by Anne Perry
Instinctively she turned her head to see if Hargrave was in the gallery again, and if he had seen the same thing, knowing now that Damaris was the boy’s mother. As soon as she saw him, his skin white, his eyes shocked, almost unfocused, she knew beyond question that he understood. Beside him, Sarah Hargrave sat a little apart, facing first Valentine on the stand, then her husband next to her. She did not even try to seek Damaris Erskine.
In spite of herself, Hester was moved to pity; for Sarah it was easy, but for Hargrave it twisted and hurt, because it was touched with anger.
The judge began by questioning Valentine for a few moments about his understanding of the oath, then turned to Rathbone and told him to commence.
“Did you know General Thaddeus Carlyon, Valentine?” he asked quite conversationally, as if they had been alone in some withdrawing room, not in the polished wood of a courtroom with hundreds of people listening, craning to catch every word and every inflexion.
Valentine swallowed on a dry throat.
“Yes.”
“Did you know him well?”
A slight hesitation. “Yes.”
“For a long time? Do you know how long?”
“Yes, since I was about six: seven years or more.”
“So you must have known him when he sustained the knife injury to his thigh? Which happened in your home.”
Not one person in the entire court moved or spoke. The silence was total.
“Yes.”
Rathbone took a step closer to him.
“How did it happen, Valentine? Or perhaps I should say, why?”
Valentine stared at him, mute, his face so pale it occurred to Monk, watching him, that he might faint.
In the gallery Damaris leaned over the rail, her eyes desperate. Peverell put his hand over hers.
“If you tell the truth,” Rathbone said gently, “there is no need to be afraid. The court will protect you.”
The judge drew a breath, as if about to protest, then apparently changed his mind.
Lovat-Smith said nothing.
The jury were motionless to a man.
“I stabbed him,” Valentine said almost in a whisper.
In the second row from the front Maxim Furnival covered his face with his hands. Beside him Louisa bit her nails. Alexandra put her hands over her mouth as if to stifle a cry.
“You must have had a very profound reason for such an act,” Rathbone prompted. “It was a deep wound. He could have bled to death, if it had severed an artery.”
“I—” Valentine gasped.
Rathbone had miscalculated. He had frightened him too much. He saw it immediately.
“But of course you did not,” he said quickly. “It was merely embarrassing—and I’m sure painful.”
Valentine looked wretched.
“Why did you do it, Valentine?” Rathbone said very gently. “You must have had a compelling reason—something that justified striking out in such a way.”
Valentine was on the edge of tears and it took him some moments to regain his composure.
Monk ached for him, remembering his own youth, the desperate dignity of thirteen, the manhood which was so close, and yet so far away.
“Mrs. Carlyon’s life may depend upon what you say,” Rathbone urged.
For once neither Lovat-Smith nor the judge reproved him for such a breach.
“I couldn’t bear it any longer,” Valentine replied in a husky voice, so low the jury had to strain to hear him. “I begged him, but he wouldn’t stop!”
“So in desperation you defended yourself?” Rathbone asked. His clear, precise voice carried in the silence, even though it was as low as if they were alone in a small room.
“Yes.”
“Stop doing what?”
Valentine said nothing. His face was suddenly painfully hot as the blood rushed up, suffusing his skin.
“If it hurts too much to say, may I say it for you?” Rathbone asked him. “Was the general sodomizing you?”
Valentine nodded very slightly, just a bare inch or two movement of the head.
Maxim Furnival let out a stifled cry.
The judge turned to Valentine.
“You must speak, so that there can be no error in our understanding,” he said with great gentleness. “Simply yes or no will do. Is Mr. Rathbone correct?”
“Yes sir.” It was a whisper.
“I see. Thank you. I assure you, there will be no action taken against you for the injury to General Carlyon. It was self-defense and no crime in any sense. A person is allowed to defend their lives, or their virtue, with no fault attached whatever. You have the sympathy of all present here. We are outraged on your behalf.”
“How old were you when this began?” Rathbone went on, after a brief glance at the judge, and a nod from him.
“Six—I think,” Valentine answered. There was a long sigh around the room, and an electric shiver of rage. Damaris sobbed and Peverell held her. There was a swelling rumble of fury around the gallery and a juror groaned.
Rathbone was silent for a moment; it seemed he was too appalled to continue immediately.
“Six years old,” Rathbone repeated, in case anyone had failed to hear. “And did it continue after you stabbed the general?”
“No—no, he stopped.”
“And at that time his own son would be … how old?”
“Cassian?” Valentine swayed and caught hold of the railing. He was ashen.
“About six?” Rathbone asked, his voice hoarse. Valentine nodded.
This time no one asked him to speak. Even the judge was white-faced.
Rathbone turned away and walked a pace or two, his hands in his pockets, before swinging around and looking up at Valentine again.
“Tell me, Valentine, why did you not appeal to your parents over this appalling abuse? Why did you not tell your mother? Surely that is the most natural thing for a small child to do when he is hurt and frightened? Why did you not do that in the beginning, instead of suffering all those years?”
