“I want to take you back in time, Mr. Ritter,” he said. “Back to the summer of 1944. To a day when you and Colonel Cade went to a small country house outside the town of Marjean in northern France.”
“We went there with Corporal Carson. There were three of us,” interrupted Ritter. He spoke quickly and confidently. He’d been expecting this line of attack.
“Why did you go there?” he asked.
“The Germans were falling back all across the front. There were reports that they’d been using the house as their local headquarters. The colonel wanted to stop them from getting away and to ensure the safety of the French family living there. But we were too late. The Germans set the house on fire before we got there, and there were no survivors.”
“What about the Germans?” asked Swift. “What happened to them?”
“We ambushed two trucks on the drive. I don’t know if any others had already left.”
“Why wait to ambush them? Why not go straight to the house, if it was on fire?”
“It wouldn’t have been safe. There were only three of us.”
“And why was that? Surely it would’ve been most unusual for a colonel to go on a dangerous mission like that, taking just two soldiers with him?”
“I don’t know about that. I was just a sergeant. I was following orders.”
“Your orders were, in fact, to kill the French family, not to save them, and to take something that was theirs. A valuable book. Isn’t that right, Mr. Ritter?”
“No, it’s a lie.”
“You set the house on fire after you murdered them. To hide what you had done.”
“No.” Ritter half spat out the word. It was almost as if he was back on the parade ground issuing commands. “There was an investigation by the army,” he went on after a moment, having regained his composure. “We were fully exonerated. They found German bullets in the bodies.”
“But why would there have been an investigation? It was war time, and you say you’d done nothing wrong.”
“I don’t know. The colonel wanted one.”
“You’re lying, Mr. Ritter,” said Swift. “Both the colonel’s sons heard you and him in his study, talking about what you’d done.”
“No.”
“Silas Cade has told this court what you said. And his brother will do the same.”
“They’re lying.”
“Why should they be? Stephen had nothing to gain by quarreling with his father.”
“I don’t know about that. He had plenty to gain by killing him.”
“And why should someone send the colonel a blackmail letter about what happened at Marjean if nothing did? Answer me that, Mr. Ritter.”
“It must’ve been Carson who sent the letter. He was a born liar, and he always wanted money. He kept asking the colonel after the war, and the colonel was foolish enough to give him some. He gambled that away in no time, and then he wanted more. When the colonel said no, he developed a grudge against him. It became like an obsession.”
“Why would the colonel have given him money?”
“Because he was generous that way. He shouldn’t have done it. I told him not to.”
“He gave him the money because he wanted to keep Carson quiet. About what he’d seen at Marjean. That’s the truth, isn’t it?”
“No.”
Swift pulled his gown up around his shoulders, locking eyes with Ritter, before he asked his next question.
“Somebody had tried to kill Colonel Cade before, hadn’t they, Mr. Ritter? Back in 1956?”
“Yes.”
“Was that at Marjean?”
“Yes. We went there together. The colonel wanted to go back and see some of the places where we’d been in the war.”
“And he came back in a wheelchair and became a recluse. Wasn’t that when you helped him install the best security system his money could buy?” asked Swift.
“That’s right. No burglar was going to get through that.”
“And then came the blackmail letter asking the colonel to go to London. Someone couldn’t get in and so they were trying to lure him out. Yes?”
“If you say so.”
“What’s your point, Mr. Swift?” asked the judge, who had been stirring impatiently in his seat for some time. “This history lesson is all very interesting, but perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling us what it’s got to do with the charge against your client.”
“Certainly, my lord. I am trying to show that someone else, who was not my client, had been trying to kill Professor Cade for a long time before he was finally murdered.”
“And my understanding is that Mr. Ritter is saying that it was this man, Carson.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Well, you may well be right, Mr. Swift. But I don’t see how it helps you. Mr. Carson was already dead when Professor Cade was murdered. He’d fallen from a moving train near Leicester after drinking too much alcohol. Inspector Trave found a newspaper article about what happened on the floor beside the professor’s body. It’s in his witness statement. Do you want me to read it to you?”
“No, my lord. I’m aware of the article. But, with respect, that’s not the end of the matter. The defence suggests that the person who wanted to kill Professor Cade because of what happened in France was still alive on the night of his murder.”
“What’s the basis for that?”
“The Mercedes car outside the gate, my lord. And the foreigner who was stopped for speeding in it shortly afterward.”
“The one who can’t be traced?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Well, if that’s your client’s defence, I’m not going to stop you advancing it. The jury will be free to form its own conclusion. Do you have any other questions for this witness, Mr. Swift?”
“No. Nothing else,” said the defence barrister, realising that there was nothing to be gained by carrying on with Ritter. He sat down heavily, trying to keep the sense of defeat that he felt inside from showing too clearly on his face. Judge Murdoch had done no more than demonstrate the weakness in the defence that he had been telling Stephen about for months. There wasn’t enough evidence that the massacre at Marjean ever happened. And even if it did, there seemed to have been no survivors. And no witnesses except Carson, who was dead too. The man in the Mercedes was interesting, but he wasn’t enough. There was no evidence that he’d got inside the grounds, let alone the house. There had to be someone else. An insider. But who? All the evidence pointed to Stephen. Perhaps he did kill his father, just like the Crown said. And this trial was just a waste of time.
Swift glanced back at the dock. Stephen was leaning forward in his chair, cradling his head in his hands. The barrister felt the case weighing him down like a stone around his neck. He wanted it to be over.
TWELVE
Ritter couldn’t find his wife anywhere. He didn’t search too hard, since he had better things to do. She was probably crying somewhere. At the back of the women’s toilets with a wad of tissues in her hand, maybe. Ritter didn’t suspect her of any wrongdoing with Silas. That would have been an enormity beyond his wildest imaginings. But he had understood enough of the policeman’s conversation with the man in the dirty suit to realise that Silence had been taking long-distance photographs of Sasha. Perhaps he’d taken some of Jeanne too, when Sasha’s curtains were drawn. Nasty little sneak. Ritter made a mental note that he needed to see the photographs, and
