Defend and Betray

by Anne Perry

  “You may leave Mrs. Carlyon’s interest in my hands,” Rathbone assured him. “I am here to represent her. Please answer my question. Describe her behavior. Did she scream?” He leaned back a little to stare up at Hargrave, his eyes very wide. “Did she faint, take a fit?” He spread his hands wide. “Throw herself about, have hallucinations? In what way was she hysterical?”

  Hargrave sighed impatiently. “You exhibit a layman’s idea of hysteria, if you pardon my saying so. Hysteria is a state of mind where control is lost, not necessarily a matter of uncontrolled physical behavior.”

  “How did you know her mind was out of control, Dr. Hargrave?” Rathbone was very polite. Watching him, Monk longed for him to be thoroughly rude, to tear Hargrave to pieces in front of the jury. But his better sense knew it would forfeit their sympathy, which in the end was what would win or lose them the case—and Alexandra’s life.

  Hargrave thought for a moment before beginning.

  “She could not keep still,” he said at length. “She kept moving from one position to another, at times unable even to remain seated. Her whole body shook and when she picked up something, I forget what, it slipped through her fingers. Her voice was trembling and she fumbled her words. She wept uncontrollably.”

  “But no deliriums, hallucinations, fainting, screaming?” Rathbone pressed.

  “No. I have told you not.” Hargrave was impatient and he glanced at the jury, knowing he had their sympathy.

  “Tell us, Dr. Hargrave, how would this behavior differ from that of someone who had just received a severe shock and was extremely distressed, even agonized, by her experience?”

  Hargrave thought for several seconds.

  “I cannot think that it would,” he said at last. “Except that she did not speak of any shock, or discovery.”

  Rathbone opened his eyes wide, as if mildly surprised. “She did not even hint that she had learned her husband had betrayed her with another woman?”

  He leaned a little forward over the rail of the witness box. “No—no, she did not. I think I have already said, Mr. Rathbone, that she could have made no such dramatic discovery, because it was not so. This affair, if you wish to call it that, was all in her imagination.”

  “Or yours, Doctor,” Rathbone said, his voice suddenly gritted between his teeth.

  Hargrave flushed, but with embarrassment and anger rather than guilt. His eyes remained fixed on Rathbone and there was no evasion in them.

  “I answered your question, Mr. Rathbone,” he said bitterly. “You are putting words into my mouth. I did not say there was an affair, indeed I said there was not!”

  “Just so,” Rathbone agreed, turning back to the body of the court again. “There was no affair, and Mrs. Carlyon at no time mentioned it to you, or suggested that it was the cause of her extreme distress.”

  “That is …” Hargrave hesitated, as if he would add something, then found no words and remained silent.

  “But she was extremely distressed by something, you are positive about that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you. When did this occur, your first observation of her state of mind?”

  “I have not a precise date, but it was in July of last year.”

  “Approximately nine months before the general’s death?”

  “That is right.” Hargrave smiled. It was a trivial calculation.

  “And you have no idea of any event at this time which could have precipitated it?”

  “No idea at all.”

  “You were General Carlyon’s physician?”

  “I have already said so.”

  “Indeed. And you have recounted the few occasions on which you were called to treat him professionally. He seems to have been a man in excellent health, and those injuries he sustained in action were quite naturally treated by the army surgeons in the field.”

  “You are stating the obvious,” Hargrave said with tight lips.

  “Perhaps it is obvious to you why you did not mention the one wound that you did treat, but it escapes me,” Rathbone said with the smallest of smiles.

  For the first time Hargrave was visibly discomfited. He opened his mouth, said nothing, and closed it again. His hands on the rail were white at the knuckles.

  There was silence in the courtroom.

  Rathbone walked across the floor a pace or two and turned back.

  There was a sudden lifting of interest throughout the court. The jury shifted on their benches almost imperceptibly.

  Hargrave’s face tightened, but he could not avoid an answer, and he knew it.

