of admissibility on which we will need your Lordship’s ruling,’ added Miles, ‘but that is perhaps better done before Detective Sergeant Hearns gives his evidence.’
‘Yes, Mr Lambert, I agree. Let’s press on. Miss Hooks, we’re ready for the jury now.’
This instruction was directed at the court usher, a diminutive lady less than five feet tall. She looked out on the world distrustfully through an enormous pair of black-framed glasses with thick lenses that seemed to cover nearly half of her pinched little face. Her black gown fell almost to the floor, and Greta feared for a moment that she might stumble over it as she moved as quickly as her small legs would carry her towards the door in the far corner of the courtroom, behind which the jurors were waiting.
The strangest thing about the jury was their lack of strangeness, Greta reflected, as each of the twelve stood in turn to swear or affirm that he or she ‘will faithfully try the defendant and give a true verdict according to the evidence’.
Here were her judges. A motley assortment of men and women plucked at random from the capital’s population. An Indian man with a turban and another without. An Italian in an expensive suit, who she caught, out of the corner of her eye, giving her an admiring glance. Two middle-aged ladies with big hair and large busts on either side of a young man in a crumpled T-shirt with a picture of Kurt Cobain on the front. An Oriental girl with a tiny voice, who had to be made to take the oath twice because nobody could hear her the first time round. Four other men of nondescript appearance, who would hopefully have Greta’s pretty face well in mind when it came to reaching their verdict; and finally a woman in her forties, who looked exactly like Margaret Thatcher might have done at that age if she’d had short black hair and worn a trouser suit. She took the oath in a determined voice that made everyone in the courtroom sit up while she held the Bible above her right ear, in the manner of a president on inauguration day.
The names of the other jurors had flown past unnoticed, but Greta caught this one as it was read out by the clerk: Dorothy Jones. Greta thought that there was nothing Dorothy-like about her at all as she extracted a black pen from her clutch handbag and tapped it menacingly on the table in front of her.
In the well of the court John Sparling allowed a half-smile to momentarily crease his thin lips. Here was a juror who wouldn’t have trouble in obeying his instruction to put all pity and sympathy aside in her search for the truth. She’d be like a hound on the trail of a wounded fox when it came to that task.
To Sparling’s left Miles Lambert moved his bulk uneasily about on his chair as the Indian man without the turban stood up to take the oath. He didn’t like the look of the woman in the trouser suit. The rest seemed all right, and he’d got what he wanted with eight men to four women, but the Margaret Thatcher lookalike would no doubt try to take over and get herself elected as forewoman before the day was out.
Miles knew the type, and he thought nostalgically of the good old days when the defence had the right to get rid of up to three jurors for no reason at all. Now there was nothing one could really do unless the jurors knew the defendant or one of the witnesses. It was one area in which Miles felt that the American system was decidedly better. He’d have liked nothing better than to cross-examine this Jones woman about her beliefs and prejudices, but it wasn’t to be, and she was only one of twelve. Perhaps the men would rebel and elect the youth with the grungy T-shirt to chair their deliberations.
‘All sworn, my Lord,’ said the usher in the shrill voice of those who go through life suffering from an incurable doubt that people won’t hear what they are about to say.
The jury settled themselves in their chairs and looked up expectantly at the judge but it was the clerk of the court who claimed their attention. He rose to his feet holding up a piece of paper.
‘The defendant will stand.’
It was the second time the clerk had said these words. The third time would be for the jury’s verdict.
Greta stood, holding herself steady with her hands resting on the brass rail of the dock.
‘Members of the jury, the defendant stands charged on Indictment 211 of the year 2000 with one count. That between a date unknown and the 31st day of May 1999 she did conspire with persons unknown to murder Anne, Lady Robinson. To this charge she has pleaded not guilty, and it is your task having heard the evidence to say whether she is guilty or not.’
Guilty or not. Guilty or not. Guilty or not. Greta held hard to the rail as the courtroom suddenly swirled in front of her and the words echoed in her mind. Her trial had begun.
CHAPTER 7
Judge Granger allowed his eyes to travel down the two rows of jurors as they shifted in their seats, still trying to adjust themselves to the formality of the courtroom and the stress of taking the oath.
Lord knows what petty prejudices they brought into court with them, thought the old judge. What coloured spectacles they used to view the evidence. He was glad he wasn’t able to hear the discussions they would have, shut up in their jury room, as it would only have made him want to interfere. And he had learned over the years that the best way to a fair trial was to interfere as little as possible. Juries weren’t infallible, but they were better than lawyers or civil servants, and they must be allowed to reach their own verdicts.
The judge turned his head toward the counsel for the prosecution and nodded imperceptibly.
John Sparling got slowly to his feet and gathered his gown about him.
‘Good morning, members of the jury. Let me begin by introducing myself to you. I am John Sparling, and I am appearing for the prosecution in this case, and on my right is Miles Lambert, who is representing the defendant. She is sitting in the dock.’
Sparling paused after the word ‘dock’ on which he had laid a heavy emphasis, as if he wished to imply that that was where the defendant should be.
‘Members of the jury, I am now going to open this case to you, and that has nothing to do with keys and doors.’ Sparling laughed gently, eliciting the same response from several of the jurors. He knew the importance of making contact with the jury, and he never made the mistake of talking down to them, treating them instead with an unwavering courtesy. ‘No, the opening is designed to help you.’
Miles Lambert grimaced. Sparling always used this trick of portraying himself as the jury’s assistant helping them to reach the only possible verdict: guilty as charged.
‘To help you to understand the evidence by giving you a framework within which to place it. This is particularly necessary because the Crown’s most important witness will be giving evidence last.’
Sparling did not say why. He did not tell the jury that Thomas Robinson was too traumatized to come to court to give evidence today. Instead he made it seem as if this was the Crown’s decision. To save the best for last.
‘And so, members of the jury, let me tell you what this case is about. It is about an old house and the people who lived there. The House of the Four Winds was built in the sixteenth century and is famous for its rose gardens and an ornamental staircase that curves up from the front hall to the first floor above. The staircase is important, and I shall come back to it later.
‘The house is on the outskirts of a fishing town called Flyte on the coast of Suffolk. The Sackville family have lived there for generations. Anne Sackville was born in the house and her mother had no other children. At about 9.30 on the evening of the 31st May last year she was murdered in the house by two men, who have not to
