“Were you already involved with Mr. Patterson then?” Tom Armour asked Brigitte, but for a long moment she didn't answer. “Should I repeat the question? May I remind you that you're under oath?”
“Yes, I was,” she said a little less brashly.
“When exactly did that begin?” Marielle held her breath, she was curious now, as they waited for the answer.
“Two months after they were married. In February.” And Marielle thought she knew when. It was the first business trip he had taken without her. He hadn't waited long. And it was then that he had become particularly chilly. She had thought for a while that it was his disappointment because she wasn't pregnant, but he was already under Brigitte's spell, and apparently he had stayed there.
“Weren't you very angry that he was married to her, and not to you?”
“No, I …” She looked vaguely discomfited by his questions. “I knew he wanted a child, and he …Malcolm …Mr. Patterson …has always been very generous with me.” So they'd heard. Tom didn't press her about why he wanted Marielle's baby and not Brigitte's. He asked her instead if Malcolm had promised to marry her if he divorced Marielle, and she hedged by saying that they had never discussed it, which Tom thought was unlikely. It was obvious that something had been said, as she glanced at Malcolm.
She explained that they traveled everywhere together, particularly to Germany, where Mr. Patterson did a lot of business. She said it did not embarrass her to be his mistress. But she said it with a defiant air, and Tom Armour was not completely sure that he believed her.
She said that she was very fond of the child, and Malcolm adored him, that it had almost killed him when the boy was kidnapped. She also said that she hardly ever saw Marielle with the child. “She was always in bed with a headache.” She had the same unpleasant, disrespectful tone that the servants had used when talking about Marielle. Not one of them, except Haverford, had spoken of her kindly.
Brigitte left the stand with a great show of legs and a good swing of her behind as she walked past Malcolm, and he looked away and pretended not to notice. And after that, for almost a week, the proceedings got back to normal. More forensic experts were called, more detectives. No fingerprints had been found at the scene, no evidence that could be tied to Charles, only the pajamas and the toy found at his house, and Tom Armour maintained that they could easily have been planted. No one at the Delauney home had seen the boy, and Charles's alibi for the night of the kidnapping was airtight. It was difficult to pin on him, and finally, at the end of the fourth week of the trial, he took the stand, and as he walked to the witness box, there was not a sound in the courtroom.
Charles Delauney looked gaunt and serious as he solemnly took the oath and promised to tell the truth, glanced nervously at the jury. Tom Armour had already walked him through everything, and he had tried to warn him of every possible pitfall.
Tom asked him where he had been for the past eighteen years, while he lived in Europe. He explained that he had lived in France for years, and for the past several years Spain, while he fought against Franco.
“Did you serve in the Great War too, Mr. Delauney?” Tom asked and Charles said he had. He looked very handsome and very pale and suddenly much older than he had when Marielle had seen him in Saint Patrick's. It had been a hellish four months for him, ever since he'd been arrested. And his attorney had just told him his father was fading fast, to add to his problems. “How old were you when you volunteered?”
“I was fifteen.”
Tom nodded approvingly. “And were you wounded in the service of your country?”
“Yes, at Saint-Mihiel. And after that, I came back here to go to school for three years. But I went back to Europe in 1921. I went to Oxford, and Italy for a while, and then I moved to Paris.”
“Is that where you met your wife, the current Mrs. Patterson?”
“That's right.” He glanced at her and in spite of himself he smiled, and she looked so worried. She wasn't sure what she wanted to happen anymore. She wanted justice for him, and her little boy, and she wasn't sure which, if either of them, would get it. “I met her in 1926. She was eighteen, and we were married at the end of that summer.”
“Did you love her, Mr. Delauney?” Tom looked at him as though it were an important question. “Did you love your wife?”
“Yes … I loved her very much …she was so young …she was wonderful …like a bright, beautiful spirit. Everything was new and exciting to her …” His mind drifted for a moment and then he looked at Tom apologetically and spoke very softly. “We were very happy.”
“And you had a baby?”
Charles nodded. “A little boy …Andre …we'd been married for almost a year when he was born. He was very special.” All children were, Marielle thought to herself …Teddy was too …they all were.
“Would you say you were extremely close to the child?”
“Yes.”
“Unusually so?”
“Perhaps. The three of us were together all the time. We traveled quite a bit, and I was writing, and at home. Marielle was wonderful with him. She took care of him entirely herself.”
“With no governess?” Tom interrupted him.
“She didn't want anyone to help her.” Marielle smiled at the memory. Life was so much simpler then, without people like Miss Griffin.
“So the three of you were very close. Extremely so?”
“I suppose you could say so.”
“Would that have made the shock of losing him even more traumatic, do you think?”
“I suppose it must have been. And we were both so young … we just fell apart. I blamed her and she blamed me …and none of it made any difference.”
“She blamed you?”
“Not really … I meant about the baby …but the truth was, Marielle blamed herself and I was so hard on her,” his voice caught, filled with guilt, even now, and he looked her in the eye across the courtroom. “I was wrong. I knew that afterward. But by then, I couldn't reach her …she wouldn't see me. And the doctors thought …they thought it would upset her if I came to visit her at the clinic.”
