The Unsound Sister

by Lelita Baldock

  But Eloise was stronger than she appeared. Quiet and shy yes, yet there was an inner strength there that Harriet could not help but admire. She stood accused of the most horrid possibility, that in a forgotten rage she had killed her husband. Yet she stood tall and faced the memory with conviction and strength. How many people could honestly say they would do the same in her position?

  Harriet shook her head, there was much to consider, she needed to let her subconscious do some overtime, to fit the pieces together, somehow.

  One thing was sure, however. June Lane had a motive.

  20: Too far forward

  ‘June is lying. I brought vodka.’ Harriet stood in the frame of his front door, black skinny jeans outlining her shapely legs, jacket tight against her shapely curves and the evening chill. Robert looked her over. Eyes clear, a small determined smile on her lips.

  ‘Going to invite me in?’ she grinned provocatively, waving the bottle of Absolut before her like a pass card.

  Robert hesitated, just a moment, then stepped back opening the doorway for her to pass.

  What am I doing? he wondered furiously to himself, pulse racing. At least Tom wasn’t home, he was off spending Saturday night with James, again. Some company would be nice, he told himself. Unsuccessfully.

  Harriet sauntered through his door, head held high, all the spice was back. She wandered across his lounge and into his kitchen, paused a moment scanning the cupboards then took a punt.

  Guessing correctly, she pulled down two tumblers and promptly poured out two generous shots of vodka. Robert brushed past her on the way to the freezer, skin tingling at the unexpected contact and pulled out an ice cube tray. He furnished their drinks with ice and Harriet held her glass before her. Watching him over the rim of the glass her eyes danced with a strange intensity. ‘Cheers,’ she breathed softly over the glass. Plump lips cupped the glass softly before she threw back her head and downed the shot in one. Ice clinking against the glass she poured herself another and made her way into the lounge.

  Taking a sip of his own vodka, Robert followed.

  In the lounge Harriet kicked off her heals and flopped down onto his sofa, curling her feet up beneath her and leaning back, eyes following him as he entered the room. Where to sit? Harriet’s curled legs left space on the sofa beside her, but there was also the one seater on the other side. Robert hovered, caught in a moment of indecision, unsure of how to navigate this strange turn of events.

  Harriet’s eyes gleamed, a wicked smile curving her lips as she leaned over and patted the sofa beside her, eyebrow raised in challenge. No choice then, Robert decided and took a seat beside her, subconsciously resting one leg over the cushions to turn his body towards her but also create a physical buffer between them.

  They watched each other, sipping their drinks. The silence stretched. Then Harriet spoke.

  ‘Your boy is out?’

  ‘Sleep over.’

  ‘So just you and me then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Harriet nodded, taking a sip of her drink. ‘I went to Salcombe today.’

  Robert felt his eyebrows rise. So this was about the case.

  ‘Harriet, we really shouldn’t talk about…’

  ‘Did you know June was pregnant with Grant’s baby? Not now,’ she waved her free hand in dismissal of the notion, ‘back in their uni days, when they dated.’

  Robert fell silent. Interesting…

  ‘He convinced her to get rid of it. Then he dumped her,’ she leaned forward vodka glass swaying before her, ‘guess who for?’

  She grinned salaciously and leaned back, tossing off the last of her drink and reaching to refill her glass. She held up the bottle in offer to Robert, he nodded, holding out his glass between them. She poured another dollop of vodka into it and settled back.

  ‘Helene Swifter,’ she announced.

  Well, Robert thought, that is surprising.

  ‘Friendship can overcome a lot,’ he tried.

  Harriet snorted. ‘You have a high opinion of friendship.’

  She stretched a leg out before her, bringing her foot almost to his knee. Robert forced himself to stillness, fighting the urge to squirm.

  ‘I visited Helene today.’

  ‘Of course you did.’

  ‘She said June was in a state the night of Grant’s murder, worried about Eloise. Said, “he’s doing it again.” What to you suppose she meant by that?’

  Robert shrugged, ‘Eloise wasn’t stable, Harriet. And she knew about Grant’s plans for Jacob. She probably just wanted to support her sister.’

