The Diamond Waterfall

by Pamela Haines

  Mr. Spencer-Loring rose suddenly. At first a sneeze impeded speech. “Objection—”

  “Yes, Mr. Spencer-Loring?”

  “The relevance of this excursion into family history of the deceased, what bearing can it have on the innocence or guilt of the accused?” Objection not sustained.

  “Now Miss Gilmartin, as you were telling the court just now—your parents did not have a happy marriage?”

  “Indeed not. And unfortunately the unhappiness was made by our mother. She was—”

  The judge: “Mr. Purchase, where is this leading? It is not the deceased’s mother on trial.”

  “M’lud, if you will be patient with me—we are coming to the point. As you were telling the court, Miss Gilmartin, your mother—”

  “Our mother was … Forgive me, I don’t care to speak of these matters. She—I think they call it a—nymphomaniac.”

  The judge interrupted, “For the benefit of the court, Mr. Purchase, what is meant by this expression ‘nymphomaniac’?”

  “I think, m’lud, it is best defined as an uncontrollable and morbid sex urge. In a woman, of course.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Purchase.”

  “Miss Gilmartin, your brother was unhappy, was he not, even as a boy— about the home life of your parents?”

  “I myself only knew what he told me. But, yes, he had seen, and heard— things which distressed him.”

  “And as a result of this he had quite rightly a very high standard indeed of marital behavior. By contrast … An idea that a wife should be above reproach—”

  “Yes. He was looking … He thought he’d found in my sister-in-law a good woman.”

  “But he discovered, did he not, that in fact history was repeating itself—”

  Mr. Spencer-Loring: “I object most strongly.” (His voice came out most feebly.) “Counsel is leading his witness in a quite blatant manner—”

  “Objection sustained. Mr. Purchase, you will kindly confine yourself to straight questions which the witness will then answer in her own words.”

  But in seconds he was away again:

  “Miss Gilmartin, what sort of marriage did your brother have?”

  “Objection—”

  “His marriage was a mockery—”

  This, Teddy thought, is what they call Sensation in Court.

  “In what way, a mockery? Please continue, Miss Gilmartin, even if it causes you distress. The court must hear.”

  “A mockery because—she was pregnant when they married—”

  “And the father of that child?”

  “Mr. Purchase, you are leading your witness again—”

  What is all this? What twist is this? Teddy thought. Why, oh why, does our man say nothing?

  “I apologize, m’lud. Miss Gilmartin, what effect did the accused’s condition have on your brother?”

  “He was greatly distressed. It was entirely for chivalrous reasons—he was always absurdly gallant—that he married her, knowing it was someone else’s child”

  “How much did he tell you of this?”

  “Only that it wasn’t his. That it was the result of a casual encounter. Just as later—”

  “Yes, yes, we shall come to that. Your brother was in the Great War, Miss Gilmartin?”

  “He fought … he …” She sobbed.

  The judge said, “The court understands your distress, but I must ask you to try and answer clearly.”

  “He fought at—he lost an arm, on the Meuse, the last month of the war.”

  “Yes, yes. Tell me now—did his war service have any other adverse effects on him?”

  “Yes, I’d say he had a great deal of nervous trouble. He was neurasthenic—”

  “So that he suffered more than the normal person would when under strain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you tell the court now what you know of your brother’s marriage, after this—unfortunate beginning?”

  “He suffered particularly. You see, he had business worries which were made worse by his realization that my sister-in-law … that she consorted frequently with other men—”

  “And you realized this first—when?”

  “When we were trying to run an hotel in Ireland, and she took the opportunity … the run of men staying there. It was a paradise for her type. I had cause to speak to her. I said—”

  Before there could be any objection, Mr. Purchase:

  “We do not need to deal just now with what you said. Rather, can I ask you what were your brother’s reactions to this—behavior?”

  “After the first confidences, he didn’t often discuss these—affairs with me. I know only that he was constantly distressed. Despairing.”

  “There was never any question of his being that rather unattractive character, the mari complaisant?”

  In the second’s silence following: Dear God, thought Teddy. Are we to have that defined?

  “Never. I know he spoke to her directly about these matters—angrily quite often. But of course without any results. On more than one occasion I was actually witness to—flagrant … to things I would rather not have seen. I was concerned too for the children—”

  Teddy thought, Such a picture of our darling Sylvia. It is not possible people can tell such lies. Except that perhaps this woman believes her own lies.

  “One last question, Miss Gilmartin. Did you not yourself intend to be married?”

  “My—fiancé was killed. In 1918.” “Thank you. That is all, Miss Gilmartin.”

  Now, thought Teddy, she is made out to be almost a war widow. She had been watching two of the women jurors while Angela spoke last. One, in her early forties, whispered to another and shook her head sympathetically. No doubt that Angie had made a good impression.

  The turn now of Sylvia’s counsel to cross-examine. If only he did not look so ill. Where was that well-known thrust of the head, the sudden, piercing, unexpected question that would finish Angela Gilmartin, puncturing the balloon of her self-righteousness?

  “Miss Gilmartin, did you like your sister-in-law?”

  “Of course I was fond of her. Why should you imagine I was not?”

