Daughter of Silence

by Morris West

  ‘The court will have another view, Carlo,’ said Landon soberly. ‘Best you keep it clearly in your mind. She knew what a gun was. She knew enough to plan a tour by train and taxi. She knew that murder was a police matter. She understood its consequences. She lived in a big city. She kept house for her husband. She had a basic education and dressed like a big girl. She was neither crazy nor cretinous and she waited sixteen years to kill a man. I don’t say that’s the full story – I know it isn’t-but that’s where the court starts. And you know as well as I do that at the back of their minds are the question of public order and the fear that any clemency will bring back the practice of vendetta to the mountains.’

  It was the last thought that sobered Rienzi the quickest. He chewed on it for a moment and then said quietly: ‘I know everything you say and more, Peter, but there’s something that troubles me deeply and that may possibly give us a starting point for the defence. This murder was premeditated for sixteen years. If that is true, then Anna Albertini decided on it at the age of eight, which is not an age of legal responsibility. The decision was taken then, Peter, although the act was performed in another time. What happened during those sixteen years? What was the state of this girl during all that time? What was the shock that first projected her into it?’

  ‘You’re asking Galuzzi’s question and mine, in another form.’

  ‘Then unless you give me the answer, Peter, there will be no justice done.’

  Landon put down his coffee cup and swung himself off the bed. Then he in his turn began pacing the floor while he pieced out his argument.

  ‘The law does justice by accident, Carlo. Any law. First and foremost it’s a code of public order, a deterrent, a punitive weapon. Justice is still in the hands of God – and He takes a long time to deliver a verdict!’

  ‘Perhaps this time,’ said Carlo Rienzi, ‘we may be able to persuade Him to work a little faster.’ He hesitated a moment and then, moved by a sudden resolution, he swung round to face Landon. ‘I have no right to ask this of you, Peter. I can offer you nothing for your services except my gratitude, but I want you to stay in Siena and help me. In spite of Galuzzi, and provided I can get the court to approve, I want to put you in the witness box for the defence!’

  ‘Just as you like.’

  Landon said it so casually that he felt he had betrayed himself; but he had no heart for more acting, and when Carlo gaped at him in surprise and delight he snapped irritably: ‘For God’s sake, man, you knew all along I’d say yes! Let’s not make a drama out of it. And by the same token don’t expect miracles. The best I can offer you is an authority to match Galuzzi’s.’

  Rienzi laughed, a full, boyish laugh of relief and pleasure. ‘Miracles, Peter? This is already a miracle.’

  ‘There’s another one,’ said Landon moodily, anxious to be quit of the subject. ‘I lunched with Ascolini, as you know. He wants to help you. He offers you a million lire and a set of notes he has made on the conduct of the case.’

  ‘I can’t accept,’ said Rienzi with cool emphasis.

  ‘I told him you probably wouldn’t, but it might be an idea to send him a note of thanks.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’ He added quietly: ‘You know, Peter, at this moment I am able to feel more kindly to Valeria and her father than I have ever done before. You know why? Because I have you for my friend and because there’s someone who needs me more than they do – Anna Albertini. All of a sudden there’s a focus for my life, a cause to be anxious about – and it makes me very happy.’

  Happy? To Landon he sounded more like a man on the scaffold making a hollow joke while the noose was fitted round his neck. But what was there to say? When you’ve slept with a man’s wife can you rob him of his illusions as well? It was the bitterest draught Landon had ever swallowed in his life. He drank it with a smile, but the taste was sour on his tongue every hour of every day until Anna Albertini was brought to trial.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE OPENING of a criminal trial is an oddly theatrical occasion. Tradition and the public instinct demand not only that justice should seem to be done, but that its dispensation should provide a dramatic diversion: a purging by pity and terror of the passions which have been aroused by the criminal act.

