Sons of Fortune

“There you are,” she said, “it’s just as I told you, I’m sitting in the hallway in my robe.”

“You are indeed, Mrs. Elliot, and that photograph was taken by the police photographer, and we’ve since had it enlarged so we can consider all the details more clearly. Your honor, I would like to submit this enlarged photograph as evidence.”

“Objection, your honor,” said Ebden, leaping up from his place. “We have not been given an opportunity to study this photograph.”

“It’s state’s evidence, Mr. Ebden, and has been in your possession for weeks,” the judge reminded him. “Your objection is overruled.”

“Please study the photograph carefully,” said Fletcher as he walked away from Mrs. Elliot and passed the state’s attorney a copy of the enlarged photo. A clerk handed one to each member of the jury. Fletcher then turned back to face Rebecca. “And do tell the court what you see.”

“It’s a photograph of me sitting in the hallway in my robe.”

“It is indeed, but what are you wearing on your left wrist and around your neck?” Fletcher asked, before turning to face the jury, all of whom were now studying the photograph intently.

The blood drained from Rebecca’s face.

“I do believe they’re your wristwatch and your pearl necklace,” said Fletcher answering his own question. “Do you remember?” He paused. “The ones you always locked away in your safe just before going to bed because there had been several burglaries in the area recently?” Fletcher turned to face Chief Culver and Detective Petrowski, who were seated in the front row. “It is, as Detective Petrowski reminded us, the little mistakes that always reveal the amateur.” Fletcher turned back and looked directly at Rebecca, before adding, “You may have forgotten to take off your watch and necklace, Mrs. Elliot, but I can tell you something you didn’t forget to take off, your dress.” Fletcher placed his hands on the jury box rail before saying slowly and without expression. “Because you didn’t do that until after you’d killed your husband.”

Several people rose at once, and the judge carried on banging his gavel before it was quiet enough for the state’s attorney to say in a loud voice, “Objection. How can wearing a wristwatch prove that Mrs. Elliot murdered her husband?”

“I agree with you, Mr. Ebden,” said the judge and turning to Fletcher suggested, “That’s quite a quantum leap, counselor.”

“Then I will be happy to take the state’s attorney through it step by step, your honor.” The judge nodded. “When Mr. Cartwright arrived at the house, he overheard an argument going on between Mr. and Mrs. Elliot, and after he’d knocked on the door, it was Mr. Elliot who answered it, while Mrs. Elliot was nowhere to be seen. I’m willing to accept that she did run up to the top of the stairs so that she could overhear what was going on while not being observed, but the moment the first shot was fired, she came back down into the corridor and listened to the quarrel taking place between her husband and my client. Three or four minutes later, Mr. Cartwright walked calmly out of the study and passed Mrs. Elliot in the corridor, before opening the front door. He looked back at Mrs. Elliot, which is why he was able to tell the police questioning him later that night that she was wearing a low-cut blue dress and a string of pearls. If the jury studies the photograph of Mrs. Elliot, if I’m not mistaken, she is wearing the same string of pearls as the ones she has on today.” Rebecca touched her necklace as Fletcher continued. “But let’s not rely on my client’s word, but on your own statement, Mrs. Elliot.” He turned another page of the state’s evidence, before he began reading. “I ran into the study, saw my husband’s body slumped on the floor and then called the police.”

“That’s right, I did ring Chief Culver at home, he’s already confirmed that,” interjected Rebecca.

“But why did you call the chief of police first?”

“Because my husband had been murdered.”

“But in your evidence, Mrs. Elliot, given to Detective Petrowski only moments after your husband’s death, you stated that you saw Ralph slumped in the corner of his study, blood coming from his mouth, and immediately called the chief of police.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I did,” shouted Rebecca.

Fletcher paused before turning to face the jury. “If I saw my wife slumped in a corner with blood coming from her mouth, the first thing I would do is to check to see if she was still alive and, if she was, I wouldn’t call for the police, I’d call for an ambulance. And at no time did you call for an ambulance, Mrs. Elliot. Why? Because you already knew that your husband was dead.”

Once again there was uproar in the body of the court, and the reporters who weren’t old-fashioned enough to take shorthand struggled to get down every word.

“Mrs. Elliot,” continued Fletcher, once the judge had stopped banging his gavel, “allow me to repeat the words you said only a few moments ago when questioned by the state’s attorney.” Fletcher picked up one of the yellow pads from his desk and began reading. “‘I suddenly felt cold and sick to my stomach, and I thought I was going to faint. I staggered back out into the corridor and collapsed on the floor.’” Fletcher threw the notepad down on his desk, stared at Mrs. Elliot and said, “You still haven’t even bothered to check if your husband is alive, but you didn’t need to, did you, because you knew he was dead; after all, it was you who had killed him.”

“Then why didn’t they find any traces of gunpowder residue on my robe?” Rebecca shouted above the banging of the judge’s gavel.

“Because when you shot your husband, you weren’t in your robe, Mrs. Elliot, but still in the blue dress you’d been wearing that evening. It was only after you had killed Ralph that you ran

upstairs to change into your nightgown and robe. But unfortunately Detective Petrowski switched on his car siren, broke the speed limit, and managed to be with you six minutes later, which is why you had to rush back downstairs, forgetting to take off your watch or pearls. And even more damning, not leaving yourself enough time to close the front door. If, as you have claimed, Mr. Cartwright had killed your husband, and then run out of the door, the first thing you would have done would be to make sure that it was closed so he couldn’t get back in to harm you. But Detective Petrowski, conscientious man that he is, arrived a little too quickly for you, and even remarked how surprised he was to find the front door open. Amateurs often panic, and that’s when they make simple mistakes,” he repeated almost in a whisper. “Because the truth is that once Mr. Cartwright had walked past you in the hallway, you then ran into the study, picked up the gun and realized this was a perfect opportunity to be rid of a husband you’d despised for years. The shot Mr. Cartwright heard as he was driving away from the house was indeed the bullet that killed your husband, but it wasn’t Mr. Cartwright who pulled the trigger, it was you. What Mr. Cartwright did do was give you the perfect alibi, and a solution to all your problems.” He paused and, turning away from the jury, added, “If only you had remembered to remove your wristwatch and pearls before you came downstairs, closed the front door and then phoned for an ambulance, rather than the chief of police, you would have committed the perfect murder, and my client would be facing the death penalty.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

“Then who did? Because it can’t have been Mr. Cartwright, as he left some time before the second shot was fired. I feel sure you recall his words when confronted by the chief—‘he was still alive when I left him,’ and by the way, Mr. Cartwright didn’t find it necessary to change out of the suit he’d been wearing earlier that evening.” Once again Fletcher turned to face the jury, but they were now all staring at Mrs. Elliot.

She buried her head in her hands and whispered, “Ralph’s the one who should be on trial. He was responsible for his own death.”

However firmly Judge Kravats called the court to order, it was still some time before he was able to restore calm. Fletcher waited until he had complete silence, before he delivered his next sentence.

“But how is that possible, Mrs. Elliot?” he asked. “After all, it was Detective Petrowski who pointed out that it’s quite difficult to shoot yourself from four feet away.”

“He made me do it.”

Ebden leaped to his feet as the public began repeating the sentence to each other.