  ‘But Eloise didn’t know about the custody plans, not until you showed her the letter.’

  ‘So she says. June says otherwise. As she told you, she found the letter open after returning home.’

  ‘Can you be responsible for actions and motivations you don’t remember?’

  Harriet paused, sipping slowly. Her initial drinking fervour seemed to have slowed. Robert didn’t know if he was glad of it, or slightly disappointed. He shook his head. Be glad, you arsehole. You don’t want her drunk, he thought. Or did he? He swallowed down a surge of male guilt mixed with desire and focused on the conversation before him.

  ‘It doesn’t matter anyway,’ he said doggedly. ‘June was in Salcombe when Grant was killed, or driving back to Torcross. This is just conjecture.’

  ‘June says she was driving home when Grant was killed. But a white car was seen in Beesands. She had time.’

  ‘Harriet,’ Robert said firmly, ‘Eloise was seen in Beesands, and returning home. No one saw June. And her alibi does check out. All your doing is…’

  ‘Creating doubt?’ her mouth quirked into an evil grin.

  ‘Harriet…’

  ‘You’re right,’ she announced, shifting her weight against the couch. ‘We shouldn’t talk about the case. It’s unprofessional.’

  Suddenly she was on her feet. Robert knew a moment of disappointment. Leaving already. He wanted her to stay. He wanted to talk, to be with her.

  Harriet looked down at him. ‘So, are you going to cook us something for dinner or shall we order in?’

  Robert stared at her, brain caught a moment in surprise. Then he smiled. ‘Do you like Bolognese?’

  Robert cooked, Harriet drank, sitting on his kitchen bench for all the world as though it were her own.

  They ate in the lounge, drank more vodka. At some point Robert put on a record, Marvin Gay. Harriet snorted at the choice, then leaned back on his sofa, hands moving through the air before her as she conducted the orchestra in her mind.

  They talked. About Brexit, Harriet darkly angry, Robert dutifully understanding; about the pressures of work, Harriet like a terrier on the hunt, Robert longing for more weekends off; about childhood, Harriet briefly, Robert at length, remembering days of easy sun and timeless afternoons playing football. And they laughed, their bodies melting into the sofa, the distance between them, both physical and emotional closing rapidly.

  Then Harriet, mastering herself after a fit of laugher leaned forward and placed a hand on Robert’s arm. The touch was light, momentary. The touch changed everything,

  Their gaze met. A new light dancing in the night dark pools of her eyes. Robert leaned forward. Harriet did too. His eyes dipped to her mouth. It quirked into a smile. He lifted a hand, pushed a lock of her hair back behind her ear and…

  The front door banged shut. Robert looked up sharply, then shot to his feet. Harriet turned more slowly. There, in the doorway to the lounge, stood Gemma. Clad in a day suit, short blonde hair fashionably mussed, eyes surprised. She dropped her keys into the bowl on the side table and placed her suitcase at her feet.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she said, voice acidic.

  ‘Gemma, I wasn’t expecting you this weekend,’ Robert stammered, running a hand through his hair.

  Harriet’s eyes flicked between them. Then she stood. Surprisingly steady given the half-empty vodka bottle at her feet.

  ‘Is that the time
?’ she said, not even pretending to check a clock. ‘I’ve overstayed.’

  She looked to Robert, ‘Good to talk about the case. We need to be sure of all the facts.’

  Bending she collected up her jacket and slipped on her heels, nodded to Gemma and made for the door.

  ‘I’ll see you out,’ Robert said.

  ‘No need,’ she brushed passed Gemma, walking fast.

  Robert glared at Gemma, who shrugged and went for the kitchen.

  By the time he caught up to Harriet she was in the drive, shuffling past Gemma’s Honda.

  ‘Harriet, wait, it’s not what it looks like…’ He reached for her arm, catching her sleeve.

  Harriet whirled around, flinging her arm out of his grasp. ‘Don’t touch me,’ she hissed, venomously.

  ‘Harriet,’ he tried again.

  She held up her free hand, ‘I don’t want to hear it.’

  She turned, striding determinedly away.

  ‘At least let me call you a cab?’

