Twenty-One Days

by Anne Perry

Daniel breathed out a sigh of relief. It seemed as if Graves would at last defend himself.

  ‘What did she look like?’ Kitteridge prompted. ‘We have no way of knowing, since whoever did this to her destroyed her face . . .’

  Graves winced. The jury must have seen it.

  ‘She was beautiful,’ Graves said quietly. ‘In an unorthodox way. She had lovely hair, thick and wavy. Black as night. Marvellous eyes. She had grace in the way she moved, and the way she spoke. She had imagination, and she was original and funny.’

  Daniel tried to visualise her. For a moment, she was alive in his mind, and he felt a grief that she no longer existed. He became impatient that they discover what had happened to her. It was more than not losing a trial. The truth mattered.

  ‘Thank you,’ Kitteridge answered. ‘She sounds like a unique and valuable person. I imagine she had many friends?’

  Tranmere was growing restless. If Kitteridge were not very careful indeed, he would appear cold to the jury’s sense of outrage that such a woman had been killed, and so far they had no one but Graves himself to suspect.

  Daniel knew what Kitteridge was trying to do: establish that Graves had loved her. He was playing with fire, but what else had they left to try?

  ‘Yes,’ Graves said.

  ‘Was she always wise in the choice of friends?’ Kitteridge could not keep a certain edge from his voice. Graves was doing nothing to help himself.

  ‘No,’ Graves said flatly. There was curiously little life in his voice. ‘She failed to grasp that they did not always like her. I could see that many were hangers-on, people thirsty for excitement, and her way of life, her vitality, her possibility in certain circles, drew them in.’ There was emotion, but also a certain condescension in his tone, even in the expression of distaste in his face.

  Daniel wondered if that was what he truly felt. Would the jury see that too?

  Kitteridge was addressing Graves again, asking more about Ebony, and then also her two children, Sarah and Arthur. Graves’ expression was unreadable when he answered. Had the man not enough sense of his danger to let his feelings show through?

  Daniel felt he should step in and say something. He could understand Kitteridge’s desire not to embarrass the man, but a show of emotion was about the only thing that would save him! Did Kitteridge not understand that?

  He looked across at Tranmere. Did he perceive the jury’s regard for Graves’ stoicism, and read it as indifference?

  Daniel tweaked the edge of Kitteridge’s gown.

  Kitteridge ignored him.

  Daniel tweaked it again, harder.

  Kitteridge glared at him. ‘What is it?’ he hissed.

  ‘Let me try! The man looks like ice,’ Daniel replied.

  ‘You’ll ask the same things as I do,’ Kitteridge answered.

  ‘You’re getting nowhere. I can’t make it any worse,’ Daniel responded.

  ‘My lord!’ Tranmere rose to his feet. ‘If my learned friend has run out of questions, I will begin my own.’

  ‘You will not!’ Kitteridge snapped. ‘My associate is going to question the witness.’ He turned to Daniel again. ‘This had better be good!’ he whispered under his breath as he sat down.

  Daniel stood and faced the witness. ‘Mr Graves, tell us something about the day your wife was killed. Were you at home at all that day?’

  Graves turned to Daniel, not completely masking his impatience.

  ‘No. I was in the London Library for much of the day. I arrived home early in the evening.’

  ‘Did you see your wife, or greet her when you arrived?’

  ‘The maid told me she was in her bedroom. I did not disturb her. I assumed she would come down when she was ready. I had notes to write up before I forgot any of the details that had been told me.’

  ‘Who discovered your wife’s body, sir?’ Daniel knew that Graves himself had. He could not even imagine how terrible that must have been, were he not guilty. But the jury had to see his emotion and now was not the time to spare his feelings.

  A wave of anger crossed Graves’ face. ‘I cannot imagine, sir, that you do not know it was I!’ he said, his voice all but choking.

  ‘We are not here to observe either compassion or good manners, Mr Graves,’ Daniel answered. ‘This is a place where only the truth counts. Are you telling the court that you discovered the body of your wife?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did you go to her bedroom, when you had not done so earlier?’

  ‘It was time for dinner.’

