by Anne Perry
He nodded.
“And remember, your mama loves you very much, and I am going to try to do everything I can to see that she comes back to you. I promise you.”
He looked at her with steady blue eyes, slowly filling with tears.
“I promise,” she repeated. “I’m going to start right now. Remember, if you want to be with somebody, talk to them, you go to Miss Buchan. She’s here all the time, and she understands secrets—promise me?”
Again he nodded, and turned away as his eyes brimmed over.
She longed to go over and put her arms around him, let him weep, but if he did he might not be able to regain the composure, the dignity and self-reliance he must have in order to survive the next few days or weeks.
Reluctantly she turned and went out of the door, closing it softly behind her.
Hester excused herself to Edith as hastily as possible and without any explanation, then as soon as she was on the pavement she began to walk briskly towards William Street. She hailed the very first hansom she saw and requested the driver to take her to Vere Street, off Lincoln’s Inn Fields, then she sat back to compose herself until she should arrive at Rathbone’s office.
Once there she alighted, paid the driver and went in. The clerk greeted her civilly, but with some surprise.
“I have no appointment,” she said quickly. “But I must see Mr. Rathbone as soon as possible. I have discovered the motive in the Carlyon case, and as you must know, there is no time to be lost.”
He rose from his seat, setting down his quill and closing the ledger.
“Indeed, ma’am. Then I will inform Mr. Rathbone. He is with a client at the moment, but I am sure he will be most obliged if you are able to wait until he is free.”
“Certainly.” She sat down and with the greatest difficulty watched the hands on the clock go around infinitely slowly until twenty-five minutes later the inner office door opened. A large gentleman came out, his gold watch chain across an extensive stomach. He glanced at her without speaking, wished the clerk good-day, and went out.
The clerk went in to Rathbone immediately, and within a moment was out again.
“If you please, Miss Latterly?” He stood back, inviting her in.
“Thank you.” She barely glanced at him as she passed.
Oliver Rathbone was sitting at his desk and he rose to his feet before she was across the threshold.
“Hester?”
She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, suddenly breathless.
“I know why Alexandra killed the general!” She swallowed hard, an ache in her throat. “And my God, I think I would have done it too. And gone to the gallows before I would have told anyone why.”
“Why?” His voice was husky, little more than a whisper. “For God’s sake why?”
“Because he was having carnal knowledge of his own son!”
“Dear heaven! Are you sure?” He sat down suddenly as though all the strength had gone out of him. “General Carlyon—was … ? Hester… ?”
“Yes—and not only he, but probably the old colonel as well—and God knows who else.”
Rathbone shut his eyes and his face was ashen.
“No wonder she killed him,” he said very quietly.
Hester came over and sat down on the chair opposite the desk. There was no need to spell it out. They both knew the helplessness of a woman who wanted to leave her husband without his agreement, and that even if she did, all children were legally his, not hers. By law she would forfeit all right to them, even nursing babies, let alone an eight-year-old son.
“What else could she do?” Hester said blankly. “There was no one to turn to—I don’t suppose anyone would have believed her. They’d lock her up for slander, or insanity, if she tried to say such a thing about a pillar of the military establishment like the general.”
“His parents?” he said, then laughed bitterly. “I don’t suppose they’d ever believe it, even if they saw the act.”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “The old colonel does it too—so he would be no help. Presumably Felicia never knew? I don’t know how Alexandra did; the child certainly didn’t tell her. He was sworn to secrecy, and terrified. He’d been told his mother wouldn’t love him anymore, that she’d hate him and send him away if she ever found out.”
His face was pale, the skin drawn tight.
“How do you know?”
Detail by detail she related to him the events of the afternoon. The cleric knocked on the door and said that the next client was here. Rathbone told him to go away again.
“Oh God,” he said quietly when she had finished. He turned from the window where he had moved when she was halfway through. His face was twisted with pity, and anger for the pain and loneliness and the fear of it. “Hester …”
“You can help her, can’t you?” she pleaded. “She’ll hang for it, if you don’t, and he’ll have no one. He’ll be left in that house—for it to go on.”
“I know!” He turned away and looked out of the window. “I’ll do what I can. Let me think. Come back tomorrow, with Monk.” His hands clenched by his sides. “We have no proof.”
She wanted to cry out that there must be, but she knew he did not speak lightly, or from defeat, only from the need to be exact. She rose to her feet and stood a little behind him.
“You’ve done what seemed impossible before,” she said tentatively.
He looked back at her, smiling, his eyes very soft.
“My dear Hester…”
She did not flinch or ease the demand in her face.
“I’ll try,” he said quietly. “I promise you I will try.”
She smiled quickly, reached up her hand and brushed his cheek, without knowing why, then turned and left, going out into the clerk’s office with her head high.
The following day, late in the morning, Rathbone, Monk and Hester sat in the office in Vere Street with all doors closed and all other business suspended until they should have reached a decision. It was June 16.
