‘No, madam, it is you who are the lie. You have been living a lie ever since you and your friend Paul Valerian conceived the plot that you should adopt the name and role of the real Sarah Wilson –’
‘Then where is Sarah Wilson?’ Fleur said, suddenly standing. ‘If I’m not her, where is she?’
Mordecai looked at her. For a time he remained silent. Then he said, ‘As you’ve asked that question, let me answer it.’
He turned again to Mr Rogers who was now sitting in one of the seats at the back of the court. Mordecai nodded and Mr Rogers put his hand on the arm of a plump woman seated beside him. The woman looked at Mr Rogers. She was dark-skinned, but no darker than Fleur and younger than the woman whom Mordecai had called to stand beneath Fleur in the witness box.
Mr Rogers gestured for the woman to rise and she did so, smiling slightly.
‘You asked where Sarah Wilson is. If this lady, when she comes to give evidence, says she was with a young woman, a dancer at a club whom she knew as Wilson, when that young woman lay dying – she thought of diphtheria – in…’ Again he picked up another sheet of paper. ‘… in a lodging near the Galata Köprüsü, or bridge, by the ferry to Usküda in Istanbul in May 1994, would you say she also was a liar?’
Murray burst in. ‘This is most irregular, Mr Ledbury, most irregular.’
‘It is, most irregular, but it’s most irregular for a witness to lie and lie and lie on oath, as this witness has done in this court ever since she entered the witness box.’
‘It is you are lying, not me,’ Fleur burst out. ‘You are all lying.’ She turned to face Murray. ‘I tell you it’s not true.’ She put her hands to her face. ‘They’re trying to trick me.’
‘Oh, no, madam,’ said Mordecai, ‘it is you who have been trying to trick the court. It is you, you who have been living a lie –’
‘I’ve said what’s true.’
‘You know perfectly well, do you not, that Sarah Wilson died in 1994?’
‘No. no.’
Mordecai shook his head. He lifted the stick he’d been leaning on and laid it beside the other on the desk in front of him. Then he leaned forward, both hands on the desk.
‘Shall I suggest to you what is the truth?’ He waited and when she shook her head he went on, ‘The truth is that when Sarah Wilson died, probably from drugs and not diphtheria but died, she owed your friend Paul Valerian a great deal of money. And when Valerian learnt she was dead, he thought he would never see any of his money again. Then he came upon the advertisement and thought Sarah Wilson might have inherited something in Charleston, and he persuaded you to pretend to be Sarah Wilson and go to the lawyer in Charleston and find out what it was.’
Fleur was staring at him, shaking her head. ‘No,’ she said, ‘no.’
Mordecai went on. ‘And he made you get that passport in Sarah Wilson’s name and sent you to Charleston. But when you came back and told him what you’d learnt about Sarah Wilson’s real mother, Paul Valerian saw there could be far more to it than a few hundred dollars, that there might be a great estate and hundreds of thousands of pounds. And as you had successfully carried off the imposture in Charleston with the lawyer, Paul Valerian decided you should go on with it. Isn’t that the truth?’
‘No, it’s not. It’s not true.’
‘By then, you were compromised, weren’t you? You had obtained that passport in Wilson’s name from the embassy in Paris and you had visited the lawyer pretending to be Wilson. So, willingly or unwillingly, you went along with what Paul Valerian planned?’
‘That isn’t true. It isn’t true. You’re inventing this.’
Mordecai shook his head. ‘No, Miss Moreau, I’m inventing nothing. It is not I who is making things up.’
He paused, and then said very gently, ‘Do you remember the doctor in Bucharest?’
‘Doctor? I don’t remember a doctor.’
‘Think. Didn’t you consult a doctor when you were working in Bucharest in Romania in 1994?’
‘I could have. I have been to doctors.’
‘Look around the court. Do you see the doctor from Bucharest you consulted here today?’
She stood up and looked around her, wide-eyed, trembling. ‘Take your time,’ Mordecai added. She shook her head, her handkerchief pressed to her mouth.
‘Ask the doctor to stand, please.’
