by Anne Perry
“You have not said who is to defend him,” he replied with equal gravity.
“I don’t know. He has no money.”
“Naturally. If he had he would be suspect for that alone.” He smiled with a harsh twist. “I do occasionally take cases without payment, Miss Latterly, in the public good.” His smile broadened. “And recoup by charging exorbitantly next time I am employed by someone who can afford it. I will inquire into it and do what I can, give you my word.”
“I am very obliged to you,” she said, smiling in return. “Now would you be kind enough to tell me what I owe you for your counsel?”
“We agreed upon half a guinea, Miss Latterly.”
She opened her reticule and produced a gold half guinea, the last she had left, and offered it to him.
He took it with courteous thanks and slid it into his pocket.
He rose, pulled her chair out for her, and she left the coaching inn with an intense feeling of satisfaction quite unwarranted by the circumstances, and sailed out into the street for him to hail her a hansom and direct it back to Queen Anne Street.
The trial of Percival Garrod commenced in mid-January 1857, and since Beatrice Moidore was still suffering occasional moods of deep distress and anxiety, Hester was not yet released from caring for her. She complied with this arrangement eagerly, because she had not yet found other means of earning her living, but more importantly because it meant she could remain in the house at Queen Anne Street and observe the Moidore family. Not that she was aware of having learned anything helpful, but she never lost hope.
The whole family attended the trial at the Old Bailey. Basil had wished the women to remain at home and give their evidence in writing, but Araminta refused to consider obedience to such an instruction, and on the rare occasions when she and Basil clashed, it was she who prevailed. Beatrice did not confront him on the issue; she simply dressed in quiet, unadorned black, heavily veiled, and gave Robert instructions to fetch her carriage. Hester offered to go with her as a matter of service, and was delighted when the offer was accepted.
Fenella Sandeman laughed at the very idea that she should forgo such a marvelously dramatic occasion, and swept out of the room, a little high on alcohol, wearing a long black silk kerchief and flinging it in the air with one white arm, delicately mittened in black lace.
Basil swore, but it was to no avail whatever. If she even heard him, it passed over her head harmlessly.
Romola refused to be the only one left at home, and no one bothered to argue with her.
The courtroom was crammed with spectators, and since this time Hester was not required to give any evidence, she was able to sit in the public gallery throughout.
The prosecution was conducted by a Mr. F. J. O’Hare, a flamboyant gentleman who had made his name in a few sensational cases—and many less publicized ones which had earned him a great deal of money. He was well respected by his professional peers and adored by the public, who were entertained and impressed by his quiet, intense manner and sudden explosions into drama. He was of average height but stocky build, short neck and fine silver hair, heavily waved. Had he permitted it to be longer it would have been a leonine mane, but he apparently preferred to appear sleek. He had a musical lilt to his voice which Hester could not place, and the slightest of lisps.
Percival was defended by Oliver Rathbone, and as soon as she saw him Hester felt a wild, singing hope inside her like a bird rising on the wind. It was not only that justice might be done after all, but that Rathbone had been prepared to fight, simply for the cause, not for its reward.
The first witness called was the upstairs maid, Annie, who had found Octavia Haslett’s body. She looked very sober, dressed in her best off-duty blue stuff dress and a bonnet that hid her hair and made her look curiously younger, both aggressive and vulnerable at the same time.
Percival stood in the dock, upright and staring in front of him. He might lack humility, compassion or honor, but he was not without courage. He looked smaller than Hester remembered him, narrower across the shoulders and not as tall. But then he was motionless; the swagger that was part of him could not be used, nor the vitality. He was helpless to fight back. It was all in Rathbone’s hands now.
The doctor was called next, and gave his evidence briefly. Octavia Haslett had been stabbed to death during the night, with not more than two blows to the lower chest, beneath the ribs.
The third witness was William Monk, and his evidence lasted the rest of the morning and all the afternoon. He was abrasive, sarcastic, and punctiliously accurate, refusing to draw even the most obvious conclusions from anything.