  ‘I can take care of myself, thank you very much,’ she said, not looking back.

  ‘Harriet, please.’

  She rounded on him, stopping so suddenly he nearly bowled into her. He halted, so close he was almost brushing her skin, her lips. His heart was still pounding.

  ‘Harriet…’

  ‘You just be sure,’ she said.

  Robert felt his forehead crease in confusion.

  ‘Just be sure you have the right sister. Because if you don’t, I will tear your case and your career apart.’

  She spun on her heel and began to walk away.

  ‘Harrie, please,’ he called.

  ‘Just be fucking sure,’ she called as she hit the street, storming away into the dim light of the street lamps.

  ‘Fuck,’ Robert breathed, watching her go. His breathing calmed. Mind pounding with frustration he turned back inside to face his wife.

  Robert found Gemma at the dining table, a bowl of cold pasta before her. She’d even helped herself to a vodka. A fresh glass sat at the place opposite her, waiting for him. He slumped into the chair and took up the glass. Taking a large sip, he fixed Gemma with his eyes, ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’

  Gemma shrugged, ‘It’s my house too. Last I checked.’

  ‘We had an arrangement. Once a month.’

  ‘Next weekend doesn’t suit. This one does.’

  ‘That’s not fair Gemma.’

  Gemma paused, twirling some pasta around her fork and taking a large bite. She chewed slowly.

  ‘Ok,’ she conceded, ‘my bad. But this situation isn’t entirely my fault. I can’t help it if you haven’t explained your marriage to that young thing.’ Her eyes flicked towards the door, contempt splashed across her face. ‘What is she? Twenty-five? I mean, really Robert.’

  ‘She is older than she looks.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And it’s none of your business, Gemma. What I do with my life and my time is no longer your concern. You left.’

  Gemma sipped her drink, took a large breath.

  Robert continued before she could speak, ‘Look, I don’t want this… tension between us. It’s not fair on Tom. That’s why I agreed to the visits. For our son. But Gemma, it’s been almost a year. I have the right to move forward. You have.’

  ‘All right. I’ll call next time. I promise. And, I’m sorry for tonight. You’re right, it’s none of my business.’

  She downed the last of her drink and stood up, stretching her neck. Then walked towards the door, heading for the stairs and the guest room made up for her visits. She paused at the door and looked back at Robert.

  ‘Give her the night to calm down,’ she said. ‘Ring and explain in the morning. It will be ok. She will understand. If she really likes you, she will understand. I would have.’

  She smiled sadly and left Robert in silence, only the bottle of vodka and his own frustrated thoughts for company.

  He liked Harriet, really liked her in fact. The situation with Gemma, their separation, pending divorce not yet finalised, he should have told her. But he hadn’t wanted to complicate things. And perhaps, somewhere deep down inside, he still wasn’t ready to admit he had failed at marriage, as a husband; useless, self indulgent thinking. Gemma was gone. Had been for much longer than the 12 months since she walked out, if he was honest. He needed to move on. Had been moving on. And now…

  ‘Fuck,’ he breathed and poured himself another class of the clear, swirling liquid.

  21: Not guilty by reason of insanity

  The arm chair was soft and comforting, Harriet should have felt relaxed. But she didn’t. Across from her Randell Dawes QC was skimming through her latest files, stopping occasionally to ask her a question, or direct her towards more research and detail. So far he seemed mostly pleased with her work. But his scrutiny was not why Harriet felt keyed up, anxious.

  She was in Randell’s London office in London Square Chambers, the room less dark and forbidding now in early April. She watched Dawe’s small shoulders hunched over his desk, wrinkled hands elegantly turning the pages, his face an impassive, unreadable mask. She waited.

  At length he leaned back, removing his spectacles and appraised Harriet from his side of the wide oak desk. ‘Impressive research and background, Harriet. Your detail from witnesses and the Psychologist are exceptional. There really is little doubt in my mind that the jury is likely to find Lane-Huxley Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity. A short trial, I think.’

