Q. And did you observe Mrs. Reiver with Mr. Ottokar anywhere else?
A. I followed them to Yorkshire in the summer of 1965, where they signed into a hotel under the names of Mr. and Mrs. John Ottokar.
Judge. Was that necessary, given how much you said you had seen?
A. Oh, I think so, my lord: I was able to obtain signed affidavits from the hotel staff there, and also my brief was to follow her everywhere she went, not to lose sight of her.
Ounce. Are there more men you have seen with Mrs. Reiver in compromising situations?
A. There is Mr. Paul Ottokar.
Q. Mr. Paul Ottokar.
A. The problem with Mr. Paul Ottokar is that he is Mr. John Ottokar’s twin. His identical twin. I did not realise at first that there were two young men of this description—blond young men with long hair—so to speak haunting Hamelin Square, because you don’t expect it, do you, you don’t expect two vagrants hanging around in the small hours to be watching the same window and look alike. But on one occasion I have observed one brother to be watching from the basement area from which I have watched myself on occasion when Mrs. Reiver was so to speak amorously engaged within with the other brother, so I did a bit of thinking and realised there were two. Mr. John Ottokar works for the Eurobore Systems Analysis Centre. Mr. Paul Ottokar is a pop singer called Zag who sings with a group called Zag and the Szyzgy Zy-Goats. S-z-y-z-g-y, my lord. Pronounced “Ziggy.”
Judge. Say that again.
Witness. Zag and the Ziggy Zy-Goats.
Judge. Clever. Very clever.
Witness. My lord?
Judge. Continue. So you found two brothers, twin brothers, taking an interest in Mrs. Reiver?
Witness. Yes, my lord. It is more difficult to tell them apart than you might think. For sometimes both of them wear respectable suits, and sometimes both of them wear, kind of costumes—harlequin things, and shiny cloaks and stuff, and painted bodies. And when they watch at night, they wear black PVC raincoats, and it’s beyond me to know which one is inside and which is out watching.
Judge. What do you mean, painted bodies?
Witness. Well. They go in for very weird behaviour, very ostentatious, self-advertising kind of stuff. There was one night, one of them set fire to a lot of books, with paraffin, on the bit of waste ground in the middle of the square. He was wearing nothing but a long glittery plastic cloak and he was painted all over in all sorts of colours on his naked body. I formed the opinion he was under the influence of some sort of drugs. Mrs. Reiver had a battle with him over the fires. It was her books he was burning, I think, perhaps. They wrestled, and he fell in the fire, and got quite burned. They called an ambulance. She was holding on to his naked body and screaming and crying.
Ounce. Was Mrs. Reiver’s son in the company of these painted young men?
A. Often and often, both when she was there and when she wasn’t. He plays a lot with a gang of little black kids that run around in the street doing silly things like steal milk and ring people’s door bells, and one of the brothers encouraged them to set firecrackers under my little car. It did quite a lot of damage.
Q. Is there anything that leads you to feel certain that Mrs. Reiver did have intercourse with both brothers, and not only with Mr. John Ottokar?
A. Well. Once I could see they were arguing and so I crept up and listened. No one can see you in the area outside the basement window if you keep in the shadow of the steps. And he was shouting at her, he was telling her they both always shared women, that he was the real one and his brother was “the shadow” and a lot of stuff like that. I wrote one phrase down. “This is the real flesh you have imagined.” He seemed to be trying to say the experience wasn’t complete without both of them, so to speak.
Q. And what was her response?
A. I saw them lying on the bed. I saw him undressing her, before I had to run, because I heard Miss Mond coming home.
Part of the Evidence of Thomas Poole, examined by Laurence Ounce.
Q. And why did you invite Mrs. Reiver to share your flat?
A. Because I was sorry for her—she had been very frightened, was at a loss, and needed, she believed, to hide from her violent husband. It seemed a sensible arrangement. We were both single parents, with the care of children, who needed to work for our livings. I was able to help her find work. We were able to share housekeeping and baby-sitting.
Q. And you enjoyed having her?
A. Very much. We knew each other well. I was a colleague of her father, as a schoolmaster, at Blesford Ride School.
Q. So you were in loco parentis?
A. To an extent.
Q. Although your children were the same age. Or almost.
A. There are more generations than two.
Q. Indeed there are. You are not old enough to be her father. Did you find her—do you find her—attractive?
A. Yes. She is an attractive woman.
Q. Did it occur to you that things might work out very well if you married, if you worked together, harmoniously, and shared your lives as you were, in fact, already doing?
A. It did occur to me, yes.
Q. Would you have liked to marry Mrs. Reiver, had she been free?
A. The question is purely hypothetical.
Q. Would you?
A. Yes. I would. I admire her greatly and feel love for her.
Q. To the point of making love to her, in earnest of your hopes, when she was in your flat?
A. No. She didn’t want it. She had been much hurt. She needed peace, and a time to reflect. I tried to give her that.
Q. Why did she leave, Mr. Poole?
A. Because she decided to ask for a divorce, and felt that our co-habitation might compromise her. She may have been right. I am very sorry it had to be so.
