by Anne Perry
“It’s going to begin,” someone whispered behind her. “That’s the defense. It’s Rathbone—I wonder what he’s going to say?”
“Nothing ’e can say,” came the reply from a man somewhere to her left. “Don’t know why ’e bothers. They should ’ang ’er, save the government the money.”
“Save us, more like.”
“Ssh!”
“Ssh yerself!”
Monk swung around, his voice vicious. “If you don’t want a trial you should vacate the seat and allow someone who does to sit in it. There are plenty of slaughterhouses in London if all you want is blood.”
There was a gasp of fury.
“ ’Ow dare you speak to my wife like that?” the man demanded.
“I was speaking to you, sir,” Monk retorted. “I expect you to be responsible for your own opinions.”
“Hold your tongue,” someone else said furiously. “Or we’ll all be thrown out! The judge is coming.”
And indeed he was, splendid in robes touched with scarlet, white wig only slightly fuller than those of the lawyers. He was a tallish man with a broad brow and fine strong nose, short jaw and good mouth, but he was far younger than Hester had expected, and for no reason that she understood, her heart sank. In some way she had imagined a fatherly man might have more compassion, a grandfatherly man even more again. She found herself sitting forward on the edge of the hard bench, her hands clenched, her shoulders tight.
There was a rising wave of excitement, then a sudden silence as the prisoner was brought in, a craning forward and turning of heads on the benches behind the lawyers, of all except one woman dressed entirely in black, and veiled. Beneath the gallery in the dock the prisoner had been brought in.
Even the jury, seemingly against their will, found their eyes moving towards her.
Hester cursed the arrangement which made it impossible to see the dock from the gallery.
“We should have got seats down there,” she said to Monk, nodding her head towards the few benches behind the lawyers’ seats.
“We?” he said acidly. “If it weren’t for me you’d be standing outside.”
“I know—and I’m grateful. All the same, we should still try to get a seat down there.”
“Then come an hour earlier next time.”
“I will. But it doesn’t help now.”
“What do you want to do?” he whispered sarcastically. “Lose these seats and go out and try to get in downstairs?”
“Yes,” she hissed back. “Of course I do. Come on!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll end up with nothing.”
“You can do as you please. I’m going.”
The woman in front swung around. “Be quiet,” she said furiously.
“Mind your own business, madam,” Monk said, freezing calm, then grasped Hester by the elbow and propelled her out past the row of protesting onlookers. Up the aisle and outside in the hallway he maintained silence. They went down the stairs, and at the door of the lower court he let go of her.
“All right,” he said with a scathing stare. “Now what do you propose to do?”
She gulped, glared back at him, then swung around and marched to the doors.
A bailiff appeared and barred the way. “I’m sorry. You can’t go in there, miss. It’s all full up. You should ’a come earlier. You’ll ’ave ter read about it in the papers.”
“That will not be satisfactory,” she said with all the dignity she could muster. “We are involved in the case, retained by Mr. Rathbone, counsel for the defense. This is Mr. Monk,” she inclined her head slightly. “He is working with Mr. Rathbone, and Mr. Rathbone may need to consult with him during the course of the evidence. I am with him.”
The bailiff looked over her head at Monk. “Is that true, sir?”
“Certainly it is,” Monk said without a flicker, producing a card from his vest pocket.
“Then you’d better go in,” the bailiff agreed cautiously. “But next time, get in ’ere a bit sooner, will you.”
“Of course. We apologize,” Monk said tactfully. “A little late business, you understand.”
And without arguing the point any further, he pushed Hester inside and allowed the bailiff to close the doors.
The court looked different from this level, the judge’s seat higher and more imposing, the witness box oddly more vulnerable, and the dock very enclosed, like a wide cage with wooden walls, very high up.
“Sit down,” Monk said sharply.
Hester obeyed, perching on the end of the nearest bench and forcing the present occupants to move up uncomfortably close to each other. Monk was obliged to stand, until someone graciously changed places to the next row and gave him space.
