Trial of Passion

by William Deverell

  “Very well. And so he left you alone for a while.” “He disappeared. I could hear water running, in the en suite bathroom, I guess. Sounded like a tub filling. I had this feeling — he was going to drown me. And I was struggling to untie myself for, oh, I don’t know, it seemed like an eternity, but was probably only a few minutes, and I could hear the tub filling and filling, and I . . . guess I just shot off the bed and ran out the door. And I still wasn’t connecting very well, still wasn’t sure where I was, but I found the stairs, and the front door, and I ran outside and to the house next door.”

  “And can you remember what happened there?”

  “All I know is I was screaming, and this older gentleman came to the door, and then a woman — I thought they were married, but he’s a retired minister and she’s his housekeeper — and I remember they were being very nice, and comforting me, and I was crying, and all I wanted was to have Remy with me, my fiancé. So I phoned him, and he came over. I don’t remember very much after that until — well, he took me home, and later that morning a policeman came over.”

  Patricia idly leafs through some notes, and I assume she is stalling a little, mulling over whether to leave matters as they sit or try to plug some of the leaky holes: How had she so easily freed herself? Why is it no neighbours heard the screams? How had her abdomen and her breasts been painted with lipstick as she lay prone on a bed? Why hadn’t she called the police immediately?

  Then Patricia sits. “Those are all the questions I have.”

  Gowan leans towards me. “You have no other choice now, Arthur. Go for the throat.”

  I sit, musing, trying to work all of this through my mind. I tell myself:She must be lying. Surely she is the Cleopatra splendide mendax of whom Horace wrote — splendidly false. Yet a worm of doubt wiggles within the rational, cynical mind. But I am becoming soft. Too long on a placid island, too many weeks away from the courtroom.

  “Mr. Beauchamp?” says the judge.

  I scrape back my chair and rise, scanning the watchers in the gallery; eager, expectant faces. In the back a woman knits, and I think of Madame Defarge and the guillotine. I find myself agreeing with the witness: the processes we are involved in seem wrong, obscene, a defilement.

  Jonathan has his chin cupped in his hands, and he is staring at Kimberley Martin as if in a trance. What had Gowan told me last week? “O’Donnell says he doesn’t want me to touch her.” Why? The client seems oddly protective of his tormentor. But he has witnessed Cleaver’s rough handling of witnesses, and must feel a subtler touch is needed.

  “Mr. Beauchamp, do you have any questions?”

  I continue silently to study Kimberley, then sigh.

  “No, I don’t have any questions,” I say.

  “No questions?” Pickles is taken aback.

  “Ah, well, perhaps just one. You have some examinations to write next week, Miss Martin?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I wish you the best of luck. Hopefully you will prove yourself as fine a lawyer as you are an actor.”

  What I seek is there: a rosiness tints her cheeks — the product of shame? Truth does not blush, a wise ancient once said.

  “Thank you,” she says, smiling, and pretends to all she has heard a compliment.

  I sit. Patricia seems flustered, but recovers. “That’s the case for the Crown, your honour.”

  I turn to Gowan Cleaver, who looks confused. Jonathan, if anything, seems quite relieved.

  As Kimberley makes her way from the stand, she hesitates, looks once again at my client, and then tears begin to stream in torrents down her cheeks.

  “Perfect,” says Gowan Cleaver. “A master stroke. Ask no questions and you don’t give the defence away. Save it all for the trial, brilliant.”

  Earlier, Gowan had been broadly hinting I was derelict in not cross-examining the woman, that I was plotting a speedy escape to my island farm. But he has now become effusive as we wait in the prosecutor’s office. Patricia Blueman is elsewhere giving comfort to her charge.

  “Complimenting her on her acting — just the right touch. I would have spent half the day banging away at her about her stage training and got one-tenth the impact. Christ, you’re smooth.”

