by Anne Perry
“I apologize, my lord. Thank you, Mr. Furnival, that is all.”
“Mr. Rathbone?” the judge invited.
Rathbone rose to his feet and faced the witness box.
“Mr. Furnival, may I take you back to earlier in the evening; to be precise, when Mrs. Erskine went upstairs to see your son. Do you recall that?”
“Yes.” Maxim looked puzzled.
“Did she tell you, either then or later, what transpired when she was upstairs?”
Maxim frowned. “No.”
“Did anyone else—for example, your son, Valentine?”
“No.”
“Both you and Mrs. Furnival have testified that when Mrs. Erskine came down again she was extremely distressed, so much so that she was unable to behave normally for the rest of the evening. Is that correct?”
“Yes.” Maxim looked embarrassed. Hester guessed not for himself but for Damaris. It was indelicate to refer to someone’s emotional behavior in public, particularly a woman, and a friend. Gentlemen did not speak of such things.
Rathbone flashed him a brief smile.
“Thank you. Now back to the vexing question of whether Mrs. Furnival and General Carlyon were having any nature of relationship which was improper. You have sworn that at no time during the fifteen years or so of their friendship did you have any cause to believe it was not perfectly open and seemly, and all that either you as Mrs. Furnival’s husband, or the accused as the general’s wife, would have agreed to—as indeed you did agree. Do I understand you correctly, sir?”
Several of the jurors were looking sideways up at Alexandra, their faces curious.
“Yes, you do. At no time did I have any cause whatsoever to believe it was anything but a perfectly proper friendship,” Maxim said stiffly, his eyes on Rathbone, his brows drawn down in concentration.
Hester glanced at the jury and saw one or two of them nodding. They believed him; his honesty was transparent, as was his discomfort.
“Did you suppose Mrs. Carlyon to feel the same?”
“Yes! Yes I did!” Maxim’s face became animated for the first time since the subject had been raised. “I—I still find it hard—”
“Indeed,” Rathbone cut him off. “Did she ever say anything in your hearing, or do anything at all, to indicate that she thought otherwise? Please—please be quite specific. I do not wish for speculation or interpretation in the light of later events. Did she ever express anger or jealousy of Mrs. Furnival with regard to her husband and their relationship?”
“No—never,” Maxim said without hesitation. “Nothing at all.” He had avoided looking across at Alexandra, as if afraid the jury might misinterpret his motives or doubt his honesty, but now he could not stop his eyes from flickering for a moment towards her.
“You are quite certain?” Rathbone insisted.
“Quite.”
The judge frowned, looking closely at Rathbone. He leaned forward as if to say something, then changed his mind.
Lovat-Smith frowned also.
“Thank you, Mr. Furnival.” Rathbone smiled at him. “You have been very frank, and it is much appreciated. It is distasteful to all of us to have to ask such questions and open up to public speculation what should remain private, but the force of circumstances leaves us no alternative. Now unless Mr. Lovat-Smith has some further questions for you, you may leave the stand.”
“No—thank you,” Lovat-Smith replied, half rising to his feet. “None at all.”
Maxim left, going down the steps slowly, and the next witness was called, Sabella Carlyon Pole. There was a ripple of expectation around the court, murmurs of excitement, rustics of fabric against fabric as people shifted position, craned forward in the gallery, jostling each other.
“That’s the daughter,” someone said to Hester’s left. “Mad, so they say. ’Ated her father.”
“I ’ate my father,” came the reply. “That don’t make me mad!”
“Sssh,” someone else hissed angrily.
Sabella came into the court and walked across the floor, head high, back stiff, and took the stand. She was very pale, but her face was set in an expression of defiance, and she looked straight at her mother in the dock and forced herself to smile.
For the first time since the trial had begun, Alexandra looked as if her composure would break. Her mouth quivered, the steady gaze softened, she blinked several times. Hester could not bear to watch her; she looked away, and felt a coward, and yet had she not turned, she would have felt intrusive. She did not know which was worse.
