“Good luck, darling, and I’ll have Emmie there at three; don’t worry.”
“Thank you, Mummy. On second thought, I think the Pollyanna sailor dress. It’s her favourite and it’s very little-girly. The judge will like it.”
“She … she says she wants to wear her stripy dungarees. You know, the OshKosh ones.”
“Well, she can’t. Mummy, you are not to bring her to court in dungarees.”
“No, darling, of course not.”
“My lord,” said Toby Gilmour, “I would like to call Signora Mariella Crespi.”
Judge Rogers nodded rather curtly; he had already formed an opinion of Signora Crespi and it was not benign.
Mariella swept into the courtroom and the witness box. She looked incredible; even Bruce Hayward appeared slightly stunned. She was wearing a white trouser suit, with apparently nothing under the jacket, a thick, thick gold-and-pearl rope round her neck, and matching gold bracelets on her slender wrists. Her makeup was flawless, her eyes hugely dark, her lips a brilliant red gloss. Her dark hair was piled high on her head, and in her ears were large pearl-and-gilt studs—Chanel, thought Eliza automatically, and that suit was undoubtedly Yves Saint Laurent, the very same design Bianca had worn for her wedding to Mick.
Toby turned to face her. His face was admirably blank.
“Signora Crespi, you met Eliza Shaw, I believe, while she was fashion editor of Charisma.”
“Yes, that is correct. She was very, very important to me; she made me famous. Famous enough to win the best-dressed title early this year.”
Clearly no one was to be left in any doubt as to how important she was.
“And then she became one of my dearest, closest friends. She is a most wonderful person, generous, good, so, so kind and loyal, and a most wonderful mother.”
“Yes, indeed. Now … Signora Crespi, perhaps you could tell us about the time Mrs. Shaw came to visit you in Milan. In December two years ago.”
“Of course. She had been very depressed after losing the baby, so, so sad, and I invited her to join us for a week or so. It was the beginning of the Milanese season, which is always on the first Sunday in December, when there is a gala opera performance, usually of Verdi. My husband and I always attend, and entertain in our box at La Scala. It was not Eliza’s first visit; she had come two or three years earlier, and brought little Emmie with her. She would never, ever come without her, even though sometimes I thought it would have done her good, made a better holiday for her.”
“I see. And what did you do that day?”
“Well, we drove into Milan—”
“You don’t live in the city itself?”
“No, no, of course not.” Clearly they were all expected to know this. “We live in our villa on the shores of Lake Como. It is perhaps an hour’s drive into Milan. There was myself, Eliza, Emmie, and one of my maids, Anna-Maria, who cares for Emmie on her visits. Emmie loved her; I cannot tell you how she loved Anna-Maria, and Anna-Maria her.”
“I see,” said Toby again. “And when you got to Milan?”
“We looked at all the shops and the Christmas displays. Then I had to visit my dressmaker and buy some shoes, and Emmie wanted to go into La Rinascente, the department store. I suggested she go with Anna-Maria. Eliza was very, very worried about this, but I insisted; I needed her opinion on some buttons—”
“Buttons?”
“Buttons, yes. So it was agreed that we should meet with Maria and Emmie in one-half of an hour in Cova; perhaps you know Cova—”
“I do indeed. Delightful!”
Did he? Eliza wondered.
“But after a little while Anna-Maria arrived, in tears, having hysteria, I would say. Emmie had run away from her; she is a very, very naughty little girl, however dolce. Anna-Maria had worked very, very hard at finding Emmie, but with no success. But we quickly found her, within a very few minutes, I would say—”
“And where was she?”
“She was in La Rinascente still, in the children’s shoe department. She had found it by herself; she had said she wanted some new shoes, and when a girl wants shoes, she must have them.”
“And … what was she doing; was she crying; was she distressed?”
“Of course she was not,” said Mariella dismissively. “She was trying to decide which of two pairs she should buy; she had one on each foot; I often do that myself.”
“And … what did she say when she saw you?”
