Robed in spotless black silk, barrister Andrew Milligan stood at a full-length mirror, expertly flipping on his slightly soiled white wig. He carefully tucked renegade strands of dark hair. “We’re lucky, gentlemen. Mr Justice Reynolds fancies himself a patron of the theatre. I passed him in chambers the other day and dropped a mention that Jeremy O’Connell may be one of my witnesses. His face lit up like a child at Christmas. He also has an eye for the ladies.”
Sir Douglas adjusted his worn silk robe and chuckled. “Glad you’re aboard, Milligan. You’ve done good work at short notice. The witnesses are first class. Also, the girl likes you.” He flipped his straggly, badly stained wig over thin, grey hair.
Milligan clutched his right side, bending double with pain. Brown ran to him. “What is it Andrew? Are you ill?”
Milligan gasped. “I’ve had these blasted pains for two days. I was sick as a dog last night. Thought the worst was over.”
Rory filled a glass of water and sped to his side.
Brown felt Milligan’s forehead. “You’ve got a fever. Should we request a postponement?”
“Not on your life.” Milligan drank the water, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his forehead. “A postponement would mean tossing the girl back into a cell for months. We’d be carrying her out in a wooden box.” His face relaxed. “That’s better.” He nodded to Sir Douglas. “You’re giving the opening statement, sir. When my time comes, I’ll be right as rain.” His handsome smile reassured the others.
There was a knock on the door. A clerk stood ready to escort them into court. Smiling nervously, and wishing each other luck, the elegant team marched into the packed courtroom. Sir Douglas and Milligan sat in the front row, behind raised desks. A row behind, Brown and Rory sorted their file of papers on a narrow study table. When the prosecutor and his junior entered from the other direction, the opponents respectfully nodded to one another.
Milligan looked over the twelve jurors and three alternates whispering, “Always the same pompous lot. They should love the girl.”
The fifteen wealthy men, middle-aged and older, sat on two rows of padded benches. Strangers to each other, they exchanged light conversation, trying to appear at ease.
In the courtroom, a hundred heads turned to watch the prisoner enter the dock.
Eyes lowered, standing straight, a Madonna-like figure walked up a short flight of stairs and waited demurely. Slowly, Elly raised her eyes.
Milligan’s heart leapt. “She’s stunning.”
Sir Douglas whispered, “First round won.”
Remembering her instructions, Elly kept a serious expression while nodding politely to the jurors. Milligan watched their faces. Fifteen men were in love. A female warder waited on either side. One spoke sharply and Elly quickly sat down. She glanced at Milligan. He winked his eye. She tried to smile back.
“All rise!”
There was a loud shuffling of feet as everyone stood for the entrance of the judge.
Elly blinked when a small man, almost overpowered by his shoulder-length white wig and voluminous red robe, appeared from behind his huge centre desk, bowed to the jury and the court, and sat on his high-backed chair.
Everyone but Elly and the clerk sat down. The clerk read her charges, and asked if she pleaded innocent or guilty. As rehearsed, she tried to keep her face and voice free of emotion. “Not guilty.” She sat down.
The judge turned to the Crown Prosecutor. “Mr Johnson, your opening statement, if you please.”
Elly braved a look at Mr Milligan’s friend, the man employed to send her to the gallows.
Johnson was short and solidly built.
“My lord …” he stood and bowed. “…members of the jury …” nodding graciously, his eyes connected with each of the fifteen men, “… I appear for the prosecution and my learned friend, Sir Douglas Thompson, for the defence. This morning you have been called into this venerable court of law to decide the guilt or innocence of Miss Elisa Roundtree, a woman accused of violently murdering her betrothed.”
He paused, giving the jurors time to compare Elly, a fragile china doll, eyes lowered, hands gracefully in her lap, with their mental images of a violent murderer. As he expected, the men knit their brows, almost imperceptibly shaking their heads. He smiled pleasantly. “She is a very pretty woman, is she not?” Their expressions suggested agreement so he continued, “One might say she is the kind of woman who attracts admirers.”
Some of the men nodded without reserve. Others seemed unsure.
