On August 26—I shall never forget it—that I received a letter that made me realize it might be necessary to follow every word of the trial. However much I tried to convince myself I should explain why I couldn’t do it, I knew I wouldn’t be able to resist.
“Six months’ compensation, as stipulated in your contract when we took over the company,” he explained.
Once I had reached the courtroom I filed in and made sure that I sat on the end of my row. I looked round thinking everyone would stare at me, but to my relief no one showed the slightest interest.
I had a good view of the defendant as he stood in the dock. Menzies was a frail man who looked as if he had recently lost a lot of weight; fifty-one, the newspapers had said, but he looked nearer seventy. I began to wonder how much I must have aged over the past few months.
Menzies wore a smart dark blue suit that hung loosely on him, a clean shirt, and what I thought must be a regimental tie. His gray thinning hair was swept straight back; a small silver moustache gave him a military air. He certainly didn’t look like a murderer or much of a catch as a lover, but anyone glancing toward me would probably have come to the same conclusion. I searched around the sea of faces for Mrs. Menzies but no one in the court fitted the newspaper description of her.
The judge leaned forward to tell Menzies that he could be seated and then turned slowly toward the jury box.
He explained that, although there had been considerable press interest in the case, their opinion was all that mattered because they alone would be asked to decide if the prisoner were guilty or not guilty of murder. He also advised the jury against reading any newspaper articles concerning the trial or listening to anyone else’s views, especially those who had not been present in court: Such people, he said, were always the first to have an immutable opinion on what the verdict should be. He went on to remind the jury how important it was to concentrate on the evidence because a man’s life was at stake. I found myself nodding in agreement.
I glanced around the court hoping there was nobody there who would recognize me. Menzies’s eyes remained fixed firmly on the judge, who was turning back to face the prosecuting counsel.
Even as Sir Humphrey Mountcliff rose from his place on the bench, I was thankful he was against Menzies and not me. A man of dominating height with a high forehead and silver gray hair, he commanded the court not only with his physical presence but with a voice that was never less than authoritative.
To a silent assembly he spent the rest of the morning setting out the case for the prosecution. His eyes rarely left the jury box except occasionally to peer down at his notes.
The opening address lasted two and a half hours, shorter than I’d expected. The judge then suggested a break for lunch and asked us all to be back in our places by ten past two.
After lunch Sir Humphrey called his first witness, Detective Inspector Simmons. I was unable to look directly at the policeman while he presented his evidence. Each reply he gave was as if he were addressing me personally. I wondered if he suspected all along that there was another man. Simmons gave a highly professional account of himself as he described in detail how they had found the body and later traced Menzies through two witnesses and the damning parking ticket. By the time Sir Humphrey sat down, few people in that court could have felt that Simmons had arrested the wrong man.
“How can you be so certain, Dr. Mallins?”
“Because I found traces of blood group B on the deceased’s upper thigh, while Miss Moorland was later found to be blood group O. There were also traces of seminal fluid on the negligee she was wearing at the time of her death.”
“Are these common blood groups?” Sir Humphrey asked.
“Blood group O is common,” Dr. Mallins admitted. “Group B, however, is fairly unusual.”
“And what would you say was the cause of her death?” Sir
Humphrey asked.
“A blow or blows to the head, which caused a broken jaw, and lacerations at the base of the skull which may have been delivered by a blunt instrument.”
I wanted to stand up and say, “I can tell you which!” when Sir Humphrey said, “Thank you, Dr. Mallins. No more questions. Please wait there.”
“Could the blow on the back of Miss Moorland’s head have been caused by a fall?” he asked.
The doctor hesitated. “Possibly,” he agreed. “But that wouldn’t explain the broken jaw.”
Mr. Scott ignored the comment and pressed on.
“What percentage of people in Britain are blood group B?”
“About five, six percent,” volunteered the doctor.
“Two and a half million people,” said Mr. Scott, and waited for the figure to sink in before he suddenly changed tack.
But as hard as he tried he could not shift the pathologist on the time of death or on the fact that sexual intercourse must have taken place around the hours his client had been with Carla.
When Mr. Scott sat down, the judge asked Sir Humphrey if he wished to reexamine.
“I do, My Lord. Dr. Mallins, you told the court that Miss Moorland suffered from a broken jaw and lacerations on the back of her head. Could the lacerations have been caused by falling on to a blunt object after the jaw had been broken?”
“I must object, My Lord,” said Mr. Scott, rising with unusual speed. “This is a leading question.”
Mr. Justice Buchanan leaned forward and peered down at the doctor. “I agree, Mr. Scott, but I would like to know if Dr. Mallins found blood group O, Miss Moorland’s blood group, on any other object in the room?”
“Yes, My Lord,” replied the doctor. “On the edge of the glass table in the center of the room.”
“Thank you, Dr. Mallins,” said Sir Humphrey. “No more questions.”
Sir Humphrey’s next witness was Mrs. Rita Johnson, the lady who claimed she had seen everything.
“Mrs. Johnson, on the evening of April 7, did you see a man leave the apartment house where Miss Moorland lived?” Sir Humphrey asked.
“Yes, I did.”
“At about what time was that?”
“A few minutes after six.”
“Please tell the court what happened next.”
“He walked across the road, removed a parking ticket, got into his car, and drove away.”
“Yes,” she said firmly, pointing to Menzies, who at this suggestion shook his head vigorously.
“No more questions.”
Mr. Scott rose slowly again.
“What did you say was the make of the car the man got into?”
“I can’t be sure,” Mrs. Johnson said, “but I think it was a BMW.”
“Not a Rover, as you first told the police the following morning?”
“And did you actually see the man in question remove a parking ticket from the car windshield?” Mr. Scott asked.
“I’m sure it did,” said Mr. Scott. “In fact, I suggest to you that it happened so quickly that you’ve got the wrong man and the wrong car.”
“No, sir,” she replied, but without the same conviction with which she had delivered her earlier replies.
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 everyone in court in considerable doubt.
Carla’s daily cleaning woman, Maria Lucia, was far more convincing. She stated unequivocally that she had seen Menzies in the living room of the apartment 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?”
“In her blue robe,” replied the cleaning woman.
“Is this how she usually dressed on a Thursday afternoon?”
“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 apartment on this occasion?”
“I did a little cleaning up in the kitchen and ironed a blouse, perhaps twenty minutes.”
“Did you see Miss Moorland during this time?”
“Yes, I went into the living room to ask if she would like some more coffee, but she said no.”
“Was Mr. Menzies with her at the time?”
“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?”
Sir Humphrey did not reexamine Maria Lucia 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 where I had been, 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 a 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.
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 run for the Sutton council. He could hardly be described as a serious candidate as a murderer.
Mr. Scott then went on to the actual day of the killing and confirmed that Mr. Menzies had 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.
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 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?
“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 that 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’s thin lips remained in a firm straight line.
“The pertinent entry in your diary that 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.”
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 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.”
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.
“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 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.
“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.
To be continued...
