Anne Perry - The Twisted Root

The second day was no better. Robb finished his testimony, and Rathbone was given the opportunity to question him, but there was nothing for him to ask. If he remained silent he would appear to have surrendered already, without even the semblance of a fight, as if he had no belief in his clients and no hope for them. And yet Tobias had touched on every aspect of Robb’s knowledge of the case and there was nothing to challenge. Everything he had said was true, and not open to kinder or more favorable interpretation. To have him repeat it would not only look ineffectual, it would reinforce it in the jury’s minds. He rose to his feet.

"Thank you, my lord, but Mr. Tobias has asked of Sergeant Robb everything that I would have. It would be self-indulgent of me to waste the court’s time asking the sergeant to repeat it for me." He sat down again.

Tobias smiled.

The judge nodded to him unhappily. He seemed to find the case distressing, and looked as if he would very much rather have had someone else there in his place, but he would see justice done. He had spent his life in this cause.

Tobias called the minister from the church in Hampstead, a genial man who looked uncomfortable in such surroundings but gave his evidence with conviction. He had known Cleo Anderson for thirty years. He had had no idea she had committed any crime whatsoever and found this news difficult to comprehend. He apologized for expressing such bewilderment. However, human frailty was his field of experience.

Tobias sympathized with him. "And how long have you known Miriam Gardiner?" he asked.

"Since she first came to Hampstead," the vicar replied. Then under Tobias’s gentle encouragement he told the story of Miriam’s first appearance in acute distress, at about thirteen years old, how Cleo had taken her in and cared for her while seeking her family. This had proved impossible, and Miriam had remained with Cleo until her marriage to Mr. Gardiner.

"A moment," Tobias interrupted him. "Could you describe Mr. Gardiner for us, please. His age, his appearance, his social and financial standing."

The vicar looked a trifle startled.

Rathbone was not. He knew exactly what Tobias was doing: establishing a pattern of Cleo’s and Miriam’s loyalty to each other, of Miriam’s marrying a man with a prosperous business and then sharing her good fortune with her original benefactress, who had become as a mother to her. He did it extremely well, painting a picture of the woman and child struggling in considerable hardship, their closeness to one another, the happiness of Miriam on finding a worthy man, albeit older than herself, but gentle and apparently devoted to her.

It had not been a great romance, but a good, stable marriage-and certainly all that a girl in Miriam’s position might have hoped for. A love match with a man her own age and class would not have brought her much material status or security.

Tobias made his point well and delicately. Again there was nothing whatever Rathbone could call into question.

Had Miriam shared her new good fortune with Cleo Anderson?

"Naturally," the vicar replied. "What loving daughter would not?"

"Just so," Tobias agreed, and let the matter rest.

When the court was adjourned for the day Rathbone