Valentine looked down, his eyes full of misery.
“Could your mother not have helped you?” Rathbone persisted. “After all, the general was not your father. It would have cost them his friendship, but what was that worth, compared with you, her son? She could have forbidden him the house. Surely your father would have horsewhipped a man for such a thing?”
Valentine looked up at the judge, his eyes brimming with tears.
“You must answer,” the judge said gravely. “Did your father abuse you also?”
“No!” There was no mistaking the amazement and the honesty in his voice and his startled face. “No! Never!”
The judge took a deep breath and leaned back a little, the shadow of a smile over his mouth.
“Then why did you not tell him, appeal to him to protect you? Or to your mother. Surely she would have protected you.”
The tears brimmed over and ran down Valentine’s cheeks unchecked.
“She knew.” He choked and struggled for breath. “She told me not to tell anyone, especially Papa. She said it would … embarrass him—and cost him his position.”
There was a roar of rage around the room and a cry of “Hang her!”
The judge called for order, banging his gavel, and it was several minutes before he could continue. “His position?” He frowned at Rathbone, uncomprehending. “What position?”
“He earns a great deal of money from army contracts,” Valentine explained.
“Supplied by General Carlyon?”
“Yes sir.”
“That is what your mother said? Be very sure you speak accurately, Valentine.”
“Yes—she told me.”
“And you are quite sure that your mother knew exactly what the general was doing to you? You did not fail to tell her the truth?”
“No! I did tell her!” He gulped, but his tears were beyond his control anymore.
The anger in the room was now so ugly it was palpable in the air.
Maxim Furnival sat upright, his face like a dead man’s. Beside him, Louisa was motionless, her eyes stone-hard and hot, her mouth a thin line of hate.
“Bailiff,” the judge said in a low voice. “You will take Louisa Furnival in charge. Appropriate dispositions will be made to care for Valentine in the future. For the moment perhaps it would be best he remain to comfort his father.”
Obediently a large bailiff appeared, buttons gleaming, and forced his way through the rows to where Louisa still sat, face blazing white. With no ceremony, no graciousness at all, he half pulled her to her feet and took her, stumbling and catching her skirts, back along the row and up the passageway out of the court.
Maxim started to his feet, then realized the futility of doing anything at all. It was an empty gesture anyway. His whole body registered his horror of her and the destruction of everything he had thought he possessed. His only concern was for Valentine.
The judge sighed. “Mr. Rathbone, have you anything further you feel it imperative you ask this witness?”
“No, my lord.”
“Mr. Lovat-Smith?”
“No, my lord.”
“Thank you. Valentine, the court thanks you for your honesty and your courage, and regrets having to subject you to this ordeal. You are free to go back to your father, and be of whatever comfort to each other you may.”
Silently Valentine stepped down amid rustles and murmurs of compassion, and made his way to the stricken figure of Maxim.
“Mr. Rathbone, have you further witnesses to call?” the judge asked.
“Yes, my lord. I can call the bootboy at the Furnival house, who was at one point a drummer in the Indian army. He will explain why he dropped his linen and fled when coming face-to-face with General Carlyon in the Furnival house on the evening of the murder … if you believe it is necessary? But I would prefer not to—I imagine the court will understand.”
“We do, Mr. Rathbone,” the judge assured him. “Do not call him. We may safely draw the conclusion that he was startled and distressed. Is that sufficient for your purpose?”
“Yes, thank you, my lord.”
“Mr. Lovat-Smith, have you objection to that? Do you wish the boy called so that you may draw from him a precise explanation, other than that which will naturally occur to the jury?”
“No, my lord,” Lovat-Smith said immediately. “If the defense will stipulate that the boy in question can be proved to have served with General Thaddeus Carlyon?”
“Mr. Rathbone?”
“Yes, my lord. The boy’s military record has been traced, and he did serve in the same immediate unit with General Carlyon.”
“Then you have no need to call him, and subject him to what must be acutely painful. Proceed with your next witness.”
“I crave the court’s permission to call Cassian Carlyon. He is eight years old, my lord, and I believe he is of considerable intelligence and aware of the difference between truth and falsehood.”
Alexandra shot to her feet. “No,” she cried out. “No—you can’t!”
The judge looked at her with grim pity.
“Sit down, Mrs. Carlyon. As the accused you are entitled to be present, as long as you conduct yourself appropriately. But if you interrupt the proceedings I will have to order your removal. I should regret that; please do not make it necessary.”
Gradually she sank back again, her body shaking. On either side of her two gray-dressed wardresses took her arms, but to assist, not to restrain.
“Call him, Mr. Rathbone. I will decide whether he is competent to testify, and the jury will put upon his testimony what value they deem appropriate.”
An official of the court escorted Cassian as far as the edge of the room, but he crossed the small open space alone. He was about four feet tall, very frail and thin, his fair hair neatly brushed, his face white. He climbed up to the witness box and peered over the railing at Rathbone, then at the judge.
