VIII

Fairly formal police and medical evidence occupied the rest of the morning. When, at one o’clock, Mr. Justice Morland punctually called a halt, Mr. Likeness took his friend Robin Pinkney to a pub named the Two Brewers. Pinkney was down on a small fraud case which was being held in the court opposite. “How’s it going?” he asked.

“Too soon to say yet.” Mr. Likeness crunched a roll. “It’s not really a very strong case, you know. Depends a lot on what Newton makes of the medical experts. This chap Ritchie, you know the chap from that new lab they’ve got out at Maidstone, he’s a tough nut. I’ve come across him before. It’s all very circumstantial, though.”

“Still, a jury can convict on circumstantial evidence.”

“Course they can.” Mr. Likeness shovelled steak pie into his mouth. “Didn’t see you at the club last weekend.” They belonged to the same golf club.

“Too much to do. Some of us have to work for our living.”

“Went round in eighty-seven. Funny thing happened to me at the twelfth. You know it’s a dog leg…” Mr. Likeness began to arrange fork, spoon and salt cellar in a demonstration.

Magnus Newton lunched with his junior, Charles Hudnutt, who was a ruggedly handsome former rowing Blue. “Do you think the jury really likes that smarmy tone Hayley puts on?” Hudnutt asked. “You know, that we’re all boys together and it might have been you or me except that we love the little woman, and we all know he had a rough time with his wife but you’ll have to find him guilty just the same… that tone,” he finished, slightly out of breath.

“I dare say. Never can tell what they will like. Morland didn’t like it much. Very fair, Morland, very reliable.”

“I suppose it’s because I know Hayley’s really such an old ram,” Hudnutt said. “I used to know a cousin of his rather well once, Jerry Pottingley. Got smashed up in his sports car a couple of years ago. Jerry told me…” He lowered his voice.

“Really,” Magnus Newton said. Hudnutt went on talking and Newton, eyes slightly protruding, red face puffed out, punctuated his discourse with “Really… really… really…”

Mr. Justice Morland’s lunch consisted of two pieces of Ryvita without butter, a green salad without dressing, and an apple. While he ate it he read Aristotle’s Ethics. Lacking his robes he looked a rather timid and weaselly little man.

John Wilkins found it almost impossible to eat, and difficult to think. He felt a kind of sick excitement. He got up and began to walk about the small whitewashed cell. On the door were messages written by former occupants: I swear before God I am innocent and it will be a cruel injustice if they find me guilty. Underneath another hand had scrawled You lying bastard. John Wilkins sighed.

It was remarkable how old Mr. Morton’s health had improved since Sheila’s death. He had come down to Lewes for the trial, he had followed the morning’s proceedings with avidity, and now his knife carved away quite vigorously at his roast chicken. Bill Lonergan ate with much less enthusiasm.

“Fascinating, these details of court procedure,” Mr. Morton said. “No doubt about it, there’s a drama in the English courts you don’t get anywhere else in the world. It’s all the ceremonial, I think.”

“Yes.” Bill Lonergan pushed away his plate.

“You take that young man, Geoffrey Wilkins’s son, he doesn’t look like a murderer. And did you see the way the jury stared at him? They liked him. And why not?” Mr. Morton attacked his apple pie. “If you met him in the street you wouldn’t worry about letting your daughter go around with him, would you? Eh?”

“You seem very sure he’s guilty.”

“I certainly am.” Mr. Morton’s false teeth clicked as he removed a pastry obstruction. “That’s not to say he’ll be found guilty, mind you. Many a murderer walking about scot-free. For drama there’s nothing like a murder trial.”

Bill Lonergan put down his fork and spoon. “Didn’t you feel anything for Sheila at all?”

The old man looked at him in surprise. “Haven’t I said I want to see her murderer punished?”

“If you’ll excuse me.” Lonergan got up. “Something to do in my room.”

Almost alone among the people principally concerned, Uncle Dan and old Mrs. Wilkins discussed the trial throughout the whole of lunch. Mrs. Wilkins expressed dissatisfaction with the lackadaisical attitude of Mr. Likeness and the casual cross-questioning of Magnus Newton. “And that man of yours has done nothing, nothing at all. How is he occupying his time, that is what I should like to know.”

Uncle Dan’s long head was on one side, his expression was gloomy. “You’ve seen the reports.”

“The reports. They say nothing.”

“Lambie’s their best man.”

“Best man.” She snorted, a strangely masculine sound. “He seems to spend most of his time in pubs. An excuse for a drinking bout, if you ask me.”

Uncle Dan’s face had taken on new lines in recent weeks, his voice was weary. “Do you want me to call him off?”

“No.” She looked down at her plate. “No, don’t call him off.”