Sabella swore to her name and place of residence, and to her relationship with the accused.
“I realize this must be painful for you, Mrs. Pole,” Lovat-Smith began courteously. “I wish it were possible for me to spare you it, but I regret it is not. However I will try to be brief. Do you recall the evening of the dinner party at which your father met his death?”
“Of course! It is not the sort of thing one forgets.”
“Naturally.” Lovat-Smith was a trifle taken aback. He had been expecting a woman a little tearful, even afraid of him, or at the very least awed by the situation. “I understand that as soon as you arrived you had a disagreement with your father, is that correct?”
“Yes, perfectly.”
“What was that about, Mrs. Pole?”
“He was patronizing about my views that there was going to be trouble in the army in India. As it turns out, I was correct.”
There was a murmur of sympathy around the room, and another sharper one of irritation that she should presume to disagree with a military hero, a man, and her father—and someone who was dead and could not answer for himself; still worse, that the appalling news coming in on the India and China mail ships should prove her right.
“Is that all?” Lovat-Smith raised his eyebrows.
“Yes. It was a few sharp words, no more.”
“Did your mother quarrel with him that evening?”
Hester looked sideways at the dock. Alexandra’s face was tense, filled with anxiety, but Hester believed it was fear for Sabella, not for herself.
“I don’t know. Not in my hearing,” Sabella answered levelly.
“Have you ever heard your parents quarrel?”
“Of course.”
“On what subject, in the last six months, let us say?”
“Particularly, over whether my brother Cassian should be sent away to boarding school or remain at home and have a tutor. He is eight years old.”
“Your parents disagreed?”
“Yes.”
“Passionately?” Lovat-Smith looked curious and surprised.
“Yes,” she said tartly. “Apparently they felt passionately about it.”
“Your mother wished him to remain at home with her, and your father wished him to begin his training for adulthood?”
“Not at all. It was Father who wanted him at home. Mama wanted him to go away to school.”
Several jurors looked startled, and more than one turned to look at Alexandra.
“Indeed!” Lovat-Smith also sounded surprised, but uninterested in such details, although he had asked for them. “What else?”
“I don’t know. I have my own home, Mr. Lovat-Smith. I visited my parents very infrequently. I did not have a close relationship with my father, as I am sure you know. My mother visited me in my home often. My father did not.”
“I see. But you were aware that the relationship between your parents was strained, and on the evening of the unfortunate dinner party, particularly so?”
Sabella hesitated, and in so doing betrayed her partiality. Hester saw the jury’s faces harden, as if something inside had closed; from now on they would interpret a difference in her answers. One man turned curiously and looked at Alexandra, then away again, as if caught peeping. It too was a betraying gesture.
“Mrs. Pole?” Lovat-Smith prompted her.
“Yes, of course I was aware of it. Everyone was.”
“And the cause? Think carefull
y: knowing your mother, as close to you as she was, did she say anything which allowed you to understand the cause of her anger?”
Rathbone half rose to his feet, then as the judge glanced at him, changed his mind and sank back again. The jury saw it and their faces lit with expectancy.
Sabella spoke very quietly. “When people are unhappy with each other, there is not necessarily a specific cause for each disagreement. My father was very arbitrary at times, very dictatorial. The only subject of quarrel I know of was over Cassian and his schooling.”
“Surely you are not suggesting your mother murdered your father because of his choice of education for his son, Mrs. Pole?” Lovat-Smith’s voice, charming and distinctive, was filled with incredulity only just short of the offensive.
In the dock Alexandra moved forward impulsively, and the wardress beside her moved also, as if it were even conceivable she should leap over the edge. The gallery could not see it, but the jurors started in their seats.
Sabella said nothing. Her soft oval face hardened and she stared at him, not knowing what to say and reluctant to commit an error.
“Thank you, Mrs. Pole. We quite understand.” Lovat-Smith smiled and sat down again, leaving the floor to Rathbone.
