'From Tom's point of view, what really matters is whether the jury does. It certainly ought to place a doubt in the jury's mind and that's enough for acquittal. There's one thing the solicitor wants from us. That note. They'll have to produce it in court to corroborate Corcoran's testimony and want to keep it in a safe place till then. I said I thought you'd have no objection.'
'You're right. Ralph's expecting you to come and collect some stuff from my room. When you've got it all, hand Corcoran's confession over to Tom's solicitor and the rest you'd better lock away in your safe at work. At least that way it'll survive any further attacks on me.'
'I agree. What do you intend to do with it after the trial?'
'As soon as Tom is acquitted I'll burn it, having first invited Lord Pryde and Arthur Drewe to the bonfire party, of course!'
Chapter 15
I had been waiting for over four days to give evidence and kept wondering what could be taking so long in Court No 1. The prosecution had opened its case on Monday with a speech to the jury, in which it outlined the evidence to be called against Tom and put forward a motive for murder. I couldn't believe they had that much to incriminate Tom. As it was a criminal trial, I was obliged, like all the other witnesses, to wait outside until I was called. I just had to sit, fidget and let my imagination run riot. It wasn't easy. I could have read the newspaper reports of the first three days' hearing to keep myself informed but deliberately refrained from doing so. Amy had warned me that at this stage it was only the prosecution case that was being published and it would almost certainly paint a very dark picture of Tom's position, thus needlessly upsetting me. Somehow I had to keep cool and brace myself not to lose control when I gave evidence. If I started protesting Tom's innocence, it was likely to be counter-productive. It wasn't going to be easy and even though I could now move around on crutches, I still felt like a caged tiger, who knew he was going to be shot at dawn.
Jamie Brown had appeared in the witnesses' waiting room for the first time that morning and after only ten minutes, had been taken into court. I assumed that I had to be next. I was wearing a dark blue suit, no jewellery and hardly any make-up. I wanted to appear neither as the grieving widow nor the fast piece. I just hoped the judge would be kind to me, although from what Amy had told me about him, it was unlikely.
The Honourable Mr Justice Snipe was apparently one of the most feared and abrasive judges who had ever planted their ample rumps on the bench. Young barristers weakened at the knees at the mere mention of his name and even experienced senior counsel took refuge in the whisky bottle after a day in front of him. Once his mind was made up, no advocacy, however persuasive, or evidence, however compelling, could make him budge. One leap into the dark was followed by another even bigger one.
The morning passed painfully slowly and as the bright sunlight outside played through the window of what had become my 'cell', I despaired at the unreality of what was happening. Not far way in this same building a jury of twelve strangers was deciding whether Tom should be denied his freedom for the next twenty years. Shortly after two o'clock, I was summoned. A policeman popped his head round the door and asked me if I was ready. I reached for my crutches and hobbled slowly over to him, down a flight of stairs with his assistance and through two sets of swing doors into a crowded court. All eyes except those of the judge turned on me. Across the other side of the court sat the jury, six in each row, facing the witness box. Ahead of me, perched on high, and towering over his court, was the red-robed figure of Snipe. He was busy making notes and seemed indifferent to my arrival. As an usher led me towards the witness box I glanced over at Tom, seated in the enormous wooden dock with a policeman on either side of him. He smiled at me and grasped the rails which enclosed him.
I could hardly believe the change in his appearance. The warm, healthy glow had gone from his cheeks and, together with a dramatic loss of weight, had conspired to make him look years older. A short and ruthlessly executed hair-cut had robbed his face of its caring and friendly disposition and replaced it with a gaunt and surly air. It was as if he had been reduced from an approachable and understanding officer to a belligerent private.
After taking the oath, I was allowed to sit down and as I did so I noticed a middle-aged woman juror mutter something out of the corner of her mouth to the young man on her right. He nodded knowingly and I could sense that my reputation, whatever it now was, had preceded me. I turned nervously towards the judge, expecting him to say something, to give the signal to begin.
The Honourable Mr Justice Snipe was not, at least in appearance, anything like I had imagined. The stern face under the white horsehair wig was pinched and ascetic, with tortoise-shell glasses perching uncomfortably on the bridge of a hawk-like nose. Tufts of hair protruded from his cheeks, a fashion that I thought had disappeared with the Victorians. He remained buried in his notebook. Then I heard my name being called from the other side of the court. A barrister in a silk gown had risen to his feet and was addressing me. I assumed that this must be the counsel for the prosecution, Redvers Scott, who, according to Amy in her pre-trial briefing, was possessed of a devastating turn of phrase and a merciless manner in cross-examination. He was a highly paid and much sought- after advocate, who was brought in to act for the Crown whenever it was faced with a murder case dependent upon circumstantial evidence or with sensitive undertones. I assumed that the identity of this particular deceased meant this trial fell into both categories. Having led me through the formalities of my name and address and the chronological details of my marriage, he turned to my relationship with Tom.
It was only then that I noticed what was lying on the table in front of him. I had always kept Tom's letters tied together with a red ribbon and now Scott's left hand was gently playing with the bow as he questioned me. My heart sank. They had been missing when I searched the chimney of the cottage and here they were, two months later, in the Old Bailey. It just didn't make sense.
'Mrs Pryde,' he asked in his soft yet resonant voice, 'would you please tell His Lordship and the jury how and when you first met the accused?'
'Tom, Mr Radcliffe, was kind enough to let me ride a number of horses in his yard. I was an amateur then, of course.'
'And when was this?'
'I suppose the first occasion was about three years ago.'
'And did you see each other regularly?'
'Only when I was riding for him. Our relationship at that stage was purely platonic.' I knew that seemed a strange word to use but I was already anticipating his line of questioning. I told myself to calm down.
'And when did it cease to be 'platonic'?'
'About eighteen months ago. I think we had both tried to fight against it for some time.'
'How would you describe your relationship with the deceased at that stage?'
'Edward? We were still living together and I had no desire to be parted from my young son.'
'Try and be more precise,
'Let's put it another way, Mrs Pryde. Did you still love your husband?'
I hesitated. 'No.'
'Was the accused aware of this?'
'Yes. I told him my marriage was unhappy, yet equally he accepted that I had to stay with Edward for the sake of my son.'
'Did intercourse take place between you and the accused?'
What a ghastly, impersonal way of putting it. 'Yes, we made love together.'
Snipe's snort was loud enough to be heard by the jury, as he no doubt intended.
'Where did this occur?'
'If we were away racing together we sometimes made love in a hotel room and on other occasions in the back of the car or, if the weather was warm, in the open air, in the country.' Discussing our love-life like this in front of a crowded court made it sound so cheap and unsavoury. I could see the journalists scribbling away furiously in their note books.
'Do you know the disused chalk pit near Melksham?'
'Yes.'
'How often have you been there?'