As if already bored by the proceedings, the prosecutor opened his arms. “We have all read press articles about Miss Roundtree. Let us not be so fatuous as to pretend otherwise. We know her as the actress, Elly Fielding, who eluded her marital duties by seducing her art master into helping her run away from school.”
Elly’s mouth dropped open. Milligan had warned her that terrible lies would be told and she must not react. She lowered her eyes and clutched her hands.
The prosecutor continued, “As tiny children, we were taught that handsome is as handsome does.” Looking at Elly, he shook his head. “This young woman’s malicious actions destroy any possible sympathy her pleasing appearance may encourage.” Pretending to check his notes, he gave the jurymen time to digest this idea.
“Her betrothed, Sir John Garingham, was a charitable man who had supported her entire family from the day of her birth, for the next eighteen years. Repayment for his bountiful favour was to be a life of luxury, as wife to the honourable gentleman.” There were murmurs from the crowd as the jurors moved uncomfortably in their seats.
The prosecutor turned to Sir Douglas. “Undoubtedly, my learned friend will present this young woman as a soft-spoken, modest, paragon of virtue.” He wearily shook his head. “I hope our indulgence will not be tested too grossly.” He paused with his hands at his sides. “Gentlemen, after Miss Roundtree ran away from the comfortable shelter of a fine school, she found her way into the underside of London society.” He pointed an accusing finger. “She became an actress.” Pausing, he allowed the inference to penetrate. “An actress, mind you.”
It took all of Rory’s self-control to keep from shouting, “Not all actresses are whores!” His sweaty hands wanted to throttle Johnson’s thick throat.
The jurors nodded to each other as the prosecutor continued, “Not satisfied with that notoriety, she used her beauty and her talent … as an actress … to slyly insinuate herself into one of London’s most upstanding households, that of Sir William Richfield, where she has been adopted as his ward.”
Pausing again, he crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “This simple Yorkshire lass has wormed her way into both the fellowship of celebrities from the stage, and the highest echelon of London society.” Looking at Elly, he nodded with admiration. “An unprecedented ascent for a young woman from modest beginnings.” He shrugged, “Of course, she would have lost it all, had she done her filial duty, returned to Yorkshire, and married her betrothed.”
He leaned casually on the wooden balustrade. “When she was forcibly brought home to do her duty, she found a simple solution.” He raised his hands in mock surprise. “She pushed her betrothed out of a window.” Excited whispers spread through the room. Journalists scribbled on small tablets.
Elly wanted to scream. Closing her eyes, she clenched her teeth and squeezed her gloved fingers together.
The prosecutor gestured to Sir Douglas. “My learned colleague may imply that I am presenting Miss Roundtree as a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I am doing nothing so dramatic.” Feigning boredom, he closed his eyes and shook his head. “My lord, gentlemen of the jury, very simply,” he shrugged, “Miss Roundtree … or should I call her Miss Fielding? … is … an … actress.”
Fifteen jurors sat riveted and Johnson felt very pleased with himself. He bowed and took his seat.
The judge nodded and turned to the defence. “Sir Douglas, your opening statement, if you please.”
A surge of adrenalin
e lifted Sir Douglas Thompson to his feet. “My lord …” he turned to the jury box, “… gentlemen of the jury …” his eyes bore into each of the fifteen men, in turn, “… it is my learned friend’s unenviable duty to convince you that Miss Elisa Roundtree is a cold-blooded murderer. It is my very pleasant duty … and the duty of my junior, Andrew Milligan …” he gestured to Milligan who stood, nodded, and resumed his seat, “… to convince you otherwise. Mr Johnson is correct in one thing. I will indeed persuade you that the young lady is a ‘soft-spoken, modest, paragon of virtue.’ I promise that during the course of this trial, you will come to know her as the gentlest of souls, as handsome on the inside as she is on the outside.
“She asks little for herself, compassionately helps those less fortunate, and never speaks ill of others. Her good fortune in the theatre has been earned from her innate talent in that classical art. Her acceptance into society is the natural succession of a young lady with exceptional charm and breeding. Be assured, gentlemen, that God still creates women who are as good as they are beautiful.”
