Crown vs. Ducastle
by Sameer Kulkarni
part 1
“The brief is on your table,” Graham’s secretary announced as Graham entered his office.
“You know, even my wife asks if I want a cup of tea or coffee when I come in,” he said, smiling at her. “And I don’t even pay her!”
“I told you, we should buy that new coffee machine.”
He hung his overcoat on a hanger and then, just before going inside his office, he said, “You know, if that coffee machine wasn’t that smart, I would have bought it, but the thought of having someone else smarter than me in the same room besets me.”
He quickly realized his above statement could be misconstrued and added, “When I say in the same room... ”
She just smiled and let the comment pass. She knew her boss meant well.
* * *
Graham radiated his typical smile as he sat waiting on a bench in Stampers Prison. He was meeting Arthur Ducastle, his new client and the vicar of St. Mary’s. Ducastle should been granted bail considering his character, previous history and community ties as a religious person, but Balmoral’s laws were very strict when it came to grievous crimes.
When the prison guard brought him in, Ducastle had a chain binding his hands and legs. Graham was furious. He looked at the guard as the vicar sat down and asked him, “Were those really necessary?”
Graham looked at the vicar, and the first impression that came to him was that this guy was as close to His Holiness as he was to his couch. The love was evident.
“You know I have always wanted to say this in real life. What ho, vicar?”
“I am sorry, what?”
“I see you are not a fan of Wodehouse or Shakespeare. Do you want to tell me what happened?”
“Tell me first, do you think I am guilty?”
“I am not an instant guy, vicar. Your man upstairs didn’t make me that way. I have to think about everything in my own time. But I have a fair mind; if you tell me a story, I will hear it with an unbiased ear.”
“Very well.”
“So, tell me, what are you doing in the slammer? Hardly a place to write sermons, I would think.”
“One day the chaplain, Peter Gross, and I were walking. You know how just on the side of the Pope Street bridge there is a steel railing with a few restaurants overlooking the river, and you can walk on the railing? We were going to a meeting with the trustees.”
“So far, so good.”
“And then Peter jumped into the river.”
“Without saying anything?”
“Absolutely nothing. I was right next to him and was so stunned at what had occurred I had no energy left in me. I just stood there, cold. That’s probably when that woman saw me and said I shoved him over.”
“So that is an accusation, right?”
“I am His humble minister, Mr. Bailey. I try to see good in people.”
“How would you say your relationship was with the chaplain?”
“It was a regular relationship that a vicar and chaplain have. We managed to get the work done successfully.”
“There were no misunderstandings? Switching to a different saint or washing the chalice once a fortnight?”
The vicar might have been God’s minister, but he seemed to be a droll man, because he gently smiled at Graham’s sarcastic comments and just shook his head in negation.
Graham was rather pleased with the vicar. How often do you get a man wearing monochrome robes and a cross tucked in here and a cross tucked in there but who appreciates a joke about his beloved occupation?
“What was the meeting with the trustees about?”
“Yes, now that, I reckon, has a somewhat serious connection to the case.”
“Oh, yes? In what way?”
“A certain matter had been brought forward to the trustees, and it concerned the chaplain.”
“What? He laundered money into twelve numbered accounts in Bahamas, do you mean?”
“You see too many pictures, Mr. Bailey,” the vicar said. “I don’t know what the concerned matter was. A small episcopal vicar is a mere pawn.”
Graham heaved a sigh and shrugged. He decided he had everything he needed and was starting to get up when the vicar said, “She is a good woman, you know. Our sweet old Therese. She is your solicitor, is she not?”
“Therese? Oh... yeah. Umm... the religious lot is far too serious for me, vicar. I hope I can tell you that without your taking umbrage, eh?”
“We all have our hobbies, our whims, Mr. Bailey. Or distractions, as I prefer to call them. They make life bearable.”
“I think we’d better concentrate on you at the moment. Do you know that the whole thing rests on the testimony of that old woman?”
“I know that, but I told you the chaplain jumped into the river without saying anything. I can’t just conjure up additional facts.”