For the first time, with something of a start, Hester saw the haggard face of Alexandra Carlyon, who was permitted to sit because the proceedings were expected to take several days. It was not the face she had envisioned at all; it was far too immediate and individual, even pale and exhausted as it was. There was too much capacity for intelligence and pain in it; she was acutely aware that they were dealing with the agonies and desires of a unique person, not merely a tragic set of circumstances.
She looked away again, feeling intrusive to be caught staring. She already knew more of her much too intimate suffering than anyone had a right to.
The proceedings began almost straightaway. The charge had already been made and answered. The opening speeches were brief. Lovat-Smith said the facts of the case were only too apparent, and he would prove step by step how the accused had deliberately, out of unfounded jealousy, murdered her husband, General Thaddeus Carlyon, and attempted to pass off her crime as an accident.
Rathbone said simply that he would answer with such a story that would shed a new and terrible light on all they knew, a light in which no answer would be as they now thought, and to look carefully into both their hearts and their consciences before they returned a verdict.
Lovat-Smith called his first witness, Louisa Mary Furnival. There was a rustle of excitement, and then as she appeared a swift indrawing of breath and whisper of fabric against fabric as people craned forward to see her. And indeed she presented a spectacle worth their effort. She was dressed in the darkest purple touched with amethyst, dignified, subdued in actual tones, and yet so fashionably and flamboyantly cut with a tiny waist and gorgeous sleeves. Her bonnet was perched so rakishly on her wide brushed dark hair as to be absolutely dashing. Her expression should have been demure, that of an elegant woman mourning the shocking death of a friend, and yet there was so much vitality in her, such awareness of her own beauty and magnetism, that no one thought of such an emotion for more than the first superficial instant.
She crossed the space of floor in front of the lawyers and climbed the flight of steps up into the witness box, negotiating her skirts through the narrow rails with considerable skill, then turned to face Lovat-Smith.
She swore as to her name and residence in a low, husky voice, looking down at him with shining eyes.
“Mrs. Furnival”—he moved forward towards her, hands in his pockets under his gown—“will you tell the court what you can recall of the events of that dreadful evening when General Carlyon met his death? Begin with the arrival of your guests, if you please.”
Louisa looked perfectly composed. If the occasion intimidated her in any way, there was not the slightest sign of it in her face or her bearing. Even her hands on the witness box railing were quite relaxed.
“The first to arrive were Mr. and Mrs. Erskine,” she started. “The next were General Carlyon and Alexandra.” She did not glance at the dock as she said it.
Lovat-Smith was talking to Louisa.
Alexandra might not have been present for any emotional impact Louisa showed.
“At that time, Mrs. Furnival,” Lovat-Smith was saying, “what was the attitude between General and Mrs. Carlyon? Did you notice?”
“The general seemed as usual,” Louisa replied levelly. “I thought Alexand
ra very tense, and I was aware that the evening might become difficult.” She allowed the ghost of a smile to cross her face. “As hostess, I was concerned that the party should be a success.”
There was a ripple of laughter around the court, dying away again immediately.
Hester glanced up at Alexandra, but her face was expressionless.
“Who arrived next?” Lovat-Smith asked.
“Sabella Pole and her husband, Fenton Pole. She was immediately rude to her father, the general.” Louisa’s face shadowed very slightly but she forbore from more than the vaguest of implied criticism. She knew it was ugly and above all she would avoid that. “Of course she has not been well,” she added. “So one forgave her readily. It was an embarrassment, no more.”
“You did not fear it indicated any dangerous ill will?” Lovat-Smith asked with apparent concern.
“Not at all.” Louisa dismissed it with a gesture.
“Who else arrived at this dinner of yours?”
“Dr. Charles Hargrave and Mrs. Hargrave; they were the last.”
“And no one else called that evening?”
“No one.”