Sir Douglas leaned on the wooden balustrade. A heart flutter took his breath away. Milligan perched, ready to catch him. Perspiration ran down the old man’s pale face as he forced himself to go on.
“My learned friend,” he gestured to the prosecutor, “suggests that Miss Roundtree is a woman without conscience.” He paused dramatically. “She is very much the opposite.” He looked at Elly, encouraging the jurymen to do the same. “Until recently, this gentle lady was still a child at school. She believed she was penniless. She was raised in the home of her father’s younger brother, Anthony Roundtree.”
He looked over his spectacles. “You may have read that that gentleman was recently hanged for the murder of a priest. Miss Roundtree is only now eighteen years of age. Upon reaching the age of twenty-one, or upon her marriage, whichever comes first, she – or her husband – will be very wealthy. Before Miss Roundtree was born, Anthony Roundtree had already gambled away the family estate and was indebted to his friend, Sir John Garingham. Mr Roundtree betrothed his infant niece to Sir John, assuming her dowry would keep both men in luxury for the rest of their lives.”
The jurors were riveted, their eyes moving from Sir Douglas to Elly and back again.
Sir Douglas enjoyed the effect. “During Miss Roundtree’s childhood, Sir John was a frequent visitor. Since he was her intended, he was allowed to mistreat her. Even though she grew up fearing the man, she was dutifully prepared to marry him. The day of the wedding he was killed in a tragic accident.” He paused. “An accident, gentleman, having … nothing … to … do … with … her.”
Pausing again, he allowed the jurymen time to absorb this new concept. Exhausted, he braced himself and looked at the judge. “My lord. With your kind consent, I will turn over today’s defence to my junior.”
The judge nodded. “As you please, Sir Douglas.”
The old man gratefully sat down.
Milligan whispered, “Excellent opening, sir. Well done. Second round won.”
Leaning back, Sir Douglas closed his eyes. “Yes, I think it was.”
“Chief Inspector Hayes!”
Brisk, clipped footsteps echoed down the wooden floorboards, announcing the arrival of the prosecution’s first witness. The Chief Inspector swore to tell the truth and addressed the judge. “Forgive me, m’ lord, but this morning I received an urgent summons and must catch the first possible train to Dover. Regrettably, I am unable to disclose the circumstances of the case, but trust you will believe that it is urgent, and concerns an investigation I alone am equipped to handle. I know you wish to hear my account of events on January 5th, so, if I may, I will proceed with the utmost clarity and haste.”
The judge nodded, “By all means, Chief Inspector. Please proceed.”
Standing to attention, the Chief Inspector read from notes. “At around two o’clock on January 5th of this year, Isabelle, Lady Richfield, and her solicitor Roger Foxhall came to my office to speak of eighteen-year-old Elisa Roundtree who had, early that morning, been abducted by her uncle …”
Elly knew this part of the story. She allowed her mind to wander, but was snapped to attention hearing, “… Miss Roundtree said she had pushed Sir John Garingham out of the window and his boot had caught in the hoop of her skirt, pulling her after him.”
The prosecutor rose. “Chief Inspector.”
He was startled by the interruption. “Sir?”
“Kindly repeat what Miss Roundtree said about Sir John Garingham.”
He answered without emotion. “She said she pushed him out the window and his—”
“Thank you, sir. Pray continue.”
The Chief Inspector returned to his notes. “Anthony Roundtree was taken into custody. Miss Roundtree’s care was given over to Lady Richfield. I have nothing more from that first interview. Upon my second interview—”
Johnson interrupted. “Thank you, Chief Inspector. My lord. I have no more questions for this witness.”
Rory was tight as a rubber band. The barristers sitting in front of him appeared calm. The judge looked over. “Your witness, Mr Milligan.”
“Thank you, My Lord.” Although Milligan’s face showed no emotion, his knuckles were white as they clutched the rail. “Chief Inspector …” he spoke casually, “… did you believe Miss Roundtree when she said that she had pushed Sir John Garingham out the window?”