  There are those who hold that British court procedure makes better theatre than its continental equivalents; but let no unwary delinquent underrate either of them. The British tradition derives directly from the old Germanic system of trial by combat. The court is a place of contest and disputation, arbitrated by a judge and a jury. Prosecution and defence elicit their evidence by examination and cross-examination. They dispute fact and interpretation. They engage in wordy battles like knights in the ancient lists.

  The Latin mode, by contrast, is one of inquisition, based on Roman law and modified by the method of the Canonists. It consists of a preliminary inquiry by a magistrate into all available evidence, which is then summarized and submitted to the court in the form of a prepared brief, on whose merits the case is heard. The prisoner does not plead guilty or not guilty. There is no contest, simply a public revelation of facts, a plea on the basis of facts by the defence and the prosecution, and then a decision – not a verdict – delivered by the president on the votes of five judges: two from the judiciary and three representing the people.

  For one bred in the British tradition, there is always something a trifle sinister in the inquisitorial method since it seems to deny the accepted principle that the onus of proof rests on the Crown and that a man is innocent until he is proven guilty. The Latin method assumes in practice, if not in fact, that truth is at the bottom of a deep well and that the accused is guilty until the inquisition has enough facts to prove him innocent. In the end it seems that justice is as well or ill served by the one method as by the other.

  Every court has something of the aspect of a theatre. There is a stage where the personages act out the rituals of revelation, conflict and resolution. There is a symbolic montage: the arms of the republic over the judges’ dais, the carved chair which sets the president above his assisting judges, the rostrum which sets them apart from the officials of the court. There are stalls for the audience, who must conduct themselves decorously while transferring their partisan sentiments to the actors on the stage. There is a gallery for the critics and the censors of the press. The principals are in costume. The movement is stylized. The dialogue is formal and traditional, so that, as in all theatres, reality is revealed through unreality and truth is exposed by a mummer’s fiction.

  Landon and Ninette arrived early, to find the antechamber choked with a press of people: reporters, photographers, witnesses, spectators, harassed officials, all talking at once, all making their own buskers’ drama before the official programme began.

  Old Ascolini pushed his way through the crowd to greet them. He looked tired, Landon thought. His pink cheeks were paler, his skin transparent, as though the lively spirit were burning through the tissues of his body; but he greeted them with the old quirky humour: ‘So the love-birds show themselves at last! Let me look at you, young woman. Good! So far, love is an agreeable pastime, eh? Maybe soon you will be able to finish my portrait. And you, Landon, you are to be the expert witness, eh? You’re a stubborn fellow, aren’t you? You surprised us, Valeria most of all, I think!’

  ‘Is she here today?’ It was Ninette who asked the question.

  ‘Over there, sulking in a comer. I’ve seen very little of her these last weeks. She has troubles of her own, I think. And I am afraid I cannot reach her.’

  It was a touchy subject. Landon tried to talk him away from it. ‘How’s Carlo this morning?’

  ‘Feeling the strain.’ Ascolini gave him a crooked, sardonic smile. ‘You should know better than I, Landon. You’ve been working with him.’

  Landon chose to ignore the barb and asked quietly: ‘What’s your feeling about the trial, Doctor?’

  Ascolini spread his hands in a rueful gesture. ‘What I expected. A hostile c
limate and a vague rumour of surprises. Carlo has told me little. But if you are free at any time, Landon, I should like to drink a glass of wine with you both.’

  ‘Any time, dottore,’ said Ninette with a smile. ‘Just knock on the door.’

  ‘With young lovers it is usually safer to telephone. But I shall see you.’

  There was a flurry in the crowd as the door opened and they were thrust forward, willy-nilly, into the court-room. It took ten minutes to subdue the rabble into a whispering audience; then the actors began to drift on to the set.

  First came the Public Minister, who would conduct the prosecution: a tall, hawk-faced official with iron-grey hair. He took his place at a table on the right of the judges’ rostrum and began a whispered discussion with his assistants. Next came the Chancellor and the Clerk of the Court, detached, faintly pompous fellows who sat at a table near the prisoner’s dock facing the Prosecutor across the floor.

