The William Monk Mysteries

by Anne Perry

  There was a ripple of laughter around the court, dying away again immediately.

  Hester glanced up at Alexandra, but her face was expressionless.

  “Who arrived next?” Lovat-Smith asked.

  “Sabella Pole and her husband, Fenton Pole. She was immediately rude to her father, the general.” Louisa’s face shadowed very slightly but she forbore from more than the vaguest of implied criticism. She knew it was ugly and above all she would avoid that. “Of course she has not been well,” she added. “So one forgave her readily. It was an embarrassment, no more”

  “You did not fear it indicated any dangerous ill will?” Lovat-Smith asked with apparent concern.

  “Not at all.” Louisa dismissed it with a gesture.

  “Who else arrived at this dinner of yours?”

  “Dr. Charles Hargrave and Mrs. Hargrave; they were the last.”

  “And no one else called that evening?”

  “No one.”

  “Can you tell us something of the course of events, Mrs. Furnival?”

  She shrugged very delicately and half smiled.

  Hester watched the jury. They were fascinated with her and Hester had no doubt she knew it.

  “We spent some time in the withdrawing room,” Louisa said casually. “We talked of this and that, as we will on such occasions. I cannot recall what we said, only that Mrs. Carlyon picked a quarrel with the general, which he did all he could to avoid, but she seemed determined to bring the matter to an open dispute.”

  “Do you know what it was about?”

  “No, it seemed to be very nebulous, just a longstanding ill feeling, so far as I could judge. Of course I did not overhear it all…” She left it hanging delicately, not to rule out the possibility of a raging jealousy.

  “And at dinner, Mrs. Furnival,” Lovat-Smith prompted. “Was the ill feeling between General and Mrs. Carlyon still apparent?”

  “Yes, I am afraid it was. Of course at that time I had no idea it was anything serious …” For an instant she looked contrite, abashed at her own blindness. There was a murmur of sympathy around the courtroom. People turned to look at the dock. One of the jurors nodded sagely.

  “And after dinner?” Lovat-Smith asked.

  “The ladies withdrew and left the men to take port and cigars,” Louisa continued. “In the withdrawing room we simply spoke of trivial things again, a little gossip, and a few opinions of fashion and so on. Then when the men rejoined us I took General Carlyon upstairs to visit my son, who admired him greatly, and to whom he had been a good friend.” A spasm of pain passed over her immaculate features and again there was a buzz of sympathy and anger around the room.

  Hester looked at Alexandra in the dock, and saw hurt and puzzlement in her face.

  The judge lifted his eyes and stared over the heads of the counsel to the body of the court. The sound subsided.

  “Continue, Mr. Lovat-Smith,” he ordered.

  Lovat-Smith turned to Louisa. “Did this occasion any response that you observed, Mrs. Furnival?”

  Louisa looked downwards modestly, as if embarrassed to admit it now.

  “Yes. I am afraid Mrs. Carlyon was extremely angry. I thought at the time it was just a fit of pique. Of course I realize now that it was immeasurably deeper than that.”

  Oliver Rathbone rose to his feet.

  “I object, my lord. The witness—”

  “Sustained,” the judge interrupted him. “Mrs. Furnival, we wish to know only what you observed at the time, not what later events may have led you to conclude, correctly or incorrectly. It is for the jury to interpret, not for you. At this time you felt it to be a fit of pique—that is all.”

  Louisa’s face tightened with annoyance, but she would not argue with him.

  “My lord,” Lovat-Smith acknowledged the rebuke. He turned back to Louisa. “Mrs. Furnival, you took General Carlyon upstairs to visit with your son, whose age is thirteen, is that correct? Good. When did you come downstairs again?”

  “When my husband came up to tell me that Alexandra—Mrs. Carlyon—was extremely upset and the party was becoming very tense and rather unpleasant. He wished me to return to try to improve the atmosphere. Naturally I did so.”

  “Leaving General Carlyon still upstairs with your son?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what happened next?”

  “Mrs. Carlyon went upstairs.”

