Defend and Betray

by Anne Perry

“Yes sir.”

  “Thank you. That is all. Rathbone?”

  “No more, thank you, for now. But I reserve the right to recall him, if it will help discover who these other men are.”

  “I will permit that,” the judge said quickly. “Thank you, Cassian. For the moment you may go.”

  Carefully, his legs shaking, Cassian climbed down the steps, only stumbling a little once, and then walked across the floor and disappeared out of the door with the bailiff. There was a movement around the court, murmurs of outrage and compassion. Someone called out to him. The judge started forward, but it was already done, and the words had been of encouragement. It was pointless to call order or have the offender searched for.

  “I call Felicia Carlyon,” Rathbone said loudly.

  Lovat-Smith made no objection, even though she had not been in Rathbone’s original list of witnesses and hence had been in the court all through the other testimony.

  There was a rustle of response and anticipation. But the mood of the crowd had changed entirely. It was no longer pity which moved them towards her, but pending judgment.

  She took the stand head high, body stiff, eyes angry and proud. The judge required that she unveil her face, and she did so with disdainful obedience. She swore the oath in a clear, ringing voice.

  “Mrs. Carlyon,” Rathbone began, standing in front of her, “you appear here on subpoena. You are aware of the testimony that has been given so far.”

  “I am. It is wicked and malicious lies. Miss Buchan is an old woman who has served in my family’s house for forty years, and has become deranged in her old age. I cannot think where a spinster woman gets such vile fancies.” She made a gesture of disgust. “All I can suppose is that her natural instincts for womanhood have been warped and she has turned on men, who rejected her, and this is the outcome.”

  “And Valentine Furnival?” Rathbone asked. “He is hardly an elderly and rejected spinster. Nor a servant, old and dependent, who dare not speak ill of an employer.”

  “A boy with a boy’s carnal fantasies,” she replied. “We all know that growing children have feverish imaginations. Presumably someone did use him as he says, for which I have the natural pity anyone would. But it is wicked and irresponsible of him to say it was my son. I daresay it was his own father, and he wishes to protect him, and so charges another man, a dead man, who cannot defend himself.”

  “And Cassian?” Rathbone enquired with a dangerous edge to his voice.

  “Cassian,” she said, full of contempt. “A harassed and frightened eight-year-old. Good God, man! The father he adored has been murdered, his mother is like to be hanged for it—you put him on the stand in court, and you expect him to be able to tell you the truth about his father’s love for him. Are you half-witted, man? He will say anything you force out of him. I would not condemn a cat on that.”

  “Presumably your husband is equally innocent?” Rathbone said with sarcasm.

  “It is unnecessary even to say such a thing!”

  “But you do say it?”

  “I do.”

  “Mrs. Carlyon, why do you suppose Valentine Furnival stabbed your son in the upper thigh?”

  “God alone knows. The boy is deranged. If his father has abused him for years, he might well be so.”

  “Possibly,” Rathbone agreed. “It would change many people. Why was your son in the boy’s bedroom without his trousers on?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Her face froze.

  “Do you wish me to repeat the question?”

  “No. It is preposterous. If Valentine says so, then he is lying. Why is not my concern.”

  “But Mrs. Carlyon, the wound the general sustained in his upper inside leg bled copiously. It was a deep wound, and yet his trousers were neither torn nor marked with blood. They cannot have been on him at the time.”

  She stared at him, her expression icy, her lips closed.

  There was a murmur through the crowd, a movement, a whisper of anger suddenly suppressed, and then silence again.

  Still she did not speak.

  “Let us turn to the question of your husband, Colonel Randolf Carlyon,” Rathbone continued. “He was a fine soldier, was he not? A man to be proud of. And he had great ambitions for his son: he also should be a hero, if possible of even higher rank—a general, in fact. And he achieved that.”

  “He did.” She lifted her chin and stared down at him with wide, dark blue eyes. “He was loved and admired by all who knew him. He would have achieved even greater things had he not been murdered in his prime. Murdered by a jealous woman.”

  “Jealous of whom, her own son?”

