Beauty's Doom

by Christina Britton Conroy

  “No one else? Miss Roundtree has an aunt. She had an uncle, she believed to be her father.”

  “Aye, well sir, ’er aunt, Miss Lillian, she’s a sweet lady, but a bit soft.” She pursed her lips, while pointing to her head. “It was all she could do to look after ’erself, let alone the child … and t’ master … well, sir …” She hesitated, shifting from foot-to-foot. “’T’ain’t good t’ speak ill of the dead, but t’ be honest, sir, ’e were a bad piece o’ work. If there were any other way to earn a wage in those parts, no one would ’ave stayed in ’is employ.”

  “I understand that he was not a benevolent employer, but he declared himself to be Miss Roundtree’s father. Surely he was kind to her.”

  “’E paid ’er no mind at all unless Sir John Garingham was about. Then ’e’d be forever, scoldin’, whackin’ ’er and lockin’ ’er in ’er room. ’E wouldn’t feed ’er some nights and she’d climb out t’ window, down the rose canes and sneak into t’ kitchen. She’d be scratched from the thorns, but at least she wouldn’t starve those nights.”

  “Would she ‘starve’ on other nights?”

  “My lord, I object!” Jumping to his feet, Johnson glared at Milligan. “This line of questioning has no relevance to the crime before this court.”

  “And I object to the prosecution referring to a ‘crime’ before it has been established that a crime has been committed. With all due respect …” Milligan clutched the balustrade, and leaned over, in pain. “… my lord, how am I to establish the character of the defendant, if not by hearing testimony from witnesses who know her character?”

  Sir Douglas whispered, “Cite a precedent.”

  “Objection overruled.” The judge turned to the cook. “You may answer the question, Mrs Johnson.”

  The prosecutor angrily sat down.

  “Pardon, sir.” Mrs Johnson stared with frightened eyes. “What was the question?”

  Milligan smiled kindly. “You were telling us that Miss Roundtree would ‘starve’ some nights.”

  “Oh, aye. After t’ master nailed ’er windows shut, she couldn’t climb out no more. Some nights ’e’d leave t’ key in the door and we could sneak ’er food. When ’e took t’ key, there weren’t nothin’ we could do.” She glanced up at Elly. “She were always a bony little thing, anyway. We’d ’ear ’er crying with hunger, poor lamb. Broke our ’earts, it did.” She shook her head and looked terribly sad. “I don’t know what she’s doin’ in this place.”

  “She’s accused of pushing Sir John Garingham out a window.”

  The woman huffed loudly and crossed her arms. “I can think of a dozen people would ’ave ’appily pushed ’im out a window. Not ’er.”

  His stomach tensed. “Why not, her?”

  “’T’weren’t ’er nature. She were always gentle-hearted, no matter what they did t’ ’er. She weren’t the fightin’ type. Most kids see a rod comin’, they scream and run away. She’d start cryin’, close ’er eyes and take the beatin’.” She shuddered at the memories.

  “Was Sir John Garingham very disliked?”

  Her eyes grew large. “Aye, ’e was that. Never did a good deed in ’is life. Cruel to ’is miners, ’is servants … forced ’is intentions on poor women what couldn’t say ‘no’. There’s at least two bastard children growin’ up in Yorkshire I know about.”

  “We were told that he generously supported the Roundtree family.”

  Rolling her eyes, she put her hands on her hips and stared at Milligan. “Aye, now I’m surprised a gentleman like you not knowin’ t’ story. Don’t yer read t’ papers?”

  He tried not to smile. “The papers?”

  “Aye, t’ ones what tell about Miss Elisa bein’ an heiress and not knowin’ it. If Sir John did give t’ master money, it was because ’e knew ’e’d get it back triple from Miss Elisa’s dowry.”

  “Ah, yes.” Milligan made a slight bow. “Thank you for reminding me of that.” He wanted to kiss the old woman. “I have only one more question. Why was Miss Roundtree treated so harshly when Sir John was in the house?”

  “Aye, well, she were bein’ trained to be ’is wife. ’E wanted a woman who was just so. She ’ad t’ be a perfect lady. Sit perfect, walk perfect, never answer back, never ask questions. He’d always find fault, and she’d always be punished, always.”

