I
Every seat in the courtroom was taken on the opening day of Ethel’s trial, but Wagner had instructed the clerk of the court to reserve one for me in the front row, next to William Proudlock. He gave me a careworn smile before turning to speak to Ethel’s father on his other side. Wagner had given me an outline of what he intended to ask me, but I was still tight with nerves. I wished the whole deuced trial was all already over and done with.
To refresh my memory of the inquest, I had studied my journal again on the train going down to KL. Almost two months had passed since Ethel was locked up in Pudoh Gaol, but it felt much longer. In those weeks my own life had changed so drastically.
A few minutes before nine o’clock Ethel was brought up from a holding cell somewhere in the building. I was appalled by how much weight she had lost, how small she seemed, seated inside the dock. She caught sight of me and her face hardened.
The counsels sitting at their tables – for the Prosecution and for the Defence – were bewigged, collared and bibbed, and robed in black. I studied James Pooley. Robert and I had met him before on a few occasions. A tall, handsome man in his fifties, he was one of the most senior lawyers in Malaya, and I was glad for Ethel’s sake that he was defending her.
On the stroke of half past nine the door behind the judge’s dais was opened. The clerk of the court appeared and summoned us to our feet. ‘God save the King!’ he called out.
Mr Justice Sercombe Smith entered, his round, florid face oddly feminine beneath his white wig, his crimson robe endowing him with an episcopal plumpness. He was followed by a pair of European assessors. The two men were in their mid fifties. I recognised one of them – Kindersley – but not the other one. Jury trials had been abolished some years ago, and the task of these two men was to assist the judge in weighing the evidence.
The counsels bowed three times to the judge, who returned their bows, and then there was the sound of rustlings as we all took our seats.
The prosecutor, Hastings Rhodes, opened the trial by calling William Proudlock to the witness stand. He placed his palm on the bible held up by the clerk and took the oath.
‘When was the last time you saw the deceased before he was shot dead by your wife?’
His choice of words was, I knew, deliberately provocative, but William Proudlock remained unruffled; only a slight narrowing of the eyes betrayed his anger.
‘It was on the day before he went to our house and attacked Ethel. Saturday evening.’ From the way William spoke, one could see that he was a firm but reasonable schoolmaster, one that was undoubtedly much liked by his pupils. ‘We saw him at the Spotted Dog – the Selangor Club, I mean. He was in the library reading a newspaper.’
‘Did the accused speak to him?’
My eyes darted from William to Ethel; she was completely still, her entire attention focused on her husband.
‘He called out to us,’ William Proudlock replied, taking his time, ‘and we chatted with him for a bit. Ethel mentioned that we had not seen him in a while, and that we had moved into Bennett’s bungalow.’
‘That was all you spoke about?’
‘Yes … I think so. It wasn’t a long conversation.’
‘Had the deceased ever been to your house?’
‘Not our new house, but he’d popped by our old house in Brickfields Road on one or two occasions.’
‘I would like to draw your mind back to the 23rd of April, a Sunday,’ said Rhodes. ‘What did you and the accused do that afternoon?’
‘We had our tea around four o’clock,’ William said, ‘then we spent some time in our compound practising our shooting. It was about twenty past five when I looked at my watch and realised we had to get ready for church. I gave the revolver to Ethel and told her to put it away while I went to wash up and change. We then walked to St Mary’s.’
‘You normally keep the gun on the verandah?’
‘Of course not.’ A note of irritation sharpened William’s voice. ‘I always lock it away in the pigeonhole of my desk in my bedroom.’
‘But it was left on the verandah that evening. Why?’
‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask my wife. We were rushing to church, I suppose she didn’t have time to lock it in my desk.’
‘Did you unload the revolver before you gave it to the accused?’ asked Rhodes.
William Proudlock shook his head. ‘I already told you – I didn’t want to be late for Evensong – it was my duty to put out the hymn books, you see. As it was, we got to St Mary’s at a quarter to six, which gave me just enough time.’
‘The Webley which the accused used to shoot Mr William Steward,’ said the prosecutor, ‘to whom did it belong?’
The slightest narrowing of the eyes again. ‘It’s mine. Ethel bought it for my birthday this year.’
‘When was this?’
‘My birthday’s the 18th of April.’
‘Five days before the shooting …’ Rhodes scribbled on his writing pad. ‘Where did she buy it?’
‘At the Federal Dispensary in High Street.’
‘Isn’t it rather out of the ordinary – a wife giving her husband a gun for his birthday present?’
