The William Monk Mysteries

by Anne Perry

  Lovat-Smith looked up at Alexandra, then rose to his feet as though reluctantly.

  “That is a conclusion of the witness, my lord, and not a fact.”

  “That is true, Mr. Rathbone,” the judge said gravely. “The jury will ignore that last statement of Mrs. Erskine’s. It was her belief, and no more. She may conceivably have been mistaken; you cannot assume it is fact. And Mr. Rathbone, you deliberately led your witness into making that observation. You know better.”

  “I apologize, my lord.”

  “Proceed, Mr. Rathbone, and keep it relevant.”

  Rathbone inclined his head in acknowledgment, then with curious grace turned back to Damaris.

  “Mrs. Erskine, do you know who abused Valentine Furnival?”

  “No.”

  “You did not ask him?”

  “No! No, of course not!”

  “Did you speak of it to your brother?”

  “No! No I didn’t. I didn’t speak of it to anyone.”

  “Not to your mother—or your father?”

  “No—not to anyone,”

  “Were you aware that your nephew, Cassian Carlyon, was being abused?”

  She flushed with shame and her voice was low and tight in her throat. “No. I should have been, but I thought it was just his grief at losing his father—and fear that his mother was responsible and he would lose her too.” She looked up once at Alexandra with anguish. “I didn’t spend as much time with him as I should have. I am ashamed of that. He seemed to prefer to be alone with his grandfather, or with my husband. I thought—I thought that was because it was his mother who killed his father, and he felt women …” She trailed off unhappily.

  “Understandable,” Rathbone said quietly. “But if you had spent time with him, you might have seen whether he too was abused—”

  “Objection,” Lovat-Smith said quickly. “All this speech of abuse is only conjecture: We do not know that it is anything beyond the sick imaginings of a spinster servant and a young girl in puberty, who both may have misunderstood things they saw, and whose fevered and ignorant minds leaped to hideous conclusions—quite erroneously.”

  The judge sighed. “Mr. Lovat-Smith’s objection is literally correct, Mr. Rathbone.” His heavy tone made it more than obvious he did not share the prosecutor’s view for an instant. “Please be more careful in your use of words. You are quite capable of conducting your examination of Mrs. Erskine without such error.”

  Rathbone inclined his head in acceptance, and turned back to Damaris.

  “Did your husband, Peverell Erskine, spend much time with Cassian after he came to stay at Carlyon House?”

  “Yes—yes, he did.” Her face was very white and her voice little more than a whisper.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Erskine. I have no more questions for you, but please remain there. Mr. Lovat-Smith may have something to ask you.”

  Damaris turned to Lovat-Smith.

  “Thank you,” Lovat-Smith acknowledged. “Did you murder your brother, Mrs. Erskine?”

  There was a ripple of shock around the room. The judge frowned sharply. A juror coughed. Someone in the gallery stood up.

  Damaris was startled. “No—of course I didn’t!”

  “Did your sister-in-law mention this alleged fearful abuse to you, at any time, either before or after the death of your brother?”

  “No.”

  “Have you any reason to suppose that such a thing had ever entered her mind; other, of course, than the suggestion made to you by my learned friend, Mr. Rathbone?”

  “Yes—Hester Latterly knew of it.”

  Lovat-Smith was taken by surprise.

  There was a rustle and murmur of amazement around the court. Felicia Carlyon leaned forward over the gallery railing to stare down at where Hester was sitting upright, white-faced. Even Alexandra turned.

  “I beg your pardon?” Lovat-Smith said, collecting his wits rapidly. “And who is Hester Latterly? Is that a name that has arisen once before in this case? Is she a relative—or a servant perhaps? Oh—I recall: she is the person to whom Mrs. Sobell enquired for a lawyer for the accused. Pray tell us, how did this Miss Latterly know of this deadly secret of your family, of which not even your mother was aware?”

  Damaris stared straight back at him.

  “I don’t know. I did not ask her.”