Q. Perhaps she left you for younger men, and a racier life?
A. Perhaps. She was determined to divorce her husband and take charge of her own life. I don’t think she would do anything to jeopardise that.
Q. Would it surprise you to learn that she has been reported as giving “wild parties” and entertaining a pop singer called Zag?
A. Nothing would surprise me about Frederica. She has a streak of recklessness. But she is also an adult, and an intelligent woman, who made a mistake she is paying for.
Q. You refer to her marriage as “a mistake.”
A. She was much cast down by the sudden death of her sister. I think she married whilst deeply involved in that grief, that terrible pain. I think she should not have made any decision, in that state. But there it is.
Nigel Reiver is the last to give evidence. He stands in the witness box, watchful but relaxed, his face a mask of courteous attention, his body “ready to spring,” is the phrase that comes into Frederica’s head, he does not look at her, either with defiance or with regret. His hair is smooth and longer than it used to be; he too is entering the Swinging Sixties.
Frederica is suddenly invaded by a total memory of the first time they made love, in his bachelor flat amongst the dust and dirty shirts; she remembers his body above hers, and his intent face, looking darkly down; she remembers her surprise at the vanishing of her own habitual detachment, the surprise of her hot pleasure, her complete presence in his hands, under his weight. From time to time, with other men, inconveniently, she has been visited by the ghost of this completely unghostly moment of life, this excess of delight. Now is a bad moment to remember it; she looks down, and feels the hot blood running up her neck. All these words, all these lies and equivocations and painful approximations and truths are to do with this, which cannot be described.
She listens to him describing their marriage, in his usual blocked, cautious words. He is not indignant, as his sisters were on his behalf. On his own, he might not move an arbiter to think him greatly wronged. Frederica is moved.
Q. Your wife has complained that you were absent for unreasonable periods, that you prevented her from having a life of her own.
A. I expected her to
be my wife. Her idea of what that meant and mine weren’t the same. With hindsight, I think both of us could have given way a little.
Q. You were surprised when she suddenly left.
A. Very. I didn’t think things were that bad. I knew she was a bit upset. I thought she’d come back.
Q. You hadn’t hurt her, or frightened her?
A. I lost my temper, once or twice. I was worried. Normally, I pride myself on keeping my temper. So when I do shout and hit, it frightens people, it frightened her perhaps, more than it ought.
Q. You say you shouted. Did you hit her?
A. I pushed her about a bit once in the bedroom. She provoked me.
Q. Provoked you?
A. I got the sense she wasn’t with me and didn’t want to be. Her thoughts were somewhere else. It was like living with a—with a—with a walking corpse. That isn’t what I mean. She was there, but there wasn’t anyone there. I wanted to shake her, to get her attention back, and once or twice I did, that’s all.
Q. Did you ever throw an axe at her?
A. No.
Q. She has claimed you did. Can you remember any episode which she might be referring to?
A. No. (Pause.) She must have just made it up. She’s got the imagination.
(He gives the impression that he has not.)
Q. When your wife left, did you hope she would come back?
A. Of course. I thought it was a silly misunderstanding.
Q. Did you make any efforts to get her back?
A. Yes. I looked everywhere I could think of. I went to see people—friends—and family. She hid from me. When I found her, she’d clearly decided to live in a different style.
Q. But you still wanted her back?
A. I believe in marriage. We have a child. A woman’s place is with her husband and child. She wouldn’t talk, she wouldn’t discuss, she wouldn’t entertain the idea. I’m not a saint, I’m a reasonable being. I’ve waited and hoped. Now, I think I give up. I’d like to remake my life: but I do want my son. I love my son, he’s happy at home, where he belongs.
Griffith Goatley questions Nigel about the obscene pictures, about the Tips and Tassels, about the Honeypot. Nigel replies that the pictures were given to him by a schoolfriend who thought “they were a good joke.” “I put them with my rugger things and forgot them. I expect they’re still there.” He is open about the Tips and Tassels and the Honeypot.
A. Certain sorts of business entertaining does go on in places like that. With foreigners, you know, people who expect this kind of thing. It doesn’t mean much to me, either way, but I go along with it. I admit once or twice I did go off with women from there. It isn’t very nice, I see, but it isn’t what I think of as “adultery”—
Q. It is adultery.
A. Here it is, it’s named so. It is, I see that. But it’s just horsing around, you know, naughtiness. I never thought of it as anything to do with my marriage. It’s not like paying serious attention to another real woman.
Q. Real?
A. Woman out of one’s own class, one’s own world, who might make claims, distract your feelings … (He stops, apparently at a loss for words. He says) I don’t think all that has anything to do with why she left me. I don’t think it was important.
Goatley. She may hold a different view on that.
A. I bet she doesn’t. That isn’t what’s at stake. It’s her idea of her independence, that’s what’s the real issue here. I give in on that now, I’m asking for a divorce, being a wife isn’t her idea of how to live, I accept that now. If we’d both been a bit wiser in the beginning, it would have saved a lot of tears. But we do have a son, and for his sake I would try to keep it up, I would have tried, because I think he comes first and he will be best in Bran House, in his own place. I wanted her to stay, but she went off with all these men, and a man can only take so much of that.
