by Anne Perry
He had made a mistake, and he knew it immediately. He should not have tried to justify it.
“You cannot know it was he who had the accident, if indeed it was an accident,” Rathbone said with excessive politeness. “Surely what you mean is that it was he who had the wound?”
“If you wish,” Hargrave replied tersely. “It seems a quibble to me.”
“And the manner in which he was holding it to sustain such a wound as you describe so clearly for us?” Rathbone raised his hand as if gripping a knife, and bent his body experimentally into various contortions to slip and gash himself upwards. It was perfectly impossible, and the court began to titter with nervous laughter. Rathbone looked up enquiringly at Hargrave.
“All right!” Hargrave snapped. “It cannot have happened as he said. What are you suggesting? That Alexandra tried to stab him? Surely you are supposed to be here defending her, not making doubly sure she is hanged!”
The judge leaned forward, his face angry, his voice sharp.
“Dr. Hargrave, your remarks are out of order, and grossly prejudicial. You will withdraw them immediately.”
“Of course. I’m sorry. But I think it is Mr. Rathbone you should caution. He is incompetent in his defense of Mrs. Carlyon.”
“I doubt it. I have known Mr. Rathbone for many years, but if he should prove to be so, then the accused may appeal on that ground.” He looked towards Rathbone. “Please continue.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Rathbone bowed very slightly. “No, Dr. Hargrave, I was not suggesting that Mrs. Carlyon stabbed her husband, I was pointing out that he must have lied to you as to the cause of this wound, and that it seemed undeniable that someone stabbed him. I shall make my suggestions as to who, and why, at a later time.”
There was another rustle of interest, and the first shadow of doubt across the faces of the jury. It was the only time they had been given any cause to question the case as Lovat-Smith had presented it. It was a very small shadow, no more than a flicker, but it was there.
Hargrave turned to step down.
“Just one more thing, Dr. Hargrave,” Rathbone said quickly. “What was General Carlyon wearing when you were called to tend this most unpleasant wound?”
“I beg your pardon?” Hargrave looked incredulous.
“What was General Carlyon wearing?” Rathbone repeated. “In what was he dressed?”
“I have no idea. For God’s sake! What does it matter?”
“Please answer my question,” Rathbone insisted. “Surely you noticed, when you had to cut it away to reach the wound?”
Hargrave made as if to speak, then stopped, his face pale.
“Yes?” Rathbone said very softly.
“He wasn’t.” Hargrave seemed to regather himself. “It had already been removed. He had on simply his underwear.”
“I see. No—no blood-soaked trousers?” Rathbone shrugged eloquently. “Someone had already at least partially treated him? Were these garments lying close to hand?”
“No—I don’t think so. I didn’t notice.”
Rathbone frowned, a look of suddenly renewed interest crossing his face.
“Where did this—accident—take place, Dr. Hargrave?”
Hargrave hesitated. “I—I’m not sure.”
Lovat-Smith rose from his seat and the judge looked at him and shook his head fractionally.
“If you are about to object that it is irrelevant, Mr. Lovat-Smith, I will save you the trouble. It is not. I myself wish to know the answer to this. Dr. Hargrave? You must have some idea. He cannot have moved far with a wound such as you describe. Where did you see him when you attended it?”
Hargrave was pale, his face drawn.
“In the home of Mr. and Mrs. Furnival, my lord.”
There was a rustle of excitement around the room, a letting out of breath. At least half the jurors turned to look up at Alexandra, but her face registered only complete incomprehension.
“Did you say in the house of Mr. and Mrs. Furnival, Dr. Rathbone?” the judge said with undisguised surprise.
“Yes, my lord,” Hargrave replied unhappily.
“Mr. Rathbone,” the judge instructed, “please continue.”
“Yes, my lord.” Rathbone looked anything but shaken; indeed he appeared quite calm. He turned back to Hargrave. “So the general was cleaning this ornamental knife in the Furnivals’ house?”
