by Anne Perry
The landlord of the Bull and Bush, farther up on Golders Hill, said much the same, as did two locals from the Hare and Hounds, a short walk farther along. There he had asked more particularly about Miriam Gardiner and Cleo Anderson. Yes, he was free with his money, as if he knew there would be more where that had come from.
"What sort of questions did he ask?" Tobias enquired innocently.
"About her general reputation," the witness replied. "Was she honest, sober, that kind of thing."
"And chaste?" Tobias asked.
"Yes—that, too."
"Did you not think that impertinent of the coachman?"
"Yes, I did. When I caught him at it I told him in no uncertain terms that Mrs. Gardiner was as good a woman as he’d be likely to find in all Hampstead—and a damn sight too good for the likes of him!" He glanced at the judge. "Beggin’ yer pardon, me lud."
"Did he explain why he asked such questions?"
"Never saw him again," the man said with satisfaction. He glanced up at the dock and gave both women a deliberate smile. Miriam attempted to return it, but it was a ghost on her ashen face. Cleo nodded to him very slightly, merely the acknowledgment courtesy demanded. It was a small gesture, but kindly meant.
"You would be glad to see Mrs. Gardiner happily married again, after losing her first husband so young?" Tobias observed conversationally.
"I was glad, and that’s the truth! So were everyone else as knew ’er."
"Did you know the late Mr. Gardiner well?"
"Knew ’im in passing, like. A very decent sort o’ gent."
"Indeed. But quite a lot older than his wife—his widow?"
The man’s face darkened. "What are you tryin’ ter say?"
Tobias shrugged. "What did James Treadwell try to say?"
"Nothing!" Now the man was plainly angry.
"You did not like him?" Tobias pressed.
"I did not!"
"No love for blackmailers?"
"No I ’aven’t! Nor ’as any man fit ter walk an’ breathe God’s good air. Filth, they are."
Tobias nodded. "A feeling shared by many." He glanced up at the dock, then back to the witness box.
Rathbone knew perfectly well what he was doing, but he was helpless to stop him.
"Of course." Tobias smiled deprecatingly. "Treadwell may have been asking his questions about Mrs. Gardiner in loyal interest of his employer, Mr. Stourbridge, in order to prevent him from making an unfortunate marriage. Did that possibility occur to you? It may not have been for purposes of blackmail at all."
Rathbone stood up at last. "My lord, the witness is not in a position to know why Treadwell asked questions, and his opinion is surely irrelevant. Unless Mr. Tobias is implying he may have had some part in Treadwell’s death?"
There was a sharp stir in the courtroom, and one of the jurors jerked up his head.
"Quite," the judge agreed. "Mr. Tobias, do not imperil your case by wandering too far afield. I am sure your point has already been taken. James Treadwell asked questions in the neighborhood regarding Mrs. Gardiner’s character and reputation. Is that all you wish us to know?"
"For the moment, my lord." Tobias thanked his witness and turned invitingly to Rathbone.
Again there was nothing for him to ask. The witness had already made it plain he admired Miriam and was partisan in her favor. As far as he was concerned, Treadwell had met with a fate he deserved. It would not help either Miriam or Cleo to hear him say so again.
"I have nothing to ask this witness," Rathbone said.
Tobias proceeded to call the Stourbridges’ servants to tell their account of the day of the party and Miriam’s still-unexplained departure with Treadwell. The parlormaid had seen it all and told of it simply and obviously with great unhappiness.
At last Rathbone had something to ask.
"Miss Pembroke," he said with a slight smile, moving into the center of the floor and looking up at her where she stood high in the witness stand. "You have told very clearly what you saw. You must have had a view of Mrs. Gardiner with no one blocking your way."
"Yes sir, I did."
"You said she seemed about to faint, as if she had suffered a great shock, and then after she had recovered herself she turned and ran, even fled, from the garden towards the stables. Is that correct?"
"Yes sir."
The judge frowned.
Rathbone hurried on before he should be cautioned to come to the point.