  Milligan spoke slowly and distinctly. “Is it fair to say that Miss Roundtree associated Sir John … with punishment?”

  “Objection, leading the witness.” Johnson stood, scowling.

  Milligan bowed humbly. “I will rephrase the question. Mrs Johnson, what do you believe Miss Roundtree expected would happen when Sir John came to call?”

  “She’d end up cryin’.” Not knowing what else to say, she shrugged and looked up at Elly. “I bet she’s been crying in that lock-up.”

  The courthouse was still. All eyes were riveted on the cook.

  “She’s been ’alf ’er life locked up, already. Best girl in the world, she is. Never done a mean thing t’ anyone. What’s she doin’ in ’ere?”

  “I don’t know, Mrs Johnson.” Milligan’s face filled with true compassion. “We can only hope she will be released very soon.”

  “Aye. Pray God, she will.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Johnson.” He turned to the judge. “I have no more questions, my lord.”

  The judge turned to the prosecutor. “Your witness, Mr Johnson.”

  “Thank you, m’ lord.” Johnson’s eyes flashed with excitement. “Mrs Johnson, you have eloquently told us about the cruel treatment Miss Roundtree received from Sir John Garingham. Does it not seem that a young woman so ill-used, would do everything in her power to end that torment?”

  “Aye, sir. That’s why she ran away.” The cook nervously bit her fingernail.

  He nodded in agreement. “When her escape was foiled, and she was forcibly brought back to marry Sir John, would she not have gone to further measures to ensure her safety?”

  “Weren’t nothin’ more she could do. She ’ad t’ give in, like always.”

  “Ah, but she did not give in. She managed to escape once again.”

  “Don’t know what y’ mean by ‘escape’. Sir John fell through that window. Weren’t none o’ ’er doin.”

  “And how do you know that?” The prosecutor’s eyes bore into the anxious woman. “Were you in the room?”

  “I were in t’ kitchen.” Her fingers anxiously kneaded the wooden rail in front of her. “We were preparing a weddin’ feast fer t’ whole county. Even ’ad extra staff workin’.”

  “So you did not see what happened in that upstairs room.”

  “No, sir. How could I?”

  He took a deep breath. “Thank you, Mrs Johnson. You have reminded us that there are no reliable witnesses to this crime.” Before Milligan could object, he corrected himself, “… rather, this … event. We will never be sure if Miss Elisa Roundtree pushed—”

  The cook shouted, “I know that child inside an’ out. She’d sooner kill ’erself than hurt someone else. I know it.”

  Excited whispers erupted around the courtroom. Journalists wrote furiously with dulling pencils. The judge and jurymen exchanged disapproving looks. The prosecutor stood unmoved.

  The cook glanced guiltily at the judge. “I beg yer pardon, sir.” Lowering her eyes, she used her sleeve to wipe beads of perspiration from her face. “I didn’t mean to speak rough.” Johnson’s junior passed him a note. “Mrs Johnson. You said there was no other employment in those parts, did you not?”

  “Aye, sir.” After swallowing hard, she managed to keep her voice calm. “It’s the only big house in the district.”

  “Having been employed there for so many years, I imagine you have no wish to seek employment elsewhere.”

  She was appalled. “At my age, sir? I’d be ’ard pressed to find a new post, now.”

  “Then it is important that the estate remains in the hands of the young mistress who is fond of you.”

  “Object
ion!” Milligan was on his feet.

  “Overruled.” The judge was intrigued. “Answer the question, Mrs Johnson.”

  She trembled. “I, I don’t know, sir … sirs.” She looked from the prosecutor to the judge. “I need the position … But I’m not lying … Wouldn’t lie for it … the job, that is.” She looked at Elly now watching with pity in her eyes. “She’s an angel, she is.”

  The prosecutor smirked, “‘An angel’, so long as you are in her employ?”

  “No, sir.” Tears welled in the old woman’s eyes.

  “My lord,” Milligan interrupted again. “The treatment of this witness is wholly uncalled for.”

  The cook’s trembling turned into sobs. “She didn’t do what y’ said. She couldn’t. I know it.”

  The judge leaned over. “Mrs Johnson, control yourself.”