  “But you accepted it as true?” Lovat-Smith was incredulous and he allowed his whole body to express his disbelief. “Is she an expert in the field, that you take her word, unsubstantiated by any fact at all, simply a blind statement, over your own knowledge and love and loyalty to your own family? That is truly remarkable, Mrs. Erskine.”

  There was a low rumble of anger from the court. Someone called out “Traitor!”

  “Silence!” the judge ordered, his face hard. He leaned forward towards the witness stand. “Mrs. Erskine? It does call for some explanation. Who is this Miss Latterly that you take her unexplained word for such an abominable charge?”

  Damaris was very pale and she looked across at Peverell before answering, and when she spoke it was to the jury, not to Lovat-Smith or the judge.

  “Miss Latterly is a good friend who wishes to find the truth of this case, and she came to me with the knowledge, which has never been disputed, that I discovered something the evening of my brother’s death which distressed me almost beyond bearing. She assumed it was something else, something which would have done a great injury to another person—so I was obliged, in justice, to tell her the truth. Since she was correct in her assumption of abuse to Cassian, I did not argue with her, nor did I ask her how she knew. I was too concerned to allay her other suspicion even to think of it.”

  She straightened up a little more, for the first time perhaps, unconsciously looking heroic. “And as for loyalty to my family, are you suggesting I should lie, here, in this place, and under oath to God, in order to protect them from the law—and the consequence of their acts towards a desperately vulnerable child? And that I should conceal truths which may help you bring justice to Alexandra?” There was a ring of challenge in her voice and her eyes were bright. Not once had she looked towards the gallery.

  There was nothing for Lovat-Smith to do but retreat, and he did it gracefully.

  “Of course not, Mrs. Erskine. All we required was that you should explain, and you have done so. Thank you—I have no more questions to ask you.”

  Rathbone half rose. “Nor I, my lord.”

  The judge released her. “You are excused, Mrs. Erskine.”

  The entire courtroom watched as she stepped down from the witness box, walked across the tiny space to the body of the court and up the steps through the seated crowd and took her place beside Peverell, who quite automatically rose to his feet to greet her.

  There was a long sigh right around the room as she sat down.

  Felicia deliberately ignored her. Randolf seemed beyond reaction. Edith reached a hand across and clasped hers gently. The judge looked at the clock.

  “Have you many questions for your next witness, Mr. Rathbone?”

  “Yes, my lord; it is evidence on which a great deal may turn.”

  “Then we shall adjourn until tomorrow.”

  Monk left the court, pushing his way through the jostling, excited crowds, journalists racing to find the first hansoms to take them to their papers, those who had been unable to find room inside shouting questions, people standing around in huddles, everyone talking.

  Then outside on the steps he was uncertain whether to search for Hester or to avoid her. He had nothing to say, and yet he would have found her company pleasing. Or perhaps he would not. She would be full of the trial, of Rathbone’s brilliance. Of course that was right, he was brilliant. It was even conceivable he would win the case, whatever winning might be. She had become increasingly fond of Rathbone lately. He realized it now with some surprise. He had not even thought about it before; it was something he had seen without its touching the conscious part of his mind.

 
; Now he was startled and angry that it hurt.

  He walked down the steps into the street with a sudden burst of energy. Everywhere there were people, newsboys, costermongers, flower sellers, men with barrows of sandwiches, pies, sweets, peppermint water, and a dozen other kinds of food. People pushed and shouted, calling for cabs.

  This was absurd. He liked both Hester and Rathbone—he should be happy for them.

  Without realizing what he was doing he bumped’ into a smart man in black with an ivory-topped cane, and stepped into a hansom ahead of him. He did not even hear the man’s bellow of fury.

  “Grafton Street,” he commanded.

  Then why was there such a heaviness inside him, a sense of loss all over again?

  It must be Hermione. The disillusion over her would surely hurt for a long time; that was only natural. He had thought he had found love, gentleness, sweetness—Damn! Don’t be idiotic! He did not want sweetness. It stuck in his teeth and cloyed his tongue. God in heaven! How far he must have forgotten his own nature to have imagined Hermione was his happiness. And now he was further betraying himself by becoming maudlin over it.