"Did anyone speak to her, pass her anything?"
"You mean a glass, sir? I didn’t see no one."
"No, I meant rather more like a message, something to account for her shock and, from what you describe, even terror."
"No sir, no one came that close to her. And I don’t think she had a glass."
"You are not certain about the glass, but you are sure no one spoke to her or passed her anything?"
"Yes, I am."
"Have you any idea what caused her to run away?"
Tobias rose.
"No," the judge said to him bluntly. "Miss Pembroke is an observant girl. She may very well know what happened. It has been my experience that servants frequently know a good deal more than some of us would believe, or wish to believe." He turned to the witness stand. "Do you know what caused Mrs. Gardiner’s flight, Miss Pembroke? If you do, this is the appropriate time and place to say so, whether it was a confidence or not."
"No sir, I don’t know, an’ that’s the truth. But I never seen anyone look as dreadful as she did that day. She looked like she’d seen the living dead, she did."
"Do you know where Treadwell was during the party?" Rathbone asked.
"In the stables, sir, same as always."
"So Mrs. Gardiner went to him—he did not come to her?"
"Must be."
"Thank you. That is all I have to ask you."
"But not all I have!" Tobias cut in quickly, striding forward from his table. "You were on the lawn mixing with the guests in your capacity as parlormaid, were you not?"
"Yes sir. I were carrying a tray of lemonade. Parkin had the champagne."
"Is it easy to carry a tray loaded with glasses?"
"It’s all right, when you’re used to it. Gets heavy."
"And you offered them to those guests whose glasses were empty?"
"Yes sir."
"So you were not watching Mrs. Gardiner all the time?"
"No sir."
"Naturally. Could she have received some message, either in words or on paper, that you were unaware of?"
"I suppose she could."
"Is it possible, Miss Pembroke, that this was the best time for her to catch Treadwell alone, and with no duties or responsibilities which would prevent him from driving her from Cleveland Square? Is it possible, Miss Pembroke, that she knew the working of the household sufficiently well that she was aware she would find Treadwell in the mews, with the carriage available, and had planned in advance to meet him there and drive to a lonely place where she imagined they could do as they pleased together, unobserved, and where she intended—with the help of her foster mother—to get rid, once and for all, of the man who was blackmailing them both?"
Rathbone shot to his feet, but the protest died on his lips.
Tobias shrugged. "I only ask if it’s possible," he said reasonably. "Miss Pembroke is an observant young woman. She may know."
"I don’t!" she protested. "I don’t know what happened, I swear!"
"Your loquacity seems to have ended in confusion," the judge said acidly to Tobias. He turned to the jury. "You will note that the question has gone unanswered, and draw your own conclusions. Sir Oliver, have you anything to add?"
Oliver had not.
Tobias was unstoppable. His rich voice seemed to fill the court, and there was hardly an eye which was not upon him. He called the lady’s maid who had seen Miriam in Verona Stourbridge’s room, and drew from her a highly damaging account of Miriam’s trying on the jewelry and apparently having read the diar
y.
"Do you know what is in the diary?" Tobias asked.
The girl’s eyes widened in horror. "No sir, I do not." Her tone carried bitter resentment that he should suggest such a thing.
"Of course not," he agreed smoothly. "One does not read another person’s private writings. I wondered perhaps if Mrs. Stourbridge had confided in you. Ladies can become extremely close to their maids."
She was considerably mollified. "Well ... well, I know she put in her feelings about things. She used to go back and read again some from years ago, when she was in Egypt. She did that just the day before she ... died ... poor lady." She looked tearful, and Tobias gave her a moment or two to compose herself again—and to allow the jury to gather the full import of what had been said—before he continued.
He then went on to elicit a picture of Miriam as gentle, charming, biddable, struggling to fit into a household with a great deal higher social status than she was accustomed to, and unquestionably a great deal more money. It was a portrait quite innocent and touching, until finally he turned to the jury.
