Walden of Bermondsey Read online

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he told you that a fire had started in the garage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he suggested that Tony might have had something to do with that, too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just a couple of pieces of paper set on fire?’

  ‘I don’t remember all the details.’

  ‘No damage was done, and no accelerant was used, is that right?’

  ‘I…’

  ‘I am sure my learned friend Mr Lofthouse will correct me if I am wrong.’

  ‘I have no reason to doubt what my learned friend says,’ Roderick confirms disinterestedly. It is quite obvious that Father Stringer can expect no more sympathy from that side of the court.

  ‘I will take your word for it,’ Stringer replies sullenly.

  ‘Thank you. Were you also made aware that the stories about automotive cutlery at the Devonald house came from a six-year old girl?’

  ‘Yes, I believe so.’

  ‘A six-year old girl who was also in the house when this rather small fire started? Tony’s sister, Martha?’

  ‘That may be so.’

  ‘It was so, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you. Did you interview Martha?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No. Instead, you prayed with Tony, didn’t you? In the church?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Did he seem to you to be possessed by any demons?’

  Father Stringer looks down. He really doesn’t want to get into this.

  ‘Well, did you notice any demons leave him when you were praying?’

  ‘No,’ he concedes eventually.

  ‘No. What did Tony tell you about the fire in the garage?’

  ‘He said he didn’t know how it started.’

  Cathy studies her notes and pretends to sit down, but then pushes herself up again abruptly, giving the impression of having carelessly forgotten her final question. It is an old trick for drawing attention to a question, and she carries it off well.

  ‘Oh, just one last thing, Father. You told the jury that you could not remember why choir practice had been cancelled. Do you remember telling the choir master, Mr Summers, on that very same afternoon at about one o’clock that it would be inconvenient for choir practice to be held on that evening?’

  If Cathy intended to throw Father Stringer off balance, my impression is that she has succeeded.

  ‘Inconvenient?’

  ‘Yes. Is that what you told Mr Summers?’

  Hesitation.

  ‘I can’t think of any reason why it would have been inconvenient.’

  ‘My question was: is that what you told him?’

  ‘No. Not as far as I remember.’

  ‘And no reason comes to mind why choir practice should have been cancelled on that evening?’

  ‘None that I can think of. You could ask John Summers.’

  Cathy smiles.

  ‘Oh, we will. Thank you, Father.’

  She sits down definitively. She really has finished now. It was a gutsy call to carry on with this jury and try to turn the demonic possession-based fire-raising into something of a joke; to try to turn it back on the prosecution. What’s more, I think she may have pulled it off. I give her a quick nod of appreciation, and she gives me a sly grin in return. Roderick asks a couple of completely pointless questions in re-examination, for the sole purpose of not allowing Cathy to have the last word. But he fails to dispel the aura her cross-examination has induced, of something not being quite right.

  Roderick is now ready to proceed with his forensic evidence. Most of this is undisputed, so following the usual practice, most of the investigators’ reports and the fire fighters’ witness statements will be read to the jury instead of calling the witnesses to give evidence live from the witness box. But copies of the reports must be made for the jury, and as usual, no one has thought of doing that in advance of the trial, and the CPS’s photocopier is broken. In fairness, this is its normal state. There is no money to replace it, though there is apparently endless money to waste on the courts not sitting for hours on end while we wait for copies. Bloody Grey Smoothies again. There is nothing for it but to adjourn.

  And so to lunch, an oasis of calm in a desert of chaos.

  I enter the mess to find a bit of an atmosphere. Marjorie and Legless are both picking distractedly at sandwiches, and looking rather flushed.

  ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything,’ I say.

  ‘They are talking about having a bit on the side,’ Hubert replies. His dish of the day is billed as tagliatelle ai funghi. It looks revolting.

  ‘Going in at the side,’ Legless snarls.

  ‘Well, something to do with the side,’ Hubert says.

  ‘What, at the lunch table?’ I reply, hoping to lighten the mood a bit. ‘That’s not very good manners.’

  ‘Legless is still trying to get me to stop the case,’ Marjorie complains. ‘All I asked for was some help about some technical aspects of this insane apology for a sport, and I’m being made to feel like a fascist for allowing a perfectly proper case of mindless violence to be prosecuted in my court.’

  ‘It’s a one-match suspension at worst,’ Legless fumes. ‘Well, perhaps two. If he is convicted – which he shouldn’t be.’

  ‘And as if that isn’t bad enough,’ Marjorie continues, ‘the bloody jury sent a note this morning asking whether the referee had referred the incident to the television match official, and whether they were allowed to see the replay.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ I ask innocently.

  ‘It’s an amateur game, Charlie,’ Legless replies in exasperation. ‘They don’t have bloody television coverage. This isn’t the Premiership, or the Six Nations, for God’s sake. It’s a bunch of lads having fun on Saturday afternoon, and now one of them is being persecuted because things got a bit out of hand. If the referee had exercised a little common sense, it would have been dealt with in the club house.’