  “What was her manner, Mrs. Furnival, from your own observation?” He glanced at the judge, who made no comment.

  “She was white-faced,” Louisa replied. Still she ignored Alexandra as if the dock had been empty and she were speaking of someone absent. “She appeared to be in a rage greater than any I have ever seen before, or since. There was nothing I could do to stop her, but I still imagined that it was some private quarrel and would be settled when they got home.”

  Lovat-Smith smiled. “We assume you did not believe it would lead to violence, Mrs. Furnival, or you would naturally have taken steps to prevent it. But did you still have no idea as to its cause? You did not, for example, think it was jealousy over some imagined relationship between the general and yourself?”

  She smiled, a fleeting, enigmatic expression. For the first time she glanced at Alexandra, but so quickly their eyes barely met. “A trifle, perhaps,” she said gravely. “But not serious. Our relationship was purely one of friendship—quite platonic—as it had been for years. I thought she knew that, as did everyone else.” Her smile widened. “Had it been more, my husband would hardly have been the friend to the general he was. I did not think she was … obsessive about it. A little envious, maybe—friendship can be very precious. Especially if you feel you do not have it.”

  “Exactly so.” He smiled at her. “And then?” he asked, moving a little to one side and putting his hands deeper into his pockets.

  Louisa took up the thread. “Then Mrs. Carlyon came downstairs, alone.”

  “Had her manner changed?”

  “I was not aware of it …” She looked as if she were waiting for him to lead her, but as he remained silent, she continued unasked. “Then my husband went out into the hall.” She stopped for dramatic effect. “That is the front hall, not the back one, which we had been using to go up to my son’s room—and he came back within a moment, looking very shaken, and told us that General Carlyon had had an accident and was seriously hurt.”

  “Seriously hurt,” Lovat-Smith interrupted. “Not dead?”

  “I think he was too shocked to have looked at him closely,” she answered, a faint, sad smile touching her mouth. “I imagine he wanted Charles to come as soon as possible. That is what I would have done.”

  “Of course. And Dr. Hargrave went?”

  “Yes—after a few moments he was back to say that Thaddeus was dead and we should call the police—because it was an accident that needed explaining, not because any of us suspected murder then.”

  “Naturally,” Lovat-Smith agreed. “Thank you, Mrs. Furnival. Would you please remain there, in case my learned friend has any questions to ask you.” He bowed very slightly and turned to Rathbone.

  Rathbone rose, acknowledged him with a nod, and moved forward towards the witness box. His manner was cautious, but there was no deference in it and he looked up at Louisa very directly.

  “Thank you for a most clear description of the events of that tragic evening, Mrs. Furnival,” he began, his voice smooth and beautifully modulated. As soon as she smiled he continued gravely. “But I think perhaps you have omitted one or two events which may turn out to be relevant. We can hardly overlook anything, can we?” He smiled back at her, but there was no lightness in the gesture, and it died instantly, leaving no trace in his eyes. “Did anyone else go up to see your son, Valentine?”

  “I…” She stopped, as if uncertain.

  “Mrs. Erskine, for example?”

  Lovat-Smith stirred, half rose as if to interrupt, then changed his mind.

  “I believe so,” Louisa conceded, her exp
ression making it plain she thought it irrelevant.

  “And how was her manner when she came down?” Rathbone said softly.

  Louisa hesitated. “She seemed … upset.”

  “Just upset?” Rathbone sounded surprised. “Not distressed, unable to keep her mind on a conversation, distracted by some inner pain?”

  “Well …” Louisa lifted her shoulder delicately. “She was in a very strange mood, yes. I thought perhaps she was not entirely well.”

  “Did she give any explanation for the sudden change from her usual manner to such a distracted, offensive, near-frenzied mood?”

  Lovat-Smith rose to his feet.

  “Objection, my lord! The witness did not say Mrs. Erskine was offensive or near frenzied, only that she was distressed and unable to command her attention to the conversation.”

  The judge looked at Rathbone. “Mr. Lovat-Smith is correct. What is your point, Mr. Rathbone? I confess, I fail to see it.”