"A lovely woman striving to better herself?" he said with a smile. "For the sake of the man she loves—and met by chance out walking on Hampstead Heath." His face darkened, his arms relaxed until his shoulders were almost slumped. "Or a clever, greedy woman blessed with a pretty face, ensnaring a younger man, unworldly-wise, and doing everything she could, suppressing her own temper and will, to charm him into a marriage which would give her, and her foster mother, a life of wealth they could never have attained in their own station?"
He barely paused for breath or to give Rathbone the chance to object. "An innocent woman caught in a dreadful web of circumstances? Or a conniving woman overtaken by an equally cold-blooded and greedy coachman, who saw his chance to profit from her coming fortune but had fatally miscalculated her ruthlessness—and thus met not with payment for his silence as to her past, perhaps their past relationship with each other! Perhaps he was even the means of their meeting—far other than by chance? Instead, he met with violent death in the darkness under the trees of Hampstead Heath."
Rathbone raised his voice, cutting across him scathingly and without reference to the judge.
"Treadwell certainly seems to have been a villain, but neither you nor I have proved him a fool! Why in heaven’s name would he threaten to expose Miriam Gardiner’s past—which neither you nor I have found lacking in virtue of any kind— before she had married into the Stourbridge family?" He spread his hands as if in bewilderment. "She had no money to pay him anything. Surely he would have waited until after the wedding—indeed, done everything in his power to make sure it took place?" He became sarcastic. "If, as you suggest, he even helped engineer the meeting between Mr. Stourbridge and Mrs. Gardiner, then it strains the bonds of credibility that he would sabotage his own work just as it was about to come to fruition."
His point was valid, but it did not carry the emotional weight of Tobias’s accusation. The damage had been done. The jury’s minds were filled with the image of a scheming and duplicitous woman manipulating a discarded lover into a position where she could strike him over the head and leave his murdered body on the Heath.
"Was it chance, or was it Treadwell’s dying attempt to implicate his murderers that he used the last of his strength to crawl to the footpath outside Cleo Anderson’s door?" Tobias demanded, his voice ringing with outrage and pity. "Gentlemen, I leave it to you!"
The court adjourned with Miriam and Cleo all but convicted already.
Rathbone paced the floor of his rooms, resisting the temptation to call Monk and see if he had made any progress. So many times they had faced together cases that seemed impossible. He could list them all in his mind. But in this one he had no weapons at all, and he did not even know what he believed himself. He still was not prepared to accept that either Cleo or Miriam was guilty, let alone both. But there was very little else that made sense—except Lucius or Harry Stourbridge. And if that were so, no wonder Miriam looked crushed beyond imagining any solution, or that even Rathbone could convince the court of the truth.
It all depended on Monk’s finding something—if he even knew where to look—and collecting enough evidence to prove it, and on Rathbone’s being able to prolong the case another three days at the very outside. Two days seemed more likely.
He spent the evening thinking of tactics to give Monk more time, every trick of human nature or legal expertise. It was all profoundly unpromising.
Tobias called Harry Stourbridge as his first witness of the morning. He treated him with great deference and sympathy, not only for the loss of his wife but for the disillusion he had suffered in Miriam.
Many seats were empty in the court. The case had lost much of its interest for the public. They believed they knew the answer. It was common garden greed, a pretty woman ambitious to improve herself by the age-old means of marrying well. It was no longer scandalous, simply sordid. It was a beautiful day, the sun was shining, and there were better things to do than sit inside listening to what could be accurately predicted.
Harry Stourbridge looked ten years older than the age Rathbone knew him to be. He was a man walking in a nightmare to which he could see no end.
"I am sorry to force you to endure this," Tobias said gently. "I will keep it as brief as possible, and I am sure Sir Oliver will do the same. Please do not allow loyalty or compassion to direct your answers. This is a time and place when nothing but the truth will serve."
Stourbridge said nothing. He stood like an officer in front of a court-martial, standing stiffly to attention, facing forward, head high.
