A Twist in the Tale Read online

  Sir Humphrey did not reexamine Mrs. Johnson. I realized that he wanted her evidence to be forgotten by the jury as quickly as possible. As it was, when she left the witness box she also left us all in considerable doubt.

  Carla’s daily, Maria Lucia, was far more convincing. She stated unequivocally that she had seen Menzies in the living room of the flat that afternoon when she arrived a little before five. However, she had, she admitted, never seen him before that day.

  “But isn’t it true,” asked Sir Humphrey, “that you usually only work in the mornings?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “But Miss Moorland was in the habit of bringing work home on a Thursday afternoon so it was convenient for me to come in and collect my wages.”

  “And how was Miss Moorland dressed that afternoon?” asked Sir Humphrey.

  “In her blue morning coat,” replied the daily.

  “Is this how she usually dressed on a Thursday afternoon?”

  “No, sir, but I assumed she was going to have a bath before going out that evening.”

  “But when you left the flat was she still with Mr. Menzies?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you remember anything else she was wearing that day?”

  “Yes, sir. Underneath the morning coat she wore a red negligee.”

  My negligee was duly produced and Maria Lucia identified it. At this point I stared directly at the witness but she showed not a flicker of recognition. I thanked all the gods in the Pantheon that I had never once been to visit Carla in the morning.

  “Please wait there,” were Sir Humphrey’s final words to Miss Lucia.

  Mr. Scott rose to cross-examine.

  “Miss Lucia, you have told the court that the purpose of the visit was to collect your wages. How long were you at the flat on this occasion?”

  “I did a little clearing up in the kitchen and ironed a blouse, perhaps twenty minutes.”

  “Did you see Miss Moorland during this time?”

  “Yes, I went into the drawing room to ask if she would like some more coffee but she said no.”

  “Was Mr. Menzies with her at the time?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “Were you at any time aware of a quarrel between the two of them or even raised voices?”

  “No, sir.”

  “When you saw them together did Miss Moorland show any signs of distress or need of help?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then what happened next?”

  “Miss Moorland joined me in the kitchen a few minutes later, gave me my wages and I let myself out.”

  “When you were alone in the kitchen with Miss Moorland, did she give any sign of being afraid of her guest?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No more questions, my Lord.”

  When Maria Lucia left the witness box late that afternoon, Sir Humphrey did not reexamine her and informed the judge that he had completed the case for the prosecution. Mr. Justice Buchanan nodded and said he felt that was enough for the day; but I wasn’t convinced it was enough to convict Menzies.

  When I got home that night Elizabeth did not ask me about my day and I did not volunteer any information. I spent the evening pretending to go over job applications.

  * * *

  The following morning I had a late breakfast and read the papers before returning to my place at the end of the row in Court No. 4, only a few moments before the judge made his entrance.

  Mr. Justice Buchanan, having sat down, adjusted his wig before calling on Mr. Scott to open the case for the defense. Mr. Scott, QC, was once again slow to rise—a man paid by the hour, I thought uncharitably. He started by promising the court that his opening address would be brief, and he then remained on his feet for the next two and a half hours.

  He began the case for the defense by going over in detail the relevant parts, as he saw them, of Menzies’ past. He assured us all that those who wished to dissect it later would only find an unblemished record. Paul Menzies was a happily married man who lived in Sutton with his wife and three children, Polly, aged twenty-one, Michael, nineteen, and Sally, sixteen. Two of the children were now at university and the youngest had just completed her GCSE. Doctors had advised Mrs. Menzies not to attend the trial, following her recent release from hospital. I noticed two of the women on the jury smile sympathetically.

  Mr. Menzies, Mr. Scott continued, had been with the same firm of insurance brokers in the City of London for the past six years, and although he had not been promoted, he was a much respected member of the staff. He was a pillar of his local community, having served with the Territorial Army and on the committee of the local camera club. He had once even stood for the Sutton council. He could hardly be described as a serious candidate for murder.

  Mr. Scott then went on to the actual day of the murder and confirmed that Mr. Menzies had an appointment with Miss Moorland on the afternoon in question, but in a strictly professional capacity with the sole purpose of helping her with a personal insurance plan. There could have been no other reason to visit Miss Moorland during office hours. He did not have sexual intercourse with her and he certainly did not murder her.

  The defendant had left his client a few minutes after six. He understood she had intended to change before going out to dinner with her sister in Fulham. He had arranged to see her the following Wednesday at his office for the purpose of drawing up the completed policy. The defense, Mr. Scott went on, would later produce a diary entry that would establish the truth of this statement.

  The charge against the accused was, he submitted, based almost completely on circumstantial evidence. He felt confident that, when the trial reached its conclusion, the jury would be left with no choice but to release his client back into the bosom of his loving family. “You must end this nightmare,” Mr. Scott concluded. “It has gone on far too long for an innocent man.”

  At this point the judge suggested a break for lunch. During the meal I was unable to concentrate or even take in what was being said around me. The majority of those who had an opinion to give now seemed convinced that Menzies was innocent.

  As soon as we returned, at ten past two, Mr. Scott called his first witness: the defendant himself.