  Carlo Rienzi came in next with two seedy, middle-aged colleagues and they settled themselves at a table facing the rostrum. Carlo had aged much in the last few weeks. He had lost a great deal of weight. His clothes hung baggily on his thin shoulders. His face was drawn and yellow. There were deep lines scored around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes. In his black gown, with the white, starched jabot, he looked like a monk harried by conscience and ascetic practice.

  Ninette touched Landon’s arm and whispered: ‘We must look after him, Peter. He looks so dreadfully alone.’

  Landon nodded absently. She had not meant it so, but it was a sharp reminder that even after weeks of common labour his debt to Rienzi was still unpaid.

  Suddenly there was a gasp and a flutter of talk as Anna Albertini was brought in and led to the prisoner’s dock. The noise was quickly hushed by the Clerk, but the girl gave no sign that she had heard it. She stood stock-still, hands gripping the brass rail of the dock, eyes downcast, her face bloodless but still beautiful under the harsh, yellow light.

  Finally the court was called to order for the entrance of the judges and the President and the crowd stood in silence until they had settled themselves on the rostrum and spread out their papers.

  The President was an imposing figure: a tall, stooping man with white hair and an old, wise face in which understanding and the impersonal majesty of the law seemed constantly at war with one another. He frowned at the rustle as the crowd sat down, but he offered no comment. Then the Chancellor stepped forward and announced: ‘May it please the President and members of the court – the Republic against Anna Albertini; the charge, premeditated murder.’

  Landon felt Ninette’s hand tighten on his arm. There was a small flutter of fear at the pit of his belly. The flails of the law were beginning to beat on the threshing-floor and they would not cease until the chaff had been winnowed and the last grains of truth had been piled for the mills.

  The President’s first words were addressed to the girl in the dock: ‘You are Anna Albertini, born Anna Moschetti in the village of San Stefano, lately resident in Florence?’

  Her answer was firm, flat and colourless: ‘I am.’

  ‘Anna Albertini, you are charged in this court with the wilful and premeditated murder of Gianbattista Belloni, Mayor of San Stefano, on the fourteenth day of August this year. Are you represented by counsel or do you require the assistance of a public advocate?’

  Carlo Rienzi rose and made the formal announcement: ‘The accused is represented, Mr President…. Carlo Rienzi, advocate.’

  He sat down and the President bent for a moment over the papers on his desk. Again he addressed the prisoner: ‘According to the indictment before me, you, Anna Albertini, arrived by taxi-cab in San Stefano at midday on the date named. You walked to the Mayor’s house and asked to see him. You were invited to enter, but you refused and waited at the door. When the Mayor came out, you shot him five times and walked to the police-station, where you surrendered the weapon, were taken into custody and later charged. You made a statement: “He shot my mother in the war. I promised I would kill him. I have done it.” Do you now wish to withdraw or challenge this statement?’

  Carlo Rienzi answered for her. ‘We do not wish to withdraw or challenge the statement made by the prisoner. We are satisfied that it was made freely and without coercion.’

  The President gave him a puzzled, frowning look. ‘Counsel has read the statement?’

  ‘Yes, Mr President.’

  ‘You understand fully its incriminating character?’

  ‘Fully, Mr President. But it is our submission that for justice’s sake this statement must be read in the light of evidence still to be presented in this court.’

  ‘The submission is valid, Mr Rienzi. My colleagues and I will take note of it at the proper time.’ He turned to the prosecution. ‘The Public Minister may present his case.’

  The tall, hawk-faced fellow stood up and announced, quite mildly: ‘Mr President, gentlemen of the court, the events in this crime are so simple, so clear and brutal, that they require no oratory from me to bring you to condemn them. With the permission of the President, I propose simply to present my witnesses.’

  ‘Permission granted.’