‘I told her to get it, actually. She asked me what I wanted for my birthday. We were burgled in our home last year – our previous home, I mean, the one in Brickfields Road. When we moved into Bennett’s bungalow I felt we’d be safer if we had a gun.’
‘When did you move into your present home?’
‘Sometime in early February this year. I can’t give you the exact date.’
‘February. Four months ago, yet you only felt you needed to have a gun in your house in the last few weeks before the accused shot the deceased?’
‘Well … We had been so busy after moving in that we didn’t think of getting a gun.’
‘Where did you go after the service was over?’
‘We walked home,’ William said. ‘We changed and I went out to dinner at my friend Goodman Ambler’s house. Ethel dined alone at home.’
‘The accused also changed her clothes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is this the tea gown the accused wore that evening? The tea gown marked as Exhibit B?’ Rhodes asked, indicating to the clerk to hold up the gown.
‘Yes, it is.’
The clerk presented the gown to the judge and the assessors. We all leaned forward to get a better view of it. The tea gown was chiffon, light green and decorated with a narrow band of paler green floral pattern down its front. It was sleeveless, with a low, round neckline. Even though it had been torn in a few places and its hem was crusted with dried mud, it was still obvious to the eye that it was once an elegant and alluring dress.
‘Your dinner with Mr Goodman Ambler,’ Rhodes said, ‘when was that arrangement made?’
‘Saturday – the previous evening,’ replied William. ‘After we spoke to William Steward at the Spotted Dog’s library, we took a walk to Goodman’s house – he’s staying at our old home in Brickfields Road. He invited me to dine with him the following night.’
‘Only you?’ Rhodes glanced at Ethel, then back to William. ‘Was the accused not invited also?’
William rubbed his palm over the nape his neck. ‘Well … I don’t know why.’ For the first time since stepping into the witness box he looked flustered, uncertain. ‘Ethel was waiting outside the house when I went inside to speak to Goodman. I … I suppose … the subject had all been forgotten when she came in.’
A sceptical grunt escaped from the back of Rhodes’s throat. ‘Do you often dine with friends on your own?’
William Proudlock scratched his cheek ruminatively. ‘I’ve only done it three times this year.’
‘You went to dine at Mr Goodman Ambler’s house, leaving the accused alone at home,’ said Rhodes. ‘What happened afterwards?’
Dinner had gone on until about ten past nine, William Proudlock replied. He was playing the piano in the sitting room when his cook arrived at Ambler’s house with an urgent message from Ethel, asking him to hurry home. William and Ambler caught a rickshaw in the rain, entering the school grounds by the High Street entrance.
‘I saw her as we were coming to the bungalow. She was staggering down the road, heading towards us,’ said William Proudlock. ‘I ran to her. “Blood … blood …” They were the first words she said to me, and she repeated them a few times. Then she said, “Oh, Will, I have shot a man.” “Who?” I asked her, and she said, “I have shot Mr Steward.”’
William caught her as she collapsed. He and Ambler carried her up onto the verandah and laid her down on the settee.
‘She was babbling and sobbing,’ said William Proudlock. ‘I tried to get her to tell me what had happened. “I have shot a man,” she said again. “I have shot a man.”’
William brushed back a lock of hair from his forehead. ‘I asked her, “Where is the man?’” and she said, “I don’t know. He ran. He ran.” She pointed vaguely beyond the verandah railing. I couldn’t see anything – it was dark, and it was still drizzling. I went down into the garden and looked around. I came upon the body lying on the grass just beyond the bamboo hedge.’
‘How was he lying on the grass?’
‘On his chest, his feet pointing towards the house, the left side of his face turned to the sky. I recognised him the moment I saw him. It was William Steward. He was dead.’
Leaving his wife under Ambler’s watchful eye, William had gone to look for Inspector Wyatt at his home. Dr Edward McIntyre, the Senior Assistant Surgeon at the KL General Hospital, was also summoned to the Proudlock bungalow. The three of them went together to look at the body on the lawn. Returning to the verandah, Dr McIntyre asked Ethel to stand up so he could examine her arms and hands and face for wounds or marks.
‘Can you describe what she looked like at that stage?’ Rhodes asked William.
‘Her dress was torn at the knee.’ William asked the clerk to hold up the tea gown again and pointed to the position of the tear. ‘Her hair was in a mess, dishevelled. After everyone had finally left, I gave her another glass of sherry to calm her nerves. And then I asked her to tell me again what had happened.’
He placed his hands on the railing of the witness stand, corralling his thoughts. The courtroom waited, completely still.
‘Please go on, Mr Proudlock,’ said Mr Justice Smith.