“She said—and I shall always remember; it was so sweet, so adorable—she said, ‘Which do you think?’ Well, of course I said she should have them both.”
“And … how was Mrs. Shaw while Emmie was missing?”
“She was very, very upset, quite distraught, of course, of course. But later that night, over dinner, she said Emmie had run away before, more than once. She is very, very naughty, as I have said.”
“Well, thank you, Signora Crespi.”
Bruce Hayward stood up.
“Signora Crespi, thank you for that very … very vivid account. I wonder—in a crowded, strange city, perhaps it would have been better for your maid to restrain Emmeline in some way. With some reins, for example.”
“Reins? She is not a horse.”
“No, of course not, but there are reins, I believe, for keeping children close to you in such situations.”
“Well, we did not have any reins,” said Mariella with a slightly impatient frown, “and believe me, Emmie would not have worn them if we had. She knows her own head, that one.”
“Or … perhaps she should have stayed with you?”
“What, in the dressmaker’s? Of course not. I could not have concentrated. No, it was my insisting that Eliza come without her that was to blame.”
“I see. No more questions.”
Clearly even Bruce Hayward could see there was not a great deal of future in cross-examination at this point.
Then a clerk came in with a note for Philip Gordon; he read it, looked at Eliza, looked across at Toby, and then whispered, “Excuse me,” to Eliza and left the courtroom. She felt irritated. How could he leave now, when this was so crucial to her survival? She tried to concentrate on Toby, who had returned to his task—and to Mariella.
“So, Signora Crespi, perhaps you could tell us now about the following evening? When the fog left you stranded in the city?”
“Ah, yes. Our famous nebbia. This time it was the fault of Fate, not me, that kept Eliza from her little one. When we left Como, it was clear. When we came out of La Scala, it was impossible to see more than a few metres. No, I would say a few centimetres. It would have been hugely dangerous to try to get back to Como. Emmie would have been left motherless. And … how dreadful that would have been.”
“Indeed.”
“So Eliza stayed with some friends in their apartment. She did not sleep for one moment, I know. And then she very bravely set out the next day, before we would dare to risk it, with some friends, some very, very brave friends, and an exceedingly brave driver, and made her way back to Como through the nebbia, to be with Emmie once more.”
“And … who was looking after Emmie at the villa?”
“Oh … so many people. Anna-Maria. The cook. The butler. My husband’s valet. All waiting upon her. Eliza spoke to her on the phone many times …”
“Signora Crespi—”
“Yes?” Mariella looked at Bruce Hayward disdainfully.
“Would it not have been better if Mrs. Shaw had stayed at the villa with Emmie, rather than gone into Milan in the fog?”
“That would have been extremely rude, do you not think?” said Mariella. “My husband would have been most offended, having made so many arrangements for her. And besides, we did not know the fog would come. It arrives from nowhere.”
Bruce Hayward gave up. Clifford Rogers would surely see through this ridiculous creature.
But Clifford Rogers was gazing at Mariella in something approaching incredulity, and then called an early break.
“
This afternoon I shall see the child. And if there is time we can begin the summing up. Otherwise, that can take place in the morning.”
“All rise.”
Eliza walked out of the courtroom, down into the atrium. It was all beginning to seem rather familiar.
“Eliza …” It was Toby. “I need to talk to you most urgently. Let’s go to my rooms. We have a little time and it’s very important …”
She followed him in silence.
“Something has cropped up this morning. Something that could really influence our chances. But … it has to be your call. We have a new witness, but … but I need your permission to call her.”
“Who is it?”
“It’s Georgina Barker. She rang and said she would like to come and see us to discuss the case, but then cancelled; we didn’t think it worth worrying you. And then she called again yesterday, but of course I’d left and my clerk couldn’t contact me until much later.”
“But … why? I don’t understand.”
“She wants to give evidence against Matt. Reading between the lines, I would say he’s upset her in some way and she’s having her revenge.”
