by Anne Perry
“And you turned away briefly?” Rathbone asked.
“Yes. I…wished to blow my nose,” Celia answered. Such a personal digression seemed to embarrass her. “The sound…”
“Very natural,” Rathbone responded. “What happened while your attention was diverted, Miss Darwin?”
“A young man came up the bank, from the direction of the river.”
“If you did not see him come, how do you know from which direction?” Rathbone interrupted.
“Because I could see around us. If he had been anywhere near, on the path or on the grass, I would have seen him approaching.” Her voice came levelly, perfectly polite.
Hooper, who knew her—at moments he felt he knew her very well—noticed the tension in her. She was afraid. Of what? It troubled Hooper because he did not understand. Actually, he did not understand why Rathbone had called her at all. That Lister had kidnapped Kate from the river walk was not disputed by anyone. What else could she know? He was for Exeter’s defense. Hooper found his hands rigid in his lap, his shoulders hunched.
“Quite so,” Rathbone agreed. “What did you do when you saw Mrs. Exeter was engaged in conversation? Were you alarmed?”
“No, not in the least. The man was quite well dressed, and she did not seem frightened. I wondered if perhaps she knew him, or he just found her attractive and hoped to make her acquaintance.”
“You judged him to be a man of roughly her own social class? Perhaps an acquaintance or a friend of one?”
“Yes.”
“And then what happened?”
“They were walking, and so as not to seem to be eavesdropping, I moved some distance from them. I lost sight of them when a group of people passed between us. Then quite suddenly they were no longer there.”
“Did you recognize the man at all?”
“Not then.”
“We will come to that later, in due course. But as of then, he was not known to you?”
“That is correct.”
“What did you do? Did you scream for help?”
“In the November wind, on a deserted riverbank?” she said a trifle sharply. “I went for help, to find a policeman if I could, or anyone else with the power to do something. I passed a nursemaid with children, but she could hardly help me. Eventually I found a policeman and repeated the whole incident to him. He was helpful, but by then there was little he could do. By the evening, Harry—Mr. Exeter—had received the ransom demand.”
“Just so. Did you have any reason to suspect, any reason at all, that he already knew of the kidnap, or that he had any part in it, Miss Darwin?”
Her voice was very quiet. “None at all.”
“Then, or at any other time?”
She was silent for several moments. What was she waiting for? Hooper stiffened.
“No,” she said finally.
“Did the police take you to see if you could identify the man we now know as Lister, when he was dead?”
“Yes. It was the man I saw talking with Kate.”
“You’re quite sure?”
“Yes.”
Rathbone hesitated a moment, then continued. “Did you see Mr. Exeter after Kate’s death, Miss Darwin? I mean anytime after? To express your condolences, to show your grief, to be of any assistance that you might?”
“Of course. I saw him several times. I was most concerned for him.” She took a deep breath, as if saying something that was difficult for her. “I saw his grief and I…I wished to offer any comfort I could. To…share my own grief. He visited me and was quite devastated.”
Hooper sat forward in his seat. That was not what Celia had said to him. She had said Exeter had largely shut her out of his feelings altogether. Had she deliberately protected his moment of complete vulnerability, out of character for him, because she had been aware that Kate’s friendship with her had irritated him? Celia had not been specific about it to Hooper. She would consider that indelicate to discuss, even a betrayal of Kate in some way. Could he have misunderstood her so completely? Her sensitivity in a way pleased him, but was it honest? Was she saying this to protect Exeter, now that he was charged with murder?
That would mean she did not believe he was guilty. But to lie about it? That was not the woman Hooper had thought he knew, even in so short an acquaintance. But how long does it take to fall in love?
Rathbone was speaking to her again.
“Miss Darwin, I realize it must be difficult for you. There has been more than enough tragedy in your family over the last months, but I need to ask you in some detail, you understand? To dispel the notion of Harry Exeter that my learned friend for the prosecution has presented, and replace it in the minds of the men who are to judge him with the picture you see. You have known him for years. You saw him during the time of the greatest grief and trial in his life. Perhaps you will begin with his reaction to his wife’s death, if you please?”