  “Don’t be absurd—and vulgar,” she spat.

  “Yes it is vulgar, isn’t it,” he agreed. “But true. Your daughter Damaris knew it. She accidentally found them one day …”

  “Nonsense!”

  “And recognized it again in her own son, Valentine. Is she lying also? And Miss Buchan? And Cassian? Or are they all suffering from the same frenzied and perverted delusion—each without knowing the other, and in their own private hell?”

  She hesitated. It was manifestly ridiculous.

  “And you did not know, Mrs. Carlyon? Your husband abused your son for all those years, presumably until you sent him as a boy cadet into the army. Was that why you sent him so young, to escape your husband’s appetite?”

  The atmosphere in the court was electric. The jury had expressions like a row of hangmen. Charles Hargrave looked ill. Sarah Hargrave sat next to him in body, but her heart was obviously elsewhere. Edith and Damaris sat side by side with Peverell.

  Felicia’s face was hard, her eyes glittering.

  “Boys do go into the army young, Mr. Rathbone. Perhaps you do not know that?”

  “What did your husband do then, Mrs. Carlyon? Weren’t you afraid he would do what your son did, abuse the child of some friend?”

  She stared at him in frozen silence.

  “Or did you procure some other child for him, some boot-boy, perhaps,” he went on ruthlessly, “who would be unable to retaliate—safe. Safe from scandal—and—” He stopped, staring at her. She had gone so white as to appear on the edge of collapse. She gripped the railing in front of her and her body swayed. There was a long hiss from the crowd, an ugly sound, full of hate.

  Lovat-Smith rose to his feet.

  Randolf Carlyon let out a cry which strangled in his throat, and his face went purple. He gasped for breath and people on either side of him moved away, horrified and without compassion. A bailiff moved forward to him and loosened his tie roughly.

  Rathbone would not let the moment go by.

  “That is what you did, isn’t it, Mrs. Carlyon?” he pressed. “You procured another child for your husband. Perhaps a succession of children—until you judged him too old to be a danger anymore. But you didn’t protect your own grandson. You allowed him to be used as well. Why, Mrs. Carlyon? Why? Was your reputation really worth all that sacrifice, so many children’s terrified, shamed and pitiful lives?”

  She leaned forward over the rail, hate blazing in her eyes.

  “Yes! Yes, Mr. Rathbone, it was! What would you expect me to do? Betray him to public humiliation? Ruin a great career: a man who taught others bravery in the face of the enemy, who went to battle with head high, never counting the odds against him. A man who inspired others to greatness—for what? An appetite? Men have appetites, they always have had. What was I to do—tell people?” Her voice was thick with passionate contempt. She utterly ignored the snarls and hisses behind her.

  “Tell whom? Who would have believed me? Who could I go to? A woman has no rights to her children, Mr. Rathbone. And no money. We belong to our husbands. We cannot even leave their houses without their permission, and he would never have given me that. Still less would he have allowed me to take my son.”

  The judge banged his gavel and called for order.

  Felicia’s voice was shrill with rage and bitterness. “Or would you have had me murder
him—like Alexandra? Is that what you approve of? Every woman who suffers a betrayal or an indignity at her husband’s hands, or whose child is hurt, belittled or humiliated by his father, should murder him?”

  She leaned over the rail towards him, her voice strident, her face twisted. “Believe me, there are a lot of other cruelties. My husband was gentle with his son, spent time with him, never beat him or sent him to bed without food. He gave him a fine education and started him on a great career. He had the love and respect of the world. Would you have me forfeit all that by making a wild, vile accusation no one would have believed anyway? Or end up in the dock—and on the rope’s end—like her?”

  “Was there nothing in between, Mrs. Carlyon?” Rath-bone said very softly. “No more moderate course—nothing between condoning the abuse and murder?”

  She stood silent, gray-faced and suddenly very old.

  “Thank you,” he said with a bleak smile, a baring of the teeth. “That was my own conclusion too. Mr. Lovat-Smith?”

  There was a sigh around the room, a long expelling of breath.

