Thornton looked over at Marc, and there was something close to respect in his gaze.
“Yes, sir,” Sturges said, “I did think it odd, ‘specially when he kept denyin’ he done it, afterwards.”
“You thought, did you, that it was more the reaction of a surprised and innocent man?”
“I did.”
Marc thanked the Chief and turned him over to Thornton for rebuttal, more than satisfied that he had done no worse than a draw so far. Up in the dock, Brodie returned Marc’s brief smile. Both Beth and Diana were beaming.
Marc now watched with grudging admiration as Kingsley Thornton probed for a weak spot in Sturges’s testimony during cross-examination.
“You say, sir, that you knew the accused quite well?” he said amiably.
“Very well,” Sturges said, bracing himself.
“And you have seen this young bank clerk promenading about the town as young men are wont to do?”
“From time to time,” Sturges said slowly.
“And was Mr. Langford often seen walking abroad with the assistance of a walking-stick, as is the current fashion, I’m told?”
Sturges hesitated, seeing the trap but helpless to avoid stepping into it. Finally, he said softly, “He was.”
“Would you say it was distinguished in any way?”
“Just a walkin’-stick.”
The ingratiating smile with which the previous questions had been delivered vanished from Thornton’s face. “Come now, Chief, you’re under oath.”
“It had a silver tip and a carved knob on it – shape of a wolf’s head,” Sturges said in something close to a growl.
“Exactly. A very unusual shillelagh, eh? One that dozens of citizens and customers of the Commercial Bank would notice and recognize as belonging to young Langford?”
“Milord?” Marc found himself on his feet but was not sure why, except to forestall the inevitable.
“Is this going somewhere, Mr. Thornton?” the judge said.
“I’ve reached the main point to this line of questioning, Milord,” Thornton said.
“Continue, then.”
“Chief Sturges, as the accused, sitting there in your office and knowing that Constable Cobb was about to arrive any minute with news of the real crime, realized that he had left the murder-weapon behind, that it would be found by Cobb, and, more importantly, would be identified sooner or later as belonging to him – would it not have been more incriminating for him not to have evinced surprise at seeing it in Cobb’s hand, not to have called it his own, and not to have admitted leaving it behind in the alley? In short, was not his reaction here simply another part of his overall attempt to deceive the police and extricate himself from the charge of murder?”
“But he may’ve been tellin’ the truth!” Sturges shot back.
“Just answer Mr. Thornton’s questions,” the judge said sternly.
And just like that, the prosecution had undone much of what Marc had wrought. Thornton had prepared the jury to at least consider the possibility that Brodie’s behaviour immediately following the crime had been a skein of deception from start to finish. All he had to do now was orchestrate the eye-witness accounts to verify the damning bits of Brodie’s “confession” and highlight what the lad had conveniently left out.
It was now eleven-thirty. Since it was close to the noon-hour and since the prosecution was expected to begin detailed examination of the members of the Shakespeare Club, Marc assumed that Justice Powell would call for a recess. Instead, the clerk stood and read out the name of the next witness:
“The Crown calls Miss Celia Langford.”
***
Pale and nervous, Celia clutched the rail before her and steeled herself for what was to come. Thornton, however, did not approach her as a hostile witness. Instead, he did everything he could to calm her down and have her relax.
“I realize, Miss Langford, that answering my questions when your brother’s life might be at stake is difficult. But I have for you only a few queries, all of which deal with simple, straightforward facts that must be provided the jurors so that they may bring in a fair and proper verdict.”
He smiled like a pet uncle, looked down at his notes, then raised his elegant head. “You were present when your brother received the extortion-note on the Wednesday evening one week before the crime?”
“Yes,” Celia said. Her voice was soft but amazingly calm.
Then with infinite politeness Thornton led Celia through the events of that evening. She told the jury that the note had been delivered secretly, that she herself had read it, and that it had been torn up and discarded. In an unwavering voice she recited what she remembered of its contents, fleshing out the sketch made by Brodie in his statement but adding nothing new of significance. Marc, whose heartbeat had threatened to drum out all thought, was beginning to relax, though he knew that Thornton was after something more damning that he had elicited so far. Sure enough, Thornton moved slyly from facts to implication.
“What did your brother have to say about the note and its demands?”
“He said that I was not to worry, that Miss Ramsay had nothing to hide. He said this fellow was trying to get money off us because we were rich, and that the threat in the note was just a stab in the dark.”
“So he didn’t look at all worried? Or angry?”
“No, except that he tore the note to shreds.”
“By which action you assumed the nasty business was over?”
“Yes. Brodie said he would take care of it.”
“He didn’t mention anything about entrapping the blackmailer and bringing him to the police?”
So, Marc thought, this was where Thornton was heading: letting the jury see there was no evidence that Brodie’s intentions had been honourable, indeed had not been revealed even to his sister and confidante. The prosecutor was leaving nothing to chance as he constructed his deadly scenario. And, still, the real danger had not yet passed.
“No,” Celia answered. “He just said he’d take care of things.”