  Paul Menzies left the dock and walked slowly over to the witness box. He took a copy of the New Testament in his right hand and haltingly read the words of the oath, from a card which he held in his left.

  Every eye was fixed on him while Mr. Scott began to guide his client carefully through the minefield of evidence.

  Menzies became progressively more confident in his delivery as the day wore on, and when at four thirty the judge told the court, “That’s enough for today,” I was convinced that he would get off, even if only by a majority verdict.

  I spent a fitful night before returning to my place on the third day fearing the worst. Would Menzies be released and would they then start looking for me?

  Mr. Scott opened the third morning as gently as he had begun the second, but he repeated so many questions from the previous day that it became obvious he was only steadying his client in preparation for prosecuting counsel. Before he finally sat down he asked Menzies for a third time, “Did you ever have sexual intercourse with Miss Moorland?”

  “No, sir. I had only met her for the first time that day,” Menzies replied firmly.

  “And did you murder Miss Moorland?”

  “Certainly not, sir,” said Menzies, his voice now strong and confident.

  Mr. Scott resumed his place, a look of quiet satisfaction on his face.

  In fairness to Menzies, very little which takes place in normal life could have prepared anyone for cross-examination by Sir Humphrey Mountcliff. I could not have asked for a better advocate.

  “I’d like to start, if I may, Mr. Menzies,” he began, “with what your counsel seems to set great store by as proof of your innocence.”

  Menzies’ thin lips remained in a firm straight line.

  “The pertinent entry in your diary whi
ch suggests that you made a second appointment to see Miss Moorland, the murdered woman”—three words Sir Humphrey was to repeat again and again during his cross-examination—“for the Wednesday after she had been killed.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Menzies.

  “This entry was made—correct me if I’m wrong—following your Thursday meeting at Miss Moorland’s flat.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Menzies, obviously tutored not to add anything that might later help prosecuting counsel.

  “So when did you make that entry?” Sir Humphrey asked.

  “On the Friday morning.”

  “After Miss Moorland had been killed?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t know.”

  “Do you carry a diary on you, Mr. Menzies?”

  “Yes, but only a small pocket diary, not my large desk one.”

  “Do you have it with you today?”

  “I do.”

  “May I be allowed to see it?”

  Reluctantly Menzies took a small green diary out of his jacket pocket and handed it over to the clerk of the court, who in turn passed it on to Sir Humphrey. Sir Humphrey began to leaf through the pages.

  “I see that there is no entry for your appointment with Miss Moorland for the afternoon on which she was murdered?”

  “No, sir,” said Menzies. “I put office appointments only in my desk diary, personal appointments are restricted to my pocket diary.”

  “I understand,” said Sir Humphrey. He paused and looked up. “But isn’t it strange, Mr. Menzies, that you agreed to an appointment with a client to discuss further business and you then trusted it to memory, when you so easily could have put it in the diary you carry around with you all the time before transferring it?”

  “I might have written it down on a slip of paper at the time, but as I explained that’s a personal diary.”

  “Is it?” said Sir Humphrey as he flicked back a few more pages. “Who is David Paterson?” he asked.

  Menzies looked as if he were trying to place him.

  “Mr. David Paterson, 112 City Road, 11:30, January 9, this year,” Sir Humphrey read out to the court. Menzies looked anxious. “We could subpoena Mr. Paterson if you can’t recall the meeting,” said Sir Humphrey helpfully.

  “He’s a client of my firm,” said Menzies in a quiet voice.

  “A client of your firm,” Sir Humphrey repeated slowly. “I wonder how many of those I could find if I went through your diary at a more leisurely pace?” Menzies bowed his head as Sir Humphrey passed the diary back to the clerk, having made his point.

  “Now I should like to turn to some more important questions…”

  “Not until after lunch, Sir Humphrey,” the judge intervened. “It’s nearly one and I think we’ll take a break now.”

  “As you wish, my Lord,” came back the courteous reply.

  I left the court in a more optimistic mood, even though I couldn’t wait to discover what could be more important than that diary. Sir Humphrey’s emphasis on little lies, although they did not prove Menzies was a murderer, did show he was hiding something. I became anxious that during the break Mr. Scott might advise Menzies to admit to his affair with Carla, and thus make the rest of his story appear more credible. To my relief, over the meal I learned that under English law Menzies could not consult his counsel while he was still in the witness box. I noticed when we returned to court that Mr. Scott’s smile had disappeared.

  Sir Humphrey rose to continue his cross-examination.

  “You have stated under oath, Mr. Menzies, that you are a happily married man.”

  “I am, sir,” said the defendant with feeling.

  “Was your first marriage as happy, Mr. Menzies?” asked Sir Humphrey casually. The defendant’s cheeks drained of their color. I quickly looked over toward Mr. Scott who could not mask that this was information with which he had not been entrusted.

  “Take your time before you answer,” said Sir Humphrey.

  All eyes returned to the man in the witness box.

  “No,” said Menzies and quickly added, “but I was very young at the time. It was many years ago and all a ghastly mistake.”

  “All a ghastly mistake?” repeated Sir Humphrey looking straight at the jury. “And how did that marriage end?”

