CHAPTER NINE

1.

One evening, about a week before the expected date when the trial was set to open, there was a consultation with leading counsel for the Crown. The Attorney-General, Sir Bertram Ainger, Q.C., had been briefed by the Director of Public Prosecutions, and his junior was Francis Wells. Sir Bertram’s clerk was opening the door of his principal’s room at the Courts of Justice. Ainger was at his desk covered with papers; he looked up over his pince-nez.

‘Are you ready, Sir Bertram? Mr. Wells is here and Mr. Smithson, from the Director’s Office.’

Wells was a burly figure, and he followed Smithson into the room. ‘This is an interesting case, I must say,’ Ainger said, as the others sat down. ‘No developments since the committal, I suppose?’

‘Nothing beyond the depositions,’ Smithson said. ‘No additional evidence.’

‘I understand Harry Deveen is to appear for the defence.’ Ainger pushed the papers aside and leant against the corner of his desk. ‘I shall be very surprised if he does not object to the admissibility of the evidence relating to Stone.’ He had a soft, musical voice in conversation, which became harsher in court. ‘He will say, I suppose, that the case relating to Mrs. Merrill can’t possibly be affected by what happened months afterwards in the case of somebody else, the man Stone. I must say, that it is a bit extraordinary.’

‘You have looked at the Armstrong Case?’ Wells said.

Ainger nodded. ‘It’s thirty-five years ago, but it’s none the worse for that. It supports the view that Stone’s case is admissible as throwing light on the earlier case of Mrs. Merrill, as evidence of design. That is, of course, assuming that Merrill had access to arsenic before the death of his wife and at the time of the Stone business.’

Wells and Smithson exchanged glances; the danger, they knew lay in trying to pin it on Merrill if they had to rely solely on the evidence concerning his wife’s death.

‘If he had access to it,’ Ainger was saying, ‘the fact that he was using arsenic for a deadly purpose in the case of Stone is evidence from which the jury might infer that he had it for no innocent purpose during the illness of his wife.’ He paused, moved away from the desk, his hands deep in his pockets. ‘But where is there any evidence of his possession of arsenic?’

‘Surely what he said in his statement may be very significant?’ Wells said. ‘You will remember he said that he may have suggested to his wife that she purchase some arsenic for killing weeds.’

‘That’s in his statement,’ Smithson said. Ainger pursed his mouth up judiciously, while Smithson went on. ‘The jury may think that he was merely using his wife as a means of achieving his own ends, and he would think it prudent to keep his name off the poisons register.’

‘All the same,’ Ainger said, ‘there is nothing to negate his statement that his wife used the arsenic for killing weeds, and that any that was left over must have been thrown away.’

‘Only,’ Wells said, ‘that both Mrs. Merrill and Stone suffered from arsenical poisoning. If the jury think that Mrs. Merrill did not commit suicide, may that not be enough?’

Ainger took off his pince-nez and replaced them on his nose. ‘The case against Merrill will be all that weaker if Deveen can succeed in shutting out the evidence about Stone,’ he said with an air of finality. ‘And I do not think he will succeed in doing that. It seems to me the position is very similar to the Armstrong Case—’

‘To which this bears certain resemblances,’ Smithson said.

‘I should have thought the only resemblance was that here, too, you have Merrill suspected of poisoning his wife, who died, and a man who didn’t.’

Wells’s tone was a little impatient. He wanted to keep to the point, which was this Merrill business, and not hark back to an old murder case which to him possessed only superficially relevant features.

‘That is what Armstrong did,’ Ainger said. ‘Poisoned his wife with arsenic and tried to poison his friend.’

‘But this friend wasn’t the husband of a woman Armstrong was in love with,’ Wells said.

Ainger sat on the corner of the desk again. ‘The point is,’ he said patiently, ‘that in the Armstrong business it was ruled that this other evidence was admissible for the purpose of proving that the deceased wife actually died of arsenic; that her death was not accidental; and that it was not inadmissible by reason of its tendency to prove or create a suspicion of a subsequent felony. From the defence point of view the damage has already been done; the jury will know all about Stone’s poisoning. In fact, I think that all this publicity about the case coming up for trial may prove awkward for the defence. I think newspapers should be silenced until the actual trial takes place.’

Wells made an impatient movement again. Now Ainger was going to climb on to his pet hobby-horse; but Ainger took off his pince-nez, looked at it, replaced it and said: ‘However, that is merely my own opinion. I am sure Deveen will see that his client has a good run.’ He paused and eyed the others. ‘Well that’s all,’ he said. ‘Unless there’s anything either of you would like to discuss?’