‘She told me that after dinner she had been writing letters on the verandah when William Steward turned up. He said he was looking for me. She told him I was at Goodman’s house and that he ought to go there, but Steward didn’t leave. Ethel was keen to get back to her correspondence, but felt it rude not to invite him in. They sat on the verandah and talked. She mentioned a book she was reading and got up to show it to him. Steward stood up and grabbed her as she went past him. He embraced her and started kissing her. He said he loved her. “Let me have you,” he told her, and … and he shoved his hand up under her gown and he … he fondled her … and started kissing her again.’
Ethel, I noticed, was staring at a point somewhere distant inside her thoughts.
William Proudlock breathed out heavily. ‘Steward put out the light,’ he said. ‘Ethel broke away from him and reached behind her into the nook to switch on the light again. She shouted for the cook, she was in great terror. That’s when her fingers curled over the revolver. She grabbed it and pointed it at Steward. She remembered firing once, perhaps twice, and nothing more after that.’ William paused again, pressing his knuckles onto his lips. ‘She must have blacked out. When she came to, she found herself on the verandah. She went around to the side of the house to call for the cook to fetch me. She said she remembered pacing back and forth anxiously, waiting for me to come home. Suddenly she noticed that she was holding the gun, that her hands were smeared with blood. She dropped the revolver onto the ground.’
‘On that particular night, the 23rd of April, when you left the accused alone at home,’ said Rhodes, ‘was she expecting any visitors?’
‘No. She told me she was going to answer some letters after dinner.’
‘Yet she was dressed in the tea gown marked as Exhibit B. She was dressed as though she was expecting to receive a caller. In a tea gown with a rather … revealing … décolletage.’
‘You’re painting the completely wrong picture,’ William Proudlock said, his face flushing. ‘It’s not uncommon for Ethel to change into a tea gown in the evening, even if we’re not expecting anyone. She says it makes her feel cooler. My wife loves dressing up. All her friends know that.’ He glanced at me. ‘Why, she’d wear a tea gown even if she’s dining alone at home. It’s a very common thing, very common,’ he emphasised.
Mr Justice Smith interrupted them, coins of light winking off his spectacles as he looked at William. ‘When you and the accused came back from church, how did you enter your house?’
‘We went in by the verandah, as we normally do.’
‘Did you notice the revolver lying in the nook?’
William shook his head. ‘I did not.’
The judge indicated to Rhodes that he should continue his questioning.
‘Mr Proudlock,’ said Rhodes, ‘are you and your wife on good terms?’
Surprise flashed across William’s face, replaced almost instantly by indignation. ‘Of course we’re on good terms. She’s the most wonderful wife, attentive and affectionate.’
‘Have you ever had any reason to be unhappy with your wife’s moral conduct?’
William Proudlock turned towards Ethel. Husband and wife looked at each other across the courtroom.
‘Never,’ he said, his eyes still on his wife.
Ethel was straight-backed, her expression placid as she gazed at her husband.
Rhodes indicated to the judge that he had finished his examination-in-chief.
‘Mr Pooley, you may cross-examine the witness,’ said the judge.
Ethel’s counsel asked a few questions to establish the Proudlocks’ marital history. ‘How is your wife’s health?’
‘It isn’t the best, unfortunately,’ replied William Proudlock. ‘She suffers from leucorrhoea, you see.’
‘Would you explain to the court what that is?’
‘Well, at certain times of the month she would experience … discharge from her … womanly parts.’ William’s face flushed; he dropped his fidgeting hands out of sight. ‘It always caused her great agony. She would take to bed all day. Her nerves would be frayed, she’d cry at the slightest thing. She’d get angry with me for no reason at all.’
I was mortified for Ethel that her most intimate details were being exposed in public, but she appeared oblivious to her husband’s words. It was as though he was talking about someone she had not even the slightest interest in.
‘How well did you know the deceased?’ enquired Pooley.
‘Reasonably, I suppose. We’d known him for about two years. We saw him sometimes at the Selangor Club, and he’d been to our musical at-homes at our old house in Brickfields Road a few times.’
‘When was the last time you and your wife spoke to him?’
‘We saw him on Saturday evening, the evening before he was … before he turned up at our house. We had gone to the club to listen to the band. We spoke to Steward in the library. Ethel told him that he had not been to see us since we moved to our new house. He said he would drop in one evening.’ William paused, replaying the conversation in his mind. ‘She told him not to come after nine, because we usually retire early. And then we had gone home because the band wasn’t playing that night.’
‘You told the court earlier that you’ve only dined out three times this year.’