It was several seconds before Celia started her reply. Hooper ached for her. She was being asked to relive her own pain and her observation of Exeter’s distress, which should have been exquisitely private, a man at the extreme of his emotional agony. It seemed like a total betrayal, and yet it was necessary to save his life.
Hooper glanced for a moment up at the dock and saw the tension in Exeter. To look at him seemed intensely intrusive, even prurient, at such a time, and he turned away.
There was not a sound in the entire court. Not a person even shifted position.
Celia began in a low voice, making a visible effort to speak clearly and loudly enough to be heard, perhaps dreading having to do it again if she failed.
“At first he was totally distraught. He wouldn’t see anyone. I think he could not face the reality of it, could not bear…what he saw…what had to be in his mind. The recollection of it was…awful, unspeakable. It takes time to face reality. I did not see her body…” she gulped, “slashed and…” She shivered and took a moment to get her voice under control.
Hooper longed to be able to help her, even to tell her she did not have to do this. But he knew that she did. In her mind, she was telling the truth, regardless of her own feelings and whether she liked Exeter or not. Hooper had felt certain that she did not, but she would not let him hang for a crime she profoundly believed he had not committed. Did she believe it was Doyle behind Kate’s kidnap and murder? How she must loathe him! But she would not let fear of him or the pain of reliving that time make her keep silent.
“I did not want to disturb him, and I knew sight of me would distress him,” she continued. “I was deeply, terribly grieved myself. Kate was…” She struggled against tears for a moment or two, then mastered herself. “Kate was my only close relative and my dearest friend. She was like a younger sister to me. I think that was…” She took a deep breath. “That was what made Harry come to see me at all. He understood my grief. He looked terrible. He looked twenty years older, and ill…terribly ill. I think we just sat silently that first time. Later, we talked…about Kate, how she was. What she enjoyed, what made her laugh, the flowers she cared for, wildflowers…” She could not stop the tears now, and she did not try. “Hawthorne in bloom, the smell of it, the bees. And bluebells in the spring, the beech woods full of them till there was nowhere to put your feet. So much birdsong!”
Rathbone interrupted her. “Thank you, Miss Darwin. You have explained to us very clearly, so that we feel as if we knew Kate as well. So, you sat together and shared your happy memories of the woman you both had loved.”
It was a moment or two before Celia overcame her emotions. Finally, she lifted up her head. “Yes.”
“Did it ever occur to you that Harry Exeter himself might be responsible for her death?”
“What?” She took a deep breath. Her whole body was shaking. “Of course not! The idea is…preposterous and repulsive.”
“Were you a
cquainted with Miss Bella Franken?”
“Who?” She looked totally confused.
“The bank clerk whom Commander Monk found dead in the river,” Rathbone explained.
“Yes. I had met her once. In a matter of…of Kate’s trust.”
“Bella Franken died sometime between six and eight o’clock on the evening of the twenty-ninth of November. Do you recall what you were doing at that time? On that day?”
In the gallery, everyone, men and women alike, sat motionless, as if they were paintings rather than people.
Hooper felt his own breath suffocate him.
“Yes,” Celia said at last. “I was visiting Harry. We had supper…” Her voice trailed off. “And we spoke of Kate.” She finished in almost a whisper.
“So, he was at home at that time?” Rathbone pressed.
She fought for control of herself. “Yes.”
“Thank you, Miss Darwin.” Rathbone resumed his seat, nodding to Ravenswood.
