by Anne Perry
Mariah could remember that too. Another conversation by the fire. He had told her, with some self-deprecation, of a case he had defended when he was much younger, convinced the man was guilty. His mentor at the time, when he was quite junior in his law firm, had told him to defend the man with all his skills. It was an order. Cullen had done so, reluctantly, only to discover in the end that the man was actually innocent—unlikeable, but innocent of that particular crime. They had laughed about it together, he and Mariah. She remembered it for the moment of ease, but also because she herself had been misjudged because of her temper, her unkindness in the most bitter of her married years. If she had been charged with cruelty, she would have hated Cullen to know it, but she could not have asked for a better advocate to find the good in her, and speak to that.
Now she was aware that Peter was watching her.
“He had a reason,” she said, as if the matter were now beyond contesting. “A good reason why he couldn’t go on. I think we need to find out what that was, if we possibly can. It must almost certainly have something to do with what happened afterward, and why Durward has come back.”
“Are we sure Durward was guilty?” Peter asked.
Mariah looked at his face. In that moment he seemed far younger than his thirty years. She could see the boy in him, in the days after Cullen’s death. She would have liked to protect him from doubt, from discovery of the small things he would rather not have known, and yet now it was inevitable. That was another reason to hate Owen Durward! If he was guilty?
“I believe so,” she told Peter. “But of course I don’t know.”
He smiled uncertainly, but he did not say anything.
Mariah gained Rowena’s permission and spent the rest of the day in Cullen’s study, which was, even after all these years, still much as he had left it. His books and papers were dusted every week by the housemaid, and nothing had been taken away. Were they kept for any reason?
Or was it just that Rowena had never found the heart to give them away, or to destroy anything? Had part of her feared this day would come, and the whole issue would be opened up again?
Mariah thought not.
To begin with, she was dismayed. There was so much. Then it occurred to her that perhaps the papers were kept in either order of subject or, more likely, order of occurrence. What she needed would be from the last month or so of Cullen’s life. If she started at the latest file and worked backwards, she should find whatever notes he had made. They might not tell it all, but at least she would find whatever there was.
It drew her in immediately. Most papers were typed, which made the notations in his own hand easily visible. They could have been made yesterday, except there were no usable pens on his desk nor ink in the well. It had been twenty years, but in all other ways it was as if he had been here yesterday.
There were footsteps in the hall, and for an instant Mariah was afraid Cullen would come in and ask her why she had intruded into his office. He would expect an explanation. He knew her intelligence and would not think she had read these things mistakenly. When the footsteps receded, she relaxed, but with a wave of loneliness.
She turned her attention back to the papers. They were mostly letters of business, advice in certain affairs. The files of his clients’ matters had all been passed to whoever was chosen to deal with them after his death. What was left were his own diaries, comments, intentions he had not lived to fulfill. What could she learn from them? Where had he been, where had he intended to go?
It was the notes on scraps of paper that were most revealing. There was a dry humor to them that brought his memory back to her so sharply she grieved all over again, like tearing the scab off an old wound she thought had healed, to find it could still bleed. Underneath his good manners, he had been a far sharper observer of other people’s foibles and vulnerabilities than even Rowena had expressed.
There were notes in his diary that Mariah was increasingly aware he had not meant anyone else to read. But she did not realize which they were until she had already read them. Going back to the arrest of Durward and Cullen’s first meeting with him as a client, it was clear that Cullen did not like the man. It was there in his notes to himself, reminders to be fair, that he was the advocate and not the judge. He chided himself for his instinctive feelings. There were comments such as “I fear I allowed him to sense my dislike” and “What an arrogant fool the man is!” “Is it fear speaking?” “Who else will act for him if I don’t?” “Am I making a mistake here?” “Look into this a lot more deeply.” They seemed to be written after meetings with someone whose name was illegible.
There were also marks she took a while to decipher. For example, the skull and crossbones that appeared next to points where he considered himself to have been wrong. They revealed his emotions more than he would ever have allowed anyone else to see. Possibly Rowena, but Mariah believed not.
Then the day before his death, he had written, “Oh God!” and later on the page, “Now what? Really, I am a fool! And it’s my own fault. I must deal with it.”
This was what she was looking for, and no matter how often she read it, all it conveyed to her was his distress, not any detail as to what caused it, except possibly to do with Durward. It could be twisted to mean almost anything, and a clever lawyer would do that.
She closed the diary and put it back where she had found it, along with the letters and scraps of notes on this or that, old railway timetables, an almanac and an advertisement for a raincoat.
Even if they looked into it further, what would they find? There would be things that would hurt. Weaknesses, misjudgments. Everyone had moments they preferred to forget, errors that reflected sides of their character perhaps conquered since.
Rowena had adored Cullen. But had she known the real man? How much of his passion, his anger, or his wit had he kept from her?
And Peter? His own father had died when he was very young indeed. Cullen had been the man he most admired, at least up to the age of ten, when Mariah had known him. How much truth did he want?