Monk had just heard from Hester what she had learned at the Carlyon house. He sat pale-faced, his lips tight, his knuckles clenched. It marred his opinion of himself that he was shocked, but he was, too deeply to conceal it. It had not occurred to him that someone of the breeding and reputation of General Carlyon should indulge in such a devastating abuse. He was too angry even to resent the fact that it had not occurred to him to look for such an answer. All his thoughts were outward, to Alexandra, to Cassian, and to what was to come.
“Is it a defense?” he demanded of Rathbone. “Will the judge dismiss it?”
“No,” Rathbone said quietly. He was very grave this morning and his long face was marked by lines of tiredness; even his eyes looked weary. “I have been reading cases all night, checking every point of law I can find on the subject, and I come back each time to what is, I think, our only chance, and that is a defense of provocation. The law states that if a person receives extraordinary provocation, and that may take many forms, then the charge of murder may be reduced to manslaughter.”
“That’s not good enough,” Monk interrupted, his voice rising with his emotion. “This was justifiable. For God’s sake, what else could she do? Her husband was committing incest and sodomy against her child. She had not only a right but a duty to protect him. The law gave her nothing—she has no rights in her son. In law it is his child, but the law never intended he should be free to do that to him.”
“Of course not,” Rathbone agreed quietly, the effort of restraint trembling behind it. “Nevertheless, the law gives a woman no rights in her child. She has no means to support it, and no freedom to leave her husband if he does not wish her to, and certainly no way to take her child with her.”
“Then what else can she do but kill him?” Monk’s face was white. “How can we tolerate a law which affords no possible justice? And the injustice is unspeakable.”
“We change it, we don’t break it,” Rathbone replied.
Monk
swore briefly and violently.
“I agree,” Rathbone said with a tight smile. “Now may we proceed with what is practical?”
Monk and Hester stared at him wordlessly.
“Manslaughter is the best we can hope for, and that will be extremely difficult to prove. But if we succeed, the sentence is largely at the discretion of the judge. It can be as little as a matter of months, or as great as ten years.”
Both Hester and Monk relaxed a little. Hester smiled bleakly.
“But we must prove it,” Rathbone went on. “And that will be very hard to do. General Carlyon is a hero. People do not like their heroes tarnished, let alone utterly destroyed.” He leaned back a little, sliding his hands into his pockets. “And we have had more than enough of that with the war. We have a tendency to see people as good or evil; it is so much easier both on the brain and on the emotions, but especially the emotions, to place people into one or the other category. Black or white. It is a painful adjustment to have to recognize and accommodate into our thinking the fact that people with great qualities which we have admired may also have ugly and profoundly repellent flaws.”
He did not look at either of them, but at a space on the farther wall. “One then has to learn to understand, which is difficult and painful, unless one is to swing completely ’round, tear up one’s admiration, and turn it into hate—which is also painful, and wrong, but so much easier. The wound of disillusion turns to rage because one has been let down. One’s own sense of betrayal outweighs all else.”
His delicate mouth registered wry pity.
“Disillusion is one of the most difficult of all emotions to wear gracefully, and with any honor. I am afraid we will not find many who will do it. People will be very reluctant to believe anything so disturbing. And we have had far too much disturbance to our settled and comfortable world lately as it is—first the war, and all the ugly whispers there are of inefficiency and needless death, and now wind of mutiny in India. God knows how bad that will turn out to be.”
He slid a little farther down in his chair. “We need our heroes. We don’t want them proved to be weak and ugly, to practice vices we can barely even bring ourselves to name-let alone against their own children.”
“I don’t care a damn whether people like it or not,” Monk said violently. “It is true. We must force them to see it. Would they rather we hang an innocent woman, before we oblige them to see a truth which is disgusting?”
“Some of them well might.” Rathbone looked at him with a faint smile. “But I don’t intend to allow them that luxury.”
“If they would, then there is not much hope for our society,” Hester said in a small voice. “When we are happy to turn from evil because it is ugly, and causes us distress, then we condone it and become party to its continuance. Little by little, we become as guilty of it as those who commit the act—because we have told them by our silence that it is acceptable.”
Rathbone glanced at her, his eyes bright and soft.
“Then we must prove it,” Monk said between his teeth. “We must make it impossible for anyone to deny or evade.”
“I will try.” Rathbone looked at Hester, then at Monk. “But we haven’t enough here yet. I’ll need more. Ideally I need to name the other members of the ring, if there is one, and from what you say”—he turned to Hester—“there may be several members. And of course I dare not name anyone without proof. Cassian is only eight. I may be able to call him; that will depend upon the judge. But his testimony alone will certainly not be sufficient.”
“I think Damaris might know,” Hester said thoughtfully. “I’m not certain, but she undoubtedly discovered something at the party that evening, and it shook her so desperately she was hardly able to keep control of herself.”
“We have several people’s testimony to that,” Monk added.
“If she will admit it, that will go a long way towards belief,” Rathbone said guardedly. “But it will not be easy to make her. She is called as a witness for the prosecution.”
“Damaris is?” Hester was incredulous. “But why? I thought she was on our side.”
