by Anne Perry
Kitteridge did not like Graves; that was apparent.
Now Kitteridge was waiting for a reply. ‘Well?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. Why did you? Did you have no choice?’
‘Well done!’ Kitteridge acknowledged with sarcasm. ‘How long did it take you to work that out?’
‘I suppose I have no choice either,’ Daniel replied.
‘Not if you want to stay at fford Croft and Gibson and eventually prosper. One day, you could be in my position.’ There was a slight twist in his lips as he smiled, his eyes studying Daniel carefully.
‘When you are in Mr fford Croft’s position.’ Daniel finished the thought for him.
‘Precisely.’
‘So, he asked you to take the case?’
‘Right again.’
‘Does he think Graves is innocent?’
‘That is a very interesting question.’ The light had gone from Kitteridge’s face.
Daniel hesitated. Marcus fford Croft was a friend of Daniel’s father, but in what circumstances he did not know. His mother was not acquainted with him, so it was not a social connection. The alternatives were numerous, and not all of them pleasant.
‘He didn’t say. I got the impression he didn’t know, and didn’t care,’ Kitteridge replied. ‘But I have no doubt he wants me to win.’
He did not need to add any more for Daniel to understand. The firm was small, but one of the most respected in London. Marcus fford Croft himself had been one of the best lawyers in the country, in his time. Now he was head of chambers, but no longer appeared in court. He was an inexhaustible mine of legal information, and he knew the secrets of three-quarters of London’s rich, famous, and infamous aristocrats and thieves. His manner had always been eccentric, but now his memory was as well. He had handed over the litigation to a number of chosen rising stars. Kitteridge was a leader among them, but there were others, young gentlemen who had chosen to follow the law, with more or less skill. Time and hardship would determine the successes.
‘Did he tell you anything about Graves?’ Daniel asked, since Kitteridge had offered nothing further.
‘No,’ Kitteridge said testily. ‘Including why he took the case at all. But I have the feeling that it matters to him. He was not being bloody-minded to see what I would do.’
‘You mean whether you would give it your best shot, fight to the bloody end?’ He meant the bloody metaphorically. ‘Rather than fight a losing cause gallantly, but give in once it looked hopeless?’
‘You’re learning,’ Kitteridge said drily.
The waiter returned with the menu. Kitteridge took his and passed the other to Daniel. They both ordered, and then Daniel went on questioning Kitteridge.
‘So, she was found in her bedroom, her head severely injured, and worse than that, burned? Is there any explanation for that?’
‘No, there isn’t. So, a fall, or any other kind of accident is out. You can’t disfigure a dead woman with fire accidentally.’
‘Male servants in the house?’ Daniel tried another tack.
‘A bootboy, and the elderly butler who doubled as a valet for Graves.’
‘Gardeners?’
‘Well spotted. An old boy of seventy-odd, and a couple of lads here and there. None of them had access to the house.’
‘Maids who might have let someone in?’
‘Highly respectable housekeeper, a woman of “a certain age”.’ Kitteridge’s smile was very brief. ‘A cook and a scullery maid, a parlour maid, and Mrs Graves’ own lady’s maid. All of them accounted for. Of course, someone might be lying, but it would take two telling the same lie. Which could be possible, but if you saw them you’d know it’s unlikely.’
‘That leaves only Graves – or someone he let in?’ Daniel concluded, but he made it a question rather than a statement.
‘Bravo,’ Kitteridge said bitterly.
‘What does he say?’
‘Only that he’s innocent,’ Kitteridge answered, taking another sip of his drink.
‘Doesn’t he offer any alternative?’
‘Not specifically. He has little good to say about his wife. Apparently, to him, she was light-minded, eccentric,’ Kitteridge replied. His gaze did not waver from Daniel’s face. He had clear eyes, pale blue, not what one would have expected, considering that his brows and his hair were quite dark. He was waiting for Daniel to offer an opinion. Was it curiosity? Or was he hoping for help, and concealing how desperately he needed it?
‘What do you plan to do?’ Daniel asked finally.
