by Anne Perry
She was incredulous. “How are you going to do that? I’m hardly family. They wouldn’t admit me to his cell. And for goodness’ sake be careful what you say. Don’t you—”
He froze her with an indignant glare. Slowly he rose to his feet. “Where’ll I find you when I’ve done it?” he inquired with raised eyebrows. “And don’t ask any questions you don’t want the answers to.”
It was arranged the following day. Claudine was let into the prison and conducted to the cell where she would be allowed fifteen minutes with Dai Tregarron.
She had rehearsed in her mind several times what she would say to him. Each time it was different, and nothing was satisfactory, let alone good. She was so nervous her fingers were stiff. Her legs were a little wobbly, and she did not feel as if she could draw sufficient breath.
When Tregarron came in, he looked smaller than she remembered him, and somehow faded, as if dust and the harsh light had robbed him of luster. Above all, he looked appallingly tired, the lines in his face deep and the vitality drained away from him.
He stood in the doorway, unwilling to come in, and she knew he was embarrassed in front of her.
She hesitated for a moment then began. “I have very little time, Mr. Tregarron. Please come in and sit down so I may speak to you without having to raise my voice, and perhaps be overheard.”
“If you are sorry for me, you don’t need to be,” he said, moving forward only a few steps. “And if you’ve come to save my soul—”
“I haven’t,” she said sharply. “If you want your soul saved, you will have to do it yourself. Of more immediate concern to me is saving your neck. That is, if you did not strike Winnie Briggs so hard that she died of the blow.”
“I didn’t,” he said, taking another step toward her and putting his hands on the back of the wooden chair. “But nobody’s going to believe that. It’s either me or one of those fancy young gentlemen from well-bred and well-heeled families. Who do you think they’re going to believe? For that matter, who do you think they can afford to disbelieve?” He pursed his lips. “Sorry, Olwen, you’re off in some dream of your own.”
“I haven’t time to argue with you,” she said impatiently. “Please sit down. You are making me stare up at you, and it is uncomfortable. I need to know exactly what happened. And, please, be precise.”
“Why? It makes no difference now.” He looked desperately tired, as if he had worn himself out thinking, struggling to untangle in his mind a knot that may only be pulled forever more tightly.
“There are two witnesses,” she told him. “If what you say is the same as they do, then you will be believed. Now stop wasting what little time we have, and tell me.” She did not add that neither Alphonsine nor John Barton had seen who actually struck Winnie Briggs.
“Witnesses?” His eyes widened. Hope was naked in his face, and then the moment after, it turned to disbelief. “No there aren’t. There was no one else on the terrace. If there had been, they’d have said something before now. There was nowhere they could have been. Someone’s lying, for their own reasons. It won’t hold up in court.” His voice was edged with despair, which was the sharper for the brief flare of hope.
“They were behind a window, in a room where they should not have been. Now stop arguing and wasting what few minutes there are. Do you want to hang for this?” She was being brutal, but she was afraid the warden would return for her any moment and it would be too late. “What happened?”
He swallowed as if there were something solid stuck in his throat. “I brought Winnie, because they wanted someone who’d be a bit fun,” he began. “And honestly, I think they also wanted to shock a few people. They thought it would be amusing.” He blushed very faintly; it was no more than a hint of color in his pallid cheeks. He caught her glance, both of disgust and of urgency. “We were laughing and generally behaving like fools. Winnie was good value. She had a sharp tongue, that one, and a ready wit. They liked her. Then Foxley wanted a bit more, wanted to kiss her, and she told him to wait. He thought she was putting him off, and he got more pushy. Crostwick stepped in, but he did it clumsily and it made things worse. Foxley was in a bad temper anyway, and then he thought Crostwick was above himself so he shoved him away, quite hard. That was when Halversgate got involved as well. And the wineglass broke. The shards like daggers.”
His voice dropped.
