by Anne Perry
“Do whatever you will, Mr. Rathbone. I don’t think I have strength left to make judgments anymore.”
“You don’t need it, my dear.” He stood up at last, exhausted himself, and it was only Monday, June 29. The second week of the trial had commenced. He must begin the defense.
The first witness for the defense was Edith Sobell. Lovat-Smith was sitting back in his chair, legs crossed over casually, head tilted, as if he were interested only as a matter of curiosity. He had made a case that seemed unarguable, and looking around the crowded courtroom, there was not a single face which registered doubt. They were there only to watch Alexandra and the Carlyon family sitting in their row at the front, the women dressed in black and Felicia veiled, rigid and square-shouldered, Randolf unhappy but entirely composed.
Edith took the stand and stumbled once or twice when swearing the oath, her tongue clumsy in her nervousness. And yet there was a bloom to her skin, a color that belied the situation, and she stood erect with nothing of the defensiveness or the weight of grief which lay on her mother.
“Mrs. Sobell,” Rathbone began courteously, “you are the sister of the victim of this crime, and the sister-in-law of the accused?”
“I am.”
“Did you know your brother well, Mrs. Sobell?”
“Moderately. He was several years older than I, and he left home to go into the army when I was a child. But of course when he returned from service abroad and settled down I learned to know him again. He lived not far from Carlyon House, where I still live, since my husband’s death.”
“Would you tell me something of your brother’s personality, as you observed it?”
Lovat-Smith shifted restlessly in his seat, and the crowd had already lost interest, all but a few who hoped there might be some completely new and shocking revelation. After all, this witness was for the defense.
Lovat-Smith rose to his feet.
“My lord, this appears to be quite irrelevant. We have already very fully established the nature of the dead man. He was honorable, hardworking, a military hero of considerable repute, faithful to his wife, financially prudent and generous. His only failings seem to have been that he was somewhat pompous and perhaps did not flatter or amuse his wife as much as he might.” He smiled dryly, looking around so the jury could see his face. “A weakness we might all be guilty of, from time to time.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Rathbone said acerbically, “And if Mrs. Sobell agrees with your estimation, I will be happy to save the court’s time by avoiding having her repeat it. Mrs. Sobell?”
“I agree,” Edith said with a look first at Rathbone, then at Lovat-Smith. “He also spent a great deal of time with his son, Cassian. He seemed to be an excellent and devoted father.”
“Quite: he seemed to be an excellent and devoted father,” he repeated her precise words. “And yet, Mrs. Sobell, when you became aware of the tragedy of his death, and that your sister-in-law had been charged with causing it, what did you do?”
“My lord, that too is surely quite irrelevant?” Lovat-Smith protested. “I appreciate that my learned friend is somewhat desperate, but this cannot be allowed!”
The judge looked at Rathbone.
“Mr. Rathbone, I will permit you some leniency, so that you may present the best defense you can, in extremely difficult circumstances, but I will not permit you to waste the court’s time. See to it that the answers you draw are to some point!”
Rathbone looked again at Edith.
“Mrs. Sobell?”
“I …” Edith swallowed hard and lifted her chin, looking away from where her mother and father sat upright in their row in the front of the gallery, now no longer witnesses. For an instant her eyes met Alexandra’s in the dock. Then she continued speaking. “I contacted a friend of mine, a Miss Hester Latterly, and asked her help to find a good lawyer to defend Alexandra—Mrs. Carlyon.”
“Indeed?” Rathbone’s eyebrows shot up as if he were surprised, although surely almost everyone in the room must know he had planned this most carefully. “Why? She was charged with murdering your brother, this model man.”
“At first—at first I thought she could not be guilty.” Edith’s voice trembled a little but she gained control again. “Then when it was proved to me beyond question that she was … that she had committed the act … I still thought there must be some better reason than the one she gave.”
Lovat-Smith rose again.
“My lord! I hope Mr. Rathbone is not going to ask the witness to draw some conclusion? Her faith in her sister-in-law is very touching, but it is not evidence of anything except her own gentle—and, forgive me, rather gullible—nature!”