‘That’s correct. I rarely dine out. My wife is a very nervous woman, she’s easily frightened. She doesn’t like being on her own at night.’
Pooley finished with William, but he was asked to remain in the witness box for re-examination by Rhodes.
‘You were in Hong Kong in December last year, am I correct?’ Rhodes asked.
William hesitated for just a second. ‘That’s correct. Before Christmas.’
‘How long were you there for?’
‘A month.’
‘Did you leave the accused on her own for the whole period of time you were in Hong Kong?’
‘No. I asked my friend Hugh Markes to call at the house every night to make sure that she was fine,’ William said. ‘Ethel adores Hugh – he was the best man at our wedding.’
Ethel angled her face slightly, watching me from the corner of her eye. I knew we were both thinking of that morning when she told me that she had gone out for drives with Steward when her husband was away in Hong Kong, and how she had spent nights at Steward’s house in Salak South.
Rhodes next called Goodman Ambler to the stand. His version of the evening’s events did not diverge significantly from William Proudlock’s, although his recollection added more details to the picture William Proudlock had painted. There were spots of blood on Ethel’s face, arms and chest, Ambler informed Rhodes. Her dress was ripped in three or four places, and the strap had slipped off her right shoulder.
‘We set her down on the settee. I stayed with her on the verandah while Will rushed off to Inspector Wyatt’s,’ Ambler said. ‘She grew agitated, extremely so. She said, “He lifted my dress” and “He tried to spoil me.” I couldn’t understand anything else she said. She was lying down, but every so often she’d sit up with a violent jerk and start babbling away randomly.’
‘What did she talk about?’
‘Really, I couldn’t make head nor tail of it. It was all very disconcerting. She’d ramble on about one thing, then abruptly jump to something completely different. And she kept muttering, “He made me do it, he made me do it. Oh, God, oh God, I wish I had never met him!” I tried to calm her; I talked to her, hoping to keep her attention on one thing, but she got furious with me. “Shut up!” she snapped at me. “Just shut up, you stupid man! You don’t understand at all! Stop talking!”’
Ambler dabbed at his perspiring face with a handkerchief. Even with the punkahs flapping away, the courtroom was stuffy. The judge, after conferring briefly with his assessors, adjourned the hearing to the following morning.
That night in my hotel room I wrote down everything I had seen and heard in court. I was drained by the effort of concentrating on the witnesses all day long. I longed for Arthur’s body next to me, for the touch of his smooth, warm skin on mine. I thought of sending him a telegram, just to tell him how much I missed him, but I resisted the temptation. No letters, no notes.
The following morning the prosecution called Detective Inspector Charles Wyatt as their first witness. The Inspector was a short, thin man in his forties, with cool, watchful eyes and a wispy brown moustache. He spoke in crisp, succinct sentences, anticipating and answering Rhodes’s questions even before they were asked.
‘On the night of the 23rd of April, Mr William Proudlock knocked on my door at about a quarter past ten,’ Inspector Wyatt said. ‘He informed me that his wife had shot a man. I quickly changed into my uniform and, after sending a message to Dr McIntyre to meet me there, followed him back to the headmaster’s bungalow.’
Dr McIntyre arrived shortly after, DI Wyatt said, and they all went to examine the body. It was lying approximately forty paces from the front of the bungalow. DI Wyatt struck a match and saw that it was the body of William Steward. He was lying on his chest, his right cheek on the grass.
‘There was a great bloody wound on the back of his head,’ DI Wyatt said. ‘He was fully clothed. We turned the body over. His white tunic was buttoned, as were his trousers. We found prints of a lady’s shoes in the muddy ground by the body.’
He also came upon a revolver lying on the sodden grass not far from the body. There was blood on the barrel and the cylinder as well as the grip. He sniffed the barrel; it smelled foul. Later, when he examined it, he discovered it held six empty cartridges.
‘We left the body there and went to see Mrs Proudlock,’ DI Wyatt continued. ‘She was wearing the dress marked as Exhibit B. There were flecks of blood on her face, as well as on her neck and dress. There was also blood in her hair, and her hands were smeared with blood. Her dress was torn, in the manner as shown in Exhibit B. I checked her hands,’ he added. ‘Her right forefinger was blackened with powder.’
The next witness was Dr Edward McIntyre. Under Rhodes’s examination-in-chief, he testified that, after checking Steward’s body on the lawn, he went back to the verandah and examined Ethel. He asked her to stand under the electric light hanging over the big table where she had been writing her letters. In addition to the bloodstains on her hands, arms and chest, he also found bloodstains on her back.
