“Humph,” growled his lordship begrudgingly. “It might serve, at that. You’re no fool, Lambert.”
“I’ve to give you credit, sir,” murmured Lambert. “You’ve planned it very well. How did you manage to bring in all the grieving kinfolk?”
The baron chuckled. “Sent my men searching for them days ago. I was fairly sure Farrar would attend the bazaar since ’tis his church that is to benefit. Not that it’s necessary they be here, but it adds a touch of pathos to the scene which don’t hurt.”
“I only hope the boy appreciates the service you render him,” said Lambert idly.
My lord frowned. “Boy? What boy?”
“Why—the young, er, Pretender, sir. Carlton Farrar. The child who will inherit The Palfreys and the fortune.”
Hibbard Green’s laughter could be heard all the way down the stairs.
* * *
Dimity clung very tightly to Peregrine’s hand and stared with red-rimmed eyes at the monstrous figure of the man who would, she was sure, pass sentence of death on her beloved. How pleased and smug he looked, seated at the lofty bench. Even as she watched him, he directed a confident smile to someone seated in the front row. She craned her neck and caught sight of Phillip Ellsworth’s handsome profile. With a pang, she thought of him stepping into Anthony’s shoes as master of The Palfreys. But there was always the chance that young Carlton’s claim was a true one. ‘In which case,’ she thought dully, ‘the child had better be closely guarded!’
Roland Otton had been all too correct in his prediction of Peregrine’s reception at the army post. Having stated his mission, he was left to cool his heels for an hour, then advised that it was most regrettable, but the Commandant was in London, and he was the only person able to intervene in such a matter. Word would be sent to him “at once.” Well aware of how slowly grind the wheels of the military administration, Peregrine had returned, raging, and now sat beside his sister, tight-lipped and seething with frustration.
Dimity felt him start, heard a muffled exclamation from Lady Helen seated to her left, and jerked her head around as a ripple of talk swept the large room. The prisoner was being brought into the dock.
Peregrine whispered, “Hang on, Mitten! Courage!”
His words seemed very far away. She saw only the beloved figure, bowed now and moving weavingly between his guards, the fair head hanging low. She heard the clank of chains as one of the guards lifted his arm and guided the manacled hand to grip the edge of the dock. Someone was reading the indictment in a singsong voice. Somehow, Dimity fought away the ache of grief and sympathy, and made herself attend.
My lord said irritably, “The prisoner does not raise his hand. Does he understand? We quite appreciate his shame and his unwillingness to meet the eyes of those who will judge him, but it must be ascertained that he is aware of the gravity of the charges against him.”
The words found their way through the haze of pain and thirst that tormented Farrar. He dragged his throbbing head up. There was an instant of stunned silence, broken by Lady Helen’s horrified cry. One side of his face was almost covered by dark bruises; his mouth was swollen, and there was a deep gash above his right eye. Scarcely able to comprehend what was going forward, he swayed drunkenly as he peered about the great room, but the instinct for self-preservation was strong and he managed to croak, “Not … guilty—murder…”
However the spectators might lust to watch a villain hang, that the accused had been badly treated before a verdict was brought in did not suit their ideas of fair play, and a small ripple of protest spread and grew louder.
The shock to Dimity was less than it had been for Helen, for when Florian had brought word that Sir Anthony was being “persuaded” to sign a confession, her imagination had supplied a picture of the means of that persuasion. But although she was to an extent prepared, to see him in such a condition was so painful that she could not keep back a sob. Peregrine’s hand tightened crushingly on her fingers, and she heard him swear savagely. Then, my lord was pounding with his gavel and gradually silence was achieved.
“Another demonstration of this nature, and the bailiff will clear the court,” he roared. “Captain Lambert, what is the meaning of this outrage? Sir Anthony Farrar is a prisoner in my district, and as such is under my protection. That he has been most roughly handled is all too evident, and I tell you plainly, sir, that I do not tolerate such abominations. I may be a stern man, sir, but I am an humanitarian, and as such, I demand an explanation!”