Mr Rogers leaned across the dark woman who had stood when Mordecai had been asking about the death of Sarah Wilson and tapped the arm of a grey-haired man in a blue suit and striped tie sitting beside her. The man looked at Mr Rogers who whispered to him. The man got to his feet.
‘Do you recognise Dr Dubrescu?’
Fleur stared at the man standing at the back of the court. ‘I may…’ she began. ‘Yes, I think, it could be.’
‘It’s more than could be. It is. It is Dr Dubrescu whom you consulted in Bucharest in October 1994. You went to his office near…’ He studied another piece of paper. ‘… near to Herǎstrǎu Park, close to the Herǎstrǎu Country Club?’
‘I may have seen a doctor when I was there. I had woman trouble.’
‘That may have been one of the reasons for your first visit to the doctor, but there were other visits, were there not? Did you not later tell him of what you called your other troubles, your nervous attacks, your migraines, your day-dreams and night-dreams and fantasies which arose from your visits to seances and fortune-tellers?’
‘No, it was nothing like that. I never said anything of that. It’s not true. I went because of woman trouble.’
‘It wasn’t only woman trouble, was it?’ Mordecai was speaking now very quietly, his manner soft and gentle, very different from what it had been at the start of his cross-examination. ‘At that time, were you on drugs?’
‘Drugs? No, of course I was not.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll ask you again. At the time when you consulted the doctor were you on drugs?’
She looked at Murray, biting her lip. ‘Sometimes, a little, in the clubs I used to, but … I did sometimes.’ She stopped.
Mordecai went on even more quietly, ‘Didn’t the doctor tell you that you must stop the cocaine, you must stop the fantasising and the invention of stories, that it was making you disturbed and unbalanced? Didn’t he advise you to see a psychiatrist and seek treatment? And did you tell him about –’
‘What are you talking about? A psychiatrist? Treatment? The doctor never said anything like that. What are you saying?’
‘Didn’t the doctor tell you that you were more ill than you knew? Didn’t he warn you that you must stop taking the drugs and cease acting and pretending and be yourself or you would have a breakdown and would end in an asylum?’
She was staring at him, her hand to her mouth. ‘An asylum? End in an asylum?’
‘Didn’t that doctor warn you that you were heading for a complete mental collapse and that –’
‘That’s not true. He never said anything of the kind. No one said anything about an asylum. It’s a lie, it’s all lies.’
She sank back into the chair and buried her face in her hands and again rocked to and fro. ‘Leave me alone, leave me alone,’ she cried through her hands.
Mordecai stood very still, looking at her. Murray sat rigid, both hands gripping the sides of the desk in front of him. Willoughby had his head resting on one hand.
Fleur lowered her hands and stared back at Mordecai. Then she stood up. ‘It’s all lies, they’re all telling lies about me,’ she whispered. ‘I’m not ill, I’m not mad, I’m not mad.’
She turned to Murray, and suddenly shouted, ‘Tell them to leave me alone, tell them to stop.’
Murray looked down at his notebook on the table in front of him. He was about to speak when Fleur turned back to face Mordecai and began to shout at him, leaning over the edge of the witness box. ‘The doctor is lying. I’m not mad.’ She put her arm in front of her eyes. ‘I can’t stand this. I can’t stand your
lies and your bullying and accusing.’ She pointed at Mordecai. ‘You’ve brought these people here to lie about me.’
‘All of them?’ he said very gently. ‘All of them? Is that what you are saying, Ella?’
‘Yes, all of them. You’re wicked. You’re evil.’
Suddenly she turned, knocking over the chair behind her with a crash. She ran down the steps of the witness box to the floor of the court and then towards the door.
‘Where are you going? What are you doing?’ Murray said, bewildered.
The spectators in the gallery were standing, craning forward. Greg clambered noisily across the people in the back row of the court in order to get to her. ‘Let me through,’ he said, ‘let me through.’
He caught Fleur as she reached the door and put his arm around her. He pushed open the door and they disappeared. For a moment there was dead silence. Then the noise broke out. ‘Silence,’ shouted the usher, ‘silence.’
Percy got to his feet. ‘The witness, my lord, my client,’ Percy said, ‘she’s obviously very distressed.’
‘Disturbed,’ said Mordecai quietly, ‘you mean she’s very disturbed.’
