The solicitor shook Rory’s hand. “Better, now that you’ve delivered the young lady safely home.”
Elly asked, “Please Sir William, what’s happening?”
“Things are moving faster than we expected, that’s all.” He resumed his seat behind the desk.
Rory sat beside Elly, and Foxhall return to his chair.
Elly sat stiffly. “What things? My uncle has been in jail for weeks, waiting for the circuit judge. Chief-Inspector Hayes said he would be swiftly hung, so what was that reporter talking about? Why will there be a trial?” Elly stared at Foxhall’s round face, thin grey hair, and intense eyes.
He nervously curled his moustache. “My dear, the coroner’s inquest determined that the Reverend Laurence Folen was murdered by a bullet from Anthony Roundtree’s revolver. Your uncle will be tried in a court of law to determine if it was murder, or manslaughter.”
She shook her head. “Forgive me, sir. I don’t know what that means.”
“Your uncle committed murder, if he shot the priest on purpose. He committed manslaughter, if he shot the priest by accident. We know your uncle was holding the loaded revolver, but we do not know if he actually intended to shoot the priest.”
“What’s the difference? Father Folen died.”
“There is no difference to the unfortunate victim. There will be a great deal of difference to the accused, your uncle.”
The room was deathly silent as Elly digested this information.
Foxhall continued. “If your uncle is found guilty of manslaughter, he will go to prison at hard labour for a good many years. Gentlemen of his social class, unused to physical labour, usually die in prison before their terms are up.”
Elly caught her breath.
“If he is found guilty of murder, he will be hanged.” Foxhall shrugged. “Which would, in all likelihood, be the kinder punishment.”
Rory and Sir William tensely waited for Foxhall to present his next piece of information.
The solicitor looked toward heaven, took a few deep breaths, and sat back in his chair.
Elly perched on the edge of her chair, wishing this was another nightmare and she could wake up.
Foxhall spoke softly. “My dear, another man died that night.”
Elly blurted out, “Sir John Garingham. Everyone knows that.”
“Now, now.” He held up a hand. “Calm yourself, please.”
Elly glanced at the other men. Both sat like stone.
“Miss Roundtree?”
She turned back to Foxhall. “Yes, sir.”
Determined to keep himself calm, he presented the next information very slowly. “The coroner determined that Sir John died by misadventure. He leaned against a window, which only hours before, had been loosened by Sam Smelling. I am still not clear why Mr. Smelling did that.”
Much to their surprise, Elly smiled. “I told Sam that when I was little, I used to run away by climbing out the windows and down the trellis. My father nailed the windows shut, to keep me in. Sam thought I might need to run away again, and pulled out the nails.”
Foxhall smiled appreciatively. “Very resourceful.” His piercing eyes bore into her. “So, when Sir John was startled by the gunshot, he lurched back, pushed through the loose glass, and fell to his death.”
Elly froze.
Foxhall glared at her. “That is what happened. Is it not?”
She pursed her lips. Colour drained from her face.
“Miss Roundtree.” He soothed, “That is the way it happened. Is it not?”
“I, I don’t…” She looked frantically to the other men. Neither spoke, but both seemed to beg for her compliance. She whispered, “Yes, sir.”
All three men released their breath.
She stared around the room like a cornered rabbit. Her voice was breathless. “Sir John was leaning against a loose window. He was startled by the gunshot. He lurched back and fell through the glass. I ran to help him.” Perspiration slid down the back of her neck. “I was too late. He fell. As I reached for him, his boot flew up, caught the hoop of my skirt, and pulled me out the window, after him. I was thrown against the side of the house.” She caught her breath. “My hoop caught in the trellis and I couldn’t get loose. Sam Smelling climbed up to help me, and the trellis broke. We both fell to the ground.” Her head spun as she gasped for breath. “Sam was terribly injured, I was injured…” finding a handkerchief, she clenched her jaw and blew her nose.
The three men visibly relaxed.
Foxhall smiled and sighed deeply. “That was excellent. This short bit of dialogue may be the most important of your life.”
“I’m an actress,” she wiped her eyes. “I’ll remember my lines.”
“See that you do.”
End of Book 3
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About the Author
Christina Britton Conroy is a classically trained singer and actor who has toured the globe singing operas, operettas, and musicals, as well as being a Certified Music Therapist and Licensed Creative Arts Therapist. She has published several books, and Truth and Beauty marks the third in the four-book His Majesty’s Theatre series.
Truth and Beauty (His Majesty's Theatre Book 3) Page 18