F. J. O’Hare was patient to begin with and scrupulously polite, waiting his chance to score a deciding thrust. It did not come until close to the end, when he was passed a note by his junior, apparently reminding him of the Grey case.
“It would seem to me, Mr. Monk—it is Mr. now, not Inspector, is that so?” His lisp was very slight indeed.
“It is so,” Monk conceded without a flicker of expression.
“It would seem to me, Mr. Monk, that from your testimony you do not consider Percival Garrod to be guilty.”
“Is that a question, Mr. O’Hare?”
“It is, Mr. Monk, indeed it is!”
“I do not consider it to be proved by the evidence to hand so far,” Monk replied. “That is not the same thing.”
“Is it materially different, Mr. Monk? Correct me if I am in error, but were you not sincerely unwilling to convict the offender in your last case as well? One Menard Grey, as I recall!”
“No,” Monk instantly contradicted. “I was perfectly willing to convict him—in fact, I was eager to. I was unwilling to see him hanged.”
“Oh, yes—mitigating circumstances,” O’Hare agreed. “But you could find none in the case of Percival Garrod murdering his master’s daughter—it would strain even your ingenuity, I imagine? So you maintain the proof of the murder weapon and the bloodstained garment of the victim hidden in his room, which you have told us you discovered, is not enough to satisfy you? What do you require, Mr. Monk, an eyewitness?”
“Only if I considered their veracity beyond question,” Monk replied wolfishly and without humor. “I would prefer some evidence that made sense.”
“For example, Mr. Monk?” O’Hare invited. He glanced at Rathbone to see if he would object. The judge frowned and waited also. Rathbone smiled benignly back and said nothing.
“A motive for Percival to have kept such—” Monk hesitated and avoided the word damning, catching O’Hare’s eye and knowing a sudden victory, brief and pointless. “Such a useless and damaging piece of material,” he said instead, “which he could so easily have destroyed, and a knife which he could simply have wiped and returned to the cook’s rack.”
“Perhaps he wished to incriminate someone else?” O’Hare raised his voice with a life of something close to humor, as if the idea were obvious.
“Then he was singularly unsuccessful,” Monk replied. “And he had the opportunity. He should have gone upstairs and put it where he wished as soon as he knew the cook had missed the knife.”
“Perhaps he intended to, but did not have the chance? What an agony of impotence for him. Can you imagine it?” O’Hare turned to the jury and raised his hands, palms upward. “What a rich irony! It was a man hoist with his own petard! And who would so richly deserve it?”
This time Rathbone rose and objected.
“My lord, Mr. O’Hare is assuming something which has yet to be proved. Even with all his well-vaunted gifts of persuasion, he has not so far shown us anything to indicate who put those objects in Percival’s room. He is arguing his conclusion from his premise, and his premise from his conclusion!”
“You will have to do better, Mr. O’Hare,” the judge cautioned.
“Oh, I will, my lord,” O’Hare promised. “You may be assured, I will!”
The second day O’Hare began with the physical evidence so dramatically discovered. He ca
lled Mrs. Boden, who took the stand looking homely and flustered, very much out of her element. She was used to being able to exercise her judgment and her prodigious physical skills. Her art spoke for her. Now she was faced with standing motionless, every exchange to be verbal, and she was ill at ease.
When it was shown her, she looked at the knife with revulsion, but agreed that it was hers, from her kitchen. She recognized various nicks and scratches on the handle, and an irregularity in the blade. She knew the tools of her art. However she became severely rattled when Rathbone pressed her closely about exactly when she had last used it. He took her through the meals of each day, asking her which knives she had used in the preparation, and finally she became so confused he must have realized he was alienating the entire courtroom by pressing her over something for which no one else could see a purpose.