There was a low mutter and sigh of breath around the court. Several of the jurors turned to look where Alexandra sat in the dock, as if transfixed.
“What is your name?” the judge asked Cassian quietly.
“Cassian James Thaddeus Randolf Carlyon, sir.”
“Do you know why we are here, Cassian?”
“Yes sir, to hang my mother.”
Alexandra bit her knuckles and the tears ran down her cheeks.
A juror gasped.
In the crowd a woman sobbed aloud.
The judge caught his breath and paled.
“No, Cassian, we are not! We are here to discover what happened the night your father died, and why it happened—and then to do what the law requires of us to deal justly with it.”
“Are you?” Cassian looked surprised. “Grandma said you were going to hang my mother, because she is wicked. My father was a very good man, and she killed him.”
The judge’s face tightened. “Well just for now you must forget what your grandmother says, or anyone else, and tell us only what you know for yourself to be true. Do you understand the difference between truth and lies, Cassian?”
“Yes of course I do. Lying is saying what is not true, and it is a dishonorable thing to do. Gentlemen don’t lie, and officers never do.”
“Even to protect someone they love?”
“No sir. It is an officer’s duty to tell the truth, or remain silent, if it is the enemy who asks.”
“Who told you that?”
“My father, sir.”
“He was perfectly correct. Now when you have taken the oath and promised to God that you will tell us the truth, I wish you either to speak exactly what you know to be true, or to remain silent. Will you do that?”
“Yes sir.”
“Very well, Mr. Rathbone, you may swear your witness.”
It was duly done, and Rathbone began his questions, standing close to the witness box and looking up.
“Cassian, you were very close to your father, were you not?”
“Yes sir,” he answered with complete composure.
“Is it true that about two years ago he began to show his love for you in a new and different way, a very private way?”
Cassian blinked. He looked only at Rathbone. Never once had he looked up, either at his mother in the dock opposite, or at his grandparents in the gallery above.
“It cannot hurt him now for you to tell the truth,” Rathbone said quite casually, as if it were of no particular importance. “And it is most urgent for your mother that you should be honest with us.”
“Yes sir.”
“Did he show his love for you in a new and very physical way, about two years ago?”
“Yes sir.”
“A very private way?”
A hesitation. “Yes sir.”
A sound of weeping came from the gallery. A man blasphemed with passionate anger.
“Did it hurt?” Rathbone asked very gravely.
“Only at first.”
“I see. Did your mother know about this?”
“No sir.”
“Why not?”
“Papa told me it was something women didn’t understand, and I should never tell her.” He took a deep breath and suddenly his composure dissolved.
“Why not?”
He sniffed. “He said she would stop loving me if she knew. But Buckie said she still loved me.”
“Oh, Buckie is quite right,” Rathbone said quickly, his own voice husky. “No woman could love her child more; I know that myself.”
“Do you?” Cassian kept his eyes fixed on Rathbone, as if to prevent himself from knowing his mother was there, in case he looked at her and saw what he dreaded.
“Oh yes. I know your mother quite well. She has told me she would rather die than have you hurt. Look at her, and you will know it yourself.”
Lovat-Smith started up from his seat, then changed his mind and subsided into it again.
Very slowly Cassian turned for the first time and looked at Alexandra.
A ghost
of a smile forced itself across her features, but the pain in her face was fearful.
Cassian looked back at Rathbone.
“Yes sir.”
“Did your father go on doing this—this new thing, right up until just before he died?”
“Yes sir.”
“Did anyone else, any other man, ever do this to you?”
There was total silence except for a low sigh from somewhere at the back of the gallery.
“We know from other people that this is so, Cassian,” Rathbone said. “You have been very brave and very honest so far. Please do not lie to us now. Did anyone else do this to you?”
“Yes sir.”
“Who else, Cassian?”
He glanced at the judge, then back at Rathbone.
“I can’t say, sir. I was sworn to secrecy, and a gentleman doesn’t betray.”
“Indeed,” Rathbone said with a note of temporary defeat in his voice. “Very well. We shall leave the subject for now. Thank you. Mr. Lovat-Smith?”
Lovat-Smith rose and took Rathbone’s place in front of the witness stand. He spoke to Cassian candidly, quietly, man to man.
“You kept this secret from your mother, you said?”
“Yes sir.”
“You never told her, not even a little bit?”
“No sir.”
“Do you think she knew about it anyway?”
“No sir, I never told her. I promised not to!” He watched Lovat-Smith as he had watched Rathbone.
“I see. Was that difficult to do, keep this secret from her?”
“Yes sir—but I did.”
“And she never said anything to you about it, you are quite sure?”
“No sir, never.”
“Thank you. Now about this other man. Was it one, or more than one? I am not asking you to give me names, just a number. That would not betray anyone.”
Hester glanced up at Peverell in the gallery, and saw guilt in his face, and a fearful pity. But was the guilt for complicity, or merely for not having known? She felt sick in case it were complicity.
Cassian thought for a moment or two before replying.
“Two, sir.”
“Two others?”