Spider Light(67)
Yes, said Jonathan, he knew Don had told Antonia he had not killed Richard–that he had found Richard’s body lying on the floor. Asked if the state of Don’s mental health might have caused some kind of blackout or mental block, Jonathan said, yes, it was possible. A fugue might have intervened or some form of hysterical amnesia–to put it simply, the conscious mind may have refused to acknowledge the fact of the murder.
He gave his evidence clearly and firmly, and of his own volition he added that Antonia Weston was a very good doctor of psychiatry, concerned and committed to the care of all her patients, and that if this tragedy prevented her from continuing to practise, it would be an appalling loss to the hospital in general and his own clinic in particular. He glared at the prosecuting counsel as he said this, and Antonia was deeply grateful to him.
A neighbour of Antonia and Richard’s, was called to explain that she had walked past their bungalow shortly before nine that night. She knew Antonia and Richard Weston slightly; they were on good-morning and good-evening terms, and Dr Weston had given her a lift into town a few times. Very nice people, very well thought-of, and it was a tragedy about Richard, such a marvellous pianist. He had been part of one or two charity events for Dr Weston’s hospital. Concerts and things. She always bought tickets. And she always slowed down going past the bungalow in case Richard was playing–he had a music room overlooking the front garden. If the windows were open, such as they might be in summer, you could sometimes hear him, and it was lovely, as good as Classic FM.
No, she had not heard him playing on that last night. It had been dark and cold, and the windows had been closed. What she had heard was the sound of raised voices–people shouting–and she had been quite surprised at that. No, she had not been able to tell if they were men’s or women’s voices, just angry voices. No, she had not stopped to listen. Well, mostly because she was hurrying home for a TV programme, but also because you did not listen to other people’s quarrels, especially if they were people you knew. So she had gone on to her own house, and had been in good time for her programme although if she had known what was happening to Richard Weston she would never have watched it, in fact she would never watch that particular series again. Thank you very much, my lord.
The second witness was a roughish-looking young man, who was wearing a suit, but who looked as if he would be more at home in biker’s leathers. He had been in the pub on the corner, he said. Yes, it was the night the crippled bloke was killed. Yes he was sure. There was a pub quiz and he and a couple of his mates were on the home team. Nine o’clock it was due to start, so they had been keeping an eye on the time, like.
Anyway, this bloke had come in a bit after eight and ordered a large whisky–several large whiskies. No, of course he had not known it to be Don Robards then, said the witness, but the next day the Old Bill had shown a photograph round and he had identified him from the photograph. Yes, he was sure. He had noticed Robards particular, like, because he had been sat at the table they wanted for the pub quiz, and they had all wondered whether they could ask him to move. Tables took a bit of arranging for a quiz night. Robards had been a bit pissed. Not rat-arsed, but a bit pissed. All right, drunk. Anyway, a bit before nine he had gone, and they moved the table and had the quiz. The home team had won and the prize had been two bottles of wine, not that the witness was a great wine drinker, in fact he would never drink wine again because it would always remind him of the night that poor sod Richard Weston was topped.
The witness from the police forensic department confirmed that the kitchen knife that had killed both Richard and Don was part of a set of cooking knives belonging to the prisoner, normally kept in the kitchen. Not in a drawer, but on a rack just above a worktop–the jury would be familiar with such things from their own kitchens. As Richard Weston was permanently confined to a wheelchair, the kitchen was arranged so he could reach ordinary everyday implements. He had, it seemed, liked preparing the evening meal for his sister who was at the hospital all day; it was part of the pattern of their lives.
The knife was unquestionably the weapon that had killed Richard Weston and Don Robards. The shape and depth of the wound in each case, the angle of entry, the separate bloodstains on the blade—The details became technical and slightly over-long at this point, and Antonia, studying the jury, thought this was overdoing it. They looked intelligent enough, but this stuff about blood groups and angles of wounds was specialized knowledge.
When it came to the case for the defence, her counsel, pleading mitigating circumstances for all he was worth, made much of her distraught state at finding her brother’s body.
‘She wasn’t so distraught she couldn’t remove her own bloodied jacket and sweater before the police arrived,’ said prosecuting counsel.
‘I think,’ said the defence dryly, ‘we can accept Dr Weston’s own explanation as a genuine one.’ He flipped through a sheaf of notes, and then read, ‘“I was shaking and I felt sick. I managed to push him off me, and then I rushed to the cloakroom to be sick. It was only afterwards I realized I was soaked in Don’s blood. I couldn’t bear the smell of it or the wetness, so I took everything off and stuffed it in a plastic bin liner. Then I heard the police and the ambulance arriving, so I pulled on a tracksuit and let them in.”’ He lowered the notes and looked directly at the jury. ‘I think most people will sympathize with Dr Weston’s actions over that,’ he said, and Antonia thought the women on the jury half nodded as if in agreement.