‘Detective Inspector Wyatt had informed me that there may have been improper advances made on her, so I examined her for bruises and other forms of injury on her body.’
‘Did you find any?’
‘I found no bruises or scratches on Mrs Proudlock. I asked her if she had any. She replied, clearly and calmly, that she had none. I asked her to wash her hands and the rest of the exposed parts of her body, and then I examined her again. I found no bruises nor scratches.’
‘Surely bruises wouldn’t show up so soon?’ Rhodes asked with the patently feigned ignorance of a man who already knows the answer.
‘That’s correct. A deep bruise will only show up after twenty-four hours; on the other hand, a superficial bruise will appear within a few minutes. In the case of a deep bruise, there will be pain. There might be abrasion or the skin might be red. I found nothing of that sort.’
‘What was her state of mind?’
‘She was agitated, and she was shaking. But …’ For the first time since the questioning started Dr McIntyre appeared hesitant.
‘Yes?’ Rhodes prodded.
‘Well, Mrs Proudlock answered all my questions sensibly. She understood them clearly, I had no doubt about it. Her eyes … they weren’t clouded or dazed; they had a sharp, intelligent look. She didn’t seem to me as if she had just experienced a terrible shock. After what had happened to her, and after what she had done, well … to be quite honest, I had expected her to be in a more traumatised state.’
Excited whispers raced through the courtroom; Mr Justice Smith was too absorbed by Dr McIntyre’s testimony to silence them. Ethel was still gazing with cool composure at Dr McIntyre. Was there just the faintest crease of a smile at the corners of her lips? You’re imagining it, I told myself.
Pooley, Ethel’s counsel, proceeded to cross-examine Dr McIntyre. ‘You said you found no bruises on Mrs Proudlock when you examined her on the night of the 23rd of April?’
‘That’s quite correct.’
‘But the next evening, the 24th of April, you saw her again at the home of Mrs Wilhelmina Brown, with whom she was staying, is that right?’
‘Quite so.’
‘Will you describe her condition to us?’
‘She looked different from the previous evening. She seemed terrified, as if some awful event was still happening to her, and she was unable to control it. At times she was incoherent. Her eyes would be aware and sharp, but then a second later she would look away furtively. She was twitching all over. At one point she pressed her head tightly between her palms and moaned that she was going mad.’
‘Did you examine her again?’
‘I asked Mrs Brown to accompany me into the bedroom with Mrs Proudlock. She came with a powerful electric lamp and shone it on her.’
‘When you examined Mrs Proudlock on this occasion, what did you find on her body?’
‘Five bruises on her body. She had bruises on her left arm between her elbow and shoulder.’ He pointed to the places on his own arm. ‘There was some swelling there too, and in the corresponding position on her right arm as well. But no bruising on her right arm. I found extensive bruising over the trochanter of the femur on her right thigh, and another bruise four inches below her left kneecap.’
‘In your opinion, how old were the bruises?’
‘A day old, I’d say.’
‘A day old. I see. So they could have been caused by the assault on the previous evening.’
‘It’s possible.’
Pooley changed tack. ‘How long have you known Mrs Proudlock?’
‘I’ve been attending to her for just over two years. She suffers from leucorrhoea. I’ve advised her more than once to have an operation, but she’s always refused to even consider it. In my opinion she is a nervous and hysterical woman. She is highly emotional.’
‘A nervous and highly emotional woman,’ repeated Pooley slowly and distinctly so that none of us could miss his words. ‘In your opinion, Dr McIntyre, could Mrs Proudlock – being a highly emotional woman – could she have suffered a temporary loss of reason and memory caused by the shock of being attacked by the deceased?’
‘It’s possible, yes.’
‘Thank you, doctor.’ Pooley looked to the bench. ‘That will be all, My Lord.’
The trial reconvened after lunch. Inspector Frederick Ferrant was called to the stand. He had been sent to search William Steward’s house at Salak South the day after he was killed. Not expecting to hear anything out of the ordinary, my thoughts started to drift. I snapped back to attention when I heard Inspector Ferrant saying, ‘There was a chest of drawers in Mr Steward’s bedroom. When I opened them, I found them full of women’s clothes. They were for a European woman. There were also a few items of clothing for a European girl, aged three or four. I didn’t find any native female clothing.’
Ethel’s lips were slightly parted. I could see her chest rising and falling steadily, but her eyes remained as lifeless as a stagnant pond. Steward was a bachelor, and the clothes had, in all probability, belonged to his lover. But who was the woman? Had Ethel taken her daughter along with her when she was sleeping over at Steward’s house? The very thought of it was repugnant to me.