Ravenswood hesitated, looking confused. It was obvious to Hooper, and must have been to the rest of the court, that he had not expected this testimony. If he had spoken to her before, she cannot have given it to him then. Was he going to try to shake her? Hooper felt hot at the thought, and then freezing. Would she be able to withstand him? Was it the truth? She had mentioned none of it to Hooper. But then, it was her private life, her extended family. Why on earth should she have told Hooper anything about it? He realized with a wave of misery just how much he had presumed she had liked him, trusted him, when in truth it was possible that she was merely being polite. She was a courteous woman. She was probably polite to everyone. How foolish of him, how very vulnerable and naïve! It could be excused a nineteen-year-old, but not a man in his early fifties.
Ravenswood stood up at last. “Miss Darwin, you mentioned none of this before when we spoke. Why was that?”
She looked surprised. “Did I not? I…I’m sorry…I must have forgotten. Or perhaps I did not understand your question. I was very distressed by Kate’s death and the manner of it. And I was so…so grieved for myself, and for Harry. I did not mean to mislead you.” She looked very miserable, as if she had a pain deep within that was tearing her apart, something so deep she was barely in control of herself.
“Did Mr. Exeter ask you to say that you were at his house for supper the night Bella Franken was killed?” Ravenswood’s voice was soft, but his expression offered no forgiveness for evasion. “Think carefully, please.”
She breathed in and out, trying to keep command of herself. Then she opened her eyes, tears running down her cheeks. “No, Mr. Ravenswood, I am quite sure.”
Ravenswood hesitated, doubt, pity, and finally defeat all reflected in his face. “Then I have no further questions. Thank you.”
The judge offered Rathbone the opportunity to speak to Celia again, but he had won, and he knew it.
The judge adjourned the court for the day and told Rathbone to call his final witness when they reconvened tomorrow.
Hooper should go and find Monk and tell him that they had won—or very nearly. Exeter would tell his own story. He must feel safe to do so now. If he made no major error, he would be found not guilty. Probably Doyle would be arrested, and Maurice Latham, too, regarding the embezzlement. But the edge was gone; they could not convict Harry Exeter now. It was victory snatched from the jaws of defeat. Why did Hooper feel so terrible?
Everyone was leaving the court. Hooper stood up and followed the stream of people going out into the bleak winter air. Celia would probably be going home. He spotted her in the crowd easily by her walk and her isolation. She looked as if she’d been leaving the funeral of all she loved. Her step was even slower than usual, her shoulders bowed. She was probably making for the river and the ferry home again. Or perhaps she would take a hansom all the way and go across one of the many bridges.
Hooper was walking swiftly to catch up with her. Why? What could he say to her? He had no right to say anything at all. Still, he walked as fast as he could, until he was level with her. The emotion was so choking inside him that he did not even stop to think of the inappropriateness of it. If she was not furious with him, he had nothing else to lose now. He caught her arm, not hard, but enough to cause her to stop abruptly and swing round to face him. Her eyes were angry and full of tears.
“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “I…” Then he did not know what to say. She had lied, and he knew it, but he had no idea why. What on earth would make a woman like her tell a lie, and under oath? It was against everything he thought he knew of her. Was he so wrong? It was not her face that attracted him, although it pleased him; it was her voice a little, but it was really her purity. What a funny choice of word! It was the inner honesty and gentleness in her that pleased him so intensely. He had to speak. He had spent far too much time thinking of her, imagining what it would be like to know her.
“Please leave me alone, Mr. Hooper,” she said quietly. “I did what I had to. There really isn’t anything to say.”
“You have to protect him? Why? For Kate’s sake? Do you really think that’s what she would want you to do? Is he going to say something of her that’s…?” He began to see what the reason could be. “Are you protecting her memory? What could he say? Nothing could justify what was done to her.”
She pulled her arm away from him, looking not at him but straight ahead of her. “No. It was nothing to do with Kate. You…you don’t understand at all. Please leave me alone.”
He moved to block her way. He was not thinking, just reacting to his own emotions, the beliefs he had of her. “He’ll get away with it! Is that what you think is right?”