“And you and your brother did not discuss the note or what, if anything, he was planning to do about it – over the seven days between that Wednesday and the next one?”
Celia looked down. Her lower lip began to tremble. Ten seconds went by.
“Miss Langford,” the judge said kindly, “you must answer the question, and whatever your personal feelings and loyalties, you must tell us the truth.”
Celia looked up at last, not at the judge or the prosecutor but at Brodie high in the prisoner’s dock. She tried bravely to squeeze her tears back in. Brodie did not move, but some message, perceptible only to brother and sister, passed between them.
“We talked a little bit the next Wednesday, just before Brodie went off to his club.”
“And what prompted such a discussion at this time? Remember, you’ve told us he alone would ‘take care of’ the threat, and he had apparently not raised the matter in the intervening seven days.”
In a barely audible voice, she said, “A second note had just come.”
Sensation: in the side-galleries and among the jurors, whose attention had begun to flag. The judge had to use his gavel.
Kingsley Thornton was so accustomed to feigning surprise that he hardly knew how to register the genuine thing. “Well, now,” he said, trying to throttle down his excitement, “as there is no mention by the accused in his true confession of any such note, you had better tell us all about it yourself.”
“It was nothing really. I read it before Brodie tore it up. It was one sentence, reminding Brodie to come to the alley or Miss Ramsay’s life would be ruined. Nothing that wasn’t in the first one.”
“I see, even though the accused deliberately excluded it from his confession?”
“Nothing more.” Celia was starting to tremble all over.
“What did your brother say to you about this second threat – just moments before setting out for his club and the alley behind it?”
In a choking voice Celia said, “He told me he was going to make sure this scoundrel didn’t ever get the chance to blackmail anybody ever again.”
SIXTEEN
Marc did what he could on cross-examination. There was no way to mitigate the effect of Brodie’s omission of the second note from his statement – Marc might be able to address that in his closing remarks – but he made some headway towards blunting the stunning revelation of what Brodie’s intentions and mood had been early that Wednesday evening. Thornton had compelled a tearful Celia to admit that his “threat” against the blackmailer had been said in anger, and it was here that Marc began.
“Given your brother’s character and customary behaviour, Miss Langford, is it not more probable that his remark about stopping the blackmailer and his criminal activities was intended to convey to you that he planned to catch the villain and hale him before the courts, and that the anger you’ve described was his outrage at such unconscionable behaviour?”
Despite an apoplectic interjection from Kingsley Thornton, Marc had been able to make his point, small as it was after the dramatic impact of Celia’s surprise testimony.
When the noon-hour recess was called, Marc sat in his seat for several minutes. It had been a dark morning for the defense, but he could not see how he could have defended Brodie any better. Somehow, though, he found that assessment offered him scant comfort. He would have to do better in the afternoon.
***
At two o’clock Thornton began to build up the details of the story he wished the jury to believe. Gillian Budge was called first. As expected, she testified to the departure times of Dutton and Fullarton, and speculated upon the likely times for Crenshaw and Shuttleworth – paving the way for the accounts to follow.
Marc asked her how she could be sure of the exact times, and managed to have her admit that they were very much approximate. Still, as Marc knew, it was the sequence of departures and what the departing club-members saw in the alley that was critical. He then shifted tactics.
“Constable Cobb has testified that you and Nestor Peck, your employee, accompanied him out to the alley to identify the body. Did you recognize the victim at that time?”
“Only as a customer. I didn’t know his name, and Nestor never told me the fellow was his cousin,” Gillian said in her no-nonsense manner.
“How regular a customer was he?”
“I saw him perhaps three or four times in the taproom.”
“Was he not banished from your establishment?” Marc said blandly.
“Milord, these questions are a long way from pertinence,” Thornton said, almost wearily.
“I intend, Milord, to suggest that someone else might have motive and opportunity to commit the crime.”
“Be careful, Mr. Edwards. It’s your client who’s on trial.”
Gillian gave Marc her patented scowl, but answered the question. “The Wednesday before the murder, my husband threw him out of our place – bodily.”
“What was Mr. Duggan’s transgression?”
“He had made improper advances to my barmaid, Etta Hogg.”
“And this angered your husband, Tobias Budge?”
“It would’ve angered any red-blooded man,” Gillian said. “The fellow didn’t show his face again – till I saw it there in the alley.”
“Thank you,” Marc said. “No more questions, Milord.”
Thornton looked across the aisle at Marc, clearly puzzled by Marc’s improper interrogation of Gillian Budge, which he had not bothered to interrupt. But he seemed in no way alarmed by it. Meanwhile, Marc realized that he was alerting the barkeep to the fact that he might be targeted as a possible killer – with outrage as the motive. But he needed to lay a foundation for any subsequent run at him. Moreover, neither Budge nor anyone else knew that Marc had discovered a more compelling motive, so that trap still remained to be sprung. Moreover, by seeming to target Budge, Marc was keeping the other four “possibles” relaxed and unaware. Still, he continued to hope that he would not have to use the alternative-theory defense, with all its risks and gratuitous cruelties.