  “It will emerge later, my lord,” Rathbone said, and Hester had a strong feeling he was bluffing, hoping that by the time Damaris was called, they would have learned precisely what it was that she had discovered. Surely it must have to do with the general.

  “Very well. Proceed,” the judge directed.

  “Did you find the cause of Mrs. Erskine’s distress, Mrs. Furnival?” Rathbone resumed.

  “No.”

  “Nor of Mrs. Carlyon’s distress either? Is it an assumption that it had to do with you, and your relationship with the general?”

  Louisa frowned.

  “Is that not so, Mrs. Furnival? Did Mrs. Carlyon ever say anything either to you, or in your hearing, to suggest that she was distressed because of a jealousy of you and your friendship with her husband? Please be exact.”

  Louisa drew in her breath deeply, her face shadowed, but still she did not glance towards the dock or the motionless woman in it.

  “No.”

  Rathbone smiled, showing his teeth.

  “Indeed, you have testified that she had nothing of which to be jealous. Your friendship with the general was perfectly proper, and a sensible woman might conceivably have regarded it as enviable that you could have such a comfortable regard, perhaps, but not cause for distress, let alone a passionate jealousy or hatred. Indeed there seems no reason for it at all. Is that not so?”

  “Yes.” It was not a flattering description, and certainly not glamorous, or the image Hester had seen Louisa project. Hester smiled to herself and glanced at Monk, but Monk had not caught the inflection. He was watching the jury.

  “And this friendship between yourself and the general had existed for many years, some thirteen or fourteen years, in fact?”

  “Yes.”

  “With the full knowledge and consent of your husband?”

  “Of course.”

  “And of Mrs. Carlyon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she at any time at all approach you on the matter, or let you know that she was displeased about it?”

  “No.” Louisa raised her eyebrows. “This came without any warning at all.”

  “What came, Mrs. Furnival?”

  “Why the … the murder, of course.” She looked a little disconcerted, not entirely sure whether he was very simple or very clever.

  He smiled blandly, a slight curling of the lips. “Then on what evidence do you suppose that jealousy of you was the cause?”

  She breathed in slowly, giving herself time, and her expression hardened.

  “I—I did not think it, until she herself claimed it to be so. But I have experienced unreasonable jealousies before, and it was not hard to believe. Why should she lie about it? It is not a quality one would wish to claim—it is hardly attractive.”

  “A profound question, Mrs. Furnival, which in time I will answer. Thank you.” He half turned away. “That is all I have to ask you. Please remain there, in case my learned friend has any questions to redirect to you.”

  Lovat-Smith rose, smiling, a small, satisfied gesture.

  “No thank you, I think Mrs. Furnival by her very appearance makes the motive of jealousy more than understandable.”

  Louisa flushed, but it was quite obviously with pleasure, even a vindication. She shot a hard glance at Rathbone as she very carefully came down the steps, negotiating the hoops of her wide skirts with a swaggering grace, and walked across the small space of the floor.

  There was a rustle of movement in the crowd and a few clearly audible shouts of admiration and approval. Louisa sailed out with her head high and an increasing satisfaction in her face.

  Hester found her muscles clenching and a totally unreasonable anger boiling up inside her. It was completely unfair. Louisa could not know the truth, and in all likelihood she believed that Alexandra had murdered the general out of exactly the sudden and violent jealousy she envisioned. But Hester’s anger remained exactly the same.

  She looked up at the dock and saw Alexandra’s pale face. She could see no hatred in it, no easy contempt. There was nothing there but tiredness and fear.

  The next witness to be called was Maxim Furnival. He took the stand very gravely, his face pale. He was stronger than Hester had remembered, with more gravity and power to his features, more honest emotion. He had not testified yet, but she found herself disposed towards him. She glanced up at Alexandra again, and saw a momentary breaking of her self-control, a sudden softening, as if memories, and perhaps a sweetness, came through with bitter contrast. Then it was gone again, and the present reasserted itself.

  Maxim was sworn in, and Lovat-Smith rose to address him.

  “Of course you were also at this unfortunate dinner party, Mr. Furnival?”