Laurence Ounce produces a signed affidavit from Nigel’s doctor, Dr. Andrew Roylance, who says that he has never at any time treated Mr. Reiver for any venereal infection, and that he remembers the occasion of Mrs. Reiver’s flesh wound, which he was told was, and which was in his opinion consistent with, a tear caused by falling on barbed wire scrambling over a wall or hedge with a concealed strip of the wire.
Frederica is recalled to the stand, and examined by Laurence Ounce about the evidence of Theobald Drossel.
He takes her through the evidence about Thomas Poole, and through Thomas Poole’s own evidence. Frederica replies confidently enough that she lived chastely at Poole’s flat, and adds tartly, “I would have had to in any case, even if I had not wanted to, since I had caught the infection.”
Q. If you had not had the infection, you might have slept with Mr. Poole.
A. I do not think I would, no. I am just pointing out, it was out of the question.
Q. But you thought about it being out of the question.
A. Mr. Poole has said that he himself thought we might consider—a closer relationship. I didn’t. He says I didn’t. He is quite clear.
Q. So it matters to you to be thought chaste, to be a woman who does not sleep with all and sundry?
A. I have never done that, and don’t intend to.
Q. What are your relations with Mr. John Ottokar?
A. Private, I hoped. I have made love to him. I admit that. On several occasions, more or less as Mr. Drossel says.
Q. Do you love Mr. Ottokar?
A. I don’t know what that word means, any more. I don’t know how to tell a Court what I feel about him. I think I do feel—have felt—love for him. Yes. It is—it was—a serious relationship.
Q. It is—it was? How do things stand at present?
A. I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since the summer.
Q. I believe he is your student.
A. Was my student.
Q. You were, as it were, in a position of responsibility towards him?
A. Hardly. He comes to an adult class I teach. We are all grown-up people, in that class.
Q. And sleep with each other?
A. No. This is different.
Q. Mr. Ottokar is not here today. He has been served with a petition, and has not entered an appearance.
A. That is so.
Q. Was there, is there, any question of your eventually marrying Mr. Ottokar?
A. None that I know of. None, that is. All this—these proceedings—have probably put an end to it. I mean to the relationship, not to the idea of marriage, which never arose, until you mentioned it.
Q. Never arose. Never arose. It was simply an affair, under your son’s nose, but not serious.
A. It was serious. It was not frivolous. I tried to see him without upsetting or involving Leo.
Q. And his brother?
A. I have never slept with his brother.
Q. What is your relationship with his brother?
A. I should like to say, none. His brother—his brother—he invades my flat, without my consent. He invades his brother’s relationships. It is hard to explain briefly.
Q. Mr. Drossel describes a scene in which he claims one Mr. Ottokar burned your books whilst under the influence of drugs.
A. I think he was. Yes, he did. It was Paul and I tried to stop him. I don’t want him in my house, or near my son. It is all very unfortunate.
Q. It is all very unfortunate. Very unfortunate, I would agree. You feel a little out of control of these brothers and their passions and their way of life?
A. I may never see them again. I haven’t seen them, either of them, for months. It’s past.
Q. But you feel love for Mr. Paul—I’m sorry—for Mr. John Ottokar.
A. I did. I don’t know what I feel now. I don’t know.
Q. And Mr. Desmond Bull. You heard Mr. Drossel’s evidence.
A. That was the only time.
Q. The only time?
A. The only time I made love to Desmond Bull.
Q. But you go there often?
A. He is a colleague. I like his pi
ctures.
Q. But the only time you made love to him on his mattress, to which he invites many women, was the time when Mr. Drossel happened to have his eye to the etched window?
A. Yes. That one time.
Q. We may find that hard to believe. Why did you break your rule, if it exists, on that one occasion?
A. I needed comfort. I was in a great rage, after Paul Ottokar’s skoob activities.
Q. Skoob?
A. Books, backwards. Towers of burned books. A new art-form.
Q. So one artist burns your books and your natural reaction is to make love to another because you “needed comfort,” because you were “in a great rage.”
A. Yes.
Q. And that is what you normally do, when you are in need of comfort, make love to some man?
A. No.
Q. You say you have never made love to Mr. Hugh Pink?
A. No.
Q. Nor to Mr. Tony Watson nor to Mr. Alan Melville?
A. No. That is, no, not since I was married.
Q. And Mr. Edmund Wilkie?
A. Not since 1954. A long time ago.
Q. Tell me, Mrs. Reiver, do you think the act of sex is sacred, or just a kind of quick source of Comfort or assuagement of rage?
A. “Sacred” is a word that isn’t in my vocabulary. I think sex varies with people and times. I think it can be very serious—very important—and now and then not important, just something that happens. One should never hurt or cheat people. This isn’t a good answer, I know, when I’m in this court, which calls sex adultery, and sees every man as a potential husband and father. But the truth is, I was faithful to my husband until I left him—as he was not, even if it was only tips and tassels and honeypots, so to speak. Sex isn’t—