“I told Winnie to get out of it, and she tried to, but Foxley caught hold of her. She pushed him away. I think she was scared by this time. Foxley lost his temper and slashed out at her. He caught her hard with one of the shards, maybe harder than he meant to, and she went down. She hit her head, and she didn’t move again. At first no one took any notice. They were busy getting angrier with each other. I tried to pull them off and get to her, but Crostwick hit me, pretty hard. Halversgate was terrified out of his wits and tried to do something, but Foxley hit him, too, and he staggered back.”
He looked at Claudine with haunted eyes. “That gave me a chance to get to Winnie. I thought she’d just passed out, but when I tried to find a pulse, I couldn’t. I think I was too scared to try properly. My hands were shaking like I had the ague myself. That was when you came out—so you know what happened after that.”
“Thank you,” she said with a warmth of relief surging through her. “That matches what the witnesses say they saw. You are perfectly certain that it was Creighton Foxley who hit her?”
“Yes.”
“Have you already said so to Sergeant Green?”
“There didn’t seem to be a point. They all said it was me.”
“Well, I suppose they wouldn’t admit it was them, would they?” She rose to her feet. “Thank you. I will find out exactly how we should proceed now. Keep hope, Mr. Tregarron.”
“Flowers, white flowers,” he said softly.
She turned at the door to stare at him. “What white flowers? What are you talking about?”
He smiled. “Where Olwen walks, white flowers spring up in the earth behind her.”
Her eyes filled with sudden tears, and she banged on the door for the warden to let her out. She did not want Tregarron to meet her eyes again, in case he saw far too much in them. She was behaving like a fool.
Wallace was outraged. He stood in the middle of the rug in front of the fire and stared at Claudine as if he could hardly believe what she had said to him.
“It is absolutely out of the question! Have you taken leave of your senses?” he demanded. “Have you even the faintest idea what it will do to our reputation if you launch on such a preposterous course? I don’t know how you can be so totally unreasonable. Who have you spoken to about this? You make it sound as if you have been telling half of London.”
“Forbes Gifford and Oona,” she replied lamely. She, too, was standing, and she would not sit down as long as he was lecturing her as if she were some obtuse schoolgirl. “I had no choice in that, since Alphonsine is the witness who saw what actually happened.”
Wallace dismissed this with an abrupt jerk of his hand. “For heaven’s sake, Claudine, she’s a girl of—what is she, nineteen? She knows nothing. That’s obvious by the fact she is prepared to throw away a perfectly good future with everything she could wish for, because she fancies she is in love with some young nobody who hasn’t a penny to his name, but no doubt has a very ready eye on her fortune. Such a stupid girl is hardly worth listening to about anything.”
“She is quite capable of recounting honestly and lucidly what she saw, as is Mr. Barton,” Claudine said coldly. “As am I. What they describe is exactly what I found when I reached the scene. And it is, detail for detail, what Mr. Tregarron described.”
“Indeed! And how do you know that?” he inquired, his eyes brilliant, challenging.
She had trapped herself. There was no escape, so she answered his question without excuse or evasion. “Because I asked him. There would be no point in speaking to the police if his account were different.”
“You did what?” Wallace wa
s aghast.
“I asked him,” she repeated. “Is that not what you expected me to say?”
“I hoped I was wrong, that there was some other explanation.” He shook his head as he spoke. “You seem to have lost whatever little sense you had. Do you even begin to grasp what you have done?”
It seemed to be a question to which he was expecting an answer, so she offered one, knowing it would be unsatisfactory. “I have given the police the evidence they need to clear an innocent man, and possibly charge those who are guilty.”
“Don’t be idiotic!” Wallace said furiously, his face purpling with anger. “You have meddled in matters that are none of your concern, and as a result you will ruin your own reputation and, more importantly, mine as well. And you will destroy young Foxley’s life. He might have the friends and the influence to protect himself, but that remains to be seen.”
He drew in his breath and continued. “You will, of course, also seriously damage Cecil Crostwick, and therefore his family, by implying that he lied in order either to cover his own part in the woman’s death or to protect his friends. It will end Alphonsine Gifford’s chance of a fortunate marriage. Halversgate can hardly offer for her now, when she has, by her own admission, had an indecent assignation with another man. In fact, no one of any standing will offer for her.”