There were murmurs of gratification and support for these proper sentiments, and all eyes were on the tall young soldier as he stepped before the bench.
“I take full responsibility, my lord,” he said clearly. “When we arrested Sir Anthony yesterday, the crowd became enraged, and my men were unable to hold the line. Regrettably, the prisoner was rather mauled about before we were able to prevent such an atrocity. However, I assure you he has received continuous attention throughout the night.”
“That’s very obvious, you damned nail,” growled Peregrine, sotto voce.
The captain’s forthright answer appeared to have pacified his lordship, however, and the crowd raised no further demur when he ordered that, the indictment having been read, Mr. Eccles, the Counsel for the Prisoner, might now address the jury.
Mr. Eccles, a round-faced man of middle age with a perpetual smile, folded his hands upon his ample paunch and faced the jury. This was composed of three men who whispered together and giggled throughout, a fourth who looked around with the vacuous leer of the mentally deranged, while another appeared to be slightly intoxicated, since he hiccuped repeatedly. Two older gentlemen cupped their hands about their ears and nodded at the wrong moments. Of the five remaining, one kept nodding off to sleep, one was surreptitiously sketching on a pad of paper, much to the amusement of his neighbour, and the foreman was busily engaged in flirting with a buxom damsel in the front row of the spectators.
The prisoner, Mr. Eccles pointed out to these sterling jurymen, had been taken into the home of Sir Gilbert Farrar as an orphaned little lad. He had been well treated, nay, treated with a love as deep as his own parents might have given him. From having been cast adrift upon the sea of adversity, he found himself in the most luxurious surroundings imaginable and grew up enjoying such an environment. What more natural than that he be touched by the wicked spirit of covetousness? Surely, the jury were compassionate human beings who could appreciate the temptations such a background might provoke?
“Good God!” snorted Peregrine, incensed. “The man is convicting his own client!”
The ample farmer’s wife next to him, hissed a loud “Sssshh!” and fixed him with a beady-eyed glare, and he subsided.
In an apparent attempt to extenuate the subsequent dastardly behaviour of the prisoner, the Counsel discoursed at length upon Farrar’s life, coming eventually to his military career and thence to the Battle of Prestonpans itself. “Although many soldiers saw Captain Farrar abandon his men and run to the rear,” he concluded solemnly, “you must consider that no one could definitely say he deserted for reasons of cowardice.”
Again, Peregrine was moved to exclaim, groaning aloud and gripping his forehead in his rage. Fortunately, the magistrate, for all his brutish and unprincipled rascality, was not without a sense of humour, and this ridiculous exposition caused him to utter a roar of laughter which, being promptly joined by half the spectators, drowned out Peregrine’s reaction.
The uproar woke up the somnolent juror, and startled Farrar, who had lapsed into a kind of stupor.
Peregrine leaned to Dimity’s ear. “Is a farce!” he groaned. “They mean to hang him and are scarce bothering to stage a proper trial! That ugly old toad will rush it through, mark my words. I hope to God Piers or Tio come soon!”
On the other side of her, Lady Helen murmured a distracted, “This is ghastly! I think poor Anthony is barely conscious! How will he ever be able to defend himself?”
The equally distracted girl
managed to squeeze my lady’s hand and tell her that if it was at all possible, Piers or Glendenning might return in time. She did not add that she personally believed either possibility so slight as to be negligible. Lac Brillant, the great estate of the Chandlers, was situated near Dover; it would be a miracle if Piers had reached there before midnight; another miracle if he’d found Sir Brian at home. Even had they set out at first light, driving a racing coach and four horses at the gallop, they could not arrive until late afternoon. Her best hope, and that a very slim one, was Roland Otton. She had refused to name the gentlemen involved in the delivery of the cypher, but, half distracted with grief, had written out the verse, as closely as she was able to remember it, and handed it to him. What Anthony, her beloved brothers, or dear Tio would make of such treachery, she dared not think. She would confess her sin when this nightmare was done, and then life would have no more meaning and she had as soon enter a nunnery at all events. At the moment it mattered only that Otton, seemingly not much pleased with the extent of her betrayal, had said grudgingly that he would try to find his grandfather, although the chances of his doing so, or of being attended to if he succeeded, were slight.