“Very well. Are you sure you can’t give me anything else?”
The vicar just shrugged, and Graham walked out to find more about the old woman who had claimed that she had seen the whole thing.
* * *
“Getting a confession out of a vicar,” he said, looking up at nothing in particular. “What sort of a test is this?”
The name of the witness who had seen the vicar commit a crime was a Mrs. Bong, and she ran a flower shop on the river walk in a place called Market Gingham.
When Graham visited the flower shop, Mrs. Bong was arranging begonias in a bouquet.
“Mrs. Bong, my name is Graham Bailey. I am the legal counsel for Arthur Ducastle, who has been charged with the murder of Peter Gross. I understand you were a witness when the accident happened.”
“Yes. I was just standing outside the shop, basking in the sun when this man fell down from the bridge,” she said, stepping outside her shop. Graham followed her. “From over there,” she said, pointing.
“And you saw the vicar push him in?”
“Yes, I did. He pushed and then just stood there as if nothing had happened.”
“How were you so sure it was the vicar and that he had pushed? I mean, it’s pretty far away from here to identify anyone with a naked eye, let alone see his hands in action.”
“He was wearing his robe, which was very easily recognizable. Initially, I had no idea who had fallen in, but then they said it was the chaplain, and then when I asked around, it all fit together.”
“Why? Didn’t they get along very well?”
“They used to, it seems like, but something had happened in the last few months that had soured their relationship. I don’t know what, but the vicar was not pleased with chaplain’s handling of some matter or other. Again, I don’t know the specifics.”
“How do you know it wasn’t a suicide?”
“I don’t. It might have been, but it seemed just too fortuitous that the vicar was near him when it happened.”
* * *
The woman had a distinct Miss Marple style to her, except the sharp longsightedness that the Christie creation had been gifted with. Also, Mrs. Bong had the peculiar quality of being not too keen on listening to what the opposite party had to say. She already knew what she wanted to say even before Graham had finished asking his question.
Graham realized there wasn’t too much to learn from her about what had actually happened, and she might just repeat the same information again in response to any of his additional questions. He decided to go and talk to Inspector Wielding, who was in charge of the case.
Inspector Wielding was a man with a large forehead that, according to some cultures, was indicative of all the good luck he was supposed to have but, if he had it, his receding hairline was definitely not getting its allotment.
Graham had met Wielding on two earlier occasions and was familiar with his working style. He was an honest cop but, on account of his heavy case load, he usually did superficial interviews of the witnesses and the criminals, just enough to file his report. Everything else was left to be figured out in the courtroom by the attorneys, judge and jury.
When Graham went to the police station, Inspector Wielding was looking into a file. He looked up momentarily when Graham came in but then went back to the file.
“I am representing Arthur Ducastle,” Graham said, “the vicar charged with murder.” Graham touched the front of the file cabinet but removed his finger instantly, as if a small but potent electric current had passed through him and he realized that his finger would get stuck in the thick of dust if he didn’t take it off immediately. “What do you think of Mrs. Bong’s testimony?”
“She was right there and it happened in front of her. I don’t think there is any need for thinking.”
“But in such a case, one isn’t consciously looking, you know. I mean, maybe she had zeroed out and then realized that someone had fallen into the river and then looked up to find the vicar there,” Graham said.
“There is a possibility of that. But what if she was looking right at the chaplain and consciously saw him fall because of a push?”
“She told me she had no idea it was the chaplain until the police told her.”
Wielding didn’t say anything and just nodded.
“It also means that she might be myopic. We will have to take her word with a bit of caution.”
“You do that.”
“All right, I am going to get out of here now. May I borrow a copy of her official statement?”
* * *
Prosecution was headed by a Mr. Holden, a barrister who had deep hatred for the criminal classes and had sent many a man to the gallows on the basis of circumstantial evidence.
The vicar didn’t have too much to say and repeated the same story rather boringly. The principal witness was Mrs. Bong. As she stood before the jury, Mr. Holden asked, “Mrs. Bong, what were you doing under the bridge on that day?”
