Overhead the sun had disappeared behind thick clouds and there was an icy bite to the wind. And yet Mary kept the windows wound down all the way back into London. The winter air blew all her thoughts away, granting her a temporary oblivion that Stephen couldn’t even begin to hope for. Back in his cell he lay quite still on the wafer-thin mattress of his bunk bed, concentrating hard, trying to shut out the banging of heavy doors and the anonymous shouting, the constant noise of the prison that seemed never to go away. There was something on the edge of his memory, just out of reach. It had come to him for a moment while he was talking to Mary and then disappeared. Something that she’d said, something about Silas. And now he had it. Silas driving their father’s car-the Rolls-Royce, the beautiful car in which his mother died. But Stephen was remembering a time long before that, just after the end of the war when he was no more than seven or eight. A hot summer’s day with his big brother home from school for the holidays. Silas wore long trousers and Stephen wore shorts, and he only came up to just above Silas’s elbow. Silas walked round through the elm trees to the big brick garage at the back of the house, and Stephen followed him at a respectful distance. They were going to look at the Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith, their father’s pride and joy.
It was cool inside, a relief from the hot sun, and Stephen took out a wrinkled linen ball that had once borne some resemblance to a pocket handkerchief and wiped his forehead, while he blinked, getting used to the half darkness. Gently he ran his hand down the gleaming black side of the car and then up over the curve of the great round headlamp to where the silver lady knelt above the radiator grille. Stephen loved the Rolls-Royce mascot, the girl with her arms outstretched behind her, holding her flowing gown, her silver hair flying in the wind. And last time they came here, Silas had told him the lady’s real name. She was called the Spirit of Ecstasy. It was just right, thought Stephen. That was exactly what she was.
But that was last time. This time was different. Silas had brought a key. Stephen knew it was wrong, but he was too excited to protest when his brother opened the doors and invited him into the red morocco interior, sitting next to his brother as Silas handled the wheel, shifted the gear stick, and flicked the indicator up and down, up and down, until the door opened and their father pulled them out of the car one by one, dragging them by their collars out into the sunlight.
Stephen remembered how frightened he’d been at that moment, but as it turned out, his fear had been groundless. His father didn’t touch him; John Cade’s rage was focused entirely on his elder son. Cade let go of Stephen, adjusted his hold on Silas’s collar, and with his free hand smacked Silas across the face one, two, three times. And then, pulling Silas close, Cade spoke through his teeth into his son’s frightened eyes: “Don’t you ever do that again, boy. You hear me? One more time and you’ll be gone for good.”
Silas was white as a sheet, the colour entirely drained from his face, but Cade hadn’t finished.
“Do you hear me?” he shouted.
“Yes.”
Silas barely got the word out through his chattering teeth, but it was enough. Cade pushed him away, letting go of his shirt, and Silas fell back onto the Tarmac drive. And by the time he’d picked himself up, his father was gone.
Silas was a mess, bleeding from the nose and with tears running down his cheeks, and his breath came in strangled gasps. Stephen felt shocked. It was his first experience of violence. Unable to think of any other way to comfort his brother, he offered him the dirty handkerchief that he still had balled up in his hand and then stood there uncertainly while Silas wiped away the blood and tears.
And then, catching his brother’s eye, Stephen realised that Silas wasn’t frightened anymore; he was angry, angrier than Stephen had ever seen him.
“I’ll kill the bastard,” said Silas. “I swear it. When I’m old enough, I’ll get a gun and I’ll shoot him. Like a dog.”
Silas held Stephen’s gaze for a moment and then handed him back his handkerchief before he turned and walked away, limping slightly as he made his way back toward the house. But Stephen remained rooted to the spot, trying to find some way to absorb the trauma of his experience.
And perhaps he’d been unable to, Stephen thought to himself, sitting on the bed in his prison cell fifteen years later. And perhaps that was why he’d forgotten the day in the garage for so long. Until now. The return of the memory seemed like a sign. And Silas’s words spoken all those years ago seemed no empty threat; they seemed like a promise.
SEVENTEEN
The courtroom was full of people but entirely silent as Silas slowly maneuvered himself up the long aisle from the entrance door to the witness box. The only noise was the sound of his crutches hitting the parquet floor as he made his way past the press box and the barristers’ table. Gerald Thompson wore a solemn expression, but inside he felt a glow of satisfaction. Everyone had their eyes fixed on the injured man. He was an object of sympathy even before he’d opened his mouth to speak.
Silas grimaced with pain as he settled himself into the chair that had been specially provided for him beside the witness box, but the truth was that he had been lucky. Ritter’s bullet had not inflicted any lasting damage, and the doctors had assured him that he would walk again before too long. In the meantime, he was under strict instructions not to put his injured foot to the ground. And Silas was no fool. He knew the value of his injury as well as the prosecutor. Lying in his hospital bed, he had felt the finger of suspicion moving inexorably in his direction. Inspector Trave had made no effort to hide his disbelief when he came to take the alibi statement. But Silas knew that it didn’t matter what the policeman thought as long as he could get the jury on his side.