  “I am asking the questions, Miss Gilmartin. Now tell me, would you describe yourself as at all jealous of your sister-in-law?”

  Objection by Matthew Purchase.

  An apology. Then, sneezing and snorting, Mr. Spencer-Loring resumed. Picking Angela up about this, about that. Getting nowhere. The fox fur trembled with outrage at the suggestion that any of her story might be biased, that Reggie’s business failures were other than bad luck, that Sylvia could have been in any way provoked.

  “Did you know that your brother was in the habit of drinking too much? Was dependent on drink to a great extent?”

  “What is too much? My brother was used to it, from his days in the trenches. He was able to hold large amounts without apparent effect. It was quite different with her drinking. And of course if she was drunk at the time of—”

  “Miss Gilmartin, you were not called into the box to make suppositions. That is the task of others. You are here to answer questions. Now tell me, did you actually see the accused, ever, the worse for drink?”

  “Not actually see—I was not there so much of the time lately. I was abroad, and …”

  “Tell me, did your brother ever threaten suicide in your presence?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “Did you know that he had, lately, often threatened to take his life?” “No—I … If he did—it would be to escape the hell she was making for him.”

  “Miss Gilmartin, I must ask you again. These allegations of immorality … Now tell me, do you know whether he in fact spoke with the accused about … these alleged infidelities?”

  “I don’t—he did not say. Because he was unhappy and said it was to do with her, I naturally supposed …”

  “We are not here to deal with supposition, as I think I told you before. I will rephrase my question. Did your brother tell you he had spoken to the
accused of his suspicions? That it was an issue between them?”

  “Not exactly. I … perhaps …”

  “Thank you, Miss Gilmartin. No further questions.”

  Teddy looked over at the dock. Sylvia in her little turquoise hat, worn on one side to the front of her head. A hat chosen by me, and sent in together with the suit, fur-trimmed at lapels and cuffs. My sister is a doomed woman, she thought now. She hasn’t even the wistful beauty which surely a few years ago would have won over the most hardened of jurors. All, all gone. I have been witness, slowly, inexorably to its departure. I did not notice enough when I should have.

  And now these terrible, false accusations—Sylvia the drunk, Sylvia the whore. (It is I who am the whore.)

  The remainder of the trial passed for her in a haze. Words rolled over her head. She could not look at Sylvia, could not have borne to. … There would be character witnesses—someone, someone surely would make it all right.

  They came and went: the headmistress of Willow’s school, the mother of one of her friends. Mr. Purchase was rough with two of them. No one appeared to know Sylvia at all closely. She had not confided in her neighbors. Or in anyone.

  “May it please Your Lordship, members of the jury …”

  Closing speech for the Crown:

  “We have heard all we need to show that the deceased was not only a man crippled in many senses, but a man provoked beyond imagining—ironically married to the very kind of woman who had made his youth such a shameful torment. A man who not surprisingly was driven to possess a revolver—knowing that there would be an honorable way out if all this should prove beyond his supporting. Little knowing it would be the very person driving him to this whose finger would be on the trigger.”

  Listening, half listening to Matthew Purchase, Teddy could not understand his reasoning. She reminded herself that Ronald Spencer-Loring would have a chance after to refute everything, to turn it all upside down, in Sylvia’s favor.

  Mr. Purchase still:

  “It is not important that no one comes forward other than her sister-in-law to state that she drank habitually. It is not necessary for the case that she should drink habitually. The question is, was she drunk enough on this occasion to cloud her judgment, so that she thought she was doing something other than killing her poor husband? You have heard the evidence of the deceased’s sister—that the accused was in the habit of deceiving the deceased and that he was at the limits of his toleration. An evening was chosen when the children were absent. …

  “It is not in dispute that the deceased was shot by the accused. We seek to prove that it was a deliberate, cold-blooded act. That she sought by this means to free herself of one who through no fault of his own had been unfortunate in business matters, and who now tried to curb and to interfere with her pleasures. That she took drink to give her courage—whether or no she habitually drank—and that her intention that night was …”

  The closing speech now, on behalf of the prisoner Gilmartin.

  What is our man making of the defense?

  He flounders, coughs, begs the pardon of the court. As Teddy tried to concentrate, it seemed to her that his speech might as well be for the prosecution. It rested as far as she could make out, on that struggle with the Smith & Wesson (Exhibit 24, horribly with them in court). That in attempting to stop his suicide, in trying to wrest it from him, she accidentally pulled the trigger. (And indeed, in my own mind, I never for a moment thought anything else happened.) But he does not sound as if he believes it

  Now listen to his voice, tailing away to a murmur. This story that drink was forced down her. I believe it, but told by him it sounds the feeblest of defenses. He seems too to be using as defense that, fuddled by alcohol, she did not know what she was doing. (This wretched business of drink. Sylvia never drank. No one will make me believe that she was a secret toper. And of course she has told me—us,—nothing but “I shot him.” And words like “There can’t be excuses for killing someone.” We are no further forward.

  I can only hope, she thought, that the judge (looking now more and more like Gib’s father) will direct the jury, those twelve good men and true, so that if she cannot be acquitted, if it cannot be called accidental death, at least it will be only manslaughter.

