave the French business hanging in the air for the present.

      ‘It’s right, isn’t it, Inspector, that my client, Stephen Cade, is a young man without any previous convictions? He had never been arrested before the night of his father’s murder and it was the first time he had been interviewed by the police.’

      ‘Yes, that’s true,’ said Trave. ‘He is a man of good character.’

      Swift felt a note of resignation or even sadness in the policeman’s voice and half-wished that he had persisted with his questions about the investigation, but it was too late now. The policeman’s evidence was over.

      It was the mid-morning recess and Trave waited for Thompson to come out of court. He knew he was wasting his time, but he still had to try.

      ‘What do you want, Inspector?’ asked the prosecutor. He didn’t make any attempt to conceal his irritation.

      ‘A moment of your time.’

      ‘Very well.’

      The two men walked over to a corner of the great hall outside the court. Trave was at least a foot higher than the barrister, and his attempt to walk with a stoop so as to bring their heads closer together only accentuated Thompson’s consciousness of his shortness. The barrister’s irritation grew into outright anger.

      ‘What’s wrong with you, Trave?’ he said. ‘Are you trying to prosecute that young hooligan or are you trying to defend him?’

      ‘What are you talking about, Mr Thompson?’ Trave was unprepared for the prosecutor’s sudden verbal assault.

      ‘I’m talking about your evidence. About the doubt and uncertainty that you’ve been helping friend Swift throw around in there.’

      ‘I told the truth, Mr Thompson,’ said Trave, becoming annoyed himself. ‘And yes, I do have doubts. Frankly, I don’t understand why you don’t too. The truth is I didn’t investigate this case properly. I see that now and I feel bad about it. It’s not too late for me to go to France.’

      ‘Yes, it is.’ Thompson almost spat out the words. ‘Stephen Cade is guilty. I’ve got his fingerprints on the weapon and the key. Ritter heard him unlock the door. And in a few minutes the jury is going to hear from the victim’s solicitor about his motive. A powerful motive, Mr Trave. Now I’m not going to allow you or friend Swift in there to muddy the water. Do you hear me, Inspector? Stay out of it. Your work on this case is over.’

      Thompson pushed past Trave, and the artificially heightened heels of his shiny black patent-leather shoes rang on the marble floor as he crossed to the door of the courtroom. After a moment Trave followed him. His work might be over, but he felt an obligation to see out its results. He sat down, waiting for Thompson to call his next witness.

      Several minutes later a small balding man in a tight-fitting pinstripe suit came into court, fidgeting with his bowler hat.

      ‘Charles Blackburn’s my name. I’m a solicitor by profession,’ he announced in a slightly pompous voice after taking the oath.

      ‘Is it correct that one of your clients was the late Professor John Cade?’ asked Thompson, getting straight to the point.

      ‘That’s right.’

      ‘What work did you do for him?’

      ‘I looked after some of his business affairs. I drew up his will …’

      ‘When?’ asked Thompson, interrupting. ‘When did you do that?’

      ‘About seven years ago. The will had to be changed after Mrs Cade died. But it was still fairly simple. The residual beneficiaries were the professor’s sons, Stephen and Silas.’

      ‘And did you then have any further discussions about the will with the professor?’

      ‘Not until earlier this year. It would have been about a month or so before his death that we first discussed new arrangements.’

      ‘Tell us about those arrangements, Mr Blackburn,’ asked Thompson encouragingly.

      ‘Well, basically he was talking about setting up a trust to run Moreton Manor House as a museum, housing his collection of manuscripts.’

      ‘Who were the trustees going to be?’

      ‘The professor hadn’t finally decided. Sergeant Ritter was going to be one of them.’

      ‘What about the sons?’

      ‘Probably not. The effect of the change of will would have been to disinherit them.’

      ‘I see,’ said Thompson, pausing to allow the jury to absorb the full implications of the solicitor’s last answer. ‘Now I’d like to show you exhibit 14. It’s the professor’s engagement diary, which was found on the desk in his study. It was open at the entry for 8 June. Read us the entry please, Mr Blackburn.’

      ‘Blackburn. Will. Three o’clock.’

      ‘That’s right. Can you tell us anything about that?’ asked Thompson.

      ‘Yes. I had an appointment with Professor Cade at that time for him to give me final instructions, so that I could draw up the new will and trust documents.’

      ‘But his death prevented him from keeping the appointment.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Thank you, Mr Blackburn. You’ve been most helpful. No more questions.’

      Deep in the bowels of the Old Bailey, the gaolers allowed Swift a short interview with his client.

      The barrister took off his horsehair wig and laid it down beside his file of papers on the iron table that separated him from Stephen. The headgear was useful sometimes for intimidating witnesses, keeping lines of division intact. But now Swift wanted to connect. He needed to get through to his client, make him understand that a change of direction was necessary.

      ‘The will gives them the motive, Stephen. That’s the problem.’

      ‘I wouldn’t have killed my father for money. Or anybody else for that matter. It’s so stupid. Can’t you see that?’ Stephen’s sudden anger took the barrister aback, even though it was not the first time that Swift had seen it. The trial was clearly beginning to take a toll on the young man.

      ‘Listen, Stephen,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to calm down. Take a few steps back. Get a little less passionate.’

      ‘Less passionate! You’d be passionate if you had to sit up there all day watching that old bastard twist everything round against me. I thought he was