  But by the time the cab set him down in Grafton Street some better, more honest self admitted there was a place for tenderness, the love that overlooks error, that cherishes weakness and protects it, that thinks of self last, and gives even when the thanks are slow in coming or do not come at all, for generosity of spirit, laughter without cruelty or victory. And he still had little idea where to find it—even in himself.

  The first witness of the next day was Valentine Furnival. For all his height, and already broadening shoulders, he looked very young and his high head could not hide his fear.

  The crowd buzzed with excitement as he climbed the steps of the witness stand and turned to face the court. Hester felt a lurch almost like sickness as she saw his face and recognized in it exactly what Damaris must have seen—an echo of Charles Hargrave.

  Instinctively she turned her head to see if Hargrave was in the gallery again, and if he had seen the same thing, knowing now that Damaris was the boy’s mother. As soon as she saw him, his skin white, his eyes shocked, almost unfocused, she knew beyond question that he understood. Beside him, Sarah Hargrave sat a little apart, facing first Valentine on the stand, then her husband next to her. She did not even try to seek Damaris Erskine.

  In spite of herself, Hester was moved to pity; for Sarah it was easy, but for Hargrave it twisted and hurt, because it was touched with anger.

  The judge began by questioning Valentine for a few moments about his understanding of the oath, then turned to Rathbone and told him to commence.

  “Did you know General Thaddeus Carlyon, Valentine?” he asked quite conversationally, as if they had been alone in some withdrawing room, not in the polished wood of a courtroom with hundreds of people listening, craning to catch every word and every inflexion.

  Valentine swallowed on a dry throat.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  A slight hesitation. “Yes.”

  “For a long time? Do you know how long?”

  “Yes, since I was about six: seven years or more.”

  “So you must have known him when he sustained the knife injury to his thigh? Which happened in your home.”

  Not one person in the entire court moved or spoke. The silence was total.

  “Yes.”

  Rathbone took a step closer to him.

  “How did it happen, Valentine? Or perhaps I should say, why?”

  Valentine stared at him, mute, his face so pale it occurred to Monk, watching him, that he might faint.

  In the gallery Damaris leaned over the rail, her eyes desperate. Peverell put his hand over hers.

  “If you tell the truth,” Rathbone said gently, “there is no need to be afraid. The court will protect you.”

  The judge drew a breath, as if about to protest, then apparently changed his mind.

  Lovat-Smith said nothing.

  The jury were motionless to a man.

  “I stabbed him,” Valentine said almost in a whisper.

  In the second row from the front Maxim Furnival covered his face with his hands. Beside him Louisa bit her nails. Alexandra put her hands over her mouth as if to stifle a cry.

  “You must have had a very profound reason for such an act,” Rathbone prompted. “It was a deep wound. He could have bled to death, if it had severed an artery.”

  “I—” Valentine gasped.

  Rathbone had miscalculated. He had frightened him too much. He saw it immediately.

  “But of course you did not,” he said quickly. “It was merely embarrassing—and I’m sure painful.”

  Valentine looked wretched.

  “Why did you do it, Valentine?” Rathbone said very gently. “You must have had a compelling reason—something that justified striking out in such a way.”

  Valentine was on the edge of tears and it took him some moments to regain his composure.

  Monk ached for him, remembering his own youth, the desperate dignity of thirteen, the manhood which was so close, and yet so far away.

  “Mrs. Carlyon’s life may depend upon what you say,” Rathbone urged.

  For once neither Lovat-Smith nor the judge reproved him for such a breach.

  “I couldn’t bear it any longer,” Valentine replied in a husky voice, so low the jury had to strain to hear him. “I begged him, but he wouldn’t stop!”

  “So in desperation you defended yourself?” Rathbone asked. His clear, precise voice carried in the silence, even though it was as low as if they were alone in a small room.

