Defend and Betray

by Anne Perry

Louisa drew in her breath deeply, her face shadowed, but still she did not glance towards the dock or the motionless woman in it.

  “No.”

  Rathbone smiled, showing his teeth.

  “Indeed, you have testified that she had nothing of which to be jealous. Your friendship with the general was perfectly proper, and a sensible woman might conceivably have regarded it as enviable that you could have such a comfortable regard, perhaps, but not cause for distress, let alone a passionate jealousy or hatred. Indeed there seems no reason for it at all. Is that not so?”

  “Yes.” It was not a flattering description, and certainly not glamorous, or the image Hester had seen Louisa project. Hester smiled to herself and glanced at Monk, but Monk had not caught the inflection. He was watching the jury.

  “And this friendship between yourself and the general had existed for many years, some thirteen or fourteen years, in fact?”

  “Yes.”

  “With the full knowledge and consent of your husband?”

  “Of course.”

  “And of Mrs. Carlyon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she at any time at all approach you on the matter, or let you know that she was displeased about it?”

  “No.” Louisa raised her eyebrows. “This came without any warning at all.”

  “What came, Mrs. Furnival?”

  “Why the … the murder, of course.” She looked a little disconcerted, not entirely sure whether he was very simple or very clever.

  He smiled blandly, a slight curling of the lips. “Then on what evidence do you suppose that jealousy of you was the cause?”

  She breathed in slowly, giving herself time, and her expression hardened.

  “I—I did not think it, until she herself claimed it to be so. But I have experienced unreasonable jealousies before, and it was not hard to believe. Why should she lie about it? It is not a quality one would wish to claim—it is hardly attractive.”

  “A profound question, Mrs. Furnival, which in time I will answer. Thank you.” He half turned away. “That is all I have to ask you. Please remain there, in case my learned friend has any questions to redirect to you.”

  Lovat-Smith rose, smiling, a small, satisfied gesture.

  “No thank you, I think Mrs. Furnival by her very appearance makes the motive of jealousy more than understandable.”

  Louisa flushed, but it was quite obviously with pleasure, even a vindication. She shot a hard glance at Rathbone as she very carefully came down the steps, negotiating the hoops of her wide skirts with a swaggering grace, and walked across the small space of the floor.

  There was a rustle of movement in the crowd and a few clearly audible shouts of admiration and approval. Louisa sailed out with her head high and an increasing satisfaction in her face.

  Hester found her muscles clenching and a totally unreasonable anger boiling up inside her. It was completely unfair. Louisa could not know the truth, and in all likelihood she believed that Alexandra had murdered the general out of exactly the sudden and violent jealousy she envisioned. But Hester’s anger remained exactly the same.

  She looked up at the dock and saw Alexandra’s pale face. She could see no hatred in it, no easy contempt. There was nothing there but tiredness and fear.

  The next witness to be called was Maxim Furnival. He took the stand very gravely, his face pale. He was stronger than Hester had remembered, with more gravity and power to his features, more honest emotion. He had not testified yet, but she found herself disposed towards him. She glanced up at Alexandra again, and saw a momentary breaking of her self-control, a sudden softening, as if memories, and perhaps a sweetness, came through with bitter contrast. Then it was gone again, and the present reasserted itself.

  Maxim was sworn in, and Lovat-Smith rose to address him.

  “Of course you were also at this unfortunate dinner party, Mr. Furnival?”

  Maxim looked wretched; he had none of Louisa’s panache or flair for appearing before an audience. His bearing, the look in his face, suggested his mind was filled with memory of the tragedy, an awareness of the murder that still lay upon them. He had looked at Alexandra once, painfully, without evasion and without anger or blame. Whatever he thought of her, or believed, it was not harsh.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “Naturally,” Lovat-Smith agreed. “Will you please tell us what you remember of that evening, from the time your first guests arrived.”

  In a quiet voice, but without hesitation, Maxim recounted exactly the same events as Louisa had, only his choice of words was different, laden with his knowledge of what had later occurred. Lovat-Smith did not interrupt him until he came to the point where Alexandra returned from upstairs, alone.

  “What was her manner, Mr. Furnival? You did not mention it, and yet your wife said that it was worthy of remark.” He glanced at Rathbone; he had forestalled objection, and Rathbone smiled back.

  “I did not notice,” Maxim replied, and it was so obviously a lie there was a little gasp from the crowd and the judge glanced at him a second time in surprise.

  “Try your memory a little harder, Mr. Furnival,” Lovat-Smith said gravely. “I think you will find it comes to you.” Deliberately he kept his back to Rathbone.

  Maxim frowned. “She had not been herself all evening.” He met Lovat-Smith’s eyes directly. “I was concerned for her, but not more so when she came down than earlier.”

  Lovat-Smith seemed on the edge of asking yet again, but heard Rathbone rise from his seat to object and changed his mind.

  “What happened next?” he said instead.

  “I went to the front hall, I forget what for now, and I saw Thaddeus lying on the floor with the suit of armor in pieces all around him—and the halberd in his chest.” He hesitated only to compose himself, and Lovat-Smith did not prompt him. “It was quite obvious he had been very seriously hurt, far too seriously for me to do anything useful to help him, so I went back to the withdrawing room to get Charles Hargrave—the doctor …”

  “Yes, naturally. Was Mrs. Carlyon there?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did she take the news that her husband had had a serious, possibly even fatal accident, Mr. Furnival?”

  “She was very shocked, very pale indeed and I think a trifle faint, what do you imagine? It is a fearful thing to have to tell any woman.”

  Lovat-Smith smiled and looked down at the floor, pushing his hands into his pockets again.

  Hester looked at the jury. She could see from the puckered brows, the careful mouths, that their minds were crowded with all manner of questions, sharper and more serious for being unspoken. She had the first intimation of Lovat-Smith’s skill.

  “Of course,” Lovat-Smith said at last. “Fearful indeed. And I expect you were deeply distressed on her behalf.” He turned and looked up at Maxim suddenly. “Tell me, Mr. Furnival, did you at any time suspect that your wife was having an affair with General Carlyon?”

  Maxim’s face was pale, and he stiffened as if the question were distasteful, but not unexpected.

  “No, I did not. If I said I trusted my wife, you would no doubt find that of no value, but I had known General Carlyon for many years, and I knew that he was not a man to enter into such a relationship. He had been a friend to both of us for some fifteen years. Had I at any time suspected there to be anything improper I should not have allowed it to continue. That surely you can believe?”

  “Of course, Mr. Furnival. Would it be true then to say that you would find Mrs. Carlyon’s jealousy in that area to be unfounded, not an understandable passion rooted in a cause that anyone might sympathize with?”

  Maxim looked unhappy, his eyes downcast, avoiding Lovat-Smith.

  “I find it hard to believe she truly thought there was an affair,” he said very quietly. “I cannot explain it.”

  “Your wife is a very beautiful woman, sir; jealousy is not always a rational emotion. Unreasonable suspicion can—”

  Rathbone was on his f
eet.

  “My lord, my honorable friend’s speculations on the nature of jealousy are irrelevant to this case, and may prejudice the jury’s opinions, since they are being presented as belonging to Mrs. Carlyon in this instance.”

  “Your objection is sustained,” the judge said without hesitation, then turned to Lovat-Smith. “Mr. Lovat-Smith, you know better than that. Prove your point, do not philosophize.”

  “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, rustles 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 carefully: 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.”