Anne Perry - Death Of A Stranger

“Oh… really…” Fowler groaned.

Garstang shot a look of acute dislike at him. He felt insulted, cut short and dismissed before he had even begun.

“Please, Mr. Garstang,” Rathbone encouraged. “It is of the utmost importance. Indeed, someone’s life is at stake.”

Garstang assumed an attitude of intense concentration and held it until the court was silent, then he cleared his throat and began.

“I saw a dark shape on the balcony opposite. It seemed to heave and change outline violently, and to move from the open doorway across towards the edge. It surged back and forth for several moments, I cannot tell how long because I was horrified by the prospect of the tragedy about to happen.”

“Why was that?” Rathbone said.

“You asked me to be literal,” Garstang said crossly. “I described to you exactly what I saw, but it was perfectly obvious to me that it was two people struggling with each other, one intent upon hurling the other off the balcony onto the stones beneath.”

“But you did not see two separate figures?” Rathbone asked.

“I did not. They were locked in mortal combat.” Garstang’s voice was schoolmasterly, as to a particularly stupid child. “If he had even once let go of her she might have escaped him, and we should not be here to see justice done after the event.”

“Let us remember that we are here to see justice done,” Rathbone reminded him. “Not to exercise our personal feelings. You have described what you saw very precisely so far, Mr. Garstang. Did you see a figure go off the balcony and actually fall?”

“Yes, of course I did. That is when I left the window and ran out of the room and down the steps to see if I could help the poor woman, or on the other hand apprehend her murderer,” Garstang replied.

Rathbone held up his hand. “Just a moment, Mr. Garstang. I am afraid I need you to be more precise than that. I apologize for what must be distressing to any decent person. I assure you I would not do it were there any other way.”

Fowler stood up. “My lord, this witness has already told us in overlong detail what he saw. My learned friend is flattering-”

“I am not flattering the witness at all, my lord!” Rathbone cut across. “Mr. Garstang may be the only man who observed exactly what happened and is capable of telling us not what he has since concluded but what actually was.”

“If you do not have a point, Sir Oliver, I shall not indulge you again!” the judge warned. “Proceed, but be brief.”

The relief in Rathbone was visible even from where Hester sat, but she had no idea why. She could see nothing whatever changed. She glanced at Monk, and saw equal confusion in his face.

Rathbone looked up at Garstang. “Mr. Garstang, you saw her go off the balcony. You are sure it was she who went off?”

There was a moment of silent incredulity, then a rush of sound, a babble, disgust, laughter, anger.

Garstang stared at him, disbelief giving way to a slow, terrible memory.

The noise in the room subsided. Even Fowler sank back into his seat.

Monk craned forward.

Hester sat with her hands clenched.

“I saw her face…” Garstang said hoarsely. “I saw her face as she fell… white… she was…” He shuddered violently. “She was between murder… and death.” He put both hands up to his eyes.

“I apologize, Mr. Garstang,” Rathbone said gently and with sudden sincerity that was like a warmth in the room. He was speaking for an instant only to Garstang, not the court. “But your evidence is the key to the whole, terrible, tragic truth, and we all thank you for your courage of the mind, sir. You have saved a man’s life today.”

Fowler stood up and swiveled around as if looking for something that was not there.

Rathbone turned to him and smiled. “Your witness, Mr. Fowler.”

“For what?” Fowler demanded. “He has said nothing! What on earth does it matter that he saw her face? We all know it was she who fell!” He looked at the judge. “This is preposterous, my lord. Sir Oliver is making a farce out of a tragedy. Whether he is legally in contempt of court or not, morally he is.”

“I am inclined to agree,” the judge said with apparent reluctance. “Sir Oliver, you have certainly caught our attention, but you have proved nothing. I cannot allow you to continue in this manner. We have the public in our courts in order that they may see that justice is done, not as a form of entertainment. I shall not allow you to yield any further to the temptation to become a performer, in spite of your obvious talent in that direction.”

There was a murmur of nervous laughter around the court.

Rathbone bowed as if contrite. “I assure you, my lord, I shall shortly show how the fact that Mr. Garstang saw her face is of the utmost importance.”

“Are you questioning her identity?” the judge said with amazement.

“No, my lord. If I may call my next witness?”

“You may, but this testimony had better be relevant or I shall hold you in contempt, Sir Oliver.”

“It will be, my lord, thank you. I call the Reverend David Rider.”

Hester heard Monk’s gasp of indrawn breath and saw him lurch forward in his seat.

Margaret turned to stare at Hester, and then at Monk, the question in her face. Hester looked at her helplessly.

The court watched in silence as the vicar climbed the steps up to the witness-box, his hands gripping the rail as if to steady his balance. He looked tired, but worn out by emotion rather than any physical effort. His skin was pale and puffy around the eyes, and he looked back at Rathbone as if there was some profound understanding between them of more than grief, some overwhelming burden of knowledge which they shared.

Rider swore to his name, his occupation and his residence on the outskirts of Liverpool.

“Why are you here, Mr. Rider?” Rathbone asked gravely.

Rider spoke very quietly. “I have been wrestling with my conscience ever since Mr. Monk came to see me over a week ago, and I have come to the conclusion that my greater obligation is to tell that part of the truth that I know regarding Katrina Harcus. My duty to the living is too great to deny in order to protect the dead.”

There was a slight rustle of movement in the court, and then total silence.

Hester looked across at Dalgarno, as did several of the jurors, but they saw only complete confusion.

“You knew Katrina Harcus?” Rathbone asked.

“From her birth,” Rider replied.

Fowler shifted in his seat in apparent discomfort, but he did not interrupt.

“Then I presume you also know her mother?” Rathbone said.

“Yes. Pamela Harcus was my parishioner.”

“You say was,” Rathbone observed. “Is she now dead?”

“Yes. She died some three months ago. I… I am glad she did not live to see this.”

“Indeed, Mr. Rider.” Rathbone bowed his head in acknowledgment of the tragedy of it. “Did you also know Katrina Harcus’s father?”

“Not personally, but I knew of him.” Then, without waiting for Rathbone to ask, he added, “His name was Arrol Dundas.”

Monk let out an involuntary cry, and Hester reached out and put her hand on his arm, feeling the muscles hard underneath her touch.

The judge leaned forward. “Is this the same Arrol Dundas who was convicted of railway fraud sixteen years ago, Sir Oliver?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Let me understand you,” the judge continued. “Was she his legitimate daughter or illegitimate?”

Rathbone looked at Rider in the witness-box.

“Illegitimate, my lord,” Rider replied.

“What has that to do with her death?” Fowler demanded. “We all know that illegitimacy is a stigma that ruins lives. The sins of the fathers are visited upon the children whether we wish them to be or not, but it is irrelevant to her death, poor creature. It excuses nothing!”