  “In divorce,” Menzies said quite simply.

  “And what were the grounds for that divorce?”

  “Cruelty,” said Menzies, “but…”

  “But … would you like me to read out to the jury what your first wife swore under oath in court that day?”

  Menzies stood there shaking. He knew that “No” would damn him and “Yes” would hang him.

  “Well, as you seem unable to advise us I will, with your permission, my Lord, read the statement made before Mr. Justice Rodger on June 9, 1961, at the Swindon County Court by the first Mrs. Menzies.” Sir Humphrey cleared his throat. “‘He used to hit me again and again, and it became so bad that I had to run away for fear he might one day kill me.’” Sir Humphrey emphasized the last five words.

  “She was exaggerating,” shouted Menzies from the witness box.

  “How unfortunate that poor Miss Carla Moorland cannot be with us today to let us know if your story about her is also an exaggeration.”

  “I object, my Lord,” said Mr. Scott. “Sir Humphrey is harassing the witness.”

  “I agree,” said the judge. “Tread more carefully in future, Sir Humphrey.”

  “I apologize, my Lord,” said Sir Humphrey, sounding singularly unapologetic. He closed the file to which he had been referring and replaced it on the desk in front of him before taking up a new one. He opened it slowly, making sure all in the court were following every movement before he extracted a single sheet of paper.

  “How many mistresses have you had since you were married to the second Mrs. Menzies?”

  “Objection, my Lord. How can this be relevant?”

  “My Lord, it is relevant, I respectfully suggest. I intend to show that this was not a business relationship that Mr. Menzies was conducting with Miss Moorland but a highly personal one.”

  “The question can be put to the defendant,” ruled the judge.

  Menzies said nothing as Sir Humphrey held up the sheet of paper in front of him and studied it.

  “Take your time because I want the exact number,” Sir Humphrey said, looking over the top of his glasses.

  The seconds ticked on as we all waited.

  “Hm—three, I think,” Menzies said eventually in a voice that just carried. The gentlemen of the press began scribbling furiously.

  “Three,” said Sir Humphrey, staring at his piece of paper in disbelief.

  “Well, perhaps four.”

  “And was the fourth Miss Carla Moorland?” Sir Humphrey asked. “Because you had sexual intercourse with her that evening, didn’t you?”

  “No, I did not,” said Menzies, but by this time few in that courtroom could have believed him.

  “Very well then,” continued Sir Humphrey, as he placed the piece of paper on the bench in front of him. “But before I return to your relationship with Miss Moorland, let us discover the truth about the other four.”

  I stared at the piece of paper from which Sir Humphrey had been reading. From where I was seated I could see that there was nothing written on it at all. A blank white sheet lay before him.

  I was finding it hard to keep a grin off my face. Menzies’ adulterous background was an unexpected bonus for me and the press—and I couldn’t help wondering how Carla would have reacted if she had known about it.

  Sir Humphrey spent the rest of the day making Menzies relate the details of his previous relationships with the four mistresses. The court was agog and the journalists continued to scribble away, knowing they were about to have a field day. When the court rose Mr. Scott’s eyes were closed.

  I drove home that night feeling not a little pleased with myself, like a man who had just completed a good day’s work.

  * * *

&n
bsp; On entering the courtroom the following morning I noticed people were beginning to acknowledge other regulars and nod. I found myself falling into the same pattern and greeted people silently as I took my regular position on the end of the bench.

  Sir Humphrey spent the morning going over some of Menzies’ other misdemeanors. We discovered that he had served in the Territorial Army for only five months and left after a misunderstanding with his commanding officer over how many hours he should have been spending on exercises during weekends and how much he had claimed in expenses for those hours. We also learned that his attempts to get on the local council sprung more from anger at being refused planning permission to build on a piece of land adjoining his house than from an altruistic desire to serve the public. To be fair, Sir Humphrey could have made the Archangel Gabriel look like a soccer hooligan; but his trump card was still to come.

  “Mr. Menzies, I should now like to return to your version of what happened on the night Miss Moorland was killed.”

  “Yes,” sighed Menzies in a tired voice.

  “When you visit a client to discuss one of your policies, how long would you say such a consultation usually lasts?”

  “Half an hour, an hour at the most,” said Menzies.

  “And how long did the consultation with Miss Moorland take?”

  “A good hour,” said Menzies.

  “And you left her, if I remember your evidence correctly, a little after six o’clock.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And what time was your appointment?”

  “At five o’clock, as was shown clearly in my desk diary,” said Menzies.

  “Well, Mr. Menzies, if you arrived at about five to keep your appointment with Miss Moorland and left a little after six, how did you manage to get a parking ticket?”

  “I didn’t have any small change for the meter at the time,” said Menzies confidently. “As I was already a couple of minutes late, I just risked it.”

  “You just risked it,” repeated Sir Humphrey slowly. “You are obviously a man who takes risks, Mr. Menzies. I wonder if you would be good enough to look at the parking ticket in question.”

  The clerk handed it up to Menzies.

  “Would you read out to the court the hour and minute that the traffic warden has written in the little boxes to show when the offense occurred.”