  ‘Well, perhaps that’s what separates us from our Saxon and Celtic forbears,’ Marjorie suggests icily, ‘that we settle criminal matters in court rather than the club house.’

  Hubert looks up again from the tagliatelle ai funghi.

  ‘The Celts had well-organised courts from quite early times,’ he says. ‘The Welsh, particularly. The Welsh had a code of laws, and courts to enforce them, when Birmingham was still a swamp.’

  Recalling that Marjorie has family connections near Birmingham somewhere, I choke back the obvious witticism. This is no time to risk stirring things up any further.

  ‘Has anyone seen the new Turner exhibit at the National Gallery?’ I ask.

  * * *

  Tuesday afternoon

  The story revealed by the arson investigators seems simple enough. The fire was set inside the church at three different sites. The sites were linked by chains of papers, books, and wooden chairs, all carefully positioned and liberally doused with white spirit. The arsonist had done enough to ensure that the sites would link up and merge into one fire hot enough to consume anything in its path, which would burn out only when there was nothing left to consume. The heat and smoke would have been intense. Even the fabric of the building was scorched, and its metal structural supports had buckled. Its stability could not be assured without tests. The building was essentially a shell. It was unquestionably a case of deliberate, pre-meditated arson.

  The investigators have produced an extensive album of photographs showing the damage throughout the church. It wasn’t quite Brighton Pier, but it was pretty bad. One of them, George Kenworthy, is called live to take the jury through the album and explain the detail of the evidence, one photograph at a time. It is a slow process, which takes up much of the afternoon. The jury are fascinated. Now, they have no doubt a
bout how serious the fire was – or about what would have happened if anyone had been trapped inside the church. Eventually, Roderick is satisfied with the impression his evidence has made and sits down.

  Cathy stands quietly.

  ‘Mr Kenworthy, are you familiar with the evidence of the fire brigade officers who first arrived on the scene? Were you present in court earlier when it was read to the jury?’

  ‘Yes, I was.’

  ‘Are you aware that there was evidence that, while the west door and the vestry door were locked, the south door appeared to have been unlocked?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It is clear, isn’t it, that the fire was set inside the church?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the arsonist deliberately chose to set fires at three different sites within the church?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not only that, but the arsonist constructed trails of debris – chairs, paper, and so on – which virtually guaranteed that the three sites would merge?’

  ‘It certainly appears so.’

  Cathy pauses for a moment and nods.

  ‘That is a fairly sophisticated technique, wouldn’t you agree?’

  Roderick rises to his feet. He has seen where this is leading, as have I, and he would like to head it off.

  ‘Your Honour, I’m not sure why the sophistication of the technique, if such it be, is relevant. I don’t even know whether the witness is able to express a view on that, one way or the other.’

  ‘Why don’t we ask him?’ I suggest. ‘Mr Kenworthy, with your experience of such matters, are you able to venture an opinion?’

  ‘Yes, your Honour,’ he replies. ‘I would agree with that. It is a sign of someone who knows something about fires. Of course, it is also something one could read about, or find on the internet without too much difficulty.’

  I nod, and hand back to Cathy.

  ‘In fact, even the use of white spirit as an accelerant is evidence of careful planning, isn’t it?’ she asks.

  ‘It is evidence of planning, certainly. That does not make it sophisticated. The use of accelerants is a common feature of arson offences.’

  ‘Of course. But do the circumstances, taken together, indicate that this fire is likely to have been the work of an experienced arsonist?’

  Roderick is up on his feet again.

  ‘I can’t say that,’ the witness replies, before Roderick can object. Satisfied, he resumes his seat.

  ‘Can you at least say that it is unlikely to be the work of a teenager with no experience of arson, still living at home with his parents?’

  ‘Oh, really, your Honour,’ Roderick complains, hardly bothering to rise.

  ‘Aren’t you asking him to speculate, Miss Writtle?’

  ‘He is an expert, your Honour. If he is unable to form an opinion, he can say so.’

  ‘All right,’ I agree. ‘Can you say one way or the other, Mr Kenworthy?’

  Kenworthy smiles.

  ‘Let me put it this way. Such a teenager would not be at the top of a list of suspects.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Cathy says.

  ‘But, of course, that is on the assumption that one has enough suspects to compile a list.’

  Roderick grins happily.

  ‘Does it strike you as at all odd,’ Cathy continues, apparently undaunted, ‘that there was no sign of soot or fire damage on Tony’s clothing, and no smell of smoke?’

  Kenworthy considers this for some time.

  ‘Yes. In the circumstances, that is a bit unexpected.’

  ‘Would you tell the jury why?’

  ‘Given that fires were set at three different sites, and given that the arsonist had to move between them, there was a good chance that something would have stuck to his clothing at some point.’

  ‘The south door and its lock were not badly affected by the fire, were they?’

  ‘No. The south door was left ajar. Of course, that tended to assist the spread of the fire, but it probably protected the door itself to some extent.’

  ‘So you had surfaces there which were capable of bearing latent prints?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tony’s fingerprints were not found on the door or the lock, were they?’

  ‘No. They were not.’