  Jonathan has been formally committed for trial by judge and jury upon a charge of sexual assault causing bodily harm. The proceedings of the day took no more than an hour. And truly there is no need for me to spend any more time in the city than politeness demands. Though in honesty that wasn’t my plan. Let Gowan believe I was saving my ammunition for the trial — but, in fact, I couldn’t bear the thought of going for Miss Martin’s unguarded throat. She seemed too vulnerable. (Or do I guilelessly misread a splendid job of acting?) Am I losing my touch, the so-called killer instinct? Or has my hiatus from the courts made me more humane? Either way, I am the poorer lawyer.

  “She collapsed, Arthur, she fell apart, what more can I say?”

  “Probably just a release of tension.”

  “I doubt it. Guilt was written all over her. She should be the accused. We should bloody charge her with perjury and public mischief. Pubic mischief is more like it.” He is grinning. “You want to grab a bite after?”

  “Well, I think I shall be meeting Annabelle for lunch.”

  I have called her; we will meet at Chez Forget, one of my former haunts. I expect she will be relieved to learn I am planning a flight back to Garibaldi this afternoon.

  Patricia Blueman bustles in, purposeful but smiling.

  “That was very good, Arthur. She’s literally terrified of you. Of course, she’s heard of your reputation”

  “All those wasted hours preparing her for cross, eh, Pat?” says Gowan. “Arthur decided not to give her a free dress rehearsal.”

  “Frankly, I thought she sounded very fresh and convincing,” Patricia says. “But I wanted to talk to you gentlemen about the trial date. Normally we’d be looking at mid-winter, right in the middle of her school year.”

  “Oh, and you want to put it off until what, spring break?” says Gowan.

  “No, I don’t think it would be fair to either party to make them wait too long. I’m thinking about the beginning of September, two months from now. There’s a hole in the fall calendar, some kind of skid-road murder has fallen through.”

  “No, that’s pushing it,” says Gowan. “We have a hell of a lot of prep, and anyway I’m booked all through September. She’ll just have to muck through and do it during her classes.”

  “And who would the judge be this September?” I ask. “Mr. Justice C. Walter Sprogue. He’s handling the first two weeks of the fall assize.”

  “Mr. Justice Sprogue?”

  “You’re not keeping up, Arthur. He was appointed two weeks ago.”

  The elevation ofWally Sprogue to the trial court bench had not made the notices in the Island Echo. When he was in practice I shared many courtrooms with him. Though surpassingly vain, he is a fellow of liberal temperament, a firm believer in the concept of a reasonable doubt. I cannot let this chance slip away.

  “The first of September will be fine,” I say.

  “Wally Sprogue,” says Gowan. “You’re not going to throw a ringer at us — we show up and it’s suddenly Attila the Hun.”

  “I can live with Justice Sprogue,” says Patricia. “It’ll be the jury who’ll decide. He’s away until August. Can we do a pre-trial with him then?”

  “Most happy to oblige,” I say. “Gowan, a minute of your time?” This awkward moment cannot be avoided. As we walk together to the parking lot, I struggle to think of a way to let him down gently.

  “September trial,” Gowan grumbles. “Means I’m going
to have to adjourn a couple of things.”

  “I don’t think you should, Gowan. In fact, I’m wondering if I might ask you to step aside for this one. For, ah, political reasons, I feel I ought to be assisted by a female barrister. Any problems with that?”

  The disappointment works through his face, but he comes through bravely. “Excellent idea, Arthur. In fact, I was thinking of suggesting that very thing. Solves a lot of problems, and you won’t have O’Donnell and me going at each other’s throats.”

  “I’ll consult with you, of course. I’ll need the benefit of your keen mind.”

  He makes the effort of a smile. I feel for him. It is an important trial for an ambitious lawyer.

  As I enter Chez Forget, its owner, Pierre, a small, vigorous man, swarms around me before I have a chance to wave to Annabelle, who sits in the back, playing with one of the roses in the vase that decorates her table.