He approached his evidence with a determination that had been completely absent the first time around. He kept his eyes up and didn’t hesitate when he gave his answers. Jeanne Ritter was dead, and he was not going to let himself be pulled down by her bitter ghost.
“Tell us how you got your injury, Mr. Cade,” asked Thompson, understanding the need to satisfy the jury’s obvious curiosity at the outset.
“I was shot in the foot by Reginald Ritter. We were in the library of my father’s house. He’d have killed me if Inspector Trave hadn’t shot him first.”
“Why did he shoot you?”
“Because he’d found out that I’d been seeing his wife. It sent him crazy. He killed her in their bedroom before he came after me.”
“Before her death, Mrs. Ritter told this court that she saw a figure dressed in your hat and coat cross the courtyard to the front door of the manor house, just before the shouting started on the night of the murder. Did you do that, Mr. Cade?”
“No, I did not,” said Silas, emphasising each and every word. “I never went into the courtyard that night.”
“Where were you, then?”
“I was with Sasha Vigne. Upstairs in her room. We were in a relationship together.”
“Now, you will recall that when you gave evidence before you said you were in your own room. Not Miss Vigne’s.”
They had come to the part of Silas’s evidence that Thompson had prepared most carefully. But he kept his voice even and methodical, as if he was dealing with a mundane part of the prosecution case that the jury did not need to worry about too much. Silas, however, could not hide his nervous anxiety.
“Yes, I lied,” he said eagerly. “I shouldn’t have, but I did. Sasha wanted to keep our affair a secret. She has a Catholic mother, and I didn’t see any harm in saying that I was in my room rather than hers. After all, it had nothing to do with what happened on the other side of the house.”
“That’s not for you to say,” interrupted the judge angrily. “Perjury is a serious offence. Not something to be taken lightly. Mr. Thompson, you must make the police aware of this matter.”
“I certainly will, my lord,” said the prosecutor, who was secretly resolved to use all his influence to ensure that no action was taken against the elder Cade brother, if he
could only secure the conviction of the younger one.
“Do you know of any reason why Mrs. Ritter would’ve said you were in the courtyard if you weren’t, Mr. Cade?” he asked, turning back to his witness.
“Because she found out about Sasha. It’s the only possible reason.”
“Yes, I see. Now, you should know that the jury has already heard evidence this morning from Detective Constable Clayton about a conversation that he had in the cafeteria, which was overheard by Mrs. Ritter just before she gave her evidence. The officer talked about certain photographs of Miss Vigne which were taken by yourself without her knowledge. Did you take those photographs, Mr. Cade?”
“Yes. I’m not proud of it. But Sasha knows about them now and she’s forgiven me,” said Silas, lowering his head as if in contrition. “I didn’t think she would, but she has.”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Cade.” Thompson sat down. He knew that, injured or not, Silas was never going to look good. He’d admitted perjury and confessed to being a voyeur. But that didn’t make him guilty of murder. Mrs. Ritter had a powerful reason to lie about Silas on the day she gave her evidence, and Sasha Vigne would support Silas’s alibi. Nothing had happened to change the main picture. Silas’s character defects didn’t take the gun or the key out of his brother’s hand. That was what mattered when all was said and done.
John Swift got slowly to his feet. Now that he at last had the green light from his client to accuse Silas of the murder, to run the case as he had wanted to from the outset, it was difficult to know where to begin. And he wished that Silas wasn’t sitting down. It didn’t play well to the jury to attack a witness whose head was level with his waist, particularly when that witness had been shot in the foot less than a week before.
“I want to take you back to the day when you were last in this courtroom, Mr. Cade,” he began, speaking in an apparently friendly tone. “It was last Wednesday, and you were sitting in the public gallery. I don’t know if any of the members of the jury saw you like I did. Perhaps not. You were at the back, after all, near the exit, and you didn’t stay for all the evidence.”
Silas watched the defence barrister intently, but he remained silent, determined to say nothing until he had to. The judge was less patient.
“You’re here to cross-examine the witness, Mr. Swift, not to give evidence yourself,” he said, in a tone of angry rebuke. “Now what’s your question?”
“It’s simply this, my lord,” said Swift, keeping his eyes fixed on Silas. “Why did you leave the court in the middle of Mrs. Ritter’s evidence, Mr. Cade? Was it something she said that upset you?”
“I left because I knew I had to tell the truth about where I was when my father was killed. I couldn’t lie about it anymore.”
“Why not? You’d done so up to then. You’d lied to the police and to this court. Why not carry on lying?”
“Because Jeanne was practically accusing me of murdering my father. I had to defend myself.”
“You needed an alibi?”
“I needed to tell the truth.”
“Then why didn’t you ask to see a policeman? Inspector Trave was in court. He could’ve taken a further statement from you. That would’ve been the proper thing to do, wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. I was upset at the time. I needed to explain to Sasha why I couldn’t keep our relationship a secret anymore. I wanted her to understand why we had to tell the truth about where we were that night.”
“Come on, Mr. Cade. Are you really asking this jury to believe that you snuck out of this court and drove all the way down to Moreton in the fast lane because you were concerned for Miss Vigne’s feelings?”