  The jurymen shifted uncomfortably, bumping elbows along their two benches.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” Bending over, the cook wiped her eyes with her skirt. It was a moment before anyone spoke.

  Pleased with himself, Johnson smiled. “Thank you, my lord. I have no more questions for this witness.”

  As the cook was helped from the witness box, Rory ran to Milligan and whispered breathlessly, “Telegraph lines are down, sir … The train derailment at Daventry … The operator promises to send the wires through when he can, but the office is packed with irate people.”

  “Damn!” Milligan clenched his fists. “Check later to see if they’ve been sent. As it is, we’ll be hard pressed to find a glazier, get him to check the windows and report by tomorrow. Thanks for trying, Cookingham.”

  The judge called, “Your next witness, Mr Milligan.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Robert Dennison stood tall and handsome in the witness box. His sleek brown hair had grown long. It was combed back and tied at the nape of his neck with a satin ribbon. He wore a soft maroon velvet coat, set off with a silk cravat. Elly remembered her conservative art master, and barely recognised this striking bohemian. After taking the oath and stating the preliminaries, Milligan asked about his relationship with Elly.

  Robert lowered his eyes and smiled nervously. “At first, I found her a nuisance. I was new at the art master job, hated it, and giggling girls with no interest in studying art made my days a misery.”

  Milligan feigned curiosity. “Why did you accept a position you so disliked?”

  “I needed employment.” Having told this story many times, he relaxed, casually leaning on the railing. “I’d been living in Paris, painting. My father died unexpectedly, leaving a pile of debts. My mother was penniless. I am her only child and have to earn a wage. The art master position paid little, but enough that I could send something to the bank each month, and keep a roof over Mother’s head.”

  “Obviously, your opinion of Miss Roundtree changed.”

  “My opinion of everything changed.” He stood back and smiled. “Some of the students were serious and I enjoyed teaching them.” He smiled up at Elly. “She has talent.”

  Milligan nodded. “So, how was it, Mr Dennison, that your student became your friend?”

  “I was preparing an exhibition for London.” He raised an eyebrow. “My now infamous exhibition. Miss Roundtree was fond of early morning walks. I painted in early morning light.” He shrugged. “Our morning chats became a habit. When I realised my oil painting group was unbalanced and I needed another painting for the exhibit, she volunteered to model for me.” He watched her in the dock and quietly laughed.

  The room was silent.

  Embarrassed, he raised his hands. “Forgive me, but she’s sitting so still.”

  She looked up in alarm.

  “I’m sorry, but when she modelled for me, she couldn’t sit still for more than a minute.”

  She rolled her eyes and lowered them, again.

  The judge scowled. “Do you find today’s situation humorous, Mr Dennison?”

  He shrugged and twisted his mouth. “Actually, I do. This whole scene is absurd. I know she hated the fellow, but she never murdered him.”

  The judge glared. “That is for the jury to decide. Kindly answer only what has been asked.”

  Milligan hid his pleasure. “Mr Dennison, how did you learn of Miss Roundtree’s betrothal?”

  “One day last autumn, she was very sad. She didn’t want to tell me what was wrong, but I pressed her. She told me she was betrothed to a man she hated.” His face twisted. “I couldn’t believe it. She was still a child. The idea of her marrying anyone seemed absurd. A forced marriage was despicable.”

  “So, you decided to save her.”

  “No!” He clutched the rail. “Just …” He shook his head. “All right, ‘save her’, if you will. At least … give her the chance to save herself …” he nervously bit his lip, “… if she wanted it. I really wasn’t sure she did. Young girls say things …” he shrugged his shoulders. Milligan’s silence pressured him to go on. Embarrassed and annoyed, he almost shouted, “Well … everyone knows the rest of the story. It was in all the papers.”

  Milligan smiled indulgently and gestured to the jury box. “Just in the case one of the gentlemen has been abroad … ?”

  Robert clenched his teeth and recited in one breath, “My friend, an actor at His Majesty’s Theatre, told me the theatre was auditioning young ladies in December, so she stayed at school over the holiday, caught a train to London, won the audition, and became an apprentice actress. A few weeks later she allowed me to exhibit her portrait.” He closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “Was that a bad thing?”