Tom wanted to take the bull by the horns so there were no secrets from the jury. “Did you hit her the night of your son's death, Mr. Delauney?” He spoke in terrible tones and Charles looked miserable as he nodded.
“I did. I was crazy that night … I had just seen him …and I couldn't believe she had let that happen to him … I wanted to break something …to die … I slapped her hard …” The memory and the sound of it would haunt him forever.
“Did she lose the child as a result of that?”
“No,” he shook his head with an anguished look at her. “The doctor said the baby was already dead when she arrived at the hospital. The exposure to the icy water had killed the fetus. But they hadn't told her.” Marielle gulped on a sob as she heard the words, she hadn't even known the baby was dead, all she had known was that she had lost it that night, in the midst of all the horror.
“Did you hold her responsible for losing both children then?” Tom Armour went on relentlessly with his client, and Bea Ritter winced as she listened to him, but she knew it all had to be exposed if they were going to save him. Like a terrible wound that had to be excised and cleaned if they were going to save the patient.
“Yes,” Charles Delauney whispered. “Yes …and I was wrong. It wasn't her fault. But it was too late by the time I knew that.”
“Would you have killed her that night, if you could have?”
“No!” Charles looked horrified. “I never wanted to hurt her. I was just so hurt myself.”
“Did you have to be pulled away from her, when you were slapping her, or did you stop of your own doing?”
“I stopped myself, and then I left her there, and went out and got drunk all night. And when I came back in the morning to tell her how sorry I was, she was in surgery. She had lost the baby. And she never recovered after that. I never really saw her, or talked to her, or spoke to her sens
ibly.” Tears were sliding down his cheeks and Marielle's as he testified.
“Did you attend your son's funeral?”
“Yes.”
“Did your wife?”
He shook his head, unable to speak for a moment. “No. She was too ill. She was still in the hospital in Geneva.” Which was different from the Clinique Verbeuf in Villars everyone knew by now.
“Have you ever wanted other children, sir?” Tom asked him, and Charles shook his head very quickly.,
“No. I have no desire for any more children. That's one of the reasons why I've never remarried. I feel that I had my son, and he was taken away from us. I have spent my life in other pursuits, writing about things that seemed important to me, fighting for causes that I believed in, because I have less to lose than some men, if I'm killed no one will mourn me. I have led my life freely. With a wife and children, I couldn't do that.”
“Do you resent people for their families?”
“No,” Charles said calmly. “I never have. I have made my choices and lived by them.”
“Have you ever wanted to return to your wife?”
“Yes,” he admitted quietly. “Before she left the hospital, I asked her to come back to me, but she wouldn't. She said she would always feel responsible for what had happened, and she didn't believe that I no longer blamed her.”
“Were you in love with her at the time, Mr. Delauney?”
“Yes, I was.” He wasn't ashamed to say it.
“Was she still in love with you, in your opinion?”
“I believe so.”
“Are you still in love with her today?”
“Yes, I am,” he said quietly. “Perhaps I always will be. But I understand that our lives have gone in different directions. I don't even think we would suit each other anymore.” He smiled gently at her from across the courtroom. “She doesn't strike me as the kind of woman who would be happy camping on a mountainside, while her husband fights in the trenches.” There was a common smile around the courtroom. Few women were aching to do that, save one, who would have followed him in a moment to any mountainside of his choosing.
“How long had it been since you'd seen her when you ran into her in Saint Patrick's Cathedral last December?”
“Almost seven years.”
“And were you deeply moved to see her?”
“Very much so. It was the anniversary of our son's death, and it meant a great deal to me to see her.”
“Was she happy to see you, sir?”
“I believe so.”
“Did she lead you to believe that she would be willing to see you again?”
“No,” he shook his head firmly. “She said that she couldn't because of her husband.” It was in sharp contrast to Malcolm's testimony about his love nest with Brigitte. “She was very firm about it in fact.”
“And were you angry?”
“No, I was sorry. All I could think of then was the past. And what we had had, and I wanted to see her.”
“Did she tell you about her son?”
“No, she didn't, and I was shocked when I saw him the next day. I was terribly hung over from the night before, and still pretty drunk, and I was angry at her for not telling me about him the day before. He was a very nice-looking little boy. And I said a lot of very stupid things about her not deserving him. I think I was talking more about myself in my drunken haze, but in any case, I behaved very badly.”
“Did you threaten her?”
“Probably,” he said honestly.
“Did you mean it?”
“No.”
“Did you call her and repeat the threats, or had you called her before?”
“No.”
“Have you ever threatened anyone with physical harm and acted on it, ever, at any time in your life?”
“Never.”
“And was this time any different? Did you act on those threats, Mr. Delauney?” Tom's voice was getting louder and stronger in the courtroom.
“No, I did not act on those threats. I would never have hurt her or the boy.”
“Did you take Theodore Whitman Patterson, the Patterson's son, from his home on the night of December eleventh of last year, or did you hire or conspire with anyone to do so?”
“I did not, sir.”
“Do you know where the boy is?”
“No …I'm sorry, I do not … I wish I did …”
“Were his pajamas and a toy of his found in your home a week later?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any idea how they got there?”