‘There were four Chinese women in the house when I got there,’ Inspector Ferrant said in reply to another question from Rhodes. ‘They were all sitting on their haunches on the front verandah. No, I don’t know who they were. Servants, I reckon. They didn’t speak English. I told them that Tuan Steward sudah mati, and one of them started wailing loudly. She wouldn’t let up, just went on and on, wailing and beating her chest.’
The prosecution said nothing more, but let the inference hang like a foetid smell in the warm, still air: William Steward had been sleeping with that Chinese woman.
The next witness was one of William Steward’s friends. George Spence told the court that he had been dining with Steward at the Empire Hotel on the evening he was shot. At about half past eight Steward had made his excuses and left, saying that he had an appointment at nine, although he did not say whom he was meeting. Spence affirmed that Steward had been having relations with a Chinese woman; the woman had lived with him for the last three months before he was killed.
A clear and distinct pattern was emerging: the prosecution intended to show that Ethel had been having an affair with Steward; when she had found out about his relations with the Chinese woman, she had murdered him in a fit of jealous rage.
II
The newspapers reported on the trial’s proceedings each day. I cut out the articles and pasted them in my journal. Ethel’s spirits improved visibly, and so did her appearance; she chatted with Pooley and Wagner, and once or twice she even lit a brief smile on me.
‘Mr Pooley is very certain that Ethel will be acquitted,’ William Proudlock remarked to me as we waited for court to begin.
‘That’s wonderful, William,’ I said.
I was tight with nerves. It was the fourth day of the trial, and the moment I had been dreading had arrived. Pooley summoned me to testify, and with a heavy heart I stepped into the witness box. I avoided Ethel’s eyes, keeping my entire focus solely on Pooley.
Under his questioning I informed the court that yes, I was a friend of Ethel’s, that I had known her for three years. She was a warm and kind person, vivacious and witty and funny. Did she like to dress up in beautiful dresses? Oh, all the time.
‘Ethel’s mad about clothes,’ I said. ‘She’d spend hours leafing through the latest fashions in the illustrated magazines. Whenever I came down to KL we’d always go shopping.’
‘In your opinion, was there anything out of the ordinary in the fact that she was wearing a tea gown on the night William Steward was shot?’ asked Pooley.
‘There was nothing out of the ordinary at all,’ I said. ‘Ethel is always well turned-out, even if she isn’t expecting anyone. Like I said, Ethel loves clothes.’
‘Are you aware, Mrs Hamlyn,’ said Pooley, ‘of the malicious gossip about her and the deceased? Malicious gossip that has been swilling around KL?’
‘I’m aware of it, yes.’ I knew what was coming, and I forced myself to remain composed.
‘Did Mrs Proudlock ever confide in you that she was having an affair with the deceased?’
For the first time since I stepped into the witness box, I looked directly at Ethel. She gazed back at me, her expression unreadable. I could feel a line of perspiration crawling down the hollow of my back. I thought back to that morning when she told me about her affair with Steward. What would happen if I revealed the truth? Would I save her, or damn her?
Still keeping my eyes on her, I said, ‘She did not confide in me that she was having an affair with William Steward.’ I then looked at Pooley and at the faces in the courtroom. I let my words sink into everyone’s minds before I said, with the brisk, unassailable authority of a memsahib putting an intractable servant in his place, ‘And there is no truth to the rumours that she was having an affair with William Steward,’ I said. ‘No truth at all.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Hamlyn,’ Pooley said. ‘We have no further questions for Mrs Hamlyn, My Lord.’
Mr Justice Smith put down his pen and asked the prosecutor if he wanted to cross-examine me. I sat there in the box, drawing on every ounce of willpower to appear imperturbable as I waited for Rhodes to rip my testimony to shreds, to expose my lie to the world.
‘We have no questions for Mrs Hamlyn, My Lord,’ said Rhodes.
The listless flapping of the punkah was the only sound in the courtroom as Pooley summoned Ethel to the witness stand.
‘How long have you known Mr William Steward?’ asked Pooley.
‘My husband and I have known him for about two years.’
‘When was the last time you saw him, before he showed up at your house on the 23rd of April?’ asked Pooley.
‘We saw him on the previous evening, at the Selangor Club. We spoke only for a few minutes.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘I mentioned that I had not seen him for a long time, and that he had not been to see us since we moved. He said he didn’t know where we lived, so I told him, and I asked him to come and see us. He promised he would drop in one night, but I asked him not to come after nine o’clock, as we retire early.’