His lordship’s gavel having restored order, Mr. Eccles droned on with his address, creating another sensation when he blandly asserted that Captain Sir Anthony Farrar was cognizant of the heinous nature of his crimes, that he deeply repented his cowardice on the field, and that even if it should be proved he had murdered his cousin, Lieutenant Sir Harding Farrar, it might be reasoned that the deed had likely been perpetrated while the prisoner, at a moment of extreme personal danger, was in a state of shock.
Through the resultant wave of exclamation and excitement, Dimity heard her brother’s gritty profanity and Lady Helen’s shocked little whimper.
My lord pounded with his gavel but did not look displeased. The clerk, an easily upset little man, was most agitated, and ran about shouting, “Order! Order!”
When silence fell, Farrar, who had been bowed against the rail of the dock, straightened, and in a hoarse croak of a voice, cried defiantly, “Filthy lies! This man is not my Counsel! I—” The protest was shut off as the surprised guard sprang forward and dragged him back, clapping a hand over his mouth.
The diminutive clerk, who had just sat down and was mopping his brow, jumped up again. “Silence!” he screamed. “Silence in the court!”
Lord Green leaned across the bench and levelled his gavel at the feebly struggling Farrar. “You will have your moment to speak when all the depositions have been heard,” he said harshly. “Another such outburst, sir, and I shall have you gagged—to protect the ladies against your profanities!” He turned to the jury. “Gentlemen, you will ignore the ravings of the prisoner. Counsel, we will now hear the depositions.”
“God grant they’re all long-winded,” muttered Peregrine.
Dimity glanced to the clock on the wall that relentlessly ticked the minutes away. It was half past ten.
The first deposition was given by a short, square man named Dodd, who asserted that he had been employed for some years as second gardener at The Palfreys. He had known both Sir Harding and Sir Anthony Farrar and, to his sorrow, was aware of the extreme jealousy existing between the two young gentlemen. He had on frequent occasions seen Sir Anthony—or Mr. Farrar as he was then known—strike his gentle cousin in a fit of rage. Further—and here he paused, blinking his round eyes solemnly as he looked one by one at the jurors—much as it went against the grain to report such evil, he had once overheard Sir Harding say with great sadness that Anthony Farrar would one day make an end of him.
Farrar, now listening intently, gave an exclamation of disgust and leaned forward to speak, only to be jerked back by the guard. Dimity saw his battered face twist with pain and she closed her eyes and prayed that he would not further provoke his tormentors.
Flushed with wrath, Peregrine bent forward and whispered to Lady Helen, “Was that fellow employed by you, ma’am?”
For a moment she could not reply. Then, in a voice choked with emotion, she said that she did seem to remember the man and that he had left The Palfreys to enter the service of Mr. Ellsworth.
“Huh!” snorted Peregrine.
Mr. Dodd was followed by a groom and then by a housemaid, both of whom corroborated Dodd’s statements and reaffirmed the mutual dislike of the cousins, a dislike that deteriorated to violence only in the case of Mr. Anthony Farrar, and that was never displayed when his aunt or Sir Gilbert were nearby.
The next man called was a soldier. A stir of anticipation went through the courtroom, but Farrar shrank and his head bowed. It was the moment he had dreaded for almost a year, the moment when his shame would be dragged into public view, when his honour must be trampled into the mud and his proud name disgraced forever. Mitten was watching and Helen … they would hear it all. Or almost all. His very soul seemed seared by the horror of it. He heard soft, scornful laughter and some jeering comments. He knew that he should be standing proudly to face what was to come. But this charge he could not defend. He was sickeningly ashamed that he had let his men down. Their faces passed before his mind’s eye as they did so often in the awful silence of the night—one after another of the fine young men who had died—because he had not been there to hold them together … Because he had run, and so the gunners had run …
“… and it looked bad fer us,” Corporal Goodwin was saying. “The men was droppin’ like flies, and the Scots was breakin’ through all along our lines, wi’ their perishin’ great claymores what could nip orf a cove’s head like a scythe goin’ through grass. I hears Captin Farrar yellin’ at a man ter stand his ground and fight like a Englishman, an’ I says ter me mate, ‘it’s a good thing we got the captin left ’cause it needs a orficer like him ter keep us tergether!’ And no sooner has I says it than orf he goes. Running like a perishin’ deer orf the field! Strike me dead if I could b’leeve me perishin’ eyes! That done it, a’course. Wasn’t nothin’ to hold them perishin’ gunners we got from orf the navy, and they run like rabbits—almost as fast as what he done!”