Percy ignored him. ‘The cross-examination, my lord, was very severe. I’ll send a doctor to her. I’m sure she’ll recover. She needs a little time.’
Mordecai had remained standing, his head bowed. Percy went on, ‘Since it is nearing the end of the afternoon and it is Friday, perhaps your lordship would adjourn while I make enquiries and get a doctor to her? There’ll be time over the weekend for her to recover. I’m sure she’ll be well enough to resume by Monday.’
Robert Murray was as anxious as Braythwaite to bring the session to an end. He had never before experienced such an afternoon in court. He turned to Mordecai.
‘Mr Ledbury –’ he began.
Mordecai cut him short. ‘There’s nothing I can say, is there? I haven’t a witness to cross-examine. And I have a great deal more to ask.’
Murray looked at him balefully. That such a scene should occur in his court! In a court of Chancery! It was all Ledbury’s fault.
‘I will adjourn now,’ he said. ‘Sir Percy, see that your witness is back on Monday or that I have a medical report.’
As soon as the judge was through the door, Oliver turned and put both hands on Mordecai’s arms. Mordecai fell back into his seat. Oliver looked over his head at Mr Rogers and smiled. Mr Rogers nodded.
32
The journalists had scampered from their bench in an ugly rush when Fleur ran from the witness box, but it was only after the judge had disappeared that the court erupted in an explosion of noise. People stood and argued and jostled each other as they slowly forced their way out into the corridor.
In the emptying court, Andrea, Nicholas and Oliver, joined by Mr Rogers, faced Mordecai who had slumped into his seat, his wig askew on his forehead and the sweat running down the deep furrows which led from the side of his nose. The linen of his stiff wing collar and white bands formed a crumpled tangle round his thick neck. He buried his face in a dun-coloured handkerchief and picked up a bundle of documents which he used as a fan. The noise in the court was such that Andrea had to bend to hear him say, ‘She’s a very accomplished actress – or she is very, very sick.’
‘I recognised the man who left with her,’ Nicholas said. ‘He’s an Australian who came to Ravenscourt for the cricket. He’ll try and persuade her to come back. How can we stop him?’
‘It’s all right,’ Oliver said. ‘It’s all over.’
Mordecai hauled himself to his feet. ‘She needs a doctor, and I a pint of Bollinger.’
At the door of the court Mordecai stopped and looked at Mr Rogers. ‘Your Turkish woman? How certain is she?’
‘She is certain that the dying woman she looked after was a dancer called Wilson.’
‘Dying from diphtheria?’
‘Overdose of drugs, I suspect.’
‘Sown in a sack and dumped in the Bosphorus was the traditional fate of a Cyprian in Constantinople.’
Mr Rogers smiled. ‘No, she died and was buried. But no one knows where.’
Mordecai took him by the arm and they led the party out of the court into the corridor.
Percy Braythwaite and Harold Welby were sitting on a bench immediately opposite the court. Mordecai’s procession passed them without a glance or a word. An ashen-faced Stevens trotted up to Percy.
‘They left in a taxi.’
‘You must find them,’ said Percy.
‘Mr Blake is endeavouring to –’
‘No, not Blake. Do not let Blake have anything to do with it. And get a doctor to her. I must have her here in court on Monday, or a medical report.’
Stevens motioned to his clerk who scuttled away.
‘Ten minutes in chambers,’ muttered Welby, ‘and we could have sorted out who she is, without all that arguing and shouting.’
Percy ignored him. ‘What do you know about the people Ledbury brought into court?’ he asked Stevens.
‘Nothing.’
‘Find out what you can and about the other names Fleur Caverel was known by. But she’s still under oath and under cross-examination and only the doctor can talk to her. You have my telephone number. I shall be back in London on Sunday night. So on Monday, either she, or a medical report, without fail.’
He rose and strode unhappily to the robing-room. An hour later Eleanor collected him in the car. As she threaded her way through the traffic, Percy asked, ‘What did you make of it?’
For an answer she took one hand from the wheel and pressed his. ‘I felt sorry for her, and for you.’
‘Don’t worry about me. It’s the girl I worry about. For me, it was just a job.’