  Maxim looked wretched; he had none of Louisa’s panache or flair for appearing before an audience. His bearing, the look in his face, suggested his mind was filled with memory of the tragedy, an awareness of the murder that still lay upon them. He had looked at Alexandra once, painfully, without evasion and without anger or blame. Whatever he thought of her, or believed, it was not harsh.

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “Naturally,” Lovat-Smith agreed. “Will you please tell us what you remember of that evening, from the time your first guests arrived.”

  In a quiet voice, but without hesitation, Maxim recounted exactly the same events as Louisa had, only his choice of words was different, laden with his knowledge of what had later occurred. Lovat-Smith did not interrupt him until he came to the point where Alexandra returned from upstairs, alone.

  “What was her manner, Mr. Furnival? You did not mention it, and yet your wife said that it was worthy of remark.” He glanced at Rathbone; he had forestalled objection, and Rathbone smiled back.

  “I did not notice,” Maxim replied, and it was so obviously a lie there was a little gasp from the crowd and the judge glanced at him a second time in surprise.

  “Try your memory a little harder, Mr. Furnival,” Lovat-Smith said gravely. “I think you will find it comes to you.” Deliberately he kept his back to Rathbone.

  Maxim frowned. “She had not been herself all evening.” He met Lovat-Smith’s eyes directly. “I was concerned for her, but not more so when she came down than earlier.”

  Lovat-Smith seemed on the edge of asking yet again, but heard Rathbone rise from his seat to object and changed his mind.

  “What happened next?” he said instead.

  “I went to the front hall, I forget what for now, and I saw Thaddeus lying on the floor with the suit of armor in pieces all around him—and the halberd in his chest.” He hesitated only to compose himself, and Lovat-Smith did not prompt him. “It was quite obvious he had been very seriously hurt, far too seriously for me to do anything useful to help him, so I went back to the withdrawing room to get Charles Hargrave—the doctor …”

  “Yes, naturally. Was Mrs. Carlyon there?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did she take the news that her husband had had a serious, possibly even fatal accident, Mr. Furnival
?”

  “She was very shocked, very pale indeed and I think a trifle faint, what do you imagine? It is a fearful thing to have to tell any woman.”

  Lovat-Smith smiled and looked down at the floor, pushing his hands into his pockets again.

  Hester looked at the jury. She could see from the puckered brows, the careful mouths, that their minds were crowded with all manner of questions, sharper and more serious for being unspoken. She had the first intimation of Lovat-Smith’s skill.

  “Of course,” Lovat-Smith said at last. “Fearful indeed. And I expect you were deeply distressed on her behalf.” He turned and looked up at Maxim suddenly. “Tell me, Mr. Furnival, did you at any time suspect that your wife was having an affair with General Carlyon?”

  Maxim’s face was pale, and he stiffened as if the question were distasteful, but not unexpected.

  “No, I did not. If I said I trusted my wife, you would no doubt find that of no value, but I had known General Carlyon for many years, and I knew that he was not a man to enter into such a relationship. He had been a friend to both of us for some fifteen years. Had I at any time suspected there to be anything improper I should not have allowed it to continue. That surely you can believe?”

  “Of course, Mr. Furnival. Would it be true then to say that you would find Mrs. Carlyon’s jealousy in that area to be unfounded, not an understandable passion rooted in a cause that anyone might sympathize with?”

  Maxim looked unhappy, his eyes downcast, avoiding Lovat-Smith.

  “I find it hard to believe she truly thought there was an affair,” he said very quietly. “I cannot explain it.”

  “Your wife is a very beautiful woman, sir; jealousy is not always a rational emotion. Unreasonable suspicion can—”

  Rathbone was on his feet.

  “My lord, my honorable friend’s speculations on the nature of jealousy are irrelevant to this case, and may prejudice the jury’s opinions, since they are being presented as belonging to Mrs. Carlyon in this instance.”

  “Your objection is sustained,” the judge said without hesitation, then turned to Lovat-Smith. “Mr. Lovat-Smith, you know better than that. Prove your point, do not philosophize.”