“None whatsoever.”
“How do you think they got there, Mr. Delauney?”
“I don't know. I thought they must have been planted.”
“Why do you think someone would do that?”
“So that I pay for the crime that they did, that's the only reason I can think of.”
“Do you have any idea who that might be?”
“No.”
“Do you have any enemies at all, anyone who has sworn to do you harm?”
“No …maybe only General Franco …” There was a communal smile.
“Are you a Communist, Mr. Delauney?”
“No,” he smiled, “I'm a Republican, or I used to be. Actually, I suppose I'm more of a free spirit.”
“Do you belong to the Communist party?”
“I do not.”
“Do you hold a grudge against Mrs. Delauney …Mrs. Patterson now, for leaving you? Or against Mr. Patterson for being her husband?”
Charles looked at him man-to-man across the courtroom and he wanted to spit on him, but he controlled himself as he addressed the court. “From what I've heard in this courtroom, he doesn't deserve her. But I have no grudge against him, or against Marielle. She has suffered enough in this life. She deserves better than either of us, and she deserves to have her child back.” There were tears in her eyes as she listened to him. He was a decent man, he always had been. She didn't believe now, as she heard his words, that he could have taken Teddy. And Tom Armour was praying that the jury felt the same way she did.
“Are you guilty of the crime of which you're accused, Mr. Delauney? Think carefully, and remember that you are under oath. Are you in any way involved in the kidnapping of the child in question?”
Charles looked at him solemnly, and shook his head slowly. “I swear that I had nothing to do with it.”
Tom Armour turned to the prosecution then. “Your witness, Mr. Palmer.”
The prosecution attempted to make mincemeat of him, to make him say he had lied, to make him look even worse for hitting Marielle after their child's death. But it was all out in the open now, there were no dark secrets anymore, and he stuck rigidly to his story. He continued to say that he had nothing to do with the kidnapping, and no idea how the pajamas had turned up in his basement. There had been no forensic evidence of the child there at all, no skin, no nails, no hair, no other clothing, no sign that he had been anywhere near Charles Delauney.
His testimony took an exhausting two days, and at the end of it, the mystery still wasn't solved, but Charles had remained adamant till the end. He wasn't guilty. The only real question was had he convinced the jury?
Malcolm left the courtroom separately that day, and Marielle stopped at church on the way home. She wanted to pray for a merciful outcome to the trial, whatever that would be, and for her little boy. Easter had come and gone, and other children had hunted Easter eggs and played with little chicks, and at home Teddy's nursery was still empty. It tore at her heart to go there, and yet she found some reason to every day, to look for something, to put something away, to fold some small item of clothing. Miss Griffin had long gone, still staying with her sister in New Jersey, and the housekeeper had told Marielle recently that Miss Griffin was taking a job in Palm Beach soon, with a new baby. How lucky for her, Marielle thought …how lucky to have a baby to go on to. But there were no new babies for her, and all she wanted was little Teddy. Her heart ached when she thought of
the silky hair, the firm little cheek, the sweet lips kissing her, and he was gone now …vanished …probably forever. She was trying to accept that, day by day, but thinking of him even made Malcolm's betrayal less important.
She knelt at the altar of Saint Vincent Ferrer church for a long time, and finally John Taylor came and knelt beside her. He had been in court with her every day, and yet there was so little he could do, so little they had found. There had been nothing new in the case since they'd found the pajamas and teddy bear at Charles Delauney's.
The closing arguments in the case were the next day, and he felt totally helpless. He thought Delauney had done well on the stand for the last two days, it even made him think twice, but Taylor still believed him guilty.
He put a gentle hand on Marielle's arm. She had gotten thinner lately and she looked so pale, but she seldom had her appalling headaches. “Ready to go home?” She sighed and then nodded. Sometimes she wanted to stay here, on her knees forever, begging Him to bring Teddy home. She had been asking for months now.
She was quiet on the way home. The press were still thronging her door, but Taylor was adept at dodging them and getting her in through the kitchen. It was odd to think that the trial would soon be over. The police were going to stay on with them for a while, and the FBI was certainly going to check in from time to time, but there had been no leads, no calls, not even the crazies calling at midnight. There was no reason to stay there anymore. It was over. All that remained now was to see what the jury did with Charles Delauney. He wondered if that was troubling her now too. He knew she still cared about him, probably more than she admitted.
“Do you want to be alone?” he asked quietly when they got home, and she looked up at him gratefully and nodded. In the end, she would be left with no one. She and Malcolm were through, Teddy was gone …and if they executed Charles there would be no one left in her world who had ever loved her. It took her breath away when she thought about it sometimes, and Taylor knew she was having a hard time. He gently touched her arm and then her cheek. “Hang in there …it's not as bad as it feels sometimes.” But they both knew this was about as bad as it got. He watched her walk slowly up the stairs, her head down, and suddenly he began to worry. What if she did the kind of crazy stuff she had done years before? He wondered if he should stay, or follow her upstairs, but one of the cops told him that Malcolm was upstairs, so Taylor just told him to keep an eye on her, and he went back to his office.
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