“I run a flower shop in Market Gingham, and it’s located right below the bridge. I spend almost the entire day at the shop.”
“I see. And what did you see that day?”
Graham was already yawning when the question was asked but he still had to listen to the same old story she had told him. He wondered sometimes if there was any other occupation that dealt with so much duplicity.
When it was his time to question the witness, he stood up and looked at the jury. He gave them a genial smile and began: “How good would you say your eyesight is, Mrs. Bong?”
“It’s very good.”
“So, tell me, can you read the inscription on the bust of Sir Charles Dimbilton there?” he pointed at a decent-sized portrait of Sir Charles in the corner of the room.
“Not really, that is too fine.”
“Well, I will be buggered if I can either,” he said and smiled at the jury.
“So, despite not having too fine an eyesight, especially when it comes to things that are distant, how do you say the vicar is guilty of the crime he is accused of?”
“Well, they were both together and then the chaplain fell and the vicar just stood there, which put him right on the spot.”
“And why do you think he just stood there? I mean if he had committed the crime, he would have gone on walking, making it appear that he had nothing to do with it if he wanted to get away with it.”
“I don’t know. Maybe he was too shocked after realizing what he had done.”
“Very well. Thank you, Your Honour. No further questions.”
The court was adjourned for a small break, and a small discussion between Mr. Holden, Graham and Judge Grimsby occurred in the judicial chambers.
“It’s all circumstantial,” Graham said.
“Yes, but it still doesn’t take away the fact that the vicar was there,” Holden added. He was, as usual, in quite a hurry to sell the vicar down the river.
“Well, that isn’t a crime, Holden. Plus the woman is myopic. Even I could read the inscription on Sir Charles’ portrait, and I was standing right next to the witness stand when I asked her that.”
There was nothing further to say. They both looked at Judge Grimsby.
“I agree that the evidence is circumstantial, but Mrs. Bong is the only witness, and she does place him at the scene of the crime.”
“But he couldn’t help it. They were going to a meeting together. Now, how can that be a crime?”
“Be that as it may, Mr. Bailey, you know the rules. If there is nothing else that comes forward, we will just have to see what the jury decides. Doesn’t look like the criminal type to me, to be frank, but then the most ordinary-looking folk are capable of the most heinous of crimes, aren’t they?”
The vicar was committed for trial and a date was set for next Monday.
* * *
Graham got nothing for the next three days, On the fourth day, he asked Therese to stop by his office so he could bounce some ideas off of her.
“So what do you think?” Therese asked.
“Where the hell did I keep them?” he said, trying to find a pair of gloves. “You know, I will not find them for the whole winter and then suddenly they will pop up one fine day in April.”
Therese laughed and realized it wasn’t just bad luck as Graham liked to put it; he liked chaos. If there wasn’t chaos, he would comment that something was wrong, and he would stir something up, and the moment there was chaos, he would wonder what was wrong with the world. That was probably the only reason she hadn’t told him how she felt. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for chaos, let alone his kind of chaos in her life yet.
Finally he gave up and sat back in his chair. “The whole thing is crooked. The only thread to visit is Mrs. Bong’s statement, and the woman is as blind as a bat. It’s driving me crazy, this thing. What’s that disease where a person starts picking his own hair?”
“I know the vicar personally. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. You have met him, right? What do you think?”
“I haven’t formed any opinions yet. The man’s all right, if that’s what you are asking. But there is a sort of rancid mystery about the whole thing. It’s like a badly written play with only three characters, one of which has been killed, and too much has been left to the audience’s imagination.”
It was almost pointless to talk to the vicar or the witness; neither had anything new to say. Graham’s only hope was to see if there was anyone else who had seen the incident. And that surprised him: How come no one else in a city of two million had come forward and claimed to have seen the incident?
Pope Street bridge was the last bridge before the river gave herself up to the ocean; being the last corner of life in that particular part of the city, its pedestrian life was limited. There were occasional tourists who wanted to get out to the lighthouse, but that was only on weekends. Cars and buses were still aplenty; someone should have seen something.
* * *
Copyright © 2018 by Sameer Kulkarni