“But—”
“Apparently he told her he’d hit you once.”
“Oh! Oh, Toby, no … that’s … that’s … oh, God.”
“Yes. Well, I always suspected there’s been some violence. Was … was that the only instance?”
“Yes. Yes, it was.” She was silent. Then: “Toby, I don’t think I want that coming out. I don’t want her standing up in court and telling everyone.”
He sighed. “I had a hunch you’d say that.”
“I really don’t.”
“It could make all the difference, Eliza. It could win you the case. Win you Emmie. Please think very, very carefully about it.”
“When … when would she be called?”
“This afternoon, possibly. After the judge sees Emmie. Possibly tomorrow morning.”
“So I have a little time to decide?”
“Yes, but only a little. Eliza, for the love of God, why are you so against it?”
“Two reasons,” she said slowly. “I’d better tell you what it was about. Not the row itself—it was about the article in the paper—but what I said to provoke it. To provoke him. I said something appalling to Matt, really appalling; I couldn’t even tell you, I’m so ashamed of it—and it would come out, and … well and anyway, I … I don’t think I want Emmie knowing her daddy hit me. I really don’t. It would get in the papers; God, I can see the headline now; they’d love it; I just can’t risk it, Toby.”
“Well … as I say, it could win you the case. It’s a gift from God, I’d say.”
“Or the devil.”
She looked at him; he smiled at her.
“Please think about it really carefully. Don’t rush this, I beg of you. Take your time.”
“Yes,” she said, “yes, all right.”
Mariella got back to the Ritz just after one. The pain and the suffocating sense of loss had eased with her court appearance; she had enjoyed it, given it her all. It had been a most wonderful distraction, but now she was back, back in the real world, and she had to have lunch with Giovanni and Jeremy.
Jeremy had considered illness, urgent meetings, pressing family business, and rejected them all. Giovanni would read, correctly, that these were excuses and wonder why they were being proffered.
He walked into the lobby as Mariella did, smiled at her, bowed slightly, and brushed his lips against the cheek she lifted to his.
“Hallo.”
“Hallo, Jeremy.”
“How did the court appearance go?”
“I think very well. Thank you. Shall we go in?”
“Yes.”
The maître d’ bustled to greet them; Jeremy put his hand on her back, very gently, to usher her forward; she turned very briefly—clearly quite unable to help herself—to smile at him; her eyes were huge and very soft; he smiled back into them, unable to help himself either.
Giovanni was already at the table; he saw them approaching, stood up to greet them, clearly delighted that they had arrived together. He was looking particularly wonderful, Mariella noticed distractedly, wearing a soft linen suit and a shirt of palest blue, his white hair, thick and wavy still, brushed back, perfectly groomed: altogether the epitome of old-world elegance.
He smiled, his enchanting, embracing smile, and his eyes, those piercing blue eyes, were, she noticed, particularly brilliant; he held out both his hands in greeting, took a step forward, said, “My,” and stopped, then said it again—“My”—and then his face changed, distorted, twisted, his legs buckled, and Jeremy only just reached him in time to catch him as he fell, and laid him on the floor, where he lay struggling with dreadful rasping breaths, his eyes wide, his body rigid.
Mariella sank onto the floor beside him, cradling his head; Jeremy knelt beside her, loosening Giovanni’s tie, calling for cushions, for help, and just for a moment the world shrank to the three of them. The dreadful rasping breathing at first eased and then stopped; the brilliant eyes had become dim and dull, and with a final whispery sigh, Giovanni’s long and wonderfully blessed life was ended.
And Mariella, looking at him as he lay there, so sweetly peaceful, thought that she had anticipated this moment many times over the years, of course she had, but had feared that since the advent of Jeremy into her life there might be something unseemly, unloving, a sense of relief, even, about it, but she felt only sorrow and loss and a wave of intense gratitude to this brilliant, beautiful, loving man who had done so much to make her into the creature she was and been so proud that he had done so; and she bent and kissed his forehead, thinking what a truly immense loss to her this was.