  ‘And you did not wish her to miss it?’

  ‘Of course!’ Graves’ patience was tissue thin.

  ‘And you found her? Where was she?’

  Graves’ face was white now, and so stiff he had difficulties speaking clearly. ‘She was lying on the floor; her head was near the hearth.’

  ‘Did you know immediately that she was dead?’

  Graves leaned forward over the railing, his body rigid, his skin devoid of all colour. ‘God Almighty, man! She was covered with blood and her face was burned until there were no features left! Nobody could have lived . . . through . . . that.’

  Daniel hated doing it, but the jury would have to see something other than the cold, arrogant man who felt only anger that they dared to question him at all. ‘And you were naturally extremely distressed,’ Daniel concluded. ‘Horrified! Appalled?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ His voice was almost strangled.

  ‘Did you realise immediately what had happened to her?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know. All I could think of was . . . how she must have suffered. Then I . . .’ His voice trailed off.

  Was he going to lose the passion?

  ‘How would you tell your children?’ Daniel asked. It was cruel, but Graves’ life hung on it. ‘Your wife was very close to her children, was she not?’ Daniel had no idea if that was true, but it was probable. It sounded good. ‘I believe your son, Arthur, is an invalid. You must have feared terribly that the horror would kill him . . .’

  Tranmere rose to his feet. ‘My lord, my learned friend . . .’ He hesitated. ‘My learned friend’s assistant is leading his own witness. Is this . . . torture . . . necessary?’

  The judge looked at Daniel.

  ‘I apologise, my lord,’ Daniel said. ‘I fear Mr Graves is suffering a very natural distress . . . and needed some assistance. It is compassionate.’

  The judge turned to Graves. ‘Are you able to continue, sir?’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Graves replied. The brief respite had been sufficient for him to regain his composure, perhaps even to realise what Daniel was doing.

  ‘Do you wish me to repeat the question?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘No, no, thank you. That is not necessary. God knows why, but you want me to tell you how I informed my children of their mother’s . . . death.’ And he proceeded to give a harrowing, even brutal account of telling each of them, and their deep distress. It was all that Daniel could have wished.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘I have only one more question.’

  Graves glared at him. He had been humiliated by having to expose his emotions to this staring, speculating, accusing public.

  ‘Did you kill your wife?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘No!’ It was an incredulous answer, almost a shout.

  Daniel sat down.

  Kitteridge rose to his feet. He was pale, but totally composed. ‘The defence rests, my lord.’

  Tranmere considered for a moment, stood up, said, ‘The prosecution has no questions for the accused, my lord,’ then sat down.

  ‘Then you may begin your summations,’ the judge replied. ‘We will adjourn for luncheon when you are finished.’

  Tranmere stood up and faced the jury. He seemed less confident now. He described the brutality of the crime, and the fact that there was no other reasonable suspect. Even Graves himself had claimed to know very little of his wife’s acquaintances and could suggest no one. It drew a picture of a very cold, d
isinterested man, and a distant marriage. But that in itself made it seem unlikely that Graves would have committed such a violent murder.

  Kitteridge took his place and pointed that out. He did not labour anything but its inconsistency. He reminded them instead of Graves’ obvious care for his children, attributing his apparent detachment to his deep care for his wife and his very private nature that did not wish to disclose his grief to the public to pry into. He also wished to protect what was left of his wife’s reputation. Press comment had been vulgar, to say the least.

  The jury retired and the court adjourned. Daniel was not at all sure how Kitteridge would regard his interference. His instructions had been plain enough. They walked out of the courtroom together, but without speaking. They could not go far. There was no way to tell how long the jury would be out. A swift return would almost certainly mean a guilty verdict, but the jurors themselves would at least have lunch.

  Once Daniel and Kitteridge were out in the street, and walking down to the Magpie and Stump, one of the public houses that served a reasonable lunch, Kitteridge spoke at last.

  ‘If you ever do that again, I will have you kept out of court for half a year,’ he said. ‘But as it happens, I think you probably improved the situation. We might even have a chance of winning. You’ve no respect for anyone, have you?’