  “It was a domestic accident, and all rather foolish,” he said, lifting his shoulder a little as if to dismiss it, and at the same time explain its omission. “He was cleaning an ornamental dagger and it slipped and cut him in the upper leg.”

  “You observed this happen?” Rathbone asked casually.

  “Ah—no. I was called to the house because the wound was bleeding quite badly, and naturally I asked him what had happened. He told me.”

  “Then it is hearsay?” Rathbone raised his eyebrows. “Not satisfactory, Doctor. It may have been the truth—equally it may not.”

  Lovat-Smith came to his feet.

  “Is any of this relevant, my lord? I can understand my learned friend’s desire to distract the jury’s minds from Dr. Hargrave’s evidence, indeed to try and discredit him in some way, but this is wasting the court’s time and serving no purpose at all.”

  The judge looked at Rathbone.

  “Mr. Rathbone, do you have some object in view? If not, I shall have to order you to move on.”

  “Oh yes, my lord,” Rathbone said with more confidence than Monk thought he could feel. “I believe the injury may be of crucial importance to the case.”

  Lovat-Smith swung around with an expressive gesture, raising his hands palm upwards.

  Someone in the courtroom tittered with laughter, and it was instantly suppressed.

  Hargrave sighed.

  “Please describe the injury, Doctor,” Rathbone continued.

  “It was a deep gash to the thigh, in the front and slightly to the inside, precisely where a knife might have slipped from one’s hand while cleaning it.”

  “Deep? An inch? Two inches? And how long, Doctor?”

  “About an inch and a half at its deepest, and some five inches long,” Hargrave replied with wry, obvious weariness.

  “Quite a serious injury. And pointing in which direction?” Rathbone asked with elaborate innocence.

  Hargrave stood silent, his face pale.

  In the dock Alexandra leaned a fraction forward for the first time, as if at last something had been said which she had not expected.

  “Please answer the question, Dr. Hargrave,” the judge instructed.

  “Ah—er—it was … upwards,” Hargrave said awkwardly.

  “Upwards?” Rathbone blinked and even from behind his elegant shoulders expressed incredulity, as if he could not have heard correctly. “You mean—from the knee up towards the groin, Dr. Hargrave?”

  “Yes,” Hargrave said almost inaudibly.

  “I beg your pardon? Would you please repeat that so the jury can hear you?”

  “Yes,” Hargrave said grimly.

  The jury was puzzled. Two leaned forward. One shifted in his seat, another frowned in deep concentration. They did not know what relevance it could possibly have, but they knew duress when they saw it, and felt Hargrave’s reluctance and the sudden change in tension.

  Even the crowd was silent.

  A lesser man than Lovat-Smith would have interrupted again, but he knew it would only betray his own uncertainty.

  “Tell us, Dr. Hargrave,” Rathbone went on quietly, “how a man cleaning a knife could have it slip from his hand so as to stab himself upwards, from knee to groin?” He turned on the spot, very slowly. “In fact, perhaps you would oblige us by showing us exactly what motion you had in mind when you—er—believed this account of his? I presume you k
now why a military man of his experience, a general indeed, should be clumsy enough to clean a knife so incompetently? I would have expected better from the rank and file.” He frowned. “In fact, ordinary man as I am, I have no ornamental knives, but I do not clean my own silver, or my own boots.”

  “I have no idea why he cleaned it,” Hargrave replied, leaning forward over the rail of the witness box, his hands gripping the edge. “But since it was he who had the accident with it, I was quite ready to believe him. Perhaps it was because he did not normally clean it that he was clumsy.”

  He had made a mistake, and he knew it immediately. He should not have tried to justify it.

  “You cannot know it was he who had the accident, if indeed it was an accident,” Rathbone said with excessive politeness. “Surely what you mean is that it was he who had the wound?”

  “If you wish,” Hargrave replied tersely. “It seems a quibble to me.”

  “And the manner in which he was holding it to sustain such a wound as you describe so clearly for us?” Rathbone raised his hand as if gripping a knife, and bent his body experimentally into various contortions to slip and gash himself upwards. It was perfectly impossible, and the court began to titter with nervous laughter. Rathbone looked up enquiringly at Hargrave.

  “All right!” Hargrave snapped. “It cannot have happened as he said. What are you suggesting? That Alexandra tried to stab him? Surely you are supposed to be here defending her, not making doubly sure she is hanged!”

  The judge leaned forward, his face angry, his voice sharp.

  “Dr. Hargrave, your remarks are out of order, and grossly prejudicial. You will withdraw them immediately.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry. But I think it is Mr. Rathbone you should caution. He is incompetent in his defense of Mrs. Carlyon.”

  “I doubt it. I have known Mr. Rathbone for many years, but if he should prove to be so, then the accused may appeal on that ground.” He looked towards Rathbone. “Please continue.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Rathbone bowed very slightly. “No, Dr. Hargrave, I was not suggesting that Mrs. Carlyon stabbed her husband, I was pointing out that he must have lied to you as to the cause of this wound, and that it seemed undeniable that someone stabbed him. I shall make my suggestions as to who, and why, at a later time.”

  There was another rustle of interest, and the first shadow of doubt across the faces of the jury. It was the only time they had been given any cause to question the case as Lovat-Smith had presented it. It was a very small shadow, no more than a flicker, but it was there.

  Hargrave turned to step down.

  “Just one more thing, Dr. Hargrave,” Rathbone said quickly. “What was General Carlyon wearing when you were called to tend this most unpleasant wound?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Hargrave looked incredulous.

  “What was General Carlyon wearing?” Rathbone repeated. “In what was he dressed?”

  “I have no idea. For God’s sake! What does it matter?”

  “Please answer my question,” Rathbone insisted. “Surely you noticed, when you had to cut it away to reach the wound?”

  Hargrave made as if to speak, then stopped, his face pale.

  “Yes?” Rathbone said very softly.

  “He wasn’t.” Hargrave seemed to regather himself. “It had already been removed. He had on simply his underwear.”

  “I see. No—no blood-soaked trousers?” Rathbone shrugged eloquently. “Someone had already at least partially treated him? Were these garments lying close to hand?”

  “No—I don’t think so. I didn’t notice.”

  Rathbone frowned, a look of suddenly renewed interest crossing his face.

  “Where did this—accident—take place, Dr. Hargrave?”

  Hargrave hesitated. “I—I’m not sure.”

  Lovat-Smith rose from his seat and the judge looked at him and shook his head fractionally.

  “If you are about to object that it is irrelevant, Mr. Lovat-Smith, I will save you the trouble. It is not. I myself wish to know the answer to this. Dr. Hargrave? You must have some idea. He cannot have moved far with a wound such as you describe. Where did you see him when you attended it?”

  Hargrave was pale, his face drawn.

  “In the home of Mr. and Mrs. Furnival, my lord.”

  There was a rustle of excitement around the room, a letting out of breath. At least half the jurors turned to look up at Alexandra, but her face registered only complete incomprehension.

  “Did you say in the house of Mr. and Mrs. Furnival, Dr. Rathbone?” the judge said with undisguised surprise.

  “Yes, my lord,” Hargrave replied unhappily.

  “Mr. Rathbone,” the judge instructed, “please continue.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Rathbone looked anything but shaken; indeed he appeared quite calm. He turned back to Hargrave. “So the general was cleaning this ornamental knife in the Furnivals’ house?”

  “I believe so. I was told he was showing it to young Valentine Furnival. It was something of a curio. I daresay he was demonstrating its use—or something of the sort …”

  There was a nervous titter around the room. Rathbone’s face registered a wild and fleeting humor, but he forbore from making the obvious remark. Indeed he turned to something utterly different, which took them all by surprise.

  “Tell me, Dr. Hargrave, what was the general wearing when he left to go back to his own house?”

  “The clothes in which he came, of course.”

  Rathbone’s eyebrows shot up, and too late Hargrave realized his error.

  “Indeed?” Rathbone said with amazement. “Including those torn and bloodstained trousers?”

  Hargrave said nothing.

  “Shall I recall Mrs. Sabella Pole, who remembers the incident quite clearly?”

  “No—no.” Hargrave was thoroughly annoyed, his lips in a thin line, his face pale and set. “The trousers were quite intact—and not stained. I cannot explain it, and did not seek to. It is not my affair. I simply treated the wound.”

  “Indeed,” Rathbone agreed with a small, unreadable smile. “Thank you, Dr. Hargrave. I have no further questions for you.”

  The next witness was Evan, for the police. His testimony was exactly what most would have foreseen and presented no interest for Monk. He watched Evan’s sensitive, unhappy face as he recounted being called to the Furnivals’ house, seeing the body and drawing the inevitable conclusions, then the questioning of all the people concerned. It obviously pained him.

  Monk found his attention wandering. Rathbone could not provide a defense out of what he had, no matter how brilliant his cross-examination. It would be ridiculous to hope he could trick or force from any one of the Carlyons the admission that they knew the general was abusing his son. He had seen them outside in the hallway, sitting upright, dressed in black, faces set in quiet, dignified grief, totally unified. Even Edith Sobell was with them and now and again looked with concern at her father. But Felicia was in the courtroom, since she had not been subpoenaed to give evidence, and therefore was permitted inside the court. She was very pale behind her veil, and rigid as a plastic figure.

  It was imperative they had to find out who else was involved in the pederasty, apart from the general and his father. Cassian had said “others,” not merely his grandfather. Who? Who had access to the boy in a place sufficiently private? That was important; it had to be utterly private. One would hardly undertake such an activity where there was the slightest risk of interruption.

  The interrogations went on and Monk was almost unaware of them.

  Family again? Peverell Erskine? Was that what Damaris had discovered that night which had driven her nearly frantic with distress, so much so that she had been unable to control herself? After seeing Valentine Furnival she had come downstairs in a state bordering on hysteria. Why? Had she learned that her husband was sodomizing his nephew? But what could possibly have taken place up there that would tell her such a thing? Peverell him
self had remained downstairs. Everyone had sworn to that. So she could not have seen anything. And Cassian was not even in the Furnivals’ house.

  But she had seen or heard something. Surely it could not be a coincidence that it had been the night of the murder? But what? What had she discovered?

  Fenton Pole had been present. Was he the other one who abused Cassian, and in some way the cause of Sabella’s hatred?

  Or was it Maxim Furnival? Was the relationship between the general and Maxim not only one of mutual business interest but the indulgence of a mutual vice as well? Was that the reason for his frequent visits to the Furnival house, and nothing to do with Louisa? That would be a nice irony. No wonder Alexandra found a bitter and terrible humor in it.

  But she had not known there was anyone else. She had thought that in killing the general she had ended it, freed Cassian from the abuse. She knew of no one else, not even the old colonel.

  Evan was still testifying, this time answering Rathbone, but the questions were superfluous, only clarifying points already made, that Evan had found nothing to prove the jealousy Alexandra had denied, and he found it hard to believe in himself.

  Monk’s thoughts wandered away again. That wound on the General’s leg. Surely it had been Cassian who had inflicted that? From what Hester had said of her interview with the boy, and her observation of him, he was ambivalent about the abuse, uncertain whether it was right or wrong, afraid to lose his mother’s love, secretive, flattered, frightened, but not entirely hating it. There was a frisson of excitement in him even when he mentioned it, the thrill of inclusion in the adult world, knowing something that others did not.

  Had he ever been taken to the Furnivals’ house? They should have asked about that. It was an omission.

  “Did the general ever take Cassian to the Furnivals’ house?” he whispered to Hester next to him.

  “Not that I know of,” she replied. “Why?”

  “The other pederast,” he replied almost under his breath. “We have to know who it is.”

  “Maxim Furnival?” she said in amazement, raising her voice without realizing it.

  “Be quiet,” someone said angrily.

  “Why not?” he answered, leaning forward so he could whisper. “It’s got to be someone who saw the boy regularly, and privately—and where Alexandra didn’t know about it.”