Kitteridge sighed. ‘I have no idea. Between now and tomorrow morning, we must come up with an alternative answer – and I doubt Graves will be of much use.’
Daniel had not even seen Graves, and already he disliked the man. ‘What do we know about her?’
‘Very little. There’s a photograph of her. Very handsome indeed. Jet-black hair, dark eyes, pale skin. I imagine her parents named her well after she was born. Or else she took the name herself.’
‘What name?’
‘Ebony. Ebony Graves.’ This time Kitteridge really smiled. It altered his face, suggesting a quite different nature: something gentler, and far more vulnerable to being liked, or disliked.
Daniel thought for a moment. ‘Have we got anything at all to go on, really?’
‘No,’ Kitteridge replied.
‘So, what are you going to do?’
‘Reasonable doubt is about all we have left,’ Kitteridge said miserably. ‘We’ll have to think of all the ways someone could have got into the house—’
‘That’s definitely where it happened?’ Daniel interrupted.
‘Yes. There’s blood on the floor and half the carpet is singed or downright burned.’
‘Sounds like hatred.’
‘Looks like it,’ Kitteridge agreed. ‘Whoever did it knew her well enough to have hated her very deeply.’ He sat forward a little. ‘Graves doesn’t appear to be a man who would feel that degree of passion. He’s a cold bastard. If she had a lover and he found out, he’d be more likely to kill the lover than her. If he did that, she’d not stray again in a hurry!’
This was going nowhere. ‘Maybe if we question him again, he has something to give us, or at least another person to suspect,’ Daniel concluded a little desperately. ‘What’s his reputation locally? Anyone willing to speak up for him, more warmly than Major Lydden?’
‘A few,’ Kitteridge replied, but there was no lift in his voice. ‘But he doesn’t . . .’ He raised his shoulder in a slight gesture. ‘He’s good at what he does. He’s honest in his dealings, as far as we can tell. He’s arrogant, and I don’t like him, and I can’t find anyone who does. I don’t know how to make the jury want to acquit him.’
Daniel understood. ‘What do you want me to do . . . as long as I can stay awake . . .?’
‘If I knew, I’d do it myself,’ Kitteridge said tersely.
Daniel did not reply. There was nothing about this case that he liked. He could see no way of defending Russell Graves from the charge of having murdered his wife. There was no defence. There was no alternative suspect. They had only reasonable doubt to suggest, and nothing to support it. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with sympathy for Kitteridge. ‘Right,’ he agreed. ‘We’d better start thinking.’
Chapter Four
Daniel and Kitteridge began the following morning early by going to see the accused, Russell Graves. They were both tired after a heavy day and then, in Daniel’s case, another night with too little sleep.
Daniel had taken a cab ride from his lodgings to the Old Bailey. He could not afford to risk being late by using the public omnibus. He fully expected Kitteridge to be washed out as well, not only from the long day yesterday, but also with anxiety about fighting when he had so little ammunition, and a very real prospect of losing. It was an important case, and a bad one to lose, because it was highly public and Marcus fford Croft obviously cared about it dearly.
Why? That was an interesting question
. What stake had the old man in the outcome? Or in Russell Graves? Did Kitteridge know something important that he could not, or would not, tell Daniel? Something to do with Marcus fford Croft?
The cabby put him down on Ludgate Hill and Daniel thanked and paid him. He ran up the large flight of stone steps outside the Central Criminal Court, and in through the wide doors. Kitteridge was waiting for him just inside.
‘Morning,’ Kitteridge said, barely glancing at Daniel before turning on his heel and leading the way along the wide hall towards the back, and the small room where Graves would be waiting for them. They had already discussed their plans last night, actually in the small hours of this morning. There was no more to be said now.
Daniel had to stride to match Kitteridge’s long steps. The man must have been around six-foot three or four, and loose-limbed, coordinated only with an effort.
They came to a door with a guard outside. He greeted Kitteridge and then unlocked the door. Kitteridge thanked him and led the way in, Daniel on his heels.
