and alarm, which she barely recognised as that of Damaris Oakley, pleaded, ‘Juliet? I realise you may not be there but if you are, please pick up the phone. I don’t get on very well with these message machines . . . Juliet? Oh, you aren’t there . . . Please get in touch as soon as you can. We need your advice. Something dreadful has happened!’
Chapter Nine
Inspector Jonathan Wood made his way home from a day in court. He felt weary, not just because it had been a long day, but because he anticipated the strain the days ahead would bring. Not that he expected to be called again to testify. His part was over, his role played. He would go about his daily business, here in Bamford, ostensibly occupied, secretly wondering what was going on in that courtroom. He’d find out like anyone else. One evening he’d buy a copy of the
Gazette
on his way home and there it would be. A verdict of Guilty or one of Not Guilty. If he were sensible, he’d put it out of his mind till then. But commonsense and emotion are old enemies.
Normally he never allowed himself to dwell on the outcome of a trial because that wasn’t his business. His business was to lay hands on the culprit and deliver him up to due process of law. What the law then did was its business.
But in this case he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of standing back, congratulating himself on having done his bit. He’d seized the opportunity offered to enquire further into a death he had felt, from the first, had been far too convenient, given Oakley’s circumstances. A second chance. Policework so seldom offered that. No wonder he’d grabbed it with both hands.
Now, in a burst of self-criticism, Wood asked himself if he’d become obsessed, convinced in his own mind of Oakley’s guilt, allowing personal dislike of the man to muddle cool assessment of the facts.
If he had, and he was wrong, it would be a black mark on his record not easily erased. The Home Office, he knew, continued to be unhappy about the whole thing. At least they were fortunate in having the prosecution conducted by a distinguished barrister in Taylor, whose angular figure and long neck put Wood in mind of a heron patiently fishing among the weeds and stones, waiting for that telltale flash of silver.
So far things were evenly balanced. Wood had lingered in court tohear the evidence following his own brief appearance on the stand. The jury had heard that the exhumed body had indeed revealed traces of arsenic. However, as Sir Herbert had feared, the jury was also informed that arsenic had been found elsewhere in the soil of the churchyard, and contamination of the remains from this source was not impossible.
The manager of London Chemicals had been an interesting fellow, well aware which side his bread was buttered. His testimony had been a model of sitting on the fence. Yes, he remembered Mr Oakley’s visit. Yes, Mr Oakley had asked a lot of questions about the processing of arsenic ore. Mr Oakley was a gentleman who had always taken a very active interest in what went on in the factory. It made a great deal of difference to the manager’s life, dealing with someone who understood. They were always pleased to see Mr Oakley at London Chemicals. Were exact records kept of the amount of ore in stock? Yes, of course they were. Ah, well, it would depend how much went missing. A very small amount might not be missed. It was difficult to check now after so many months, if not impossible, as he’d told the police.
And then there was Martha Button. Please God Martha Button stuck to her story . . .
When the principal witness for the prosecution, Mrs Martha Button, was called to take the stand, it is fair to say the atmosphere reached fever pitch. One would have been forgiven for thinking oneself at a major sporting event
.
Stanley Huxtable squinted at the woman who was squeezing her bulk into the narrow confines of the witness box. To the crafted piece of copy above he had added the jotted
Chapter Nine
Inspector Jonathan Wood made his way home from a day in court. He felt weary, not just because it had been a long day, but because he anticipated the strain the days ahead would bring. Not that he expected to be called again to testify. His part was over, his role played. He would go about his daily business, here in Bamford, ostensibly occupied, secretly wondering what was going on in that courtroom. He’d find out like anyone else. One evening he’d buy a copy of the
Gazette
on his way home and there it would be. A verdict of Guilty or one of Not Guilty. If he were sensible, he’d put it out of his mind till then. But commonsense and emotion are old enemies.
Normally he never allowed himself to dwell on the outcome of a trial because that wasn’t his business. His business was to lay hands on the culprit and deliver him up to due process of law. What the law then did was its business.
But in this case he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of standing back, congratulating himself on having done his bit. He’d seized the opportunity offered to enquire further into a death he had felt, from the first, had been far too convenient, given Oakley’s circumstances. A second chance. Policework so seldom offered that. No wonder he’d grabbed it with both hands.
Now, in a burst of self-criticism, Wood asked himself if he’d become obsessed, convinced in his own mind of Oakley’s guilt, allowing personal dislike of the man to muddle cool assessment of the facts.
If he had, and he was wrong, it would be a black mark on his record not easily erased. The Home Office, he knew, continued to be unhappy about the whole thing. At least they were fortunate in having the prosecution conducted by a distinguished barrister in Taylor, whose angular figure and long neck put Wood in mind of a heron patiently fishing among the weeds and stones, waiting for that telltale flash of silver.
So far things were evenly balanced. Wood had lingered in court tohear the evidence following his own brief appearance on the stand. The jury had heard that the exhumed body had indeed revealed traces of arsenic. However, as Sir Herbert had feared, the jury was also informed that arsenic had been found elsewhere in the soil of the churchyard, and contamination of the remains from this source was not impossible.
The manager of London Chemicals had been an interesting fellow, well aware which side his bread was buttered. His testimony had been a model of sitting on the fence. Yes, he remembered Mr Oakley’s visit. Yes, Mr Oakley had asked a lot of questions about the processing of arsenic ore. Mr Oakley was a gentleman who had always taken a very active interest in what went on in the factory. It made a great deal of difference to the manager’s life, dealing with someone who understood. They were always pleased to see Mr Oakley at London Chemicals. Were exact records kept of the amount of ore in stock? Yes, of course they were. Ah, well, it would depend how much went missing. A very small amount might not be missed. It was difficult to check now after so many months, if not impossible, as he’d told the police.
And then there was Martha Button. Please God Martha Button stuck to her story . . .
When the principal witness for the prosecution, Mrs Martha Button, was called to take the stand, it is fair to say the atmosphere reached fever pitch. One would have been forgiven for thinking oneself at a major sporting event
.
Stanley Huxtable squinted at the woman who was squeezing her bulk into the narrow confines of the witness box. To the crafted piece of copy above he had added the jotted
Similar Books