“Maybe Doyle did it.” Still she did not look at him. He had believed because he thought he knew how she disliked Exeter, far too much to have shared her grief for Kate with him. He had guessed she was lying because she seemed almost ashamed of what she was saying. Now he was convinced she was lying, but why?
“Who are you protecting?” he asked, letting his hand fall from her arm. “Why? Do you really think it was Doyle who killed her?”
“There’s no way out of it. Please, John, leave it alone.” It was the first time she had used his name. It mattered. It was an expression of instinct, as if she had touched him.
“Do you know how serious it is to lie?” he said more gently.
She swung round to look at him again, her eyes filled with tears. “Yes, of course I do. Just…leave it alone! You don’t know Harry! He will do what he says. He’ll have nothing to lose, and he won’t go alone. He’ll see everyone else suffers, too!” She was crying now, and terrified.
The two of them stood in the street, in the wind and the rain, as if there was no one else around.
“He did it, didn’t he? And you know it. How can he hurt you? Tell me. Perhaps I can stop it.” He spoke gently now. He wanted to protect her more than he could remember ever having wanted anything else. “Celia! What will he do if they find him guilty?”
“Leave it alone!” she said again.
“Will he do something to you? If he’s hanged, he can’t hurt you physically. Is it your house, your means? Are you dependent on him for something?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Do you think I’d let him get away with it for that?” She was angry now. “Just leave it be. Isn’t there anything you’re afraid of? Really afraid?” She was looking directly at him now, her eyes blazing.
“Not enough to save a man who would do that to a woman,” he replied. “You didn’t see her body.” The minute the words were out, he would have given anything to take them back. Her face was ashen, and she was shaking. But it was too late.
“Hanging is not a nice death.” Tears almost choked her voice.
“I know. And I wouldn’t choose to have him hanged,” Hooper answered quietly. He touched her gently, hardly feeling her flesh through the thick coat. �
�But it isn’t up to me. They’ll hang whoever it was. Doyle, if it’s him.”
“It’s got nothing to do with Doyle,” she said in exasperation. “He’s a silly, greedy man, but he hasn’t killed anyone. Harry’s as near evil as a man can be. He killed Kate and Lister and that poor girl in the bank. And he’ll kill you just as easily.”
“Me? He can’t touch me from jail!”
“Oh, for goodness’s sake! Fisk can, and Ledburn.”
Hooper felt as if he had suddenly been stripped naked to the icy wind. He was cold to the bone. That was why she had mentioned hanging. They hanged mutineers. She had lied under oath, not to save Harry Exeter, but to save him, John Hooper.
“How…?” he stammered. Then his throat seemed to close as he gasped for breath.
Now she was looking at him clearly, without pretense, not caring that he knew her feelings. “He was looking for which of Commander Monk’s men he could blame for betraying you. Looking for weaknesses.”
“We…we didn’t…”
“Of course you didn’t. He did it himself. But he couldn’t have you know that. He read about the mutiny. He found the Ledburn family. They’re still alive. Captain Ledburn had a younger brother. At least that’s what Harry told me. And he made it very clear: if he hangs, so will you. Now just leave it alone, please. The only thing is that if they don’t hang Harry, you have to make sure they don’t hang Doyle for it—if he had no part, except to take a bit of money.”
“Why? Why did Harry kill Kate?” He was bewildered.
“Because she was beginning to realize what he was,” she answered. “How he made some of his money. She would have left him and taken her trust money with her. Now leave me. Please.”
“I can’t.” He could hardly believe he was saying the words, but there was no choice. It had caught up with him at last, and there was nothing good left but to act with honor. He realized just how much he cared for her. That she was prepared to do this to save him was reward for anything. “We must tell Monk, and I’ll face the charge. I’ve been running away too long. I didn’t kill Captain Ledburn. I tried to save him. If you believe that, I’ll take my chance with the court. Fisk knows it’s true.” He must say that quickly, before the reality of what he was doing sank in.