‘Was your husband with you?’
‘He was talking to someone, I can’t recall who it was, but yes, he was close by.’
‘You did not invite Mr Steward to visit you on Sunday night?’
‘I most certainly did not,’ she said firmly.
‘Please tell the court what you did on Sunday.’
She had not felt well that morning, she said, so she had stayed at home all day. At a quarter past four in the afternoon she and her husband had taken tea on the verandah. He then asked her to fetch the revolver, as he wanted to do some practice shooting in the garden.
‘Did you practise too?’
‘I fired twice,’ Ethel replied.
‘Did your husband reload the gun?’
‘I did not see if he reloaded it.’
Her husband handed the revolver to her before they went inside to prepare for church, Ethel explained. She was going up onto the verandah when she was distracted by noises coming from the nursery.
‘What kind of noises?’
‘It sounded like something falling. I was worried that some stray cats had gotten into the nursery,’ Ethel said. ‘Those cats have been a real nuisance since we moved in. I didn’t want them disturbing Dorothy. I placed the revolver on the right side of the bookshelf and hurried into the nursery. It was just as I had feared – a pair of cats had sneaked in there. I chased them out through the window.’
She then went to her room to get ready for church. Her husband was waiting for her when she returned to the verandah, and together they walked to church. Returning home after the service, William Proudlock quickly changed and hurried off to dinner at Goodman Ambler’s house. She changed out of her church dress and into her tea gown and ate her dinner, alone. She was catching up on her correspondence on the verandah after dinner when, to her surprise, William Steward turned up.
‘What time was that?’
‘I’m not sure, but I think it was about half past eight, maybe just before nine.’
It was raining, but not heavily, she said. He asked her if her husband was at home. Before she could reply he had instructed his rickshaw-puller to wait under a tree.
‘I told him William would be back at about ten o’clock,’ Ethel said. ‘He said it wasn’t anything important. I was hoping he would leave as I wanted to answer my letters, but I did not want to appear rude, so I invited him to sit. I asked him to tell his rickshaw-puller to wait in the porch, as it was raining, but he said, “It’s not very pleasant having him nearby, spitting all the time.”’
They chatted about the weather and the rising level of the river. She was worried that the lawn would be flooded if the rain kept up. They talked about the books they were reading. She went to the bookshelf to get a book she wanted to show him, but he stood up and blocked her way.
‘He grabbed me and placed his arm around my waist and he said to me, “Never mind the book. You do look bonny! I love you.” He pulled me in roughly and kissed me on my lips. “Let me have you!” he said. “I will have you!”’
‘What did you do?’ asked Pooley.
‘I pushed him away. I told him, “Are you mad? What are you doing?” But he said nothing. There was a strange fire in his eyes. He put out the light and grabbed my arms, very tightly. It was very painful, it hurt me. Then he pulled up my gown and he … he began to grope me. Oh, it was horrible, horrible! I struggled against him, but he was so strong, he was so strong. I reached out my hand for the light switch, I thought if I put on the light, that would stop him, make him come to his senses. I was reaching for the switch when my fingers touched the barrel of the revolver. In desperation my hand closed around it, gripped it tightly. He was still pulling me towards him. I was terrified that he was going to drag me into the house and … and …’
A sob cracked her voice. She pressed her face into her hands, her shoulders shuddering uncontrollably. None of us made a sound, not even the judge and the assessors. Gradually her shaking stopped and she lifted her face from her hands. Her breathing sounded loud and heavy. She accepted a handkerchief from Pooley and dried her eyes.
‘I pointed the gun at him,’ she said. ‘I fired the gun. I think I fired twice.’ She dabbed the handkerchief at her eyes again. ‘That’s all I remember. Everything became a blank.’
‘What happened next?’ asked Pooley.
When she came to herself again, she realised that she was still standing on the verandah. She had no idea how much time had passed. She went to the servants’ quarters to look for the boy, but he wasn’t there. The cook answered from his room, and she ordered him to go and fetch her husband.
‘I only wanted to frighten Steward by firing a shot over his head,’ she said. ‘That’s all I wanted to do. I didn’t intend to kill him.’
Her façade of self-control collapsed and she started sobbing again. Mr Justice Smith paused the proceedings to give Ethel time to compose herself. After a short while she indicated that she was ready to be cross-examined by the Public Prosecutor.
‘Did the deceased not see that you had a revolver in your hand?’ asked Rhodes.
‘I don’t know. It was very dark. The light on the verandah was off – he had put it off himself.’
‘Did you warn him that you had a revolver?’