Rathbone smiled without pleasure. “She has no choice. The prosecution has called her, and she must come, or risk being charged with contempt of court. So must Peverell Erskine, Fenton and Sabella Pole, Maxim and Louisa Furnival, Dr. Hargrave, Sergeant Evan, and Randolf Carlyon.”
“But that’s everyone.” Hester was horrified. Suddenly hope was being snatched away again. “What about us? That’s unjust. Can’t they testify for us too?”
“No, a witness can be called by only one side. But I shall have an opportunity to cross-examine them,” Rathbone replied. “It will not be as easy as if they were my witnesses. But it is not everyone. We can call Felicia Carlyon—although I am not sure if I will. I have not subpoenaed her, but if she is there I may call her at the last moment—when she has had an opportunity to hear the other testimony.”
“She won’t tell us anything,” Hester said furiously. “Even if she could. And I don’t suppose she knows. But if she did, can you imagine her standing up in court and admitting that any member of her family committed incest and sodomy, let alone her heroic son, the general!”
“Not willingly.” Rathbone’s face was grim, but there was a faint, cold light in his eyes. “But it is my art, my dear, to make people admit what they do not wish to, and had not intended to.”
“You had better be damnably good at it,” Monk said angrily.
“I am.” Rathbone met his eyes and for a moment they stared at each other in silence.
“And Edith,” Hester said urgently. “You can call Edith. She will help all she can.”
“What does she know?” Monk swung around to her. “Willingness won’t help if she doesn’t know anything.”
Hester ignored him. “And Miss Buchan. She knows.”
“A servant.” Rathbone bit his lip. “A very elderly woman with a hot temper and a family loyalty… If she turns against them they won’t forgive her. She will be thrown out without a roof over her head or food to eat, and too old to work anymore. Not an enviable position.”
Hester felt hopelessness wash over her anger. A black defeat threatened to crush her.
“Then what can we do?”
“Find some more evidence,” Rathbone replied. “Find out who else is involved.”
Monk thought for a few moments, his hands knotted hard in his lap.
“That should be possible: either they came to the house or the child was taken to them. The servants will know who called. The footmen ought to know where the boy went.” His face pinched with anger. “Poor little devil!” He looked at Rathbone critically. “But even if you prove other men used him, will that prove that his father did, and that Alexandra knew it?”
“You give me the evidence,” Rathbone replied. “Everything you get, whether you think it is relevant or not. I’ll decide how to use it.”
Monk rose to his feet, scraping back his chair, his whole body hard with anger.
“Then we have no time to lose. God knows there is little enough.”
“And I shall go to try and persuade Alexandra Carlyon to allow us to use the truth,” Rathbone said with a tight little smile. “Without her consent we have nothing.”
“Oliver.” Hester was aghast.
He turned to her, touching her very gently.
“Don’t worry, my dear. You have done superbly. You have discovered the truth. Now leave me to do my part.”
She met his eyes, dark and brilliant, took a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing herself to relax.
“Of course. I’m sorry. Go and see Alexandra. I shall go and tell Callandra. She will be as appalled as we are.”
Alexandra Carlyon turned from the place where she had been standing, staring up at the small square of light of the cell window. She was surprised to see Rathbone.
The door swung shut with a hollow sound of metal on metal, and they were alone.
“You are wasting yo
ur time, Mr. Rathbone,” she said huskily. “I cannot tell you anything more.”
“You don’t need to, Mrs. Carlyon,” he said very gently. “I know why you killed your husband—and God help me, had I been in your place I might have done the same.”
She stared at him uncomprehendingly.
“To save your son from further unnatural abuse …”
What little color there was left fled from her face. Her eyes were wide, so hollow as to seem black in the dim light.
“You—know …” She sank onto the cot. “You can’t. Please …”
He sat on the bottom of the cot, facing her.
“My dear, I understand that you were prepared to go to the gallows rather than expose your son to the world’s knowledge of his suffering. But I have something very dreadful to tell you, which must change your mind.”
Very slowly she raised her head and looked at him.
“Your husband was not the only one to use him in that way.”
Her breath caught in her throat, and she seemed unable to find it again. He thought she was going to faint.
“You must fight,” he said softly but with intense urgency.
“It seems most probable that his grandfather is another—and there is at least a third, if not more. You must use all the courage you have and tell the truth about what happened, and why. We must destroy them, so they can never harm Cassian again, or any other child.”
She shook her head, still struggling to breathe.
“You must!” He took both her hands. At first they were limp, then slowly tightened until they clung onto him as if she were drowning. “You must! Otherwise Cassian will go to his grandparents, and the whole tragedy will continue. You will have killed your husband for nothing. And you yourself will hang—for nothing.”
“I can’t.” The words barely passed her lips.
“Yes you can! You are not alone. There are people who will be with you, people as horrified and appalled as you are, who know the truth and will help us fight to prove it. For your son’s sake, you must not give up now. Tell the truth, and I will fight to see that it is believed—and understood.”