“My learned friend is leaping to conclusions, as I am afraid he is prone to do,” Rathbone said with a tiny smile. “I do not wish Mrs. Sobell to draw any conclusions at all, simply to lay a foundation for her subsequent actions, so the court will understand what she did, and why.”
“Proceed, Mr. Rathbone,” the judge instructed.
“Thank you, my lord. Mrs. Sobell, have you spent much time with your nephew, Cassian Carlyon, since his father’s death?”
“Yes of course. He is staying in our house.”
“How has he taken his father’s death?”
“Irrelevant!” Lovat-Smith interrupted again. “How can a child’s grief possibly be pertinent to the accused’s guilt or innocence? We cannot turn a blind eye to murder because if we hanged the guilty person then a child would be robbed of both his parents—tragic as that is. And we all pity him …”
“He does not need your pity, Mr. Lovat-Smith,” Rathbone said irritably. “He needs you to hold your tongue and let me proceed with uncovering the truth.”
“Mr. Rathbone,” the judge said tartly. “We sympathize with your predicament, and your frustration, but your language is discourteous, and I will not allow it. Nevertheless, Mr. Lovat-Smith, it is good counsel, and you will please observe it until you have an objection of substance. If you interrupt as often as this, we shall not reach a verdict before Michaelmas.”
Lovat-Smith sat down with a broad smile.
Rathbone bowed, then turned back to Edith.
“I think you are now permitted to continue, Mrs. Sobell. If you please. What was your observation of Cassian’s manner?”
Edith frowned in concentration.
“It was very hard to understand,” she replied, thinking carefully. “He grieved for his father, but it seemed to be very—very adult. He did not cry, and at times he seemed very composed, almost relieved.”
Lovat-Smith rose to his feet, and the judge waved him to sit down again. Rathbone turned to Edith.
“Mrs. Sobell, will you please explain that curious word relieved. Try not to give us any conclusions you may have come to in your own mind, simply your observations of fact. Not what he seemed, but what he said, or did. Do you understand the difference?”
“Yes, my lord. I’m sorry.” Again her nervousness betrayed itself in clenched hands on the witness box rail, and a catch in her voice. “I saw him alone on several occasions, through a window, or from a doorway when he did not know I was there. He was quite at ease, sitting smiling. I asked him if he was happy by himself, thinking he might be lonely, but he told me he liked it. Sometimes he went to my father—his grandfather—”
“Colonel Carlyon?” Rathbone interrupted.
“Yes. Then other times he seemed to go out of his way to avoid him. He was afraid of my mother.” As if involuntarily, she glanced at Felicia, then back to Rathbone again. “He said so. And he was very upset about his own mother. He told me she did not love him—that his father had told him so.”
In the dock Alexandra closed her eyes and seemed to sway as if in physical pain. A gasp escaped her in spite of all her effort at self-control.
“Hearsay,” Lovat-Smith said loudly, rising to his feet. “My lord …”
“That is not permitted,” the judge apologized to Edith. “I think we have gathered from your testimony
that the child was in a state of considerable confusion. Is that what you wished to establish, Mr. Rathbone?”
“More than that, my lord: the nature of his confusion. And that he developed close, and ambivalent, relationships with other people.”
Lovat-Smith let out a loud moan and raised his hands in the air.
“Then you had better proceed and do so, Mr. Rathbone,” the judge said with a tight smile. “If you can. Although you have not shown us yet why this has any relevance to the case, and I advise that you do that within a very short time.”
“I promise you that it will become apparent in later testimony, my lord,” Rathbone said, his voice still calculatedly light. But he abandoned the course for the present, knowing he had left it imprinted on the jury’s minds, and that was all that mattered. He could build on it later. He turned back to Edith.
“Mrs. Sobell, did you recently observe a very heated quarrel between Miss Buchan, an elderly member of your household staff, and your cook, Mrs. Emery?”