  “How do you not visit me any more? You do not like the food? You do not like the service? Try the McDonald’s, they have slides and ladders for the children. Madame is here. She is starving, you can see, she is so thin. You will have the lamb pâté, and the baby asparagus salad followed by saumon fumé, and then I give you the choice, either the tenderloin Avignon or the duck. Both are perfect.”

  He propels me to my chair opposite Annabelle. She is dressed with her usual flair, bare-shouldered in something silky. Her smile is soft and distant, and I have the sense that she is distant, too. In another place.

  “Something wet, Monsieur Beauchamp?” Pierre extends a bottle of mineral water and I nod my agreement. Then he tops up Annabelle’s half-empty glass of red wine and flies off to the kitchen.

  She is still toying with the rose. She casts me a look and a shy, un-Annabellic smile.

  “I love the beard. You look sort of Hemingwayish in it.”

  “Hides the jowls.”

  “Oh, but you’ve lost some weight.”

  I beam. “Yes, the belt tightens at a speed of one notch per month. Well, as I told you on the phone, my workday has concluded somewhat earlier than expected. We can relax”

  “Yes. I’ve taken the afternoon off.”

  “I am flattered.”

  “But you’re going back this evening?”

  “I think that best.” Don’t you, Annabelle? But I hear no protests. Why does she seem so far away? She keeps running a finger along the surface of those rose petals, studying them, not looking much at me.

  “Are you happy with the way it went?”

  “I’d rather have been weeding my garden, frankly. But it went well enough, I suppose. Jonathan seemed oddly relieved that I didn’t cross-examine Kimberley.”

  “You’re getting along with him?”

  “Of course.”

  “You seemed a little miffed that I was pushing his cause so hard.”

  “Not at all.” I have the sense she is about to confess to something, and I become busy, lighting a cigarette, perusing the menu. What secret is she about to share: is she about to tell me of her love for Jonathan? Impossible. The absurdity of it would render me stuporous.

  She reads my mind. “There was never anything between Jon and me — I hope you didn’t get that impression.” She muses, “There could have been. He’s quite attractive in his dark, surly way. But there wasn’t.”

  Should I presume she offered? I drag hard on the cigarette. I can’t think of anything to say. I feel relief, of course, though I have wronged Jonathan in my thoughts, and must seek his forgiveness. I shall try to do this by proving his innocence.

  Pierre bustles in with his plates of appetizers, refilling glasses.

  “The tenderloin,” I say.

  “I can’t, Pierre,” says Annabelle. “No entrées.”

  “Madame will shrivel to nothing.”

  “The salad is beautiful.”

  “You are beautiful. The salad is only pretty.”

  “You’re awful, Pierre.”

  After he leaves, Annabelle pokes at her salad a bit, then says, “Well, it’s now or never. I have something to tell you.”

  Her fingers touch the back of my hand. They feel cool and soft, fingers that have been caressing rose petals.

  “I’ve met someone else.”

  The phrase seems banal, a cliché of Gothic scope. I am having trouble breathing. I have a flash of memory of mowing the lawn in the front of my house. I was gasping. My lungs felt as if they were caught in a vice.

  “We’re in love.”

  Love. That word seems too abstract. I cannot fathom its meaning. But I decide, no, I am not having another stroke. I am probably surviving this.

  “Arthur, you knew something like this would happen. I think we stopped pretending long ago. I can tell you’re in shock, but there’s some relief there, too, there has to be.”

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry, I’m caught a little aback.”

  “I sort of felt . . . well, that you were giving me permission, Arthur. Moving off to your island as you did. I think you needed freedom from me. I was hurting you.”

  “I cannot find apt words, Annabelle.” I fumble for a cigarette, though smoke curls from another in the ashtray.

  “Then don’t say anything. It’s been going on I guess for a couple of months, Arthur. He’s a very good man, awfully dashing and, well, gaudy. I suppose you’d find him pretentious, but he has a gooey centre.”

  I grind this information through the mills of my mind. Gaudy? Gooey centre? I picture someone gilded, ornate, superficially sentimental.