There was only one man inside. He was large, heavy shouldered, with a fine head of iron-grey hair. His features were good. Only a greyish pallor and an expression of discontent marred what would otherwise have been a striking appearance. He looked no different from how he had been yesterday in the dock, except even more strained.
Kitteridge introduced Daniel briefly, then sat down opposite Graves. Daniel took the other chair and remained silent.
‘We haven’t got long – only half an hour – so we will be brief,’ Kitteridge began. ‘I will call you to the stand first thing. Please answer me as we have already agreed—’
‘What use is that going to be?’ Graves interrupted. He had a good voice, deep pitched, and a well-educated accent without sounding affected, but his fear showed through in a heightened pitch and a certain abruptness. ‘I don’t know any details that haven’t been sworn to by the police, doctors, firemen, and God knows who else.’
Daniel saw Kitteridge’s face tighten and knew that it cost him something to keep his own tone level.
‘They need to see your reaction to it, judge your honesty for themselves,’ Kitteridge explained. ‘They need to see your grief over your wife’s death, and hear you say you were not responsible. You know nothing you have not told the police—’
‘Good God, man, of course I know nothing!’ Graves said in ill-concealed exasperation.
Kitteridge clenched his jaw. ‘I know that. They need to hear it.’
‘You told them . . .’
Kitteridge’s fists were clenched in his lap under the table. ‘They need to hear it from you.’
‘I’m a . . .’ Graves began.
Daniel had agreed to keep silent but now he broke that agreement. ‘Mr Graves, sir, it is not only what you say, but it is how you say it,’ he interrupted. ‘They have to want to believe you. They have to like you and to sympathise with you. For that, they need to feel some of your grief, your bewilderment at what happened – and believe that you don’t know!’
Graves turned to look at him. ‘I thought you were here as an assistant.’
Kitteridge drew in his breath to speak, and let it out silently. It was a mark of his anxiety that he let Daniel get away with the interruption.
‘I am,’ Daniel replied. ‘I am trying to assist you to understand that your life depends on the twelve men of the jury being willing to believe that in spite of the evidence, there is reasonable doubt that you are responsible for your wife’s death. Whatever the truth is, all the facts shown so far are against you. We’ve got this morning to convince them to look beyond those facts, and see a decent man, not unlike themselves, who’s caught up in a tragedy not of his making. We have to persuade them that they do not want to convict you – they would much rather find a reason to acquit – so they will look for a reason.’
Graves raised his eyebrows, but his face was very white. ‘Are they really so . . . guided by their emotions, rather than their reason?’ There was a certain contempt in his tone. ‘I did not kill her! Do you not believe in the justice system you serve, Mr . . .? I’m sorry, I forget your name.’
‘Pitt. And no, I do not believe it is infallible. Nobody who has studied the law could believe anything so – so fanciful. It is run by men. It is subject to all misconceptions and weaknesses that men have,’ Daniel replied.
Graves looked at Kitteridge. ‘Have you also such a jaundiced view of the law, Mr Kitteridge?’
Kitteridge did not look at Daniel. ‘We are dealing with people, Mr Graves. People make mistakes.’
Graves looked back at Daniel. ‘And where did you study law, young man?’
Daniel looked back at him without blinking. ‘Cambridge, sir.’
‘Really . . .?’ Graves was taken by surprise. ‘And just what is it you suggest I do to get these twelve very ordinary men to believe that I am innocent? I did not kill my wife, and I have absolutely no idea who did. I am a very busy man, a leader in my field. I have no idea with whom my wife consorted, who might have wished her harm. Perhaps I am guilty of pursuing my career to a degree that I did not go to parties, and local events, of such like with her. They bore me stiff, and I cannot afford the time. But I quite saw how she might enjoy them, and I gave her an ample budget, and the freedom to do as she chose. Perhaps that is something they would not understand?’
One thing Daniel did understand, and that was why they would dislike Graves’ arrogance to the point where they would find it a pleasure to return a verdict of guilty. ‘The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker,’ he said aloud. ‘No, perhaps they would not, you being a man whose time is too important to attend their events.’