  Harriet nodded, her own shoulders slumped. She should feel triumphant. Randell Dawes QC had praised her. What a step forward his good opinion would be for her career. And the case looked water tight, solid. A short trial. It was good news. Except…

  ‘What aren’t you telling me, Harriet?’ Dawes’s rich, warm voice filled the space between them. ’Has Eloise said more to cause question over Grant’s treatment of her?’

  ‘No, nothing more than that one reference back in February. She won’t be drawn further, and no one else seems to think anything untoward was going on.’

  His eyes, two small dots in his greying skin, narrowed as he searched her face. ‘But there’s something.’

  He said no more, waiting patiently as Harriet gathered together her thoughts.

  She had been practicing this speech all week and throughout the train ride to London. She wanted to present her ideas clearly, dispassionately, as though in Court. To bring Randell with her, like she would a jury, to see her truth; her doubt.

  Taking a breath she began, and instantly failed at her plan. ‘I… Well,’ she sighed, ‘Eloise didn’t do it, sir. I am more sure than ever. After we last spoke, I viewed everything and when I look at the evidence it’s just obvious to me. But, no one else seems to see it.’ She looked across at Randell and felt the heat rise in her face. Embarrassed at her messy introduction she opened her mouth to rush on. Randell held up a small hand and gazed at her calmly. Harriet paused.

  ‘Take a moment,’ he said. ‘Compose your thoughts. Then start at the beginning.’

  His old eyes were kind. No hint of scorn or impatience. Harriet smiled, grateful and sat in silence, re-setting her jumbled thoughts. Saturday night with Robert had not helped. The swirl of emotions their time together had ignited, coupled with the utter disappointment of discovering his deceit did not make for calm and logical brainwaves. Harriet pushed aside the memory of the shock and burning shame she had felt when his wife walked in, and focused on this moment. Robert was unimportant. What really mattered was Eloise Lane-Huxley.

  ‘As you know from when we first met, I had some concerns over Eloise’s guilt. Back then it was an instinct, a feeling. But now…I just don’t believe Eloise committed this murder. And I think I have reasonable doubt.’

  Dawes settled himself back in his large chair, hands steepled before him. ‘Continue,’ he said.

  Harriet swallowed. ‘We know that Eloise has been unwell. That she has suffered from anxiety her whole life, and from post-natal depression this year
. So her loss of memory seems explained. And the facts set out by the DPP suggest she is guilty. She was seen in Beesands and returning to Torcross. She was facing the loss of her son, betrayal by her husband. She was of unsound mind. She went into a dissociative fugue, a rage and taking up her crafting scissors, she walked to Beesands and murdered her husband, then returned home.’

  Pausing, Harriet grimaced. ‘I concede, it is a strong case,’ she sighed.

  ‘However,’ Dawes prompted gently.

  Rolling her shoulders Harriet leaned forward, ‘However, there is also the evidence that points to June.’ She took another moment, mind collating. ‘She says she was in Salcombe to drop off her car, and the garage confirmed this. But then her story shifts. First she said she caught the bus. Then the witness Helene Swifter came forward to say June borrowed her car, her white car.’

  ‘Explained by June as an error owing to her frenzy after finding her sister covered in blood. A reasonable explanation, surely.’

  Harriet frowned, ‘Yes, and I know there are many white cars in Britain. And even that she was Grant’s girlfriend 20 years ago seems irrelevant due to time. But,’ Harriet stood up, began to pace the room.

  ‘There is strong evidence that June was having an affair with Grant during the time leading up to his death. Eloise expected Grant on Fridays. But the hotel records show he was there every Thursday. And the hotel confirms that June visited with him every Thursday. That they shared a meal in his room or in the hotel restaurant each week. Not the most subtle affair to be sure. All while Eloise thought June was visiting their parents in Salcombe. And then there is the baby.’

  ‘You mean Jacob?’

  Harriet shook her head, ‘No, June’s baby. A mutual friend of the sisters told me that June was pregnant with Grant’s baby back when they were at university. Dorothy Lane confirmed it. Said June lost the baby and then Grant left her for Helene, the owner of the white car June borrowed and forgot.’

  Confusion flashed briefly over Dawes’s face. He reached for her notes, bringing his glasses back over his eyes, ‘I don’t recall…’