“I believe so. I was told he was showing it to young Valentine Furnival. It was something of a curio. I daresay he was demonstrating its use—or something of the sort …”
There was a nervous titter around the room. Rathbone’s face registered a wild and fleeting humor, but he forbore from making the obvious remark. Indeed he turned to something utterly different, which took them all by surprise.
“Tell me, Dr. Hargrave, what was the general wearing when he left to go back to his own house?”
“The clothes in which he came, of course.”
Rathbone’s eyebrows shot up, and too late Hargrave realized his error.
“Indeed?” Rathbone said with amazement. “Including those torn and bloodstained trousers?”
Hagrave said nothing.
“Shall I recall Mrs. Sabella Pole, who remembers the incident quite clearly?”
“No—no.” Hargrave was thoroughly annoyed, his lips in a thin line, his face pale and set. “The trousers were quite intact—and not stained. I cannot explain it, and did not seek to. It is not my affair. I simply treated the wound.”
“Indeed,” Rathbone agreed with a small, unreadable smile. “Thank you, Dr. Hargrave. I have no further questions for you.”
The next witness was Evan, for the police. His testimony was exactly what most would have foreseen and presented no interest for Monk. He watched Evan’s sensitive, unhappy face as he recounted being called to the Furnivals’ house, seeing the body and drawing the inevitable conclusions, then the questioning of all the people concerned. It obviously pained him.
Monk found his attention wandering. Rathbone could not provide a defense out of what he had, no matter how brilliant his cross-examination. It would be ridiculous to hope he could trick or force from any one of the Carlyons the admission that they knew the general was abusing his son. He had seen them outside in the hallway, sitting upright, dressed in black, faces set in quiet, dignified grief, totally unified. Even Edith Sobell was with them and now and again looked with concern at her father. But Felicia was in the courtroom, since she had not been subpoenaed to give evidence, and therefore was permitted inside the court. She was very pale behind her veil, and rigid as a plastic figure.
It was imperative they had to find out who else was involved in the pederasty, apart from the general and his father. Cassian had said “others,” not merely his grandfather. Who? Who had access to the boy in a place sufficiently private? That was important; it had to be utterly private. One would hardly undertake such an activity where there was the slightest risk of interruption.
The interrogations went on and Monk was almost unaware of them.
Family again? Peverell Erskine? Was that what Damaris had discovered that night which had driven her nearly frantic with distress, so much so that she had been unable to control herself? After seeing Valentine Furnival she had come downstairs in a state bordering on hysteria. Why? Had she learned that her husband was sodomizing his nephew? But what could possibly have taken place up there that would tell her such a thing? Peverell himself had remained downstairs. Everyone had sworn to that. So she could not have seen anything. And Cassian was not even in the Furnivals’ house.
But she had seen or heard something. Surely it could not be a coincidence that it had been the night of the murder? But what? What had she discovered?
Fenton Pole had been present. Was he the other one who abused Cassian, and in some way the cause of Sabella’s hatred?
Or was it Maxim Furnival? Was the relationship between the general and Maxim not only one of mutual business interest but the indulgence of a mutua
l vice as well? Was that the reason for his frequent visits to the Furnival house, and nothing to do with Louisa? That would be a nice irony. No wonder Alexandra found a bitter and terrible humor in it.
But she had not known there was anyone else. She had thought that in killing the general she had ended it, freed Cassian from the abuse. She knew of no one else, not even the old colonel.
Evan was still testifying, this time answering Rathbone, but the questions were superfluous, only clarifying points already made, that Evan had found nothing to prove the jealousy Alexandra had denied, and he found it hard to believe in himself.
Monk’s thoughts wandered away again. That wound on the General’s leg. Surely it had been Cassian who had inflicted that? From what Hester had said of her interview with the boy, and her observation of him, he was ambivalent about the abuse, uncertain whether it was right or wrong, afraid to lose his mother’s love, secretive, flattered, frightened, but not entirely hating it. There was a frisson of excitement in him even when he mentioned it, the thrill of inclusion in the adult world, knowing something that others did not.