  “It was brilliant for me. It nearly killed her.” He clenched his jaw. “If she had said one word, just one, I would have withdrawn the painting. Her uncle would never have found her, at least not that quickly. All of this might have been avoided.”

  Milligan pressed him. “Why was that one painting so important?”

  “It was by far the best work I had ever done. It made all the difference between my exhibition being a huge success or receiving only mild praise.” He clutched the rail. “I had been working toward this show for ten years. It meant everything to me. I was so concerned for myself, I wasn’t thinking about anyone else. She knew her uncle was looking for her and could find her through the painting. She never said a word. Not one word.” Overcome with self-loathing, he lowered his face and closed his eyes.

  Milligan gave him a moment. “Why did she make such a sacrifice?”

  The room was deadly silent, waiting for Robert’s response. His whisper was barely audible. “We had become fond of each other. She cared for me.” He took a deep breath. “That’s how she is. She will do anything for the people she cares about.” He looked up at the dock.

  Elly’s eyes squeezed shut. Her hands gripped tight together.

  “I’m so sorry, Elly.” There was a catch in his voice. “If I could trade places with you now, I’d do it gladly.”

  Her hand slipped over her mouth. Her eyes stayed shut.

  “Mr Dennison,” Milligan spoke gently, “since you moved to London, have you and Miss Roundtree remained friends?”

  He stood back, cleared his throat, and remembered his rehearsed lie. “Casual friends. I have seen her performances at His Majesty’s Theatre, and her guardians have invited me to their home.” He clutched the bar and stretched back uncomfortably. “We found that in real life, outside the school grounds, we have little in common.”

  “Then your relationship did not become a …” he pretended to search for words, “… happily-ever-after fairy tale?”

  Robert chuckled wryly, “No. Not at all.”

  Milligan’s face contorted. He clutched his side, bent double and fell to the floor.

  A woman screamed.

  A call of “I’m a doctor, Let me pass,” came from the back, as a dark-suited man pushed through the crowd.

  Rory jumped over the rail, pulled off Milligan’s wig and cradled his head. Sir Douglas and Brown stared with disbelief.

/>   Johnson ran over, “Andrew, what is it?”

  Milligan did not move.

  Elly was on her feet.

  Johnson, Rory and Brown lifted Milligan, and followed the doctor out of the courthouse. The judge shouted over the crowd. “Court is adjourned until ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  ****

  The consulting room at the Old Bailey was far more comfortable than the one at Holloway Prison. Sir Douglas reclined in a leather armchair, wheezing. “Damn, I wish they’d send word.”

  Isabelle kept his blood pressure down by rubbing his hands and whispering soothing words. “Try and rest, Sir Douglas. Mr Milligan is in very good hands.”

  Sir William held a useless vigil at a window overlooking an inner court. Ned kept a firm arm around Elly. She leaned against him, staring into space. Jeremy and Katherine sat clutching each other’s hands. There was a knock on the door. Everyone came to hopeful attention, then sat back disappointed as two pub boys delivered luncheon baskets. Jeremy and Katherine nervously spread out the dishes.

  After what seemed an eternity, Rory bounded into the room. “His appendix burst. The doctor said he waited too long. He almost died. The surgery is just down the street. He operated at once. It only took a few minutes. Here’s the doctor’s card.” He handed it to Sir Douglas, roughly wiping away tears with the heel of his hand.

  He saw the alarm in everyone’s eyes. “It’s all right. He caught it in time. Except for the threat of infection, Mr Milligan should make a complete recovery.” He glanced at Elly, white with shock. “He’s been given morphine, so he’s sleeping. Mr Brown is staying until Mrs Milligan arrives.” He ravenously grabbed a chicken leg and talked with his mouth full. “He has to remain immobile for a week, on account of the incision. It will be several weeks before …” He swallowed, tossed the bone into an empty lunch basket and shrugged helplessly.

  Isabelle took him firmly by the shoulders. “Thank you, Rory.” She looked at the rest of the dazed party. “It’s only two o’clock. The judge adjoined the trial until tomorrow morning so there’s time to decide what’s to be done.” Sir Douglas sadly shook his head, but she ordered, “We all need nourishment, so eat.”