“I wanted to do what was right.”
“No, you didn’t. You wanted her to give you an alibi that would take you out of the courtyard. And out of your father’s study as well. Because that’s where you went that night after you saw your brother leave. Isn’t that right, Mr. Cade?”
Swift had raised his voice as he accused Silas of the murder, but Silas held his gaze, and his voice remained firm and clear as he denied it.
“No, I was never in my father’s study,” he said. “I swear it.”
“Just like you swore last time you were in the witness box that you were alone in your room.”
“That was to protect Sasha.”
“From what?”
“Her mother. She didn’t want anyone to know that she was sleeping with me.”
“And you’re seriously telling this court that you were so worried about Sasha’s Roman Catholic mother that you were prepared to commit perjury to stop her finding out about you and her daughter.”
“Yes.”
“Perjury is a serious offence, Mr. Cade. You can go to prison for it. You knew that already though, didn’t you? You didn’t need his lordship to tell you.”
“I knew it was wrong to lie. I did it because Sasha asked me to, and I didn’t think that it mattered that much. It had nothing to do with my father’s death whether I was in my room or Sasha’s.”
“Unless you were in neither,” said Swift with a smile. “Mrs. Ritter said you were in the courtyard.”
“She made that up because she was jealous of me.”
“She loved you. That’s why she hung up your hat and coat in the hall. To cover for you.”
“I wasn’t wearing them.”
“The maid, Esther Rudd, saw her hanging them up.”
“No. What Esther Rudd saw was an opportunity to get at me after I dismissed her.”
“She’s got a grudge against you, in other words?”
“Yes.”
“Just like the late Mrs. Ritter?”
“Yes.”
“Are you still having an affair with your father’s personal assistant?” asked Swift, changing tack without warning.
“No, we ended it soon after my father died.”
“I see. And how long before your father’s death did you start sleeping together?”
“A month. Maybe two. I’m not sure exactly.”
“But the photographs of Miss Vigne seized from your room were taken only two weeks before the murder. That’s what you told the police when they asked you about them.”
“Well, then, that must be right.”
“Good. Perhaps then you could explain to this jury why you felt the need to take long-distance photographs of Miss Vigne through her bathroom window, if you were already enjoying carnal knowledge of her in her bedroom.”
Silas didn’t answer. His cheeks flushed red and his eyes performed a rapid circuit of the courtroom until they ended up fixed on the judge, who looked like the personification of moral outrage.
“Come on, Mr. Cade,” he said angrily. “Answer the question.”
“It’s hard to say,” said Silas, in an almost inaudible voice. “It’s just that I found taking the photographs exciting. I shouldn’t have, but I did.”
“Speak up,” said Murdoch, looking down at Silas like he was some insect specimen that he’d just skewered on the end of a fork.
“I found it exciting,” repeated Silas, raising his voice a little. “Looking at her when she didn’t know I was looking. I’ve always found that exciting.”
“It’s not exciting. It’s disgusting,” said the judge with finality.
“Yes,” said Silas softly. “I know.”
“You’re a photographer by trade, Mr. Cade. Isn’t that right?” asked Swift, turning to a new page in his notes.
“Yes.”
“But I understand you’ve closed your shop in Oxford.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t need to do it anymore.”
“Because of all the money you’ve inherited from your father?”
“That’s right,” said Silas defiantly.
“But you wouldn’t have got any of that if he’d lived long enough to see his solicitor, would you?”
“No. But neither would Stephen.”
“Except that he’s
not going to get any of it if he’s convicted. It’ll all go to you then, won’t it?”
“I suppose so,” said Silas slowly. “But that’s not my fault.”
“No. Unless, of course, you planned the whole thing. From start to finish.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“But is it so ridiculous? After all, you’re the one who’s been pulling the strings in your family for a long time now.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you? Well, let’s go back to the blackmail letter addressed to your father that you opened. It was you who insisted on reading it to your brother, and then, just a few weeks later, you were the one who got him up in the middle of the night to eavesdrop on your father and Sergeant Ritter while they were making their plans to kill Mr. Carson.”
“Stephen had a right to know.”
“Maybe. But it certainly mattered to you that he did. And then every time he went to confront your father, you hung back.”
“I couldn’t face it. I’ve already told you that.”
“Yes. But wasn’t that rather convenient for you? Stephen ended up out in the cold, while you stayed home taking photographs of your father’s manuscript collection.”
“I’m not saying what I did was right,” said Silas slowly. “Or that my father was a good man. But I didn’t have to quarrel with him if I didn’t want to. I had a choice just like Stephen.”
“Of course you did. But what were your motives in making that choice, Mr. Cade? Was it that you hoped to get Stephen disinherited while he was out of the way, so that you’d get everything when your father died? He was a sick man, after all.”
“I didn’t think about that. I didn’t want him to die. And it was me who persuaded Stephen to go back when I heard my father hadn’t got long to live. Why would I have done that if I wanted to cut my brother out?” asked Silas, suddenly confident, as if he felt he’d won the argument.
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