“Can you tell us something of the course of events, Mrs. Furnival?”
She shrugged very delicately and half smiled.
Hester watched the jury. They were fascinated with her and Hester had no doubt she knew it.
“We spent some time in the withdrawing room,” Louisa said casually. “We talked of this and that, as we will on such occasions. I cannot recall what we said, only that Mrs. Carlyon picked a quarrel with the general, which he did all he could to avoid, but she seemed determined to bring the matter to an open dispute.”
“Do you know what it was about?”
“No, it seemed to be very nebulous, just a longstanding ill feeling, so far as I could judge. Of course I did not overhear it all …” She left it hanging delicately, not to rule out the possibility of a raging jealousy.
“And at dinner, Mrs. Furnival,” Lovat-Smith prompted. “Was the ill feeling between General and Mrs. Carlyon still apparent?”
“Yes, I am afraid it was. Of course at that time I had no idea it was anything serious …” For an instant she looked contrite, abashed at her own blindness. There was a murmur of sympathy around the courtroom. People turned to look at the dock. One of the jurors nodded sagely.
“And after dinner?” Lovat-Smith asked.
“The ladies withdrew and left the men to take port and cigars,” Louisa continued. “In the withdrawing room we simply spoke of trivial things again, a little gossip, and a few opinions of fashion and so on. Then when the men rejoined us I took General Carlyon upstairs to visit my son, who admired him greatly, and to whom he had been a good friend.” A spasm of pain passed over her immaculate features and again there was a buzz of sympathy and anger around the room.
Hester looked at Alexandra in the dock, and saw hurt and puzzlement in her face.
The judge lifted his eyes and stared over the heads of the counsel to the body of the court. The sound subsided.
“Continue, Mr. Lovat-Smith,” he ordered.
Lovat-Smith turned to Louisa. “Did this occasion any response that you observed, Mrs. Furnival?”
Louisa looked downwards modestly, as if embarrassed to admit it now.
“Yes. I am afraid Mrs. Carlyon was extremely angry. I thought at the time it was just a fit of pique. Of course I realize now that it was immeasurably deeper than that.”
Oliver Rathbone rose to his feet.
“I object, my lord. The witness—”
“Sustained,” the judge interrupted him. “Mrs. Furnival, we wish to know only what you observed at the time, not what later events may have led you to conclude, correctly or incorrectly. It is for the jury to interpret, not for you. At this time you felt it to be a fit of pique—that is all.”
Louisa’s face tightened with annoyance, but she would not argue with him.
“My lord,” Lovat-Smith acknowledged the rebuke. He turned back to Louisa. “Mrs. Furnival, you took General Carlyon upstairs to visit with your son, whose age is thirteen, is that correct? Good. When did you come downstairs again?”
“When my husband came up to tell me that Alexandra—Mrs. Carlyon—was extremely upset and the party was becoming very tense and rather unpleasant. He wished me to return to try to improve the atmosphere. Naturally I did so.”
“Leaving General Carlyon still upstairs with your son?”
“Yes.”
“And what happened next?”
“Mrs. Carlyon went upstairs.”
“What was her manner, Mrs. Furnival, from your own observation?” He glanced at the judge, who made no comment.
“She was white-faced,” Louisa replied. Still she ignored Alexandra as if the dock had been empty and she were speaking of someone absent. “She appeared to be in a rage greater than any I have ever seen before, or since. There was nothing I could do to stop her, but I still imagined that it was some private quarrel and would be settled when they got home.”
Lovat-Smith smiled. “We assume you did not believe it would lead to violence, Mrs. Furnival, or you would naturally have taken steps to prevent it. But did you still have no idea as to its cause? You did not, for example, think it was jealousy over some imagined relationship between the general and yourself?”