Sabella looked at Rathbone guardedly, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wary and miserable.
Rathbone smiled at her. “Mrs. Pole, have you known Mrs. Furnival for some time, several years in fact?”
“Yes.”
“Did you believe that she was having an affair with your father?”
There was a gasp of indrawn breath around the courtroom. At last someone was getting to the crux of the situation. Excitement rippled through them.
“No,” Sabella said hotly. Then she looked at Rathbone’s expression and repeated it with more composure. “No, I did not. I never saw or heard anything to make me think so.”
“Did your mother ever say anything to you to indicate that she thought so, or that the relationship gave her any anxiety or distress of any sort?”
“No—no, I cannot recall that she ever mentioned it at all.”
“Never?” Rathbone said with surprise. “And yet you were very close, were you not?”
For the first time Sabella quite openly looked up towards the dock.
“Yes, we were—we are close.”
“And she never mentioned the subject?”
“No.”
“Thank you.” He turned back to Lovat-Smith with a smile.
Lovat-Smith rose.
“Mrs. Pole, did you kill your father?”
The judge held up his hand to prevent Sabella from replying, and looked at Rathbone, inviting him to object. It was an improper question, since it had not been part of the examination in chief, and also she should be warned of the possibility of incriminating herself.
Rathbone shrugged.
The judge sighed and lowered his hand, frowning at Lovat-Smith.
“You do not need to answer that question unless you wish to,” he said to Sabella.
“No, I did not,” Sabella said huskily, her voice little more than a whisper.
“Thank you.” Lovat-Smith inclined his head; it was all he had required.
The judge leaned forward. “You may go, Mrs. Pole,” he said gently. “There is nothing further.”
“Oh,” she said, as if a little lost and wishing to find something more to say, something to help. Reluctantly she came down, assisted for the last two steps by the clerk of the court, and disappeared into the crowd, the light catching for a moment on her pale hair before she was gone.
There was an adjournment for luncheon. Monk and Hester found a man with a sandwich cart, purchased a sandwich each and ate them in great haste before returning to find their seats again.
As soon as the court reassembled and came to order the next witness was summoned.
“Fenton Pole!” the bailiff said loudly. “Calling Fenton Pole!”
Fenton Pole climbed up the stairs to the stand, his face set, his jaw hard in lines of utter disapproval. He answered Lovat-Smith tersely but very much as though he believed his mother-in-law to be guilty, but insane. Never even for an instant did he turn his head and look up at her. Twice Lovat-Smith had to stop him from expressing his view in so many words, as if it excused the family from any connection. After all madness was like a disease, a tragedy which might strike anyone, therefore they were not accountable. His resentment of the whole matter was apparent.
There were murmurs of sympathy from the crowd, even one quite audible word of agreement; but looking at the jury again Hester could see at least one man’s face cloud over and a certain disapproval touch him. He seemed to take his duty very seriously, and had probably been told much about not judging the case before all the evidence was in. And for all he sought impartiality, he did not admire disloyalty. He shot Fenton Pole a look of deep dislike. For an instant Hester felt unreasonably comforted. It was silly, and her wiser self knew it, and yet it was a straw in the wind, a sign that at least one man had not yet condemned Alexandra outright.
Rathbone asked Fenton Pole very little, only if he had any precise and incontrovertible evidence that his father-in-law was having an affair with Louisa Furnival.
Pole’s face darkened with contempt for such vulgarity, and with offense that the matter should have been raised at all.
“Certainly not,” he said vigorously. “General Carlyon was not an immoral man. To suppose that he indulged in such adulterous behavior is quite unbalanced, not rational at all, and without any foundation in fact.”
“Quite so,” Rathbone agreed. “And have you any cause, Mr. Pole, to suppose that your mother-in-law, Mrs. Carlyon, believed him to be so deceiving her, and betraying his vows?”
Pole’s lips tightened.
“I would have thought our presence here today was tragically sufficient proof of that.”