“No.” For the first time the Chief Inspector paused to think. “The young lady was in a very bad way. She had just been carried into the house after falling out a window. Two men had died in her presence. Any young lady suffering such an ordeal might be prone to flights of fancy. Later, I examined Sir John’s corpse. Although no longer young, he was well built and strong. She appeared rather fragile. It seemed improbable that she could have done what she said. I had also seen the marriage licence, which she had signed only minutes before the fall. Her signature was very neat, so I did not believe she had signed it under duress.”
Milligan’s heart pounded. “And yet you entered her statement in your report.”
“I reported what Miss Roundtree told me. I did not witness the event. In a later interview, she said the gunshot had startled Sir John and he fell backward. When she ran to his aid, they both fell through the window. ”
“Then sir, do you in fact, know how Sir John came to fall through the window?”
“No, sir. I do not. After the event, I examined the window frame. The wood was very old. A second window, next to it, was also very loose.”
Milligan kept his excitement from showing. “Then, sir, do you believe it possible that a gentleman as ‘well built’ as you say Sir John was, being startled by a gunshot, could have lurched back and fallen through of his own accord?”
“Objection!” The prosecutor was on his feet. “My Lord, are we to require an esteemed gentleman from Scotland Yard to be acquainted with the paltry knowledge of a common glazier?”
The judge nodded. “Objection sustained.”
Sir Douglas whispered, “We need a glazier.”
Milligan clenched his jaw, bowed, and returned focus to the witness. “Just to be clear, sir. Am I—” Searing pain stabbed his right side. He gasped for breath. “Am I correct in understanding that you do not know why Sir John fell through that window?” The pain slowly subsided.
“You are correct.”
“Thank you, Chief Inspector. I have no more questions.” Milligan sat down, clutching his side.
Sir Douglas nodded in approval.
The judge asked, “Redirect, Mr Johnson?”
The prosecutor rose again. “Chief Inspector, you said you found it improbable that Miss Roundtree had pushed Sir John out the window. You did not say that it was impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible, sir.”
“Thank you.” Johnson smiled. “You have been very helpful, and you will still be in time for an early train.”
The judge nodded. “You are dismissed, sir, with our
thanks.”
Milligan turned to Rory with a frantic whisper, “Wire Yorkshire. We need a glazier to examine those windows.”
Rory raced out.
Sir Douglas shook his head. “How the devil did we miss that?”
The judge called, “Your next witness, Mr Johnson.”
The prosecutor looked toward the back of the room, then faced the judge. “A thousand pardons, m’ lord,” he forced a smile, “but my second witness, Constable Henry Wright from Yorkshire, should have arrived an hour ago. We have had word that a train ahead of his came into problems near Daventry, delaying all the southbound trains. I beg the privilege of calling him, out of turn, when he manages to arrive.”
The judge turned to the defence. “Sir Douglas, what do you say?’
The old man forced himself to his feet. “Of course, my lord.” He smiled graciously, sat down, and muttered to Milligan, “As though I have a choice.”
Johnson nodded, “Many thanks. I have no more witnesses at this time.”
“Mrs Elizabeth Johnson!”
Andrew Milligan’s smile comforted the large, grey-haired woman standing anxiously in the witness box. “Mrs Johnson, may we assume that you are no relation to my learned colleague, Mr Johnson?” He gestured to the prosecutor.
“No, sir!” Eyes bulging, she gripped the railing with large, strong fingers. “I never seen t’ gentleman before today. Least wise, I don’t think I ’ave.” She wiped sweating palms on her plain grey skirt.
Milligan’s good-natured chuckle reassured her. “I am sure you have not. While Johnson is an old and venerable name, it is a name shared by many.” His half-smile and brusque nod to the prosecutor implied that his friend might be related to the ungainly female. Johnson scowled at his friend’s schoolboy humour. Milligan chuckled to himself and blithely continued. “Mrs Johnson, how long have you been cook at the Roundtree estate?”
She pursed her lips. “Aye sir, must be goin’ on fifteen year, sir.” She smiled up at Elly. “T’ young Miss were a tiny thing, no taller than up to m’ …” Not knowing a genteel word for hip, she held her hand at that level, “… than that.”
Beauty's Doom: The final instalment of the romantic Victorian mystery (His Majesty's Theatre Book 4) Page 13