  He has begun his summing up:

  “The fact that the accused is a person who has been guilty of immorality in circumstances which you may deplore has nothing to do with the case. You must judge the evidence from your knowledge of the world and experience— you are not supposed when you enter the jury box to leave that knowledge and experience outside.

  “A man is presumed to intend the reasonable consequences of his act. If a man is so insane that he hits at somebody’s head with an ax, believing that he is cutting down a tree, then he does not know what he is doing but thinks he is cutting down a tree. That is what is meant by not knowing the nature and quality of the act. He does not know what he is doing.

  “We cannot have wives shooting inconvenient husbands who happen also to be drunk.

  “It is no answer and does not amount to insanity in law, so as to make a man not responsible for his acts, that his resistance should be weakened or that his power of appreciation should be lessened. Therefore I have to tell you that, so far as that defense is concerned, you are bound to reject it upon my ruling …”

  And now his last words:

  “I must also tell you what your duty will be if you come to the conclusion that although this lady fired the shot which killed her husband, she did so without intending to kill or do grievous bodily harm. I ought to say to you —it is material—that under those circumstances the accused would not be guiltless. She would be guilty of the crime of manslaughter, because manslaughter is killing a person unlawfully, without any intention of injuring him seriously, and of course without any intention of killing him …”

  Too little, too late, Teddy thought, watching the jury file out. That may be the letter of the law but it is a different spirit he has conveyed. And he looked so like Gib’s father.

  Sylvia swayed, watching the world spin. Her swollen eyelids felt as though she had been crying. (If I were to weep, would I ever stop?) She thought, It’s certain I am ill. It cannot be all nerves.

  There had not been a time since that evening in September that she had been without headache. It was her familiar. Aspirin, which they plied her with, only nauseated her, adding to the stomach pains, the burning throat. This terrifying headache, blurred eyesight. Some days I cannot see properly at all.

  She looked down at her fingers. Gloveless, they lay on her lap. She could feel the tingling starting up again. First a numbness, then pins and needles. The prison doctor says it is my kidneys, prescribes barley water and a bitter mixture in a bottle. Every other symptom is of nervous origin, it appears. The second doctor: “You mustn’t think, you know, you can get out of the trial through ill health.”

  But I do not think at all. Cannot think. It is as if I listen to someone else’s story. Mr. Spencer-Loring’s speech—I have seen no one impressed. The sympathy has been all with Angie, with her lies that she so firmly believes.

  To think is to remember. I thought I remembered nothing. That policeman who has given evidence that he came in answer to my call. I telephoned, and cannot remember that. “I have shot my husband,” I told him.

  It was the nightmares brought it back first. They began the first evening in prison. The women guards were, are, all kind. They wanted me to sleep well (sleeping drafts, phenobarbital, but still I am half the night awake), to feel better, to be acquitted. And yet how can I be, since I did it. I pulled the trigger. I wanted him dead.

  I can remember that—now. So long before it came back. Hazy memory. Of sudden flash, rogue thought, wild thought. Thought, in the same seconds that I held the revolver. Such strength. How, weak as I am now, did I have such strength? That sudden … I would have liked to plead guilty, if it weren’t for the children.

  Oh, my children. My children. Who
will, what will … if the worst happens, who will help? Shall I be allowed to see Willow? What shall I say to her?

  This is hell, nor am I out of it. My head, it will burst into a mass of—like Reggie.

  Reggie is alive, so alive that in dreams he speaks to me, in nightmares. It’s a dance at Dora Fisher’s and I am young again. Captain Gilmartin, one-armed hero, wants to marry me. He asks me at the dance. My fingers touch a frock of pale orange georgette. The music goes on somewhere—always in another room—he asks me to marry him and when I begin to say no (there is some reason why I must not, may not), then his face changes. That is the nightmare, that terrible face—first drunk, angry, flushed—then changing, changing, dissolving, bursting into a mass of … oh my God if only I could wake up then. I’ve tried calling out, “I’m awake, I’m awake, it’s not real,” just as I did as a child, as they told me to. I wake, and it is cold and half light, a gray half-light from the first moment. I try and drag myself from it all—and it is real

  Once and once only—not a nightmare but a dream, of such happiness that I woke crying. Of course it was Geoffrey. It was our love again. Only why? When I haven’t dared to think of him by day. In the dream we do not make love, we do not even talk. We only are.

  “Members of the jury, are you agreed upon your verdict? Do you find the prisoner, Sylvia Frances Gilmartin, guilty or not guilty of murder?”

  “Guilty. But we should like to add a rider to that. We recommend her to mercy.”

  “Sylvia Frances Gilmartin, you stand convicted of murder. Have you anything to say why the court should not give you judgment of death, according to law?”

  O thou who changest not, abide with me … The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want, he maketh me …

  “Sylvia Frances Gilmartin, the jury have convicted you of murder with a recommendation to mercy. The recommendation will be forwarded by me to the proper quarter where it will doubtless receive consideration. My duty is to pass upon you the only sentence which the law knows for the crime of which you have been convicted …”

  13

  “Where is it?” Willow asked politely. “Where is this convent?”