Had he ever been taken to the Furnivals’ house? They should have asked about that. It was an omission.
“Did the general ever take Cassian to the Furnivals’ house?” he whispered to Hester next to him.
“Not that I know of,” she replied. “Why?”
“The other pederast,” he replied almost under his breath. “We have to know who it is.”
“Maxim Furnival?” she said in amazement, raising her voice without realizing it.
“Be quiet,” someone said angrily.
“Why not?” he answered, leaning forward so he could whisper. “It’s got to be someone who saw the boy regularly, and privately—and where Alexandra didn’t know about it.”
“Maxim?” she repeated, frowning at him.
“Why not? It’s someone. Who stabbed the general? Does Rathbone know, or is he just hoping we’ll find out before he’s finished?”
“Just hoping,” she said unhappily.
“Ssh!” a man hissed behind them, tapping Monk on the shoulder with his forefinger.
The reprimand infuriated Monk, but he could think of no satisfactory rejoinder. His face blazed with temper, but he said nothing.
“Valentine,” Hester said suddenly.
“Be quiet!” The man in front swung around, his face pinched with anger. “If you don’t want to listen, then go outside!”
Monk disregarded him. Of course—Valentine. He was only a few years older than Cassian. He would be an ideal victim first. And everyone had said how fond he had been of the general, or at least how fond the general had been of him. He had visited the boy regularly. Perhaps Valentine, terrified, confused, revolted by the general and by himself, had finally fought back.
How to be certain? And how to prove it?
He turned to look at Hester, and saw the same thoughts reflected in her eyes.
Her lips formed the words It is worth trying. Then her eyes darkened with anxiety. “But be careful,” she whispered urgently. “If you’re clumsy you could ruin it forever.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to retaliate, then the reality of its importance overtook all vanity and irritation.
“I will.” He promised so softly it was barely audible even to her. “I’ll be ’round about. I’ll try to get proof first.” And he stood up, much to the fury of the person on his other side, and wriggled past the whole row, stepping on toes, banging knees and nearly losing his footing as he found his way out. The first thing was to learn what was physically possible. If Fenton Pole had never been alone with Cassian or Valentine, then he was not worth pursuing as a suspect. Servants would know, particularly footmen; footmen knew where their masters went in the family carriage, and they usually knew who visited the house. If Pole had been careful enough to travel to some other place to meet there, and go by hansom, then it would be a far harder task to trace him, and perhaps pointless.
He must begin with the obvious. He hailed a cab and gave the driver the address of Fenton and Sabella Pole’s house.
All the remainder of the afternoon he questioned the servants. At first they were somewhat reluctant to answer him, feeling that in the absence of knowledge, silence was the wisest and safest course. But one maid in particular had come with Sabella on her marriage, and her loyalties were to Alexandra, because that was where her mistress’s loyalties were. She was more than willing to answer anything Monk wished to know, and she was quite capable of discovering from the footman, groom and parlormaid every detail he needed.
Certainly Mr. Pole had known the general before he met Miss Sabella. It was the general who had introduced them, that she knew herself; she had been there at the time. Yes, they had got along very well with each other, better than with Mrs. Carlyon, unfortunately. The reason? She had no idea, except that poor Miss Sabella had not wished to marry, but to go into the Church. There was nothing anyone could say against Mr. Pole. He was always a gentleman.
Did he know Mr. and Mrs. Furnival well?
Not very, the acquaintance seemed to be recent.
Did Mr. Pole often visit the general at his home?
No, hardly ever. The general came here.
Did he often bring young Master Cassian?
She had never known it to happen. When Master Cassian came it was with his mother, to visit Miss Sabella during the daytime, when Mr. Pole was out.
Monk thanked her and excused himself. It seemed Fenton Pole was not a suspect, on the grounds of physical impossibility. The opportunity was simply not there.