  “It’s François Roehlig, Arthur. The new permanent conductor? You’ve heard of him. I think you have some of his recordings from when he was with the Düsseldorf Symphony.”

  I hardly hear this. I am listening to my heart. But I am doing fine. Just fine. No reason to worry.

  “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik. Yes, I think I saw his photo in the newspaper.” Gaunt and fiery-eyed, wearing not a tropical palm-tree tie but an ascot. A rising star, a wunderkind.

  “He’s divorced, two children. He’s . . . a little younger than I am. It doesn’t seem to matter. I think he worships me. I don’t know why. We share a lot. Obviously. He was conducting La Bohème for us, of course. And, um, he’d like me to go to Bayreuth with him this September, and he insists that I straighten it all out with you. Naturally he wants to meet you — I’ve spoken so admiringly — and I’ve been pretty frank with him about our difficulties, about how it hasn’t really been a marriage for many years. . . .”

  Annabelle is on an expressway and cannot find the brakes. How noble and gallant is the gaudy, gooey François Roehlig — he wants to meet the vanquished foe, the impotent Arthur Beauchamp, for a friendly after-duel drink. I am feeling some jealous ire — it is a healthy sign. I have emotions. I am well.

  “Deborah will be furious, I suppose. I don’t know what to do about that, she’s so unforgiving. Maybe she’ll find it in her heart if … if we finally make the break, Arthur, if I stop causing you pain. I know I do that.”

  She looks down, picks at a baby asparagus.

  “I’ve been a sorry excuse as a wife. But I care for you. I want you to be happy.”

  She can say nothing more. She is waiting for me to accept her gift of happiness. My mind is clouded by a picture of this effete conductor, Roehlig, swiving my wife.

  “Happy. Yes. Well, I am happy, Annabelle. For you.”

  “I’m so sorry, Arthur.”

  Numbly, I hear myself chattering, matter-of-fact and falsely brisk. “I would like you to have the house, of course. I have my island farm. It is home now. I think we both have enough to keep ourselves comfortable — those funds Nicholas recommended are doin
g very well, really.”

  As Pierre descends upon us with the tenderloin Avignon, Annabelle begins to weep. He beats a quick retreat.

  “I do love you, Arthur. In my way.”

  Annabelle suddenly rises and rushes off to the ladies’ room.

  I fight my own tears and stare for many agonizing moments at the half-filled glass of Bordeaux that sits beside her plate. My hand itches, moves forward, withdraws. Oh, God, what I would give for that cup of wine that clears today of past regrets and future fears.

  We stop at the house — the silent, rambling structure in Point Grey I inhabited for twenty years — and I fill a large suitcase with items I’d earlier failed to bring: my favourite slippers, my collection of pipes and soapstone carvings, some gardening books. I do all this in a stupefied state, as if anesthetized.

  My memories of the house seem more sour than poignant. I cannot remember too many happy days. It shall be hers now, and François Roehlig’s. A picture of them seated together over breakfast composes poorly in my benumbed mind.

  Lugging the suitcase out, I stop at the doorstep and say a silent, final goodbye to my former house, my runt-sized city garden, my former life. I heave the bag into Annabelle’s Alfa Romeo — she has taken the top down; the day has turned sunny. Annabelle’s clouds have parted, too, and she is smiling behind the huge panes of her Italian sunglasses. Smiling. I suppose she feels an immense relief that it is over.

  “Starting new lives — it feels good in a way, doesn’t it? Like a fresh chance. Like finally getting the mortgage paid off, and knowing that the rest of your life is interest-free. God, I’m talking like Nicholas. Listen, François wants to meet Nick and Deborah, so we’ll have you all over. You’ll do the mending, won’t you, Arthur? Try to convince Deb I’m not the wicked witch of the west”

  My smile is fixed, glued on.

  We descend the ramp to the harbour road, past Canada Place and the steamship dock, past one of those massive tourist tubs that ply the inside waters to Alaska. Annabelle races over the speed bumps that lead to the float-plane docks of Coal Harbour.