But Eleanor knew that for him it had been far more than just a job.
‘What Ledbury was suggesting, did it sound convincing?’ he asked.
‘That she is not who she said she was?’
‘Yes.’
For a time Eleanor didn’t answer. She knew how much Percy had believed in her, how convinced he’d been by her, how anxious he’d been to win the case for her.
‘I’m afraid it did,’ she said at last. ‘She needs help.’
Percy nodded.
What’ll you do now?’ she went on.
‘Wait and see what happens on Monday.’
But he knew in his heart what would happen on Monday. He knew she wouldn’t be back.
* * *
When Stevens came into his office Willoughby was sprawled on the sofa, smoking an even fatter cigar than usual. Judge Blaker was perched uneasily on the edge of a hard-backed chair.
‘You look like death warmed up, old cock,’ Willoughby boomed. ‘And not warmed up very much.’
Stevens sat at his desk. ‘A neighbour saw them leave in Rutherford’s car,’ he said. ‘God knows where they’ve gone.’
‘You won’t find ’em.’ Willoughby blew a plume of blue smoke into the air. ‘Pity. Over the past months I’d grown rather fond of her, and until today I thought we were doing rather nicely. Until that crooked-faced bastard began. It’s a rum business yours, Michael. Give me show business every time.’
‘All these months of work and preparation to end so suddenly. It’s inconceivable.’ Stevens had his head in his hands. He looked up. ‘She had a fit of hysterics. Perhaps she’ll be back on Monday?’
‘Not a chance, old son. And if she is, what’ll she say to the old Scotch bugger? How’ll she explain pushing off like that? And what about all those characters poppin’ up and down like jacks-in-a-box, saying she’s not who she said she was?’ Willoughby shook his head. ‘No, she won’t be back. She’s scarpered with lover-boy. She saw the game was up – the game you and I, Michael, thought was our game and it turns out to have been hers – hers and that bloody Pole’s.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ Stevens said, ‘I just can’t believe it.’
‘Well, you’ll have to, old cock. She’s dropped you and me in the proverbial. And left us a da
mn sight poorer.’
Stevens was hunched over his desk, his hands folded in front of him.
‘Cheer up, old son,’ Willoughby said. ‘A right pair of Charlies, Michael, that’s what we are. Mind you, your Mr Dukie Brown didn’t exactly help, turning up like that from Oz and pointing the finger at her – and two fingers at me.’ He laughed. ‘I rather liked that. Good for Dukie.’
He went to the door. ‘I’ll be closing down the freebie in the pub in Kensington pronto and we’ll have to push off the old lush back to BA.’ He turned to Judge Blaker. ‘You have your ticket, old son, so I’d skip if I were you.’
‘My bill of costs,’ said Stevens miserably. ‘Counsel’s fees and…’ He looked up at Willoughby. ‘Perhaps they’ve just gone for the weekend? Perhaps her young man will talk her into coming back?’
‘The Albert Hall to a china orange he won’t even try,’ Willoughby said cheerfully. He had his hand on the door-knob. ‘No, old cock, it’s over. Chalk it up to experience. Someone or something else will turn up. It was a bit of sport while it lasted. Cheerio all,’ he said, and left.
* * *
In the early evening the heat was still intense; there was no wind and the storm which had threatened all week could not now be long delayed. The forecast said it was coming from the west, and the further west Andrea and Nicholas drove the darker became the sky.
But the nightmare was over. She and Francis were safe. Life could begin again. It had ended so suddenly, so dramatically that she still couldn’t quite take it in, and the elation she’d felt in court had already passed. Only now did she realise how tired she was. She closed her eyes and dozed.
Before they arrived at Ravenscourt they heard the first rumble of thunder.
‘Will you come in?’ she asked Nicholas as they drew up in front of the house.
‘No, there’ll be a pile of work in the estate office. Then I’ll get on home. Will you be all right?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll come round tomorrow.’
Francis and Alice were at the top of the great staircase as Andrea came through the front door.
‘Mummy,’ Francis called, ‘you’re back, you’re back.’ He ran down the stairs to the hall and Andrea caught him and hugged him. Alice followed.
The Caverel Claim Page 23