“Oh no, Mr. Pole, not at all,” Rathbone replied with a harsh sibilance to his voice. “It is proof only that General Carlyon is dead, by violence, and that the police have some cause, rightly or wrongly, to bring a case against Mrs. Carlyon.”
There was a rustle of movement in the jury. Someone sat up a trifle straighten Fenton Pole looked confused. He did not argue, although the rebuttal was plain in his face.
“You have not answered my question, Mr. Pole,” Rathbone pressed him. “Did you see or hear anything to prove to you that Mrs. Carlyon believed there to be anything improper in the relationship between Mrs. Furnival and the general?”
“Ah—well … said like that, I suppose not. I don’t know what you have in mind.”
“Nothing, Mr. Pole. And it would be quite improper for me to suggest anything to you, as I am sure his lordship would inform you.”
Fenton Pole did not even glance at the judge.
He was excused.
Lovat-Smith called the footman, John Barton. He was overawed by the occasion, and his fair face was flushed hot with embarrassment. He stuttered as he took the oath and gave his name, occupation and residence. Lovat-Smith was extremely gentle with him and never once condescended or treated him with less courtesy than he had Fenton Pole or Maxim Furnival. To the most absolute silence from the court and the rapt attention of the jury, he elicited from him the whole story of the clearing away after the dinner party, the carrying of the coal buckets up the front stairs, the observation of the suit of armor still standing on its plinth, who was in the withdrawing room, his meeting with the maid, and the final inevitable conclusion that only either Sabella or Alexandra could possibly have killed Thaddeus Carlyon.
There was a slow letting out of a sigh around the courtroom, like the first chill air of a coming storm.
Rathbone rose amid a crackling silence. Not a juryman moved.
“I have no questions to ask this witness, my lord.”
There was a gasp of amazement. Jurors swiveled around to look at one another in disbelief.
The judge leaned forward. “Are you sure, Mr. Rathbone? This witness’s
evidence is very serious for your client.”
“I am quite sure, thank you, my lord.”
The judge frowned. “Very well.” He turned to John. “You are excused.”
Lovat-Smith called the upstairs maid with the red hair, and sealed beyond doubt the incontestable fact that it could only have been Alexandra who pushed the general over the stairs, and then followed him down and plunged the halberd into his body.
“I don’t know why this has to go on,” a man said behind Monk. “Waste o’ time.”
“Waste o’ money,” his companion agreed. “Should just call it done, ’ang ’er now. Nothing anyone can say to that.”
Monk swung around, his face tight, hard, eyes blazing.
“Because Englishmen don’t hang people without giving them a chance to explain,” he said between his teeth. “It’s a quaint custom, but we give everyone a hearing, whatever we think of them. If that doesn’t suit you, then you’d better go somewhere else, because there’s no place for you here!”
“’Ere! ’Oo are you callin’ foreign? I’m as English as you are! An’ I pay me taxes, but not for the likes of ’er to play fast an’ loose wi’ the law. I believe in the law, I do. Can’t ’ave women going ’round murderin’ their ’usbands every time they get a fit o’ jealousy. No one in England’d be safe!”
“You don’t believe in the law,” Monk accused bitterly. “You believe in the rope, and mob rule, you just said so.”
“I never did. You lyin’ bastard!”
“You said forget the trial, overthrow the courts, hang her now, without waiting for a verdict.” Monk glared at him. “You want to do away with judge and jury and be both yourself.”
“I never said that!”
Monk gave him a look of total disgust, and turned to Hester, as they rose on adjournment, taking her a trifle roughly by the elbow, and steering her out through the noisy, shoving crowd.
There was nothing to say. It was what they could have expected: a crowd who knew no more than the newspapers had led them to believe; a judge who was fair, impartial and unable to help; a prosecuting counsel who was skilled and would be duped or misled by no one. The evidence proved that Alexandra had murdered her husband. That should not depress them or make them the least discouraged. It was not in question.