  ‘Even though they were on the silver metal can which had contained the white spirit?’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mr Kenworthy.’

  And that is it for the day. Photocopier permitting, Roderick will call the officer in the case tomorrow to deal with the police investigation, including the defendant’s interview under caution. We are making good progress, and despite Cathy’s limited successes in chiselling away at the prosecution’s evidence, it seems to me that young Tony is probably bang to rights for this. I am beginning to consider what I am going to do by way of sentence.

  * * *

  Tuesday evening

  On evenings when the Reverend Mrs Walden and I have nothing very much to do – a circumstance far more common in my case than in hers – we sometimes adjourn to the Delights of the Raj, a dimly lit, secluded Indian in Kennington, where we partake of poppadoms, samosas, a chicken Madras, a sag aloo, and a couple of Cobras. The Reverend Mrs Walden likes to cook, and is rather good at it, but with all she has going on in the evenings – with the Parochial Church Council, the women’s group, the youth group, and all the rest of it – she is often quite happy to delegate dinner to me. As my own culinary repertoire is limited, my signature dish being a passable spaghetti Bolognese, this usually means either the Raj or our local Italian/pizza place, La Bella Napoli.

  Before my marriage to the Reverend Mrs Walden, I had no idea what went on in the average Anglican parish. There are times when it makes your hair stand on end, and the Reverend has encountered it all during our time together. Parish councillors who have their hands in the collection plate, or around a bottle of communion wine; organists with an unusually close interest in choir boys; lay preachers having a bit on the side; and earnest evangelicals telling her she shouldn’t be doing her job because Jesus didn’t recruit women as disciples. Any suggestion that women are not qualified to do something gets the Reverend Mrs Walden very stirred up. And you should hear her on the subject of Jesus and Mary Magdalene some time. She has a few things to say about the two of them that you didn’t learn about in Sunday school, I can assure you.

  But this week we are dealing with her efforts to prevent her church from being ripped off by a firm of dubious builders, who somehow managed to gain the approval of the Diocese sufficiently to be awarded a contract to refurbish the interior of the building. Since they started, two weeks ago, it has been a saga of late arrivals, shoddy workmanship and extravagant claims for extras. It has been a full-time job just fending off the builders, while trying to persuade the Diocese to do something about the situation, other than make snide insinuations that she could have managed the project better. Her feelings towards some of the diocesan staff are, shall we say, less than charitable. Her venting about this has used up our two Cobras.

  ‘Get me another Cobra, Charlie,’ she says, ‘and tell me about your day. Perhaps I can stop obsessing about all this for a while.’

  ‘You’re going to find my day quite interesting,’ I promise.

  We enter the unusual territory of a third Cobra, and I tell her all about Tony Devonald, and the fire at St Giles, Tottenham, and the white spirit, and the unexplained cancellation of choir practice.

  ‘Yes, I remember reading about that in the Standard,’ she replies. ‘Apparently it really gutted the church, reduced it almost to a shell. Well, you’ve seen the photographs. I expect you know that already.’

  ‘It virtually destroyed the place,’ I confirm. We drink in silence for a few moments.

  ‘It doesn’t sound too good for
the young man, does it? Are you expecting a conviction?’

  ‘Barring a minor miracle,’ I say.

  She smiles. ‘Never discount the possibility of a miracle.’

  ‘I never do,’ I reply, thinking of my job at Bermondsey generally. ‘But I haven’t told you the best bit yet.’

  She leans forward expectantly. I tell her all about Martha Devonald, and her tales of auto-kinesis at the dinner table, and the parents’ theory of demonic possession, and the small fire in the garage, and about the priest praying with young Tony in the church and finding no demons, and how Cathy Writtle turned the whole thing back on the prosecution. I am doing my best to relate this part of the story with a certain humorous touch, but I see that the smile is gradually fading from her face, to be replaced by a look of concern. She does not respond immediately.

  ‘Is that all the man did?’ she asks eventually. ‘Take the boy to the church on his own and pray with him?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Good God.’

  I look at her for some time.

  ‘I take it you think he should have done more?’ I ask.

  She shakes her head. ‘Charlie, you know me,’ she begins. ‘You know that I don’t have any truck with all that mediaeval claptrap about demonic possession. But if your parishioners come to you with a story like that, you can’t just blow it off. You have to do something.’

  ‘What would you have done?’ I ask.

  She thinks for some time.

  ‘Well, first, I would have spoken to the little girl – Martha, was it? – with her parents.’

  ‘And said what?’

  ‘I would want to know whether she understands the importance of speaking the truth, and how wrong it is to tell lies to get someone else into trouble.’

  I smiled. ‘We are not allowed to cross-examine children any more, however many lies they tell.’

  ‘I’m not talking about cross-examining her, Charlie. I’m talking about making clear to her how serious the situation is. I would have reassured her that she wasn’t going to get into trouble, provided she told me the truth. So then, we have two possibilities. First possibility, she admits she was telling porkies, and Tony is off the hook. Second possibility, she sticks to her guns, in which case I then have to speak to Tony again, with the parents.’