  The jury looked exhausted.

  Lovat-Smith stood up slowly, as if he were now too tired to have any purpose in continuing. He walked over to the witness box, regarding Felicia long and carefully, then lowered his eyes.

  “I have nothing to ask this witness, my lord.”

  “You are excused, Mrs. Carlyon,” the judge said coldly. He opened his mouth as if to add something, then changed his mind.

  Felicia came down the steps clumsily, like an old woman, and walked away towards the doors, followed by a silent and total condemnation.

  The judge looked at Rathbone.

  “Have you any further evidence to call, Mr. Rathbone?”

  “I would like to recall Cassian Carlyon, my lord, if you please?”

  “Is it necessary, Mr. Rathbone? You have proved your point.”

  “Not all of it, my lord. This child was abused by his father, and his grandfather, and by one other. I believe we must know who that other man was as well.”

  “If you can discover that, Mr. Rathbone, please do so. But I shall prevent you the moment you cause the child unnecessary distress. Do I make myself plain?”

  “Yes, my lord, quite plain.”

  Cassian was recalled, small and pale, but again entirely composed.

  Rathbone stepped forward.

  “Cassian—your grandmother has just given evidence which makes it quite clear that your grandfather also abused you in the same manner. We do not need to ask you to testify on that point. However there was one other man, and we need to know who he is.”

  “No sir, I cannot tell you.”

  “I understand your reasons.” Rathbone fished in his pocket and brought out an elegant quill knife with a black-enameled handle. He held it up. “Do you have a quill knife, something like this?”

  Cassian stared at it, a pink flush staining his cheeks.

  Hester glanced up at the gallery and saw Peverell look puzzled, but no more.

  “Remember the importance of the truth,” Rathbone warned. “Do you have such a knife?”

  “Yes sir,” Cassian answered uncertainly.

  “And perhaps a watch fob? A gold one, with the scales of justice on it?”

  Cassian swallowed. “Yes sir.”

  Rathbone pulled out a silk handkerchief from his pocket also.

  “And a silk handkerchief too?”

  Cassian was very pale. “Yes sir.”

  “Where did you get them, Cassian?”

  “I …” He shut his eyes, blinking hard.

  “May I help you? Did your uncle Peverell Erskine give them to you?”

  Peverell rose to his feet, and Damans pulled him back so violently he lost his balance.

  Cassian said nothing.

  “He did—didn’t he?” Rathbone insisted. “And did he make you promise not to tell anyone?”

  Still Cassian said nothing, but the tears brimmed over his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.

  “Cassian—is he the other man who made love to you?”

  There was a gasp from the gallery.

  “No!” Cassian’s voice was high and desperate, shrill with pain. “No! No, he isn’t. I took those things! I stole them—because—because I wanted them.”

  In the dock Alexandra sobbed, and the wardress beside her held her shoulder with sudden, awkward gendeness.

  “Because they are pretty?” Rathbone said with disbelief.

  “No. No.” Cassian’s voice was still hard with anguish. “Because he was only one—who—who didn’t do that to me. He was just—just my friend! I …” He sobbed helplessly. “He was my friend.”

  “Oh?” Rathbone affected disbelief still, although his own voice was harsh with pain. “Then if it was not Peverell Erskine, who was it? Tell me and I will believe you!”

  “Dr. Hargrave!” Cassian sobbed, crumpling up and sliding down into the box in uncontrolled weeping at last. “Dr. Hargrave! He did! He did it! I hate him! He did it! Don’t let him go on! Don’t let him! Uncle Pev, make them stop!”

  There was a bellow of rage from the gallery. Two men seized Hargrave and held him before the bailiff could even move.

  Rathbone strode over to the witness box and up the steps to help the child to his feet and put his arms around him. He half carried him out, and met Peverell Erskine down from the gallery and forcing his way past the bailiff and marching over the space in front of the lawyers’ benches.

  “Take him, and for God’s sake look after him,” Rathbone said passionately.