He walked in the clear evening back to Great Titchfield Street, passing open carriages as people took the air, fashionably dressed in bonnets with ribbons and gowns trimmed with flowers; couples out strolling arm in arm, gossiping, flirting; a man walking his dog. He arrived a few moments after Hester returned from the court. She looked tired and anxious, and Major Tiplady, sitting up on an ordinary chair now, appeared concerned for her.
“Come in, come in, Mr. Monk,” he said quickly. “I fear the news is not encouraging, but please be seated and we shall hear it together. Molly will bring us a cup of tea. And perhaps you would like supper? Poor Hester looks in need of some refreshment. Please—be seated!” He waved his arm in invitation, but his eyes were still on Hester’s face.
Monk sat down, primarily to encourage Hester to speak, but he accepted the invitation to supper.
“Excuse me.” Tiplady rose to his feet and limped to the door. “I shall see about it with Molly and Cook.”
“What is it?” Monk demanded. “What has happened?”
“Very little,” Hester said wearily. “Only what we expected. Evan recounted how Alexandra had confessed.”
“We knew that would come,” Monk pointed out, angry that she was so discouraged. He needed her to have hope, because he too was afraid. It was a ridiculous task they had set themselves, and they had no right to have given Alexandra hope. There was none, none at all of any sense.
“Of course,” she said a little sharply, betraying her own fragile emotions. “But you asked me what had happened.”
He looked at her and met her eyes. There was a moment of complete understanding, all the pity, the outrage, all the delicate shades of fear and self-doubt for their own part in it. They said nothing, because words were unnecessary, and too clumsy an instrument anyway.
“I started to look at physical possibilities,” he said after a moment or two. “I don’t think Fenton Pole can be the other abuser. There doesn’t seem to have been enough opportunity for him to be alone with either Cassian or Valentine.”
“So where are you going next?”
“The Furnivals’, I think.”
“To Louisa?” she said with a flash of bitter amusement.
“To the servants.” He understood precisely what she meant, with all its undertones. “Of course she would protect Maxim, but since it hasn’t been mentioned yet, she won’t have any idea that we are looking fo
r abuse of children. She’ll be thinking of herself, and the old charge about the general.”
Hester said nothing.
“Then I’ll go to the Carlyons’.”
“The Carlyons’?” Now she was surprised. “You’ll not find anything there, but even if you did, what good would it do? They’ll all lie to protect him, and we know about him anyway! It’s the other person we need to find—with proof.”
“Not the colonel—Peverell Erskine.”
She was stunned, her face filled with amazement and disbelief. “Peverell! Oh no! You can’t think it was him!”
“Why not? Because we like him?” He was hurting himself as well as her and they both understood it. “Do you think it has to be someone who looks like a monster? There was no violence used, no hate or greed—just a man who has never grown up enough to find an appropriate closeness with an adult woman, a man who only feels safe with a child who won’t judge him or demand a commitment or the ability to give, who won’t see the flaws in his character or the clumsiness or inadequacy of his acts.”
“You sound as if you want me to feel sorry for him,” she said with tight, hard disgust, but he did not know whether that disgust was at him, at the abuses, or only at the situation—or even if it was so hard because underneath it was the wrench of real pity.
“I don’t care what you feel,” he lied back. “Only what you think. Just because Peverell Erskine is an agreeable man and his wife loves him doesn’t mean he can’t have weaknesses that destroy him—and others.”
“I don’t believe it of Peverell,” she said stubbornly, but she gave no reason.
“That’s just stupid,” he snapped at her, aware of the anger inside himself to which he chose to give no name. “You’re hardly much use if you are working on that level of intelligence.”
“I said I don’t believe it,” she retorted equally violently. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t investigate the possibility.”
“Oh yes?” He raised his eyebrows sarcastically. “How?”
“Through Damans, of course,” she said with stinging contempt. “She discovered something that night—something that upset her beyond bearing. Had you forgotten that? Or did you just think I had?”