Andrew Dutton was next. He repeated the account he had given Cobb earlier, stating that he had left the meeting about fifteen minutes after Brodie. He described the broad window in the cloakroom, said he had looked out, seen only moonlight, and walked down the stairs, turned left and entered Front Street – going straight home. What this seemingly harmless testimony did was establish that Brodie was still hidden nearby awaiting the arrival of Duggan. Of course, Dutton could be lying about leaving the area immediately, especially if he had heard a commotion in the alley just as he stepped out of the stairway. He could have remained hidden until everyone else had gone, then slipped out to kill Duggan, having figured out who he was from Brodie’s encounter with him. But this possibility must be saved for the defense on Monday.
“I have no questions, Milord,” Marc said, “but I request permission to recall this witness later.”
“As you wish. The witness may step down.”
Horace Fullarton was the last witness of the day. He stated that he had left the meeting no more than two or three minutes after Dutton. He too had looked out the cloakroom window, not at the moonlight but at an altercation in progress. Two men were grappling, their voices raised in anger. No, he could not hear, or did not remember, what was being said. Both men appeared by their dress to be gentlemen, but he didn’t recognize either, as their faces were in shadow.
“You did not recognize your own clerk and protégé?”
“For the merest second I thought it might be Brodie, but dismissed that thought immediately. Otherwise, I would have gone to his aid.”
“Were the gentlemen wearing hats?”
“Yes, but they had fallen on the ground. I could see them in a shaft of moonlight.”
Cobb had not unearthed this detail. Marc leaned forward, apprehensive.
“Mr. Langford has very blond hair, hasn’t he? Surely you must have noticed it, even in that shadowed alley, for it was a very bright evening?”
Fullarton was indignant. “If I had, sir, I would have gone to the lad’s assistance!”
Or, Marc mused, if Fullarton had indeed heard the substance of the argument down there, he himself could have hidden in the shadows and come out only after Brodie had fled.
“In addition to the two hats, did you see a walking-stick on the ground?”
“I may have, but I merely glanced out at the alley. Inebriated customers of the tavern, even gentlemen, often settle their differences back there. I am not given to brawling. I left via Front Street as quickly as I could.”
Thornton sat down.
Marc rose. “How can you be certain that you left only two or three minutes after Mr. Dutton? Did you check your watch?”
“No, I did not. But Sir Peregrine was making emendations to our play-scripts, and I had only two minor changes to be entered. As soon as they were effected, I left.”
“But it could have been five or six minutes?”
“Possibly.”
Marc nodded sympathetically. “Few of us keep track of our ordinary movements through the day minute by minute, do we?” He pretended to consult his notes. “We have heard testimony already about Mr. Langford’s mood and disposition on that fatal evening, sir. As his superior at the Commercial Bank, you know him well. During the course of your ninety-minute club meeting, did he show any signs of the so-called ‘anger’ he was supposed to be harbouring for the blackmailer? Did he seem upset, strained, distracted?”
“Milord!” Thornton almost toppled his lectern in his haste to reach the perpendicular. “This is not Mr. Edwards’ witness! There has been no direct testimony about the club meeting except that concerning the times of departure and what followed – ”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Thornton,” the judge said. “I am in full agreement. Mr. Edwards, I am having this question struck from the record. Mr. Fullarton appears on your own witness-list. You may ask him anything you wish – during
your defense, not on cross-examination.”
Marc tried not to look too smug as he apologized, and sat down. He would have ample opportunity to revisit this testimony on Monday. More immediate was the fact that Brodie’s own statement put the lad in the alley with Duggan about fifteen or twenty minutes after he had left the clubroom, so it didn’t really matter that Marc was unsettling the jury about the time-line. Thornton would put it all back together in a neat narrative in his closing argument anyway. But Marc’s strategy at this point was to appear as if he had little defense against these eye-witness reports – saving everything for the end-game.
Justice Powell now gavelled an end to the afternoon session. Overall, it had not been a banner day for the defense, but neither had it been a disaster. However, the most daunting challenges were yet to come – with Crenshaw, Budge and Shuttleworth due up in the morning.
***
Marc stood talking with Clement Peachey on the esplanade in front of the Court House. Peachey offered to convey to Robert Baldwin the details of the day’s proceedings. Robert had been at meetings all morning and at the Legislature all afternoon. Marc wanted desperately to meet with his mentor, but knew at this moment that politics was for him more important than the trial. Yet sometime before Monday, Marc would have to run his risky defense strategy by the more experienced barrister. So far, only Brodie, Cobb and Beth knew of its existence. Meantime, Robert had sent a note to Peachey sketching out what had happened in the Assembly this day.
“The equal representation clause passed – with a considerable majority,” Peachey told Marc with evident satisfaction. “All the bloated rhetoric produced no more than three or four defections.”
“So that leaves the provincial debt clause and the permanent civil list?” Marc said.
Peachey grinned. “Not quite. The temptation to have Quebec assist us in writing off our seventy-five-thousand-pound debt was too great. That clause passed unanimously – by voice vote!”
“Enlightened self-interest, I’d say.”
Desperate Acts Page 23