  The first witness was the burly Sergeant Fiorello. In spite of his rugged face and his country accent, he cut a notable figure in the box. His answers were concise, his narrative fluent. He identified himself as Enzo Fiorello, rank of sergeant in the service of Public Security. He had spent twenty-five years in San Stefano and was now in charge of its station. He identified the prisoner and the weapon she had used. He sketched the circumstances and the aftermath of the murder and earned a word of commendation from the President for his expert handling of the situation. He earned another for his moderate interrogation of the accused and his swift suppression of disorder in the village. By the time the prosecution had finished with him, he stood up like some local Hampden – a champion of order but a sympathetic guardian of his people.

  Then Carlo Rienzi produced his first minor surprise. He declined to examine the witness but requested that he be recalled later for questioning by the defence. The President raised a dubious eyebrow. ‘This is an unusual request, Mr Rienzi. I feel it must be justified to the court.’

  ‘It is a question of clarity in our presentation, Mr President. We propose to elicit certain information from later witnesses and on some of it we shall need to re-examine Sergeant Fiorello. If we examine him now, the questions will have no relevance.’ He bowed formally to the Prosecutor. ‘At this moment we are in the hands of the Public Minister and we must follow his sequence of witnesses.’

  There was a moment of whispered conference on the rostrum, then the President agreed. Rienzi thanked him and sat down.

  Landon looked across the court to see what Ascolini had made of the tactic, but his face was hidden and Landon saw only the serene, classic profile of Valeria.

  It was as hard to read malice in her as it was to read murder in the white virginal face of the girl in the dock. Landon was reminded of the Japanese legend of those beautiful mask-faced women who changed by malignant magic into foxes when the moon was full. And yet she had kept her bargain. Whatever Ninette had guessed, Valeria had told her nothing. When, during the past weeks, he had met her in Carlo’s presence, she had maintained discretion. Once only, coming on him in an empty room, she had rumpled his hair and whispered: ‘I miss you, Peter. Why do girls like me always pick the wrong ones?’

  For the rest, Landon trusted her and was forced to a reluctant respect.

  Now a new witness was being led to the stand: Maria Belloni, wife of the dead man, the stout motherly woman who had stood in the doorway of the Mayor’s house and greeted Anna Albertini. Now, dressed in widow’s weeds, she seemed shrunken and old, burdened beyond endurance by loneliness and grief. When the oath was administered, the Prosecutor approached her, gentle as an undertaker. His fine voice intoned the words like the syllables of a psalm: ‘Signora Belloni, we share your grief with you. We regret that you should b
e exposed to the pain of a new questioning, but I want you to try to compose yourself and answer the questions of the President.’

  ‘I’ll-I’ll try.’

  ‘You are a very courageous woman. Thank you.’

  He remained near her while the President worked through the formal gambits.

  ‘Your name is Maria Alessandra Belloni and you are the wife of the deceased?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The court would like to hear in your own words what happened just before your husband was killed.’

  For a moment, it seemed that she might break down completely. Then she recovered herself and began her testimony, hesitantly at first, then on a rising note of passion and hysteria.

  ‘We were sitting down to eat like we always do…my husband, the boys, me. There was wine and pasta and a special risotto. It was a feast, you see: my husband’s birthday. We were happy like a family should be. Then there is the ring at the door. I go out. This one is standing there.’ She flung an accusing hand towards Anna Albertini. ‘She says she wants to see my husband. She looks so small and lonely I think to do her a charity. I ask her to come and eat with us. She says no; it is a private matter, it will take only a moment. I…I go back and call my husband. He gets up from the table. He still has the napkin round his neck and a little sauce at the corner of his mouth…. I…I remember that still…the sauce at the corner of his mouth. He goes out. Then…then we hear the shots. We rush out, we find him lying in the doorway with blood all over his chest. She killed him!’ The words came out in a wild scream. ‘She killed him like an animal…she killed him …’ The scream broke off and she buried her face in her hands, sobbing.

  Landon looked across at Anna Albertini. Her eyes were closed and she was rocking on her feet as though she was going to crumple in a faint. Rienzi was on his feet in an instant. His voice was sharp with protest. ‘Mr President, my client is under a great strain. I must ask that she be given a chair and a glass of water.’