“Oh … oh, Mummy, oh, no …”
Sarah looked at Eliza, her eyes large with distress.
“I’m sorry, darling, so sorry.”
Emmie, dressed in blue-and-white-striped OshKosh dungarees, with a white T-shirt underneath and sneakers on her feet, smiled at her mother.
“Hallo, Mummy.”
“Emmie, darling … I did want you to wear a dress, to look pretty for the judge—”
“I know. But I wanted to wear my dungies. I feel better in them. More happy.”
“She said”—Sarah spoke in a low voice—“she said if I made her wear a dress, she’d run away.”
Eliza gave up. She knew actually how Emmie felt. Clothes were great influencers of mood.
“All right, darling. Well … you look very nice. Now come and meet everyone; this gentleman is Mr. Gordon, and this is his assistant, Caroline.”
“Hallo, Emmie. Very nice to have you here.”
“It’s nice to be here,” said Emmie politely.
“Hallo, Emmie.” Toby Gilmour had arrived.
“Hallo. I like your wig.”
“Thank you. How’s Mouse?”
“He’s fine.”
“They’re ready, Eliza. Mrs. Fullerton-Clark, how nice to see you again.”
“And you.”
There was a sudden whoop of, “Daddy,” and Emmie had shaken her hand free of her mother’s and shot across the atrium of the Law Courts, almost knocking over a heavily bewigged gentleman, and up into her father’s arms.
And Matt stood there, his face buried in her long, shining hair, holding her close, and for a long moment nobody moved, and then: “Well,” said Philip Gordon. “Shall we all go up?”
Emmie slithered down and took Matt’s hand, then turned to wait for her mother and took hers also and walked up the great staircase between them, and everyone involved in the case, which included Judge Clifford Rogers, on his way to his rooms, became most forcibly aware that what was about to happen to this little family was nothing less than a small, and possibly quite a large tragedy.
Standing outside the judge’s rooms, Eliza wanted to grab Emmie, run down the stairs with her, out into the street, anything rather than subject her to this dreadful ordeal. Her grip on Emmie’s hand
tightened.
“Now, darling … just answer the judge’s questions, and—”
The door opened; a female clerk appeared.
“Is this Emmeline?”
“Yes,” said Emmie before anyone else could speak.
“Come along in, Emmeline. Mr. Rogers has tea for you both, and some biscuits …”
“Chocolate?” asked Emmie hopefully.
“I believe there are some of those, yes.”
Emmie followed the woman into the room, turning to smile at the small group before she vanished. “Bye,” she said.
“Give her twenty years,” said Toby, “and she’ll be conducting cases herself.”
“What do we do now?” said Eliza as Emmie disappeared. Matt had gone silently away.
“We wait. Shouldn’t be too long. Thirty minutes, maximum. Have you made your decision, Eliza?”
“No. Not yet. Is she … is Georgina here?”
“She’s on her way. She knows she may not be able to appear. Why don’t you go for a little walk? Have a think.”
“Yes, all right. Thanks, Toby.”
As Eliza reached the courts again, a taxi was pulling up. Philip Gordon’s assistant and Georgina Barker got out of it.
At the same time, Matt Shaw was approaching from the other direction; he saw Georgina and stopped.
Eliza had often wondered what the word blanch precisely meant; she felt she knew now. Matt’s face was ghastly white.
“Hallo, Matt,” said Georgina, and swept past him into the building.
Eliza decided a little hyperanxiety would do Matt good, smiled at him sweetly, and ran up the stairs to where she had arranged to meet Toby.
“Hallo,” she said.
“Hallo.”
“I’ve … made my decision.”
“And?”
“And the answer’s no. I can’t do it, Toby. Sorry. But you know something? I made another decision in this case, and everyone told me that was wrong.”
“And what was that?”
“To retain you and not Tristram Selbourne.”
“And?”
“That was the right decision. I know that now, without a doubt.”
More Than You Know Page 62