“It wasn’t an indecent assignation,” Claudine corrected him. “It was simply a meeting. The indecency is in your imagination. But I agree: Halversgate will not offer for her, because he now knows that he would not be accepted. He is both a liar and a coward, and Forbes Gifford would not have him for his daughter. Whether anyone else would offer remains to be seen; very probably not. But then, I think, she will be perfectly happy to accept Mr. Barton.”
“Who has no means and no prospects,” he said derisively.
“Perhaps it has slipped your mind that it is she who has the money, anyway,” she said pointedly.
He sneered. “I am sure it has not slipped young Mr. Barton’s mind!”
“He did not expect to marry her,” she pointed out. “Or are you suggesting that this whole affair of inviting a street woman to the party and having Creighton Foxley lose his temper and beat her to death and Ernest Halversgate lie to protect him was entered into so Mr. Barton and Alphonsine could be conveniently placed to witness it? It was all a plot he invented for the purpose of creating a scandal from which they could benefit? Well, if Mr. Barton is clever enough to do that, then he should run for political office. He may well have ahead of him a bright future.”
Wallace’s face burned a deep plum red. “You have become absurd,” he snarled. “I shall consult a doctor regarding the health of your mind. And I forbid you to attend Mrs. Monk’s clinic anymore. The place and its occupants have obviously affected your wits.”
She had nothing left to lose. “Why? Is it really your judgment, Wallace, that if Tregarron drank too much and lost his temper with a street woman and hit her hard enough to kill her, then he should hang, but if, on the other hand, the exact same actions, in the same circumstances, were committed by Creighton Foxley, then that young man should be permitted to blame someone else? See another man hang in his place and walk away unscathed? That is your idea of what is just, and best for society? Would you also lie to ensure that this is what would happen? Or at the very best, turn a blind eye and pretend that you didn’t know the truth? You sound like Ernest Halversgate: both a liar and a coward.”
He swayed on his feet, his face mottled red.
“Please tell me that is not so,” she continued. “I know we have little enough in common, less even than I used to believe, but still, I always knew you to have a sense of what was honorable. Am I wrong in that, too?”
He did not answer.
If she was going to add what was sharp in the forefront of her mind, then there would never be a better time than now. In fact, there might not be another time at all. So she burned the last of her bridges.
“You wanted a peaceful, comfortable Christmas, with all reminders of poverty, injustice, or other people’s griefs well out of sight, so as not to disturb your pleasure. That isn’t what Christmas is about, Wallace. Christmas is about offering hope to all people, not just those like ourselves. Christmas is about everyone: rich or poor, friend or stranger. The moment you exclude anyone, you exclude yourself.” She was standing now. “I am going to visit Tolly Halversgate to see if she will help me persuade Ernest to face his responsibilities.”
She walked out of the room, passing him without looking back. In the hall she told the footman to fetch her carriage and have it waiting for her in a quarter of an hour. She was quite aware of the lateness of the evening, and she did not care. Tomorrow morning would not be suitable to call upon anyone, and tomorrow afternoon would be too late. The family might be out now, but they would come home sometime. Claudine was prepared to wait.
She was fortunate, though. Tolly had decided to spend the evening at home, making her last-minute preparations for Christmas. She intended the dinner to be one the family would remember, including the various uncles, aunts, and cousins she had invited. She was startled and put to some discomfiture to see Claudine, but she could not think of any excuse not to receive her.
The dining room was already decked with garlands of holly and ivy and dark green pine. There were silver-tipped cones in a woven basket, dried flowers, and well-preserved shining autumn leaves in two huge vases. A pleasant perfume of cinnamon mixed with other spices hung in the air. The fire was burning, but low, because the weather was still absurdly clement.
Claudine was intruding almost unpardonably, but although it embarrassed her, it did not cause her to hesitate for a second, much less to change her mind.