She smiled, a fleeting, enigmatic expression. For the first time she glanced at Alexandra, but so quickly their eyes barely met. “A trifle, perhaps,” she said gravely. “But not serious. Our relationship was purely one of friendship—quite platonic—as it had been for years. I thought she knew that, as did everyone else.” Her smile widened. “Had it been more, my husband would hardly have been the friend to the general he was. I did not think she was … obsessive about it. A little envious, maybe—friendship can be very precious. Especially if you feel you do not have it.”
“Exactly so.” He smiled at her. “And then?” he asked, moving a little to one side and putting his hands deeper into his pockets.
Louisa took up the thread. “Then Mrs. Carlyon came downstairs, alone.”
“Had her manner changed?”
“I was not aware of it …” She looked as if she were waiting for him to lead her, but as he remained silent, she continued unasked. “Then my husband went out into the hall.” She stopped for dramatic effect. “That is the front hall, not the back one, which we had been using to go up to my son’s room—and he came back within a moment, looking very shaken, and told us that General Carlyon had had an accident and was seriously hurt.”
“Seriously hurt,” Lovat-Smith interrupted. “Not dead?”
“I think he was too shocked to have looked at him closely,” she answered, a faint, sad smile touching her mouth. “I imagine he wanted Charles to come as soon as possible. That is what I would have done.”
“Of course. And Dr. Hargrave went?”
“Yes—after a few moments he was back to say that Thaddeus was dead and we should call the police—because it was an accident that needed explaining, not because any of us suspected murder then.”
“Naturally,” Lovat-Smith agreed. “Thank you, Mrs. Furnival. Would you please remain there, in case my learned friend has any questions to ask you.” He bowed very slightly and turned to Rathbone.
Rathbone rose, acknowledged him with a nod, and moved forward towards the witness box. His manner was cautious, but there was no deference in it and he looked up at Louisa very directly.
“Thank you for a most clear description of the events of that tragic evening, Mrs. Furnival,” he began, his voice smooth and beautifully modulated. As soon as she smiled he continued gravely. “But I think perhaps you have omitted one or two events which may turn out to be relevant. We can hardly overlook anything, can we?” He smiled back at her, but there was no lightness in the gesture, and it died instantly, leaving no trace in his eyes. “Did anyone else go up to see your son, Valentine?”
“I …” She stopped, as if uncertain.
/> “Mrs. Erskine, for example?”
Lovat-Smith stirred, half rose as if to interrupt, then changed his mind.
“I believe so,” Louisa conceded, her expression making it plain she thought it irrelevant.
“And how was her manner when she came down?” Rathbone said softly.
Louisa hesitated. “She seemed … upset.”
“Just upset?” Rathbone sounded surprised. “Not distressed, unable to keep her mind on a conversation, distracted by some inner pain?”
“Well …” Louisa lifted her shoulder delicately. “She was in a very strange mood, yes. I thought perhaps she was not entirely well.”
“Did she give any explanation for the sudden change from her usual manner to such a distracted, offensive, near-frenzied mood?”
Lovat-Smith rose to his feet.
“Objection, my lord! The witness did not say Mrs. Erskine was offensive or near frenzied, only that she was distressed and unable to command her attention to the conversation.”
The judge looked at Rathbone. “Mr. Lovat-Smith is correct. What is your point, Mr. Rathbone? I confess, I fail to see it.”
“It will emerge later, my lord,” Rathbone said, and Hester had a strong feeling he was bluffing, hoping that by the time Damaris was called, they would have learned precisely what it was that she had discovered. Surely it must have to do with the general.
“Very well. Proceed,” the judge directed.
“Did you find the cause of Mrs. Erskine’s distress, Mrs. Furnival?” Rathbone resumed.
“No.”
“Nor of Mrs. Carlyon’s distress either? Is it an assumption that it had to do with you, and your relationship with the general?”
Louisa frowned.
“Is that not so, Mrs. Furnival? Did Mrs. Carlyon ever say anything either to you, or in your hearing, to suggest that she was distressed because of a jealousy of you and your friendship with her husband? Please be exact.”