A ghost of amusement crossed Edith’s face, curving her mouth momentarily.
“I have observed several, more than I can count,” she conceded. “Cook and Miss Buchan have been enemies for years.”
“Quite so. But the quarrel I am referring to happened within the last three weeks, on the back stairs of Carlyon House. You were called to assist.”
“That’s right. Cassian came to fetch me because he was afraid. Cook had a knife. I’m sure she did not intend to do anything with it but make an exhibition, but he didn’t know that.”
“What was the quarrel about, Mrs. Sobell?”
Lovat-Smith groaned audibly.
Rathbone ignored it.
“About?” Edith looked slightly puzzled. He had not told her he was going to pursue this. He wanted her obvious unawareness to be seen by the jury. This case depended upon emotions as much as upon facts.
“Yes. What was the subject of the difference?”
Lovat-Smith groaned even more loudly. “Really, my lord,” he protested.
Rathbone resumed facing the judge. “My learned friend seems to be in some distress,” he said unctuously.
There was a loud titter of amusement, nervous, like a ripple of wind through a field before thunder.
“The case,” Lovat-Smith said loudly. “Get on with the case, man!”
“Then bear your agony a little less vocally, old chap,” Rathbone replied equally loudly, “and allow me to.” He swung around. “Mrs. Sobell—to remind you, the question was, would you please tell the court the subject of the quarrel between the governess, Miss Buchan, and the cook?”
“Yes—yes, if you wish, although I cannot see—”
“We none of us can,” Lovat-Smith interrupted again.
“Mr. Lovat-Smith,” the judge said sharply. “Mrs. Sobell, answer the question. If it proves irrelevant I will control Mr. Rathbone’s wanderings.”
“Yes, my lord. Cook accused Miss Buchan of being incompetent to care for Cassian. She said Miss Buchan was … there was a great deal of personal abuse, my lord. I would rather not repeat it.”
Rathbone thought of permitting her to do so. A jury liked to be amused, but they would lose respect for Miss Buchan, which might be what would win or lose the case. A little laughter now would be too dearly bought.
“Please spare us,” he said aloud. “The subject of the difference will be sufficient—the fact that there was abuse may indicate the depth of their feelings.”
Again Edith smiled hurriedly, and then continued.
“Cook said that Miss Buchan was following him around everywhere and confusing him by telling him his mother loved him, and was not a wicked woman.” She swallowed hard, her eyes troubled. That she did not understand what he wanted was painfully obvious. The jury were utterly silent, their faces staring at her. Suddenly the drama was back again, the concentration total. The crowd did not whisper or move. Even Alexandra herself seemed momentarily forgotten.
“And the cook?” Rathbone prompted.
“Cook said Alexandra should be hanged.” Edith seemed to find the word difficult. “And of course she was wicked. Cassian had to know it and come to terms with it.”
“And Miss Buchan’s reply?”
“That Cook didn’t know anything about it, she was an ignorant woman and should stay in the kitchen where she belonged.”
“Did you know to what Miss Buchan referred?” Rathbone asked, his voice low and clear, without any theatrics.
“No.”
“Was a Miss Hester Latterly present at this exchange?”
“Yes.”
“When you had parted the two protagonists, did Miss Latterly go upstairs with Miss Buchan?”
“Yes.”
“And afterwards leave in some haste, and without explanation to you as to why?”
“Yes, but we did not quarrel,” Edith said quickly. “She seemed to have something most urgent to do.”
“Indeed I know it, Mrs. Sobell. She came immediately to see me. Thank you. That is all. Please remain there, in case my learned friend has something to ask you.”
There was a rustle and a sigh around the court. A dozen people nudged each other. The expected revelation had not come … not yet.
Lovat-Smith rose and sauntered over to Edith, hands in his pockets.
“Mrs. Sobell, tell me honestly, much as you may sympathize with your sister-in-law, has any of what you have said the slightest bearing on the tragedy of your brother’s death?”
She hesitated, glancing at Rathbone.