Then Mariah was impatient with herself. For heaven’s sake! What would either of them think of her if they knew her very deepest secrets? Rowena could not possibly understand a woman who would submit to what Mariah’s husband had demanded of her! She would think Mariah filthy, that she had lived through it and stayed with him. Mariah could have told her there was no choice: in those days, a woman was her husband’s property to do with as he wished. It was not rape, no matter what form it took.
She had told no one. Not ever. The humiliation was beyond words. And who on earth would believe her? If she had told anyone at all, he would have had her committed to an asylum. They would have said she was depraved, as they had said of other women who tried to fight back. She knew all of this now, and yet, fifty years after the events, she still despised herself that she had not fought him.
What would Peter think of her? That was something she could not allow into her mind. Even the idea of it was unbearable. He certainly would not see her as the person who could fight to defend his grandmother from an accusation, or to defend Cullen’s name from whatever vile thing Durward would say of him. Would Peter see that Mariah was a coward? She had even lied, when she was a widow, and praised her dead husband as if he had been the sort of man she wished he had been: a man like Cullen Wesley.
Everyone had their secrets, their mistakes that should be allowed to lie buried in the past, forgotten and forgiven.
There was a knock on the door. She closed the desk before she answered.
The maid came in to say that dinner was served.
“Thank you,” Mariah replied. “I will go upstairs and tidy myself and be at the table in ten minutes.”
Dinner was a vaguely uncomfortable meal. The food was excellent, but they were all aware of the purpose for their being together, and it seemed artificial to speak lightly, as if Christmas were to be a celebration and there were no shadows over everything.
It was Mariah w
ho finally shattered the presence, over a particularly delicious apple pie served with cream.
“I looked in Cullen’s study,” she said in the silence. “I found a few places to begin. He discovered something. He noted it, but only his own reaction…”
Rowena dropped her spoon. The silver clattered heavily on the porcelain of her plate.
“I’m sure…” she murmured, picking it up again, although she did not eat any more. She never completed the sentence. Perhaps she had nothing in mind to say anyway.
“I think we need to know what it was, if we can,” Mariah continued. “Because it was the day before he died. He wrote that he would have to do something about it, but not more than that.”
“To do with Durward?” Peter said quickly. “He discovered something that changed his mind about defending him!”
Rowena seemed frozen.
“What could that be?” Mariah asked. There was no possibility of retreat now. How deeply was she going to regret this?
Peter was considering, his face set in concentration.
“Let me think logically,” he said at last. “Grandfather was a lawyer. He defended many people, and of course most of them were to some degree or another guilty…” Rowena turned to him indignantly, about to deny it.
He put his hand on her wrist. “Grandmother, the police are wrong sometimes, but much more often they are right. Grandfather spoke for his clients to offer even small reasons to excuse them, take other circumstances into account, maybe give a lighter sentence. He certainly didn’t imagine they were all wrongly accused. Even guilty people need to have someone to stand up for them!”
“Yes…I…I suppose you are right,” Rowena conceded, but there was still anger in her eyes. “He was not very judging of people. I mean he…I don’t know what I mean. He was a good man! But he was certainly not foolish.”
Mariah tried to sound gentle. “It seems from what he wrote in his notes that he had somehow made an error in his estimation of Durward’s case. There is no mention of what it was.” She turned to Peter. “What reasons would cause an advocate to drop a case when he was already committed to it? As we have agreed, many of his clients were guilty. And clearly he knew that Durward was charged with the rape and murder of Christina Abbott.”
Peter bit his lip. “You have the crux of it there, Mrs. Ellison. Grandfather knew the charge, and obviously the possibility that the man was guilty. I don’t know what else he could have discovered that would change his mind. I suppose Durward could have told him something else that he did not know, but I doubt it. Even now Durward is still saying that he is innocent.”
Mariah could think of nothing that answered the question. They finished their dessert in silence.
Rowena excused herself early and retired to bed, asking Mariah if she would be good enough to bring her a cup of hot milk.
Mariah fetched it from the kitchen and took it upstairs. She had a strong feeling that Rowena wanted to confide something to her that she did not wish Peter to hear.
Mariah did not really want to know it either. There were too many matters that should remain unspoken. Everyone needed privacy for old wounds, old mistakes, weaknesses that others did not need to know. Disillusion was extraordinarily painful.
She knocked on the bedroom door, and when she heard Rowena’s voice, she went in.
Rowena was sitting up in bed, her hair tied loosely, her face almost ashen.
Mariah knew that it was inevitable now. She was going to learn something she would very much rather not know. Could she face it, if Rowena broke her dream of Cullen, the man she had believed him to be? Had she idealized him, because she was dreadfully aware he would never be more than a dear friend?
We all need privacy, time to repent, and to forget! Room to change, space and forgiveness so we can heal. Now they were digging into Cullen’s papers to understand so they could defend him against Durward.
Or was it against an old mistake of his own, and Durward was innocent?
“What is it you want to tell me?” she said to Rowena. “You can’t drink the milk yet. It’s too hot. Put it down and tell me.”