"We have already heard sufficient about the croquet party from which Mrs. Gardiner fled. I shall not trouble you to repeat it. I turn your attention instead to the tragic death of Mrs. Stourbridge. I need to ask you something about the relationship between your wife and Mrs. Gardiner. Believe me, I would not do it if there were any way in which I could avoid it."
Still, Stourbridge made no reply.
It seemed to unnerve Tobias very slightly. Rathbone saw him shift his weight a little and straighten his jacket.
"How did Mrs. Stourbridge regard Mrs. Gardiner when your son first brought her to Cleveland Square?"
"She thought her a very pleasant young woman."
"And when your son informed you of his intention to marry her?"
"We were both happy that he had found a woman whom he loved and whom we believed to return his feelings wholeheartedly."
Tobias pursed his lips. "You did not regret the fact that she was markedly older than himself and from a somewhat different social background? How did you imagine she would be regarded by your friends? How would she in time manage to be lady of your very considerable properties in Yorkshire? Did those things not concern your wife?"
"Of course," Stourbridge admitted. "But when we had known Mrs. Gardiner for a few weeks we were of the opinion that she would manage very well. She has a natural grace which would carry her through. And she and Lucius so obviously loved each other that that gave us much happiness."
"And the question of grandchildren, an heir to the house and the lands which are, I believe entailed. Without an heir, they pass laterally to your brother and to his heirs, is that not so?"
"It is." He took a deep breath, hands still by his sides as if he were on parade. "Any marriage may fail to provide an heir. One may only hope. I do not believe in governing the choice of wife for my son. I would rather he were happy than produced a dozen children with a woman he could not love and share his heart with as well as his bed."
"And did Mrs. Stourbridge feel the same?" Tobias asked. "Many women care intensely about grandchildren. It is a deep need..." He left it hanging in the air, unfinished, for the jury to conclude for themselves.
"I do not believe my wife felt that way," Stourbridge replied wretchedly. Rathbone gained the impression there was far more unsaid behind his words, but he was a private man, loathing this much exposure of his life. He would add n
othing he was not forced to.
Step by step, Tobias took him through Miriam’s visits to Cleveland Square, her demeanor on each of them, her charm and her eagerness to learn. It was obvious to all that Harry Stourbridge had liked her without shadow of equivocation. He was shattered by her betrayal, not only for his son but for himself. He seemed still unable to grasp it.
Throughout Harry Stourbridge’s evidence, Rathbone glanced every now and again up at the dock, and saw the pain in Miriam’s face. She was a person enduring torture from which there was no escape. She had to sit still and abide it in silence.
Never once did he catch a member of the jury looking at either Miriam or Cleo. They were completely absorbed in Stourbridge’s ordeal. As he studied them he saw in each both pity and respect. Once or twice there was even a sense of identification, as if they could put themselves in his place and would have acted as he had, felt as he had. Rathbone wondered in passing if any of them were widowers themselves, or had sons who had fallen in love or married less than fortunately. He could not choose jurors. They had to be householders of a certain wealth and standing, and of course men. It had never been possible he could have had people who would identify with Miriam or Cleo. So much for a jury of one’s peers.
In the afternoon, Tobias quietly and with dignity declined to call Lucius Stourbridge to the stand. It was an ordeal he did not need to inflict upon a young man already wounded almost beyond bearing.
The jury nodded in respect. They would not have forgiven it of him if he had. Rathbone would have done the same, and for the same reasons.
Tobias called the last witness, Aiden Campbell. His evidence was given quietly, with restraint and candor.
"Yes, she had great charm," he said sadly. "I believe everyone in the household liked her."
"Including your sister, Mrs. Stourbridge?"
The question remained unanswered.
Campbell looked very pale. His skin was bleached of color, and there were shadows like bruises under his eyes. He stood straight in the witness stand, but he was shaking very slightly, and every now and again he had to stop and clear his throat. It was apparent to everyone in the courtroom that he was a man laboring under profound emotion and close to losing control of himself.