O’Hare rose, smiling and smooth, to call the ladies’ maid Mary to testify that the bloodstained peignoir was indeed Octavia’s. She looked very pale, her usually rich olive complexion without a shred of its blushing cheeks, her voice uncharacteristically subdued. But she swore it was her mistress’s. She had seen her wear it often enough, and ironed its satin and smoothed out its lace.
Rathbone did not bother her. There was nothing to contend.
Next O’Hare called the butler. Phillips looked positively cadaverous as he stepped into the witness box. His balding head shone in the light through his thin hair, his eyebrows appeared more ferocious than ever, but his expression was one of dignified wretchedness, a soldier on parade before an unruly mob and robbed of the weapons to defend himself.
O’Hare was far too practiced to insult him by discourtesy or condescension. After establishing Phillips’ position and his considerable credentials, he asked him about his seniority over the other servants in the house. This also established, for the jury and the crowd, he proceeded to draw him a highly unfavorable picture of Percival as a man, without ever impugning his abilities as a servant. Never once did he force Phillips into appearing malicious or negligent in his own duty. It was a masterly performance. There was almost nothing Rathbone could do except ask Phillips if he had had the slightest idea that this objectionable and arrogant young man had raised his eyes as far as his master’s daughter. To which Phillips replied with a horrified denial. But then no one would have expected him to admit such a thought—not now.
The only other servant O’Hare called was Rose.
She was dressed most becomingly. Black suited her, with her fair complexion and almost luminous blue eyes. The situation impressed her, but she was not overwhelmed, and her voice was steady and strong, crowded with emotion. With very little prompting she told O’Hare, who was oozing solicitude, how Percival had at first been friendly towards her, openly admiring but perfectly proper in his manner. Then gradually he had given her to believe his affections were engaged, and finally had made it quite plain that he desired to marry her.
All this she recounted with a modest manner and gentle tone. Then her chin hardened and she stood very rigid in the box; her voice darkened, thickening with emotion, and she told O’Hare, never looking at the jury or the spectators, how Percival’s attentions had ceased and he had more and more frequently mentioned Miss Octavia, and how she had complimented him, sent for him for the most trivial duties as if she desired his company, how she had dressed more alluringly recently, and often remarked on his own dignity and appearance.
“Was this perhaps to make you jealous, Miss Watkins?” O’Hare asked innocently.
She remembered her decorum, lowered her eyes and answered meekly, the venom disappearing from her and injury returning.
“Jealous, sir? How could I be jealous of a lady like Miss Octavia?” she said demurely. “She was beautiful. She had all the manner and the learning, all the lovely gowns. What was there I could do against that?”
She hesitated a moment, and then went on. “And she would never have married him, that would be stupid even to think of it. If I were going to be jealous it would be of another maid like myself, someone who could have given him real love, and a home, and maybe a family in time.” She looked down at her small, strong hands, and then up again suddenly. “No sir, she flattered him, and his head was turned. I thought that sort of thing only happened to parlormaids and the like, who got used by masters with no morals. I never thought of a footman being so daft. Or a lady—well …” She lowered her eyes.
“Are you saying that that is what you believe happened, Miss Watkins?” O’Hare asked.
Her eyes flew wide open again. “Oh no sir. I don’t suppose for a moment Miss Octavia ever did anything like that! I think Percival was a vain and silly man who imagined it might. And then when he realized what a fool he’d made of himself—well—his conceit couldn’t take it and he lost his temper.”
“Did he have a temper, Miss Watkins?”
“Oh yes sir—I’m afraid so.”
The last witness to be called regarding Percival’s character, and its flaws, was Fenella Sandeman. She swept into the courtroom in a glory of black taffeta and lace, a large bonnet set well back, framing her face with its unnatural pallor, jet-black hair and rosy lips. At the distance from which most of the public saw her she was a startling and most effective sight, exuding glamour and the drama of grief—and extreme femininity sore pressed by dire circumstances.
To Hester, when a man was being tried for his life, it was at once pathetic and grotesque.
O’Hare rose and was almost exaggeratedly polite to her, as though she had been fragile and in need of all his tenderness.