  Daniel was not sure if he was referring to himself or to Graves. He chose to interpret it as if Kitteridge had meant Graves. ‘He’s an arrogant sod. They need to see him as human, capable of showing weakness or pain – like anyone.’

  Kitteridge gave him a quick glance, then looked away again. ‘He won’t forgive you for exposing him like that.’

  ‘If they hang him, it won’t matter,’ Daniel replied. ‘And if they find him not guilty, he might even be grateful.’

  Kitteridge gave him a frozen look. ‘I am rather more concerned about what Marcus says, you idiot!’

  Daniel had no answer for that, and he decided to say nothing for a while.

  They had lunch largely in silence, Kitteridge buried in grim concentration on his food, pushing it around the plate and eating very little. Then suddenly he would look up, as if to say something, then change his mind.

  Daniel ate, but he had no idea what it was on his plate. He had ordered steak and kidney pie, but it did not taste like anything. Had he ruined his career in fford Croft and Gibson? His father would probably be angry; without question, he would be disappointed. That is what would hurt. He had accepted his father’s gift and squandered everything it offered him in one melodramatic and ill-judged attempt at – what? Getting an extremely unattractive, and publicly guilty man hanged!

  Then what would Daniel do? He could explain all he wished that he thought the jury found Graves so cold as to believe anything possible of him. Perhaps he was wrong, and really the disobedience in not having kept quiet was all that mattered.

  He looked up from his plate and found Kitteridge’s blue eyes directly upon him. ‘What is it?’ Daniel asked.

  Kitteridge hesitated. ‘Do you still think he didn’t do it?’ he asked.

  ‘Then who did?’ Daniel had previously avoided the question. He was not sure what his own answer was.

  Kitteridge returned to his meal, pausing a moment to answer. ‘Doesn’t matter now. It’s up to the jury.’ When Daniel did not reply, he said with sudden savagery, ‘Do you care about anything? Don’t you care about the law? No, that’s a stupid question. I know that you don’t. Not really. You play around the edges, which is a sin, Pitt! Because you could be good at it. Do you even understand that?’

  Daniel thought for a moment. Kitteridge’s questions startled him. Kitteridge had talent, but he had worked hard for it, harder than Daniel did. Kitteridge loved it; he loved the idea that law was the elegant but imperfect servant of justice. It was up to them to defend a vision and its errors. It required dedication and, more than that, obedience.

  ‘No,’ Daniel admitted. ‘I don’t see the law first, I see the people.’

  ‘How incredibly stupid,’ Kitteridge replied. ‘You’re not supposed to be the judge, you . . . child! You have to serve the law. You are the advocate, or the prosecutor, if you ever get far enough for the Crown to trust you. The judge knows the law and sees that we all conduct ourselves accordingly, and the jury decides who to believe. Didn’t they teach you anything at Cambridge? Did you actually study?’

  Daniel was stunned. He had actually studied very hard. He had had to, in order to pass the exams with a decent degree. He said the first truth that was burning a hole in his head. ‘You think that we’ll lose, don’t you? And you’re afraid old fford Croft will blame us because they’ll hang Graves. You believe he’s not guilty because you want him to be, so we’d be justified in getting him off? It might be very clever to win a case like this, but it won’t help you sleep at night to think he did that to his wife and you helped him walk away from it. And that will go on a lot longer than fford Croft’s satisfaction!’

  Kitteridge stared at him. ‘You bastard!’

  ‘Is that your best argument?’ Daniel asked incredulously.

  ‘Shut up and eat your lunch.’ Kitteridge bent and took a mouthful of cold roast beef and potatoes.

  Daniel ate, too. There didn’t seem to be any point in going on talking. He knew that Kitteridge was really afraid. And Daniel might well have ruined the case for him, although he thought it may have been beyond saving anyway.

  They went back to the courtroom in silence. The jury had not returned.

  By five o’clock, they still had not returned. They would be accommodated overnight, and continue their deliberations in the morning.

  ‘I’m surprised,’ Kitteridge remarked as he and Daniel went out into the street. ‘I thought we hadn’t a chance. I expected them to come back after an hour or two. I hope to hell we don’t get a hung jury and have to do the whole damn thing again.’