‘Whatever you think of them, Mr Graves,’ said Kitteridge, ‘they have your life in their hands. If you don’t want to hang, you’d be wise not to treat them so condescendingly. Their revenge will be all too easy. One word will do it . . .’
Graves look startled. ‘One word? I . . .’
Kitteridge spoke it for him. ‘Guilty.’
‘But I’m not guilty!’ Desperation raised Graves’ voice almost an octave.
‘Convince me,’ Daniel said.
Graves looked at Daniel as if he were a rather tedious child who needed even the simplest things explaining.
‘I wasn’t even at home! I have no idea who her close friends were. I don’t know whether she was having an affair, or even half a dozen. I don’t know if she offended someone. She was outspoken, even rude. She had unconventional ideas, unsuitable and eccentric friends. She gave her opinions far too freely, regardless of whom she offended. She was a beautiful woman, and dressed to show it off far too frequently. God knows how many enemies she may have made. I didn’t restrain her activities at all.’
Graves’ face was sad, and twisted with outrage at the injustice of the situation.
Daniel looked at Kitteridge. Oddly enough, it was not exasperation he felt, or even anger at the man’s arrogance. It was something of the same feeling as he thought Kitteridge had: a genuine concern that the man might be speaking the truth. And, the moment after, the near certainty that the jury would be only too happy to convict him.
He glanced at Kitteridge and saw that same conclusion in his eyes. He also saw that Kitteridge had an idea, albeit a faint one.
Kitteridge rose to his feet. ‘We will see you shortly, in court, Mr Graves. We will do our best for you, whether you assist us or not. That is our job.’ And he walked past Daniel and went to the door.
Daniel stood also, but still looking at Graves. Whatever he felt, it was his duty to defend him. And it was very much in his interest to please Marcus fford Croft, whatever his reason for taking Graves’ case. His feelings for Kitteridge were more mixed than before. He did not dislike him so wholeheartedly. It had been a very good dinner last night, and there was a pleasure in working with someone as clever as Kitteridge was.
The trial reopened exactly on time. The judge presiding was an elderly man with a thin ascetic face and a reputation for surprisi
ng wit. Daniel fancied he could see traces of it in the deep lines around his mouth. His face might look quite different if he smiled.
For the prosecution was Alister Tranmere, KC. It was a title any lawyer would aspire to: KC stood for King’s Counsel. He was a formidable opponent for Kitteridge to face. Daniel wished he had taken the time to look him up. Not that he was going to do anything but assist Kitteridge in finding the right references at the right times. And it would take a lot more than that to keep Russell Graves from the gallows.
In a hushed court, Kitteridge stood and called Graves to the stand. Daniel could not help but contrast this with yesterday. Was it only twenty-four hours ago that he had been in Kitteridge’s position, standing in a far lower court, with a gallery full of a noisy, jostling crowd, trying to save Blackwell’s life? But then he had had a plan, and Ottershaw on his side.
Kitteridge, with his odd face, his well-cut suit, and his bony hands, looked far more afraid than Daniel had felt. He was facing a pillar of the establishment in Alister Tranmere, and Daniel would bet a week’s rent that every one of the sober, well-fed jury already believed Graves to be guilty.
Graves crossed the body of the court, and walked with shoulders back and head high across to the steps to the witness stand. He climbed up with only one slight stumbling step when he was almost at the top. Daniel saw his muscles clench as he grasped the rail.
Would the jurors take his attitude as arrogance, or courage? What did Daniel himself take it for?
Kitteridge began very courteously. ‘Mr Graves, you stand accused of having particularly violently not only murdered your wife, but then set fire to her so as to disfigure her face and upper body. The prosecution has not offered any reason why you should do such a thing. Can you tell the court something about your wife? She is not here to speak for herself. I do not wish to harrow your children by asking them to describe their dead mother. It might help the court to understand you and your family better, perhaps more fairly.’
Graves looked plainly distressed.