“Mrs. Sandeman, I believe you are a widow, living in the house of your brother, Sir Basil Moidore?”
“I am,” she conceded, hovering for a moment on the edge of an air of suffering bravely, and opting instead for a gallant kind of gaiety, a dazzling smile and a lift of her pointed chin.
“You have been there for”—he hesitated as if recalling with difficulty what to ask—“something like twelve years?”
“I have,” she agreed.
“Then you will doubtless know the members of the household fairly well, having seen them in all their moods, their happiness and their misfortune, for a considerable time,” he concluded. “You must have formed many opinions, based upon your observations.”
“Indeed—one cannot help it.” She gazed at him and a wry, slight smile hovered about her lips. There was a huskiness in her voice. Hester wanted to slide down in her seat and become invisible, but she was beside Beatrice, who was not to be called to testify, so there was nothing she could do but endure it. She looked sideways at Beatrice’s face, but her veil was so heavy Hester could see nothing of her expression.
“Women are very sensitive to people,” Fenella went on. “We have to be; people are our lives—”
“Exactly so.” O’Hare smiled back at her. “In your own establishment you employed servants, before your husband … passed on?”
“Of course.”
“So you are quite accustomed to judging their character and their worth,” O’Hare concluded with a sidelong glance at Rathbone. “What did you observe of Percival Garrod, Mrs. Sandeman? What is your estimate of him?” He held up his pale hand as if to forestall any objection Rathbone might have. “Based, of course, upon what you saw of him during your time in Queen Anne Street?”
She lowered her eyes and a greater hush settled over the room.
“He was very competent at his work, Mr. O’Hare, but he was an arrogant man, and greedy. He liked his fine things in dress and food,” she said softly but very clearly. “He had ideas and aspirations far beyond his station, and there was something of an anger in him that he should be limited to that walk of life in which God had seen fit to place him. He played with the affections of the poor girl Rose Watkins, and then when he imagined he could—” She looked up at him with a devastating stare and her voice grew even huskier. “I really don’t know how to phrase this delicately. I would be so much obliged if you would assist me.”
Beside Hester, Beatrice drew in her breath sharply, and in her lap her hands clenched in their kid gloves.
O’Hare came to Fenella’s defense. “Are you wishing to say, ma’am, that he entertained amorous ideas about a member of the family, perhaps?”
“Yes,” she said with exaggerated demureness. “That is unfortunately exactly what I—I am obliged to say. More than once I caught him speaking boldly about my niece Octavia, and I saw an expression on his face which a woman cannot misunderstand.”
“I see. How distressing for you.”
“Indeed,” she assented.
“What did you do about it, ma’am?”
“Do?” She stared at him, blinking. “Why my dear Mr. O’Hare, there was nothing I could do. If Octavia herself did not object, what was there I could say to her, or to anyone?”
“And she did not object?” O’Hare’s voice rose in amazement, and for an instant he glared around the crowd, then swung back to her. “Are you quite sure, Mrs. Sandeman?”
“Oh quite, Mr. O’Hare. I regret very deeply having to say this, and in such a very public place.” Her voice had a slight catch in it now, and Beatrice was so tense Hester was afraid she was going to cry out. “But poor Octavia appeared to be flattered by his attentions,” Fenella went on relentlessly. “Of course she could have no idea that he meant more than words—and neither had I, or I should have taken the matter to her father, of course, regardless of what she thought of me for it!”
“Naturally,” O’Hare conceded soothingly. “I am sure we all understand that had you foreseen the tragic outcome of the infatuation you would have done all you could to prevent it. However your testimony now of your observations is most helpful in seeing justice for Mrs. Haslett, and we all appreciate how distressing it must be for you to come here and tell us.” Then he pressed her for individual instances of behavior from Percival which bore out her judgment, which she duly gave in some detail. He then asked for the same regarding Octavia’s encouragement of him, and she recounted them as well.