  ‘Do you want to go and have dinner?’ Daniel suddenly asked, then wished he had not.

  ‘Are you asking?’ Kitteridge enquired. Then before Daniel could answer, he replied, ‘All right. But let me choose the place. It’s going to be a long night.’

  Actually, Daniel would rather not have spent it alone either, although he would not have chosen Kitteridge for company.

  The next day seemed to drag interminably. It was four o’clock in the afternoon when the jury finally returned with a verdict.

  Kitteridge stood up slowly, as if all his joints were locked.

  Daniel could hardly breathe.

  The foreman of the jury was asked and answered, ‘Guilty, my lord.’

  It seemed for a moment unreal, as if it had been Daniel’s own imagination answering him. Then someone in the gallery started to cough. The rustling began again. The judge sent for the black cap. What a ridiculous charade! What did it matter what he was wearing?

  The cap was put upon his head and he formally pronounced sentence of death upon Russell Graves, to be carried out after three Sundays had passed from now. Hanged by the neck until he was dead. That would be in twenty-one days.

  Chapter Five

  Daniel and Kitteridge travelled back to the office in silence. They took a cab because it was late, and they wished to get to fford Croft before the verdict was in any newspaper, or someone else told him. They rode in silence because there was nothing to say. There were no excuses. In fact, Daniel faced the truth that the momentary flashes of thought that Graves might be innocent were probably born of pity rather than a matter of reason. As Tranmere had said over and over, if not Graves, then who? They had failed to provide a solid, believable answer.

  Daniel knew that his success in saving Blackwell could be swallowed up in his failure to defend Graves, whom Marcus had personally required him to represent.

  For Kitteridge, it would be far worse. He was considered the firm’s best man in court. It was his responsibility. The fact that Graves was probably guilty was not an adequate excuse.

  They arrived at the chambe
rs in Lincoln’s Inn, and were greeted by the chief clerk, Impney, who read their expressions instantly. It was his greatest skill, along with an encyclopaedic memory.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he said sympathetically. ‘I imagine you would like to tell Mr fford Croft as soon as possible. Shall I bring tea?’

  ‘Yes, Impney, it wouldn’t hurt. Thank you,’ Kitteridge answered.

  ‘Yes, sir. Will you be going in too, Mr Pitt?’

  ‘Yes, he will,’ Kitteridge said without turning around.

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Impney led the way to fford Croft’s door, knocked, and waited a moment, then opened it. ‘Mr Kitteridge and Mr Pitt have returned, sir,’ he announced, and stepped back for them to enter.

  Kitteridge went in; Daniel followed and closed the door behind him.

  Marcus fford Croft was not physically a large man, but he had a big presence. Now that he no longer appeared in court himself, he dressed to suit his own tastes. He often wore velvet jackets. His shirts were immaculate, but of all sorts of styles and colours so that Daniel had considered whether or not he might actually be colour blind.

  He had thick white hair, which he had cut when he thought of it, but which now appeared to have been some time ago.

  He looked at their faces, and his own expression dimmed. All happiness faded. ‘Well?’

  ‘Guilty,’ Kitteridge said quietly. ‘They considered it for a long while, but they found him guilty.’

  ‘And?’ fford Croft asked.

  ‘They sentenced him to death,’ Kitteridge replied, lifting his chin a little.

  Daniel did not have to look at him again to know that his jaw was set and his face white.

  Kitteridge cleared his throat. ‘In . . . in twenty-one days, sir.’

  ‘I know what day of the week it is!’ fford Croft snapped. ‘He has three Sundays clear. It is the law. Then that is how long we have to find a cause for appeal, and to get a stay of execution.’

  Kitteridge looked profoundly unhappy. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Daniel was sorry for him, and sorry that he was here to witness the situation. He thought that was an error on fford Croft’s part, the first he had recognised. You never found fault with a man in front of those who are junior to him. It humiliates him, and reduces his ability to lead. It also makes him dislike the junior, although he may find it as embarrassing as anyone else.