Anne Perry - A Dangerous Mourning

Basil swore, but it was to no avail whatever. If she even heard him, it passed over her head harmlessly.

Romola refused to be the only one left at home, and no one bothered to argue with her.

The courtroom was crammed with spectators, and since this time Hester was not required to give any evidence, she was able to sit in the public gallery throughout.

The prosecution was conducted by a Mr. F. J. O'Hare, a flamboyant gentleman who had made his name in a few sensational cases-and many less publicized ones which had earned him a great deal of money. He was well respected by his professional peers and adored by the public, who were entertained and impressed by his quiet, intense manner and sudden explosions into drama. He was of average height but stocky build, short neck and fine silver hair, heavily waved. Had he permitted it to be longer it would have been a leonine mane, but he apparently preferred to appear sleek. He had a musical lilt to his voice which Hester could not place, and the slightest of lisps.

Percival was defended by Oliver Rathbone, and as soon as she saw him Hester felt a wild, singing hope inside her like a bird rising on the wind. It was not only that justice might be done after all, but that Rathbone had been prepared to fight, simply for the cause, not for its reward.

The first witness called was the upstairs maid, Annie, who had found Octavia Haslett's body. She looked very sober, dressed in her best off-duty blue stuff dress and a bonnet that hid her hair and made her look curiously younger, both aggressive and vulnerable at the same time.

Percival stood in the dock, upright and staring in front of

him. He might lack humility, compassion or honor, but he was not without courage. He looked smaller than Hester remembered him, narrower across the shoulders and not as tall. But then he was motionless; the swagger that was part of him could not be used, nor the vitality. He was helpless to fight back. It was all in Rathbone's hands now.

The doctor was called next, and gave his evidence briefly. Octavia Haslett had been stabbed to death during the night, with not more than two blows to the lower chest, beneath the ribs.

The third witness was William Monk, and his evidence lasted the rest of the morning and all the afternoon. He was abrasive, sarcastic, and punctiliously accurate, refiising to draw even the most obvious conclusions from anything.

F. J. O'Hare was patient to begin with and scrupulously polite, waiting his chance to score a deciding thrust. It did not come until close to the end, when he was passed a note by his junior, apparently reminding him of the Grey case.

"It would seem to me, Mr. Monk-it is Mr. now, not Inspector, is that so?" His lisp was very slight indeed.

"It is so," Monk conceded without a flicker of expression.

“It would seem to me, Mr. Monk, that from your testimony you do not consider Percival Garrod to be guilty."

"Is that a question, Mr. O'Hare?"

"It is, Mr. Monk, indeed it is!"

"I do not consider it to be proved by the evidence to hand so far," Monk replied. "That is not the same thing."

“Is it materially different, Mr. Monk? Correct me if I am in error, but were you not sincerely unwilling to convict the offender in your last case as well? One Menard Grey, as I recall!"

"No," Monk instantly contradicted. "I was perfectly willing to convict him-in fact, I was eager to. I was unwilling to see him hanged."

"Oh, yes-mitigating circumstances," O'Hare agreed. "But you could find none in the case of Percival Garrod murdering his master's daughter-it would strain even your ingenuity, I imagine? So you maintain the proof of the murder weapon and the bloodstained garment of the victim hidden in his room, which you have told us you discovered, is not enough

to satisfy you? What do you require, Mr. Monk, an eyewitness?"

"Only if I considered their veracity beyond question," Monk replied wolfishly and without humor. "I would prefer some evidence that made sense."

"For example, Mr. Monk?" O'Hare invited. He glanced at Rathbone to see if he would object. The judge frowned and waited also. Rathbone smiled benignly back and said nothing.

"A motive for Percival to have kept such-" Monk hesitated and avoided the word damning, catching O'Hare's eye and knowing a sudden victory, brief and pointless. "Such a useless and damaging piece of material," he said instead, "which he could so easily have destroyed, and a knife which he could simply have wiped and returned to the cook's rack.''

"Perhaps he wished to incriminate someone else?" O'Hare raised his voice with a life of something close to humor, as if the idea were obvious.

"Then he was singularly unsuccessful," Monk replied. "And he had the opportunity. He should have gone upstairs and put it where he wished as soon as he knew the cook had missed the knife."

“Perhaps he intended to, but did not have the chance? What an agony of impotence for him. Can you imagine it?" O'Hare turned to the jury and raised his hands, palms upward. “What a rich irony! It was a man hoist with his own petard! And who would so richly deserve it?"

This time Rathbone rose and objected.

"My lord, Mr. O'Hare is assuming something which has yet to be proved. Even with all his well-vaunted gifts of persuasion, he has not so far shown us anything to indicate who put those objects in Percival's room. He is arguing his conclusion from his premise, and his premise from his conclusion!"

"You will have to do better, Mr. O'Hare," the judge cautioned.

"Oh, I will, my lord," O'Hare promised. "You may be assured, I will!"

The second day O'Hare began with the physical evidence so dramatically discovered. He called Mrs. Boden, who took the stand looking homely and flustered, very much out of her element. She was used to being able to exercise her judgment and her prodigious physical skills. Her art spoke for her. Now she was faced with standing motionless, every exchange to be verbal, and she was ill at ease.

When it was shown her, she looked at the knife with revulsion, but agreed that it was hers, from her kitchen. She recognized various nicks and scratches on the handle, and an irregularity in the blade. She knew the tools of her art. However she became severely rattled when Rathbone pressed her closely about exactly when she had last used it. He took her through the meals of each day, asking her which knives she had used in the preparation, and finally she became so confused he must have realized he was alienating the entire courtroom by pressing her over something for which no one else could see a purpose.

O'Hare rose, smiling and smooth, to call the ladies' maid Mary to testify that the bloodstained peignoir was indeed Oc-tavia's. She looked very pale, her usually rich olive complexion without a shred of its blushing cheeks, her voice uncharacteristically subdued. But she swore it was her mistress's. She had seen her wear it often enough, and ironed its satin and smoothed out its lace.

Rathbone did not bother her. There was nothing to contend.

Next O'Hare called the butler. Phillips looked positively cadaverous as he stepped into the witness box. His balding head shone in the light through his thin hair, his eyebrows appeared more ferocious than ever, but his expression was one of dignified wretchedness, a soldier on parade before an unruly mob and robbed of the weapons to defend himself.

O'Hare was far too practiced to insult him by discourtesy or condescension. After establishing Phillips' position and his considerable credentials, he asked him about his seniority over the other servants in the house. This also established, for the jury and the crowd, he proceeded to draw him a highly unfavorable picture of Percival as a man, without ever impugning his abilities as a servant. Never once did he force Phillips into appearing malicious or negligent in his own duty. It was a masterly performance. There was almost nothing Rathbone could do except ask Phillips if he had had the slightest idea that this objectionable and arrogant young man had raised his eyes as far as his master's daughter. To which Phillips replied