‘I don’t … I don’t remember. I … I don’t think … I don’t remember warning him before I fired. I just wanted to get away from him. Somehow I knew that if he didn’t let go of me, he would … he would rape me.’
‘The deceased was found lying face down in the garden, about forty paces from the verandah.’ The Public Prosecutor did not refer to his notes. ‘He had six bullets in his body. Four in his chest, one in the back of his head, and another in the nape of his neck. Can you explain how this happened?’
‘I can’t,’ Ethel replied simply. ‘I remember firing the first shot. I remember hearing the second shot. It seemed to come from far away. I don’t remember anything after that.’
‘What happened after you had spoken to the cook?’
Ethel drew in a long breath and exhaled. ‘My memory of what happened after my husband returned is cloudy. I was aware of Goodman being there, yes, but I simply cannot recall what I said to them.’
‘Had the deceased ever visited you at home, before the evening you shot him?’
‘Only once, when William was in Hong Kong. He came to our old house in Brickfields. It was a musical evening – there were other guests there too,’ she added quickly to the three men on the bench.
‘Did you ever go to the deceased’s house in Salak South?’ Rhodes asked.
‘No.’
‘You never spent a night in the deceased’s house?’ Rhodes pressed on.
‘No.’
‘Did you ever have an affair with the deceased?’
‘Certainly not!’ Ethel’s eyes swept around the courtroom before coming to rest on Mr Justice Smith and the two assessors. ‘I am not a harlot,’ she addressed them directly. ‘I have never had an affair with William Steward, nor with anybody else.’
I thought she had said all that she wanted to say, but she gripped the railing of the witness box and with a fierce dignity pulled back her shoulders, at the same time jutting her chin forward. In a clear, ringing voice she declared, ‘I would rather be convicted of murder than live out the rest of my life under the cloud of being an unfaithful wife.’
It was a powerful and affecting performance, I thought – but would it convince the three men sitting up there deciding her fate?
III
On the final day of the trial James Pooley summed up the case for the defence.
‘Mrs Ethel Proudlock is a fine, virtuous woman who suffered a temporary deprivation of reason when William Steward attempted to rape her,’ he concluded at the end of his lengthy speech. ‘She should not be found guilty of murder.’
Hastings Rhodes made his summation for the prosecution, and then for the next hour and a half Mr Justice Sercombe Smith reviewed the evidence presented by both sides. It was almost five o’clock when he finished summing up the case.
‘Mr Wise,’ he addressed the assessor on his left, ‘what is your verdict on the charge of murder?’
‘My verdict says she is guilty.’
Mr Justice Smith looked to his right. ‘And you, Mr Kindersley? What is your verdict on the charge of murder?’
‘My verdict says she is guilty.’
The judge removed his spectacles and gazed down from the bench at Ethel.
‘I concur,’ he said.
The courtroom erupted. Screams of disbelief competed with shouts of approval. ‘Murderess!’ a man behind me cried out. ‘Murderess!’ Ethel was staring at Mr Justice Smith, her face bloodless. Again and again the bailiffs called for silence until finally the commotion petered out.
‘Does the accused have anything to say to the court?’ asked Mr Justice Smith.
We waited, straining to hear her speak. For God’s sake, say something, Ethel, I urged her in my mind. Tell them what really happened between you and Steward. Speak, Ethel. Fight for your life.
But Ethel just stood there in the dock, silent. The judge gave her a moment longer, but still she did not utter a single word.
‘I hereby sentence the accused, Ethel Proudlock,’ said Mr Justice Smith, ‘to hang by the neck until she be dead.’
The court was adjourned, and the three men on the bench filed out of the courtroom.
Ethel stared at her husband, a stricken expression on her face. A choking noise burst from her throat, and then she broke down. Her awful keening filled the courtroom. William Proudlock rushed to the dock and took his wife into his arms. He stroked her head and whispered into her ear, but she went on wailing.
William Proudlock had to hold her up as the policemen escorted Ethel out of the courtroom. I followed them down the corridors, keeping close to her two lawyers. We emerged into the cobbled courtyard by the Klang River. It was late evening, the raintrees along the river aflame with crows squabbling for their roosts.
A police van was waiting in the courtyard, its back doors wide open. Still sobbing piteously, Ethel hung on tightly to William, refusing to climb inside. The policemen had to pull her from her husband’s arms and manhandle her into the back of the van. William demanded to ride with her, but the policemen slammed the doors shut, turned the lock and climbed into the front of the van.
We stood there – William and I and the lawyers – and watched the van pull away, taking Ethel back to Pudoh Gaol.