Farrar forced his head up and stood very straight, looking blindly in front of him. He wondered what Dimity thought of him now. What her brother must think, sitting there, knowing he’d never walk properly again.
The Counsel for the Prosecution was saying in his high-pitched, clipped voice, “And—let us be sure we have it correctly—the prisoner you see before you is the same officer who deserted at the very height of the action? This is an extreme serious charge, Corporal. Are you perfectly sure?”
“Yussir.”
“And this most reprehensible cowardice occurred shortly after the death of your commanding officer, Major Horace Rhodes?”
“Yussir. ’Bout five minutes arter the major had it.”
“So at that point, Captain Farrar was in command of the battery, correct?”
“Yussir.”
Mr. Eccles stood once more. “I understand you have spent many years in the army, Corporal Goodwin. You must have served under many commanders. Prior to this incident, what was your impression of Captain Farrar? Was he a good officer?”
The corporal hesitated. “I ’spose he was orl right, sir. ’Cept fer…”
My lord smiled genially from the bench. “Do not be intimidated, Corporal. You will not be penalized for answering the question.”
“Ar—well beggin’ y’r lordship’s pardin, but I be a rank an’ file, an’ he’s a orficer, an’ Quality—”
From the side, a pale-faced man with a furtive manner, hooted, “What Quality?” and there was a burst of derisive laughter that did not appear to offend his lordship.
Peregrine thought, ‘They’re whipping ’em up!’ and glanced around for the nearest door in case he must get his ladies out in a hurry.
“I permit of no discrimination between a working man and an aristocrat in my court,” declared Lord Green magnanimously. “Answer the question.”
“Well,” said the corporal r
eluctantly, “it was only—he’s got a proper temper has the captin, and him an’ his cousin used ter go at it hot and heavy. They had a proper turn-up, just ’fore the battle. Me mate said as he heard Captin Ferrar say to his cousin, “I’ll make damned sure you don’t never get The Ponies, or The Hosses, or something like that.”
There was a concerted gasp from the spectators.
In the dock, Farrar stiffened and stared frowningly at Goodwin.
Counsel for the Prosecution interjected smoothly, “Is it in fact possible, Corporal, that what Captain Farrar said was, ‘I’ll make—er, sure, that you never get—The Palfreys?’”
“Ar! By cripes, you got it, sir! That’s just what he said. The Palfreys!”
“That’s a lie!” raged Farrar, leaning over the dock. “And what’s more, I never saw your face! Who was your sergeant? What—”
“Gag him!” roared Lord Green.
“And during the battle,” shouted Counsel, jabbing a finger at Farrar who was again struggling with the guard, “during the battle, Lieutenant Sir Harding Farrar fell! Supposedly to an enemy musket ball! But I put it to you, gentlemen, is it not far more likely that the ball came from the pistol of the prisoner? That this fine young soldier fell not to an enemy of England, but to the mortal enemy that was his own avaricious, unprincipled, and dastardly cousin?”
Many men were on their feet. Howls of rage sounded, knotted fists were brandished at the prisoner. Someone shouted, “He was murdered, poor chap!” and another voice contributed, “While fighting for his country!” to which a third voice howled, “Hanging’s too good for him as done it!”
“Proof!” roared Peregrine, inflamed. “It’s all hearsay! You have no proof, dashitall!”
Lady Helen was weeping softly. Dimity, white and stricken, jumped up, trying to see Farrar but unable to do so over the ravening crowd.
Love Alters Not Page 34