  Peverell lifted the boy up and carried him out past the bailiffs and the crowd, Damaris at his heels. The door closed behind them to a great sigh from the crowd. Then immediately utter stillness fell again.

  Rathbone turned to the judge.

  “That is my case, my lord.”

  The clock went unregarded. No one cared what time it was, morning, luncheon or afternoon. No one was moving from their seats.

  “Of course people must not take the life of another human being,” Rathbone said as he rose to make his last plea, “no matter what the injury or the injustice. And yet what else was this poor woman to do? She has seen the pattern perpetuate itself in her father-in-law, her husband—and now her son. She could not endure it. The law, society—we—have given her no alternative but to allow it to continue—down the generations in never-ending humiliation and suffering—or to take the law into her own hands.” He spoke not only to the jury, but to the judge as well, his voice thick with the certainty of his plea.

  “She pleaded with her husband to stop. She begged him—and he disregarded her. Perhaps he could not help himself. Who knows? But you have seen how many people’s lives have been ruined by this—this abomination: an appetite exercised with utter disregard for others.”

  He stared in front of him, looking at their pale, intent faces.

  “She did not do it lightly. She agonized—she has nightmares that border on the visions of hell. She will never cease to pay within herself for her act. She fears the damnation of God for it, but she will suffer that to save her beloved child from the torment of his innocence now—and the shame and despair, the guilt and terror of an adulthood like his father’s—destroying his own life, and that of his future children—down the generations till God knows when!

  “Ask yourselves, gentlemen, what would you have her do? Take the easier course, like her mother-in-law? Is that what you admire? Let it go on, and on, and on? Protect herself, and live a comfortable life, because the man also had good qualities? God almighty …” He stopped, controlling himself with difficulty. “Let the next generation suffer as she does? Or find the courage and make the abominable sacrifice of herself, and end it now?

  “I do not envy you your appalling task, gentlemen. It is a decision no man should be asked to make. But you are—and I cannot relieve you of it. Go and make it. Make it with prayer, with pity, and with honor!

  “Thank you.”

  Lovat-Sm
ith came forward and addressed the jury, quiet, stating the law. His voice was subdued, wrung with pity, but the law must be upheld, or there would be anarchy. People must not seek murder as a solution, no matter what the injury.

  It was left only for the judge to sum up, which he did gravely, using few words, and dismissing them to deliberate.

  The jury returned a little after five in the evening, haggard, spent of all emotion, white-faced.

  Hester and Monk stood side by side at the back of the crowded courtroom. Almost without being aware of it, he reached out and held her hand, and felt her fingers curl around his.

  “Have you reached a verdict upon which you are agreed?” the judge asked.

  “We have,” the foreman replied, his voice awed.

  “And is it the verdict of you all?”

  “It is, my lord.”

  “And what is your verdict?”

  He stood absolutely upright, his chin high, his eyes direct. “We find the accused, Alexandra Carlyon, not guilty of murder, my lord—but guilty of manslaughter. And we ask, may it please you, my lord, that she serve the least sentence the law allows.”

  The gallery erupted in cheers and cries of jubilation. Someone cheered for Rathbone, and a woman threw roses.

  In the front row Edith and Damaris hugged each other, and then as one turned to Miss Buchan beside them and flung their arms around her. For a moment she was too startled to react, then her face curved into a smile and she held them equally close.

  The judge raised his eyebrows very slightly. It was a perverse verdict. She had quite plainly committed murder, in the heat of the moment, but legally murder.

  But a jury cannot be denied. It was the verdict of them all, and they each one faced forward and looked at him without blinking.

  “Thank you,” he said very quietly indeed. “You are discharged of your duty.” He turned to Alexandra.

  “Alexandra Elizabeth Carlyon, a jury of your peers has found you not guilty of murder, but of manslaughter—and has appealed for mercy on your behalf. It is a perverse verdict, but one with which I have the utmost sympathy. I hereby sentence you to six months’ imprisonment; and the forfeit of all your goods and properties, which the law requires. However, since the bulk of your husband’s estate goes to your son, that is of little moment to you. May God have mercy on you, and may you one day find peace.”