‘I don’t think there’s anything,’ Wells said.

‘Nothing I want to raise,’ Smithson said. ‘Mr. Justice Lane is the judge,’ he added.

‘He’s a good judge,’ Ainger said, ‘but I do not think he’ll agree to let Deveen shut out the evidence about Stone. However, we shall see.’

2.

The morning following the consultation in Ainger’s room at the Courts of Justice, Royston had arranged for Harry Deveen to accompany him to Caernarvon Jail, where they were to have a conference with Dick Merrill.

Royston rapped the knocker on the small door at the side of the main gates of the prison. There was silence for a few moments before heavy footsteps were heard inside. A prison officer opened the door, and they followed him into a large room on the right, where they signed the visitors’ book. Another prison officer appeared and took them to the room where they were to interview Dick Merrill.

They went along a broad passage, passing a prisoner wearing a grey prison uniform, then came to a room reserved for prisoners. They went in and sat together on one side of the large table. They didn’t chat to each other while they waited.

A minute or so later another prison officer appeared in the doorway with Dick Merrill, who sat down. The officer stepped just outside, where he remained during the interview, glancing in from time to time through the glass panels of the door.

Merrill looked to be in good health, and appeared relaxed.

Royston introduced him, saying, ‘This is Mr. Deveen, who is appearing for you at the trial.’

Deveen shook hands with him. ‘I have to make sure that I know all you can tell me about your case. I have, of course, read the statement which you made to the police, and all the instructions which your solicitor has carefully prepared. Is there anything else I ought to know?’

Merrill looked at him with interest. Harry Deveen wore a dark suit, neatly cut and a dark, knitted tie. He was of medium height with an ageless look about his sharp-featured face.

‘I don’t think there is,’ Merrill said. ‘Though I wouldn’t mind if you’d let me know what you think of my chances.’ He was smiling a little.

Deveen replied with a thinnish sympathetic smile. ‘Frankly,’ he said, ‘I shall be in a much better position to tell you when I know whether the evidence about Stone is to be admitted or not. By itself the evidence about your wife is all very vague. The jury may think it possible the arsenic was self-administered or that she took it by accident. But the case may look very different once they have the evidence about Stone.’

‘But haven’t they got to show that I was in possession of arsenic?’

Harry Deveen glanced at him. Merrill was evidently fully aware of the essence of the case which the prosecution would seek to make against him.

‘No doubt,’ Deveen said, ‘the jury have got to be satisfied about that before they can convict you.’

Merrill leaned back in his chair, eyed Royston for a moment, then looked hard at Deveen. ‘I don’t see how they can be satisfied about that. I knew perfectly well the police would find out that my wife had purchased arsenic. That’s why I told them all about it. But they can’t trace any arsenic to me. As I said I never had any either at home or at my office, and that’s the truth. Is there anything else you want to know?’

‘About your wife. The jury will want to know what you thought of her?’

‘I mentioned this in my statement, didn’t I?’

‘You will have to speak the truth if you are asked about it.’

‘What do you mean, if I am asked about it?’

‘I mean that you may be asked about it when you are in the witness box. You will have to answer as truthfully as you can the questions which are put to you. Don’t underestimate the jury. The jury can very quickly size up a witness who is shifty or not truthful. If you are perfectly honest about your wife it may well help you on other issues in the case.’

‘I was absolutely straightforward about her to the police,’ Merrill said. ‘I told them frankly that I married her because I was fond of her, as well as because of her money. I admitted then that I never loved her, and I’ll say the same in the witness box. That’s what you want me to say, isn’t that what you mean?’

‘I think we understand each other perfectly,’ Harry Deveen said.

‘But because I didn’t love her doesn’t mean that I murdered her,’ Merrill persisted. ‘Why should I? What motive? For her money? I was doing all right as it was; the money she left me in her will is going to be taken up by death duties and the rest of it, so I’m really worse off by her death.’

‘I don’t think the question of motive need enter into it,’ Deveen said quietly. ‘The prosecution won’t suggest any.’

‘I see,’ Merrill said. ‘I thought it might be important.’

‘You’re going to be all right; try not to worry.’

‘I’ll leave all that to you, eh?’

‘Mr. Royston will be in close touch with you during the trial, and if there is anything you want me to know, contact him.’

Merrill stood up, and the prison officer came in. Harry Deveen shook hands with him. After he had muttered some words of thanks, Merrill went out with the prison officer.