  “Yes.”

  “Stop doing what?”

  Valentine said nothing. His face was suddenly painfully hot as the blood rushed up, suffusing his skin.

  “If it hurts too much to say, may I say it for you?” Rathbone asked him. “Was the general sodomizing you?”

  Valentine nodded very slightly, just a bare inch or two movement of the head.

  Maxim Furnival let out a stifled cry.

  The judge turned to Valentine.

  “You must speak, so that there can be no error in our understanding,” he said with great gentleness. “Simply yes or no will do. Is Mr. Rathbone correct?”

  “Yes sir.” It was a whisper.

  “I see. Thank you. I assure you, there will be no action taken against you for the injury to General Carlyon. It was self-defense and no crime in any sense. A person is allowed to defend their lives, or their virtue, with no fault attached whatever. You have the sympathy of all present here. We are outraged on your behalf.”

  “How old were you when this began?” Rathbone went on, after a brief glance at the judge, and a nod from him.

  “Six—I think,” Valentine answered. There was a long sigh around the room, and an electric shiver of rage. Damaris sobbed and Peverell held her. There was a swelling rumble of fury around the gallery and a juror groaned.

  Rathbone was silent for a moment; it seemed he was too appalled to continue immediately.

  “Six years old,” Rathbone repeated, in case anyone had failed to hear. “And did it continue after you stabbed the general?”

  “No—no, he stopped.”

  “And at that time his own son would be … how old?”

  “Cassian?” Valentine swayed and caught hold of the railing. He was ashen.

  “About six?” Rathbone asked, his voice hoarse.

  Valentine nodded.

  This time no one asked him to speak. Even the judge was white-faced.

  Rathbone turned away and walked a pace or two, his hands in his pockets, before swinging around and looking up at Valentine again.

  “Tell me, Valentine, why did you not appeal to your parents over this appalling abuse? Why did you not tell your mother? Surely that is the most natural thing for a small child to do when he is hurt and frightened? Why did you not do that in the beginning, instead of suffering all those years?”

  Valen
tine looked down, his eyes full of misery.

  “Could your mother not have helped you?” Rathbone persisted. “After all, the general was not your father. It would have cost them his friendship, but what was that worth, compared with you, her son? She could have forbidden him the house. Surely your father would have horsewhipped a man for such a thing?”

  Valentine looked up at the judge, his eyes brimming with tears.

  “You must answer,” the judge said gravely. “Did your father abuse you also?”

  “No!” There was no mistaking the amazement and the honesty in his voice and his startled face. “No! Never!”

  The judge took a deep breath and leaned back a little, the shadow of a smile over his mouth.

  “Then why did you not tell him, appeal to him to protect you? Or to your mother. Surely she would have protected you.”

  The tears brimmed over and ran down Valentine’s cheeks unchecked.

  “She knew.” He choked and struggled for breath. “She told me not to tell anyone, especially Papa. She said it would … embarrass him—and cost him his position.”

  There was a roar of rage around the room and a cry of “Hang her!”

  The judge called for order, banging his gavel, and it was several minutes before he could continue. “His position?” He frowned at Rathbone, uncomprehending. “What position?”

  “He earns a great deal of money from army contracts,” Valentine explained.

  “Supplied by General Carlyon?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “That is what your mother said? Be very sure you speak accurately, Valentine.”

  “Yes—she told me.”

  “And you are quite sure that your mother knew exactly what the general was doing to you? You did not fail to tell her the truth?”

  “No! I did tell her!” He gulped, but his tears were beyond his control anymore.

  The anger in the room was now so ugly it was palpable in the air.

  Maxim Furnival sat upright, his face like a dead man’s. Beside him, Louisa was motionless, her eyes stone-hard and hot, her mouth a thin line of hate.

  “Bailiff,” the judge said in a low voice. “You will take Louisa Furnival in charge. Appropriate dispositions will be made to care for Valentine in the future. For the moment perhaps it would be best he remain to comfort his father.”