“I am sorry,” she said as soon as the door was closed and the footman’s steps had retreated across the parquet floor of the hall.
Tolly forced a smile. “I’m sure you would not have come at such an hour without a good reason,” she remarked.
“I’m afraid the reason is very good indeed, and urgent,” Claudine responded, walking over to the other chair near the fire. She sat down without waiting to be invited.
Tolly followed because she had little choice. “What is it?” she said coolly, folding her hands in her lap.
“I will be brief. The very unfortunate quarrel on the terrace at the Giffords’ party, in which the young woman, Winnie Briggs, was fatally struck, was witnessed from the window of another house. That has only just come to light, but now it is known exactly what happened.”
Tolly’s eyebrows rose in amazement. “My dear, Claudine, I really don’t care! I cannot imagine why you should think I do, let alone at this time of the evening, three days before Christmas. If you think it is of concern to me, a letter would have been more than adequate.” She gathered her skirts as if to rise.
“That would hardly be the act of a friend,” Claudine said, remaining in her seat. “Or even of an honest person. You see, Ernest’s account is quite seriously in error …”
Tolly froze, her body stiffening.
“I think it only fair to give him the opportunity to go to the police himself and correct it, rather than allow them to charge him with having given a false statement, which—as he has to be aware—will cause irreversible injustice.”
This time Tolly did stand, her face white. “How dare you? What you are saying is preposterous! Who are these … witnesses? Why did they not come forward at the time? I don’t believe you.”
Claudine rose also. “Yes you do. Ernest was no doubt pressured into helping his friends, but he has been unhappy about it, because he is, for the most part, an honest man. If he goes on to lie under oath in court, he will have embarked on a path from which he cannot retreat. The guilt will be with him forever, corroding everything he touches from now on. He will have caused the appalling death of another man he knows is innocent. Will this not haunt him all the days of his life? If he marries and has children, what will he tell his family of this? Will he lie to them
also? What will they think when they hear the truth?”
Tolly sidestepped the main issue. “Of course he will marry. He is shortly to become engaged to Alphonsine Gifford.”
“She will not have him,” Claudine replied. “Her father already knows that Ernest lied over who really struck the woman. And I doubt Ernest would want to have Alphonsine, when he hears that she is one of the witnesses.”
Tolly stared at her, speechless.
“I’m sorry,” Claudine said and was surprised by how seriously she meant it. She was sorry. Tolly had only the one son, and she loved him fiercely, if perhaps too protectively. Now just how vulnerable she was lay naked in her face.
“It is not too late to mend the situation,” Claudine went on. “Ernest is at the point of a great decision in his life. Will he be the man he wishes to be, honorable and upright, even when being so costs a great deal of courage? It will not be easy, because I don’t doubt the Foxleys will make this as difficult as possible.”
“The Foxleys?” Tolly was not yet facing the inevitable.
“It was Creighton Foxley who struck her, albeit not intending to cause her death. But he will still have to pay the price for it,” Claudine explained.
“It can’t be!” Tolly shook her head. “What about that Tregarron man? He’s a drunkard and a womanizer!”
“So is Creighton Foxley,” Claudine replied. “A little less far along the road, perhaps, but with a more violent temper. Ask Ernest if that is not true.”
Tolly was still hovering on the edge of decision.
“Virtue is not always an easy or a comfortable thing,” Claudine continued. “Sometimes it comes at a high cost. Perhaps that is one of the reasons we admire it. If Ernest wishes to be what he seems on the outside—I hesitate to use the phrase ‘pretends to be’—then he must do more than speak well. He must act well. Now, tonight, is the moment for him to decide whether he will speak the truth, even against his peers, or whether he will lie to cover their weaknesses. No—perhaps that is inaccurate. Alphonsine has had the courage to speak out, in spite of what it will cost her, as has the young man she loves. And I myself was there on the scene within moments of the incident. We will all speak as to what we saw. Ernest’s deceit will become public knowledge. Knowing this, I’m sure you will do all you can to see that he does not make the choice to stay silent.”