“No, Mrs. Sobell,” Lovat-Smith cautioned sharply. “Answer for yourself, please! Can you tell me any relation between what you have said about your nephew’s very natural confusion and distress over his father’s murder, and his mother’s confession and arrest, and this diverting but totally irrelevant quarrel between two of your domestics?” He waved his hands airily, dismissing it, “And the cause at trial: namely whether Alexandra Carlyon is guilty or not guilty of murdering her husband, your brother? I remind you, in case after all this tarradiddle you, like the rest of us, are close to forgetting.”
He had gone too far. He had trivialized the tragedy.
“I don’t know, Mr. Lovat-Smith,” she said with a sudden return of composure, her voice now grim and with a hard edge. “As you have just said, we are here to discover the truth, not to assess it beforehand, I don’t know why Alexandra did what she did, and I wish to know. It has to matter.”
“Indeed.” Lovat-Smith gave in gracefully. He had sufficient instinct to recognize an error and cease it immediately. “It does not alter facts, but of course it matters, Mrs. Sobell. I have no further questions. Thank you.”
“Mr. Rathbone?” the judge asked.
“I have no further questions, thank you, my lord.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Sobell, you may go.”
Rathbone stood in the center of the very small open space in front of the witness box.
“I call Miss Catriona Buchan.”
Miss Buchan came to the witness box looking very pale, her face even more gaunt than before, her thin back stiff and her eyes straight forward, as if she were a French aristocrat passing through the old women knitting at the foot of the guillotine. She mounted the stairs unaided, holding her skirts in from the sides, and at the top turned and faced the court. She swore to tell the truth, and regarded Rathbone as though he were an executioner.
Rathbone found himself admiring her as much as anyone he had ever faced across that small space of floor.
“Miss Buchan, I realize what this is going to cost you, and I am not unmindful of your sacrifice, nevertheless I hope you understand that in the cause of justice I have no alternative?”
“Of course I do,” she agreed with a crisp voice. The strain in it did not cause her to falter, only to sound a little more clipped than usual, a little higher in pitch, as if her throat were tight. “I would not answer did I not understand that!”
“Indeed. Do you remember quarreling with the
cook at Carlyon House some three weeks ago?”
“I do. She is a good enough cook, but a stupid woman.”
“In what way stupid, Miss Buchan?”
“She imagines all ills can be treated with good regular meals and that if you only eat right everything else will sort itself out.”
“A shortsighted view. What did you quarrel about on that occasion, Miss Buchan?”
Her chin lifted a little higher.
“Master Cassian. She said I was confusing the child by telling him his mother was not a wicked woman, and that she still loved him.”
In the dock Alexandra was so still it seemed she could not even be breathing. Her eyes never left Miss Buchan’s face and she barely blinked.
“Is that all?” Rathbone asked.
Miss Buchan took a deep breath, her thin chest rising and falling. “No—she also said I followed the boy around too much, not leaving him alone.”
“Did you follow the boy around, Miss Buchan?”
She hesitated only a moment. “Yes.”
“Why?” He kept his voice level, as if the question were not especially important.
“To do what I could to prevent him being abused anymore.”
“Abused? Was someone mistreating him? In what way?”
“I believe the word is sodomy, Mr. Rathbone,” she said with only the slightest tremor.
There was a gasp in the court as hundreds of throats drew in breath.
Alexandra covered her face with her hands.
The jury froze in their seats, eyes wide, faces aghast.
In the front row of the gallery Randolf Carlyon sat immobile as stone. Felicia’s veiled head jerked up and her knuckles were white on the rail in front of her. Edith, now sitting beside them, looked as if she had been struck.
Even the judge stiffened and turned to look up at Alexandra. Lovat-Smith stared at Rathbone, his face slack with amazement.
Rathbone waited several seconds before he spoke.
“Someone in the house was sodomizing the child?” He said it very quietly, but the peculiar quality of his voice and his exquisite diction made every word audible even at the very back of the gallery.