Rowena put the milk down. She had not really wanted it anyway. It was a way of getting Mariah up here, where they were alone. They both knew that.
“I made a mistake,” Rowena said softly. “I know you thought the world of Cullen. And you were right. He was a wonderful man…but he could be distant at times, impatient when I didn’t understand some of the things he said…”
Mariah did not interrupt. She could easily believe that was true. Rowena was gentle, funny, generous, but she had not been brought up to have an inquiring mind. And she had not Mariah’s edge of temper to develop it for herself. Cullen had loved her, and she had made him happy in many ways. But he engaged Mariah’s sharper intelligence, and her willingness to argue a point, take it apart and rethink it.
Rowena was watching her. How much did she understand?
“Owen Durward flattered me,” Rowena said quietly, avoiding Mariah’s eyes now. “Cullen knew I loved him and would never even think of anyone else. He…took me for granted in….in some ways.”
Mariah felt a prickle of discomfort, but she did her best to deny it, even to herself.
“I allowed Durward to flirt with me,” Rowena went on, her voice growing even quieter. “On one occasion it…it went too far…”
“What?” The moment the exclamation was out, Mariah regretted it, but it was too late.
“Not that far!” Rowena said instantly. “Really, Mariah! I…I let him kiss me.” Her face was scarlet now. “And then I pushed him away. He was…angry. I don’t know what he imagined. He told me…” She took a deep breath, struggling to continue. “He told me that if I did not treat him with warmth in the future, he would tell Cullen, and anyone else who asked, that I had thrown myself at him, and he had been embarrassed and…and revolted…and he had rejected me fiercely. My dislike of him was based upon that. I didn’t dare be anything but cordial to him after that. I was so ashamed. You cannot imagine…”
“Yes,” Mariah said immediately. “Yes, I can imagine…” She did something completely out of her character. She put her hand gently over Rowena’s, and held it. “I can imagine very well. I am so sorry such a thing happened to you. It seems that Owen Durward is a thoroughly vile man. We will not beat him easily. But we will beat him!” She had no idea if that was true, but she refused even to imagine failure.
Mariah had tried not to think of newspaper reporters and the damage they might inflict, but the next morning she was up early, unable to sleep, and had barely finished breakfast when the first one knocked on the door.
The footman arrived to say that a Mr. Roberts, from the newspapers, wished to speak with Mrs. Wesley, but Mrs. Wesley was not yet up and would Mrs. Ellison be kind enough to speak to him instead?
Mariah considered a variety of brief and very blunt replies, and then realized that whatever she said, or refused to say, they were likely to print it anyway. They would write something like “Even Mrs. Wesley’s closest friends refuse to explain anything. Mrs. Mariah Ellison, who was present at the time of the original trial, and of Mr. Wesley’s death, will say nothing in defense of her friend.” She could not say that was untrue. And how would that look?
Reluctantly, she told the footman to let the man in. She would see him when she had finished her breakfast.
“Shall I offer him tea, ma’am?” he asked.
“Certainly not!” Mariah said tartly. “He is not a friend; he is a nuisance that unfortunately we cannot afford to ignore. I will attend to him when I am ready. Let him wait in the morning room, where there is nothing he can meddle with or snoop into.”
“Yes, Mrs. Ellison.”
Mariah finished her tea and poured a second cup, then did not want it after all. She was much more nervous about speaking to the newspaper reporter than she cared to acknowledge. Best to get it over with. Doubtless there would be additional reporters as the issue became more public.
The reporter was a young man with unusually straight hair. It poked out at the sides, instead of curving with his head. He was pacing around the room, staring at the bookshelves, when Mariah entered.
“You may sit down,” she told him coolly. “I am Mrs. Ellison, a friend of Mrs. Wesley. She is not well enough to be harassed by you, or your fellows. What is it you wish to know?”
“Good morning, Mrs. Ellison,” he replied, remaining on his feet. “This is a very nice house. Mrs. Wesley must be well situated to afford it.”
She raised her eyebrows. “If that is a question to which you think I know the answer then you are mistaken. I do not inquire into the financial affairs of my friends.”
“But you know the personal affairs,” he said with a smile. “You knew Mr. Wesley, I believe. Quite well?”
She must be careful. He phrased his questions so that a simple answer could be misunderstood. “I have known Mrs. Wesley for many years,” she agreed. “You did not come here to ask me that. It is common knowledge. The village postman could have told you so.”
“Indeed. I could get a lot of information from the village postman, or the innkeeper, or in most of the shops,” he agreed. “But that would be gossip. I prefer to go to the source. You were here when Mr. Wesley was killed, I believe? Were you surprised?”
“You are mistaken. I was not here.”
“My information says you were.”
She wished she were free to slap that unctuous smile from his face, but that would make a marvelous article for him. She could just imagine it. She must not give him fuel for anything. He would use it.
“I was here before,” she said coolly. “I went home. I returned when I heard the news. Is this really a matter of public concern? I do not have the time, or the inclination, to help you gain general background to your story.”