by Anne Perry
Lovat-Smith opened his mouth to argue, attack her again, and then looked at the jury and decided better of it.
“You are a remarkable woman, Miss Buchan,” he said with a minute bow. “It remains to be seen whether any further facts bear out your extraordinary vision of events, but no doubt you believe you speak the truth. I have nothing further to ask you.”
Rathbone declined to reexamine. He knew better than to gild the lily.
The court rose for the luncheon adjournment in an uproar.
The first witness of the afternoon was Damaris Erskine. She too looked pale, with dark circles under her eyes as if she had wept herself into exhaustion but had found little sleep. All the time her eyes kept straying to Peverell. He was sitting very upright in his seat next to Felicia and Randolf in the front of the gallery, but as apart from them in spirit as if they were in different rooms. He ignored them totally and stared without movement at Damaris, his eyes puckered in concern, his lips undecided on a smile, as if he feared it might be taken for levity rather than encouragement.
Monk sat two rows behind Hester, in the body of the court behind the lawyers. He did not wish to sit beside her. His emotions were too raw from his confrontation with Hermione. He wanted a long time alone, but circumstances made that impossible; however, there was a certain aloneness in the crowd of a courtroom, and in centering his mind and all his feelings he could on the tragedy being played out in front of him.
Rathbone began very gently, with the softly cautious voice Monk knew he adopted when he was about to deliver a mortal blow and loathed doing it, but had weighed all the facts, and the decision was irrevocable.
“Mrs. Erskine, you were present at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Furnival on the night your brother was killed, and you have already told us of the order of events as you recall them.”
“Yes,” she said almost inaudibly.
“But I think you have omitted what most undoubtedly was for you the most devastating part of the evening, that is until Dr. Hargrave said that your brother had not died by accident, but been murdered.”
Lovat-Smith leaned forward, frowning, but he did not interrupt.
“Several people have testified,” Rathbone went on, “that when you came down the stairs from seeing young Valentine Furnival, you were in a state of distress bordering on hysteria. Would you please tell us what happened up there to cause this change in you?”
Damaris studiously avoided looking towards Felicia and Randolf, nor did she look at Alexandra, sitting pale-faced and rigid in the dock. She took one or two moments to steel herself, and Rathbone waited without prompting her.
“I recognized—Valentine …” she said at last, her voice husky.
“Recognized him?” Rathbone repeated the word. “What a curious expression, Mrs. Erskine. Was there ever any doubt in your mind as to who he was? I accept that you did not see him often, indeed had not seen him for some years while he was away at boarding school, since you infrequently visited the house. But surely there was only one boy present?”
She swallowed convulsively and shot him a look of pleading so profound there was a murmur of anger around the room and Felicia jerked forward, then sat up again as Randolf’s hand closed over her arm.
Almost imperceptibly Peverell nodded.
Damaris raised her chin.
“He is not the Furnivals’ natural child: he is adopted. Before my marriage fourteen years ago, I had a child. Now that he is—is of nearly adult height—a young man, not a boy, he …” For a moment more she had to fight to keep control.
Opposite her in the gallery, Charles Hargrave leaned forward a little, his face tense, sandy brows drawn down. Beside him, Sarah Hargrave looked puzzled and a flicker of anxiety touched her face.
“He resembles his father,” Damaris said huskily. “So much, I knew he was my son. You see, at the time the only person I could trust to help me was my brother, Thaddeus. He took me away from London, and he saw to the child’s being adopted. Suddenly, when I saw Valentine, it all made sense. I knew what Thaddeus had done with my child.”
“Were you angry with your brother, Mrs. Erskine? Did you resent it that he had given your son to the Furnivals to raise?”
“No! No—not at all. They had …” She shook her head, the tears running down her cheeks, and her voice cracking at last.
The judge leaned forward earnestly, his face full of concern.
Lovat-Smith rose, all the brilliant confidence drained away from him, only horror left.
“I hope my learned friend is not going to try to cloud the issue and cause this poor woman quite pointless distress?” He turned from Rathbone to Damaris. “The physical facts of the case place it beyond question that only Alexandra Carlyon had the opportunity to murder the general. Whatever Mrs. Erskine’s motive, if indeed there were any, she did not commit the act.” He turned around so that half his appeal was to the crowd. “Surely this exposure of a private grief is cruelly unnecessary?”
“I would not do it if it were,” Rathbone said between his teeth, his eyes blazing. He swiveled around on his heel, presenting his back to Lovat-Smith. “Mrs. Erskine, you have just said you did not resent your brother’s having given your son to the Furnivals. And yet when you came downstairs you were in a state of distress almost beyond your ability to control, and quite suddenly you exhibited a rage towards Maxim Furnival which was close to murderous in nature! You seem to be contradicting yourself!”
“I—I—saw …” Damaris closed her eyes so tightly it screwed up her face.
Peverell half rose in his seat.
Edith held both her hands to her face, knuckles clenched. Alexandra was frozen.
Monk glanced up at the gallery and saw Maxim Furnival sitting rigid, his dark face puckered in puzzlement and ever-increasing apprehension. Beside him, Louisa was quite plainly furious.
Monk looked along at Hester, and saw the intense concentration in her as she turned sideways, her eyes fixed on Damaris and her expression one of such wrenching pity that it jolted him at once with its familiarity and its strangeness. He tried to picture Hermione, and found, the memory blurred. He found it hard to remember her eyes at all, and when he did, they were bland and bright, without capability of pain.
Rathbone moved a step closer to Damaris.
“I regret this profoundly, Mrs. Erskine, but too much depends upon it for me to allow any compassion for you to override my duty to Mrs. Carlyon—and to Cassian.”
Damaris raised her head. “I understand. I knew that my brother Thaddeus was abused as a child. Like Buckie—Miss Buchan—I saw it once, by accident. I never forgot the look in his eyes, the way he behaved. I saw the same look in Valentine’s face, and I knew he was abused too. I supposed at that time that it was his father—his adopted father—Maxim Furnival, who was doing it.”
There was a gasp around the room and a rustle like leaves in the wind.
“Oh God! No!” Maxim shot to his feet, his face shock-white, his voice half strangled in his throat.
Louisa sat like stone.
Maxim swung around, staring at her, but she continued to look as if she had been transfixed.
“You have my utmost sympathy, Mr. Furnival,” the judge said over the rising level of horror and anger from the crowd. “But you must refrain from interruption, nevertheless. But I would suggest to you that you consider obtaining legal counsel to deal with whatever may occur here. Now please sit down, or I shall be obliged to have the bailiff remove you.”
Slowly, looking bemused and beaten, Maxim sat down again, turning helplessly to Louisa, who still sat immobile, as though too horrified to respond.
Up in the gallery Charles Hargrave grasped the rail as if he would break it with his hands.
Rathbone returned his attention to Damaris.
“You spoke in the past tense, Mrs. Erskine. You thought at the time it was Maxim Furnival. Has something happened to change your view?”
“Yes.” A faint echo of the old flair returned, and the ghost of
a smile touched her mouth and vanished. “My sister-in-law murdered my brother. And I believe it was because she discovered that he was abusing her son—and I believe mine also—although I have no reason to think she knew of that.”
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. Rath-bone, 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, wh
atever 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.