CHAPTER 17

The afternoon sitting of the court was taken up almost exclusively by witnesses called by the prosecution to testify about the well-known antagonism, even hatred, that had existed between the defendant and the victim for some time.

Any hopes that we, the defence, had of keeping quiet about Barlow’s sister Millie were dispelled by the very first on the list, Charles Pickering, a racehorse trainer from Lambourn.

‘Mr Pickering,’ said the prosecution QC, ‘how well did you know Mr Barlow?’

‘Very well indeed,’ he replied. ‘I knew him like my own son. Scot had ridden for me as number one jockey ever since he came down south from Scotland eight years ago. Helived as a member of my family for a while when he first started out.’

‘And how well do you know the defendant, Mr Mitchell?’

‘Reasonably well,’ he said. ‘He’s ridden my horses a few times, when Scot was unavailable or injured. And I know him by reputation. He’s a top steeplechase jockey.’

‘Yes, Mr Pickering,’ said the QC. ‘But please tell us only what you know personally rather than what you assume from a reputation.’

Charles Pickering nodded.

‘Now, Mr Pickering,’ the QC went on. ‘Did you ever hear Mr Mitchell and Mr Barlow arguing?’

‘All the time,’ he said. ‘Like cat and dog, they were.’

‘So there was no love lost between them?’

‘I should say not,’ replied Pickering with a smile.

‘Do you know what they argued about?’

‘Scot’s sister, mostly,’ said Charles Pickering, firing another shot into the defence case.

‘Scot Barlow’s sister?’ the QC said for effect, turning towards the jury.

‘Yes,’ Pickering said. ‘Scot accused Mitchell of as good as killing his sister. Mitchell used to tell him to shut up or he’d kill him too.’

‘Were those his exact words?’

‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘It was the same argument every time. Scot’s sister had killed herself about a year ago and he believed that Mitchell’s treatment of her had driven her to it.’

‘Were Barlow and Mitchell on reasonable terms before Barlow’s sister killed herself?’ the QC asked, while knowing quite well what the answer would be.

‘Oh, no,’ said Pickering. ‘They’ve hated each other for years. Scot didn’t like Mitchell seeing his sister at all, right from the start.’

‘And when was the start?’ the QC asked.

‘About three or four years ago, when Barlow’s sister came down from Scotland to live in Lambourn.’

‘Thank you, Mr Pickering,’ said the QC. ‘Your witness.’ He smiled at me.

‘No questions, My Lord,’ I said. And Charles Pickering was allowed to depart.

There was nothing I could ask him which would undo the damage he had already done to our case, and I didn’t want to inadvertently lead him to reveal more damning details such as Barlow’s disclosure of the affair to Mitchell’s wife. Now that really would have provided a motive for murder.

However, my hopes of keeping that a secret only lasted as long as it took for the next witness to be sworn in.

‘Mr Clemens,’ said the QC. ‘I believe you are a steeplechase jockey, is that correct?’

‘Yes, sir. That’s correct,’ said Reno Clemens in his Irish accent.

‘Are you a successful jockey?’ the QC asked.

‘I am, sir,’ Reno said. ‘I am leading the jockeys’ table at the moment.’

‘So that means you have ridden more winners than anyone else so far this year?’

‘This season, yes, sir,’ he said.

‘So you know the defendant well?’

‘Yes, sir.’ He glanced briefly at Steve in the dock before returning his eyes to the prosecuting counsel.

‘And you knew Mr Barlow well?’

‘Yes, sir. I did.’

‘Did you ever hear Mr Mitchell and Mr Barlow arguing?’ the QC asked.

‘Were they ever not?’ said Reno. ‘Sometimes they would even argue all the way round during a race. The rest of us got fed up listening to them.’

‘And what did they argue about?’ asked the QC.

‘Anything and everything,’ said Reno. ‘But mostly about Barlow’s sister and Mitchell having had an affair with her.’

‘And was Mitchell married at the time of the affair?’ asked the QC.

Oh no, I thought, here we go.

‘He was at the beginning,’ said Reno. ‘But not at the end.’

‘Do you know if Mitchell’s wife was aware of his affair with Scot Barlow’s sister?’ the QC asked almost smugly.

‘She was after Barlow told her,’ Reno said.

‘Is that something you know, Mr Clemens, or just something you have heard from others?’

‘I heard it from Mitchell himself,’ Reno said. ‘He would often shout at Barlow in the jocks’ changing room and accuse him of being a Judas for snitching to his wife.’

‘You bloody lying bastard,’ Steve Mitchell stood up and shouted at him from the dock, hammering on the glass partition with his fists.

The judge had his gavel banging down almost before the echo in the courtroom had died away.

‘Silence,’ he ordered. ‘Silence in court. Mr Mitchell,’ he pointed the gavel at the dock, ‘another outburst like that and I will have you taken down to the cells. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, My Lord,’ said Steve sheepishly. ‘I’m sorry.’

Steve sat down again. But more damage had been done to our side.

The prosecution QC had remained standing throughout, and now he had a slight smirk on his face.

‘Now, Mr Clemens,’ he said, greatly enjoying himself. ‘Let me get this straight. Are you telling the court that you had often heard the defendant shouting at Mr Barlow that he, Barlow, had been a Judas for telling Mitchell’s wife that Mitchell was having an affair with Barlow’s sister?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Reno Clemens very distinctly. ‘I am.’

A motive for Barlow’s murder had just been clearly established by the prosecution.

∗

Two more prosecution witnesses completed the day’s proceedings. Both of these gave testimony to reinforce that already given by Charles Pickering and Reno Clemens.

The first was another jockey, Sandy Webster, who did little more than confirm that Mitchell and Barlow argued a lot. When asked what they had argued about he couldn’t really say because ‘he didn’t bother to listen to them ranting on all the time’.

I imagined the prosecution was regretting having called him because he was sonervous that his voice was continuously quivering, and he was hardly giving them the answers they wanted. In my experience, witnesses who were over nervous tended to be discounted by juries, who were inclined to think they were lying.

The second witness was Fred Pleat, a former employee of Mitchell, who had worked as a groom at Mitchell’s home soon after the stables were built and when horses were housed there at livery.

‘Now, Mr Pleat,’ said the prosecution QC in his smarmy manner. ‘Were you present at Mr Mitchell’s property the day three new pitchforks were delivered?’

‘Yes, I was,’ he replied.

‘And can you recall the actions of Mr Mitchell when he saw that they had been delivered?’

‘Yes,’ he said again. ‘Steve, that’s Mr Mitchell, picked one of them up and thrust it forward and said something about sticking that bastard Scot Barlow with it.’

There was a moment of silence in the court.

‘Thank you, Mr Pleat,’ said the QC. ‘Your witness.’

I rose to my foot.

‘Mr Pleat,’ I said to him. ‘Were you frightened by this action you say Mr Mitchell performed?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘Why not?’ I asked him.

‘I figured Steve was only joking, like,’ he said. ‘He was laughing. We were both laughing.’

‘Thank you, Mr Pleat,’ I said. ‘No more questions.’

Fred Pleat left the court and, as a bonus to our side, he gave Steve a slight wave as he passed the dock. I hoped the jury had been watching.

‘My Lord, that concludes the case for the prosecution,’ said their QC.

The judge looked at the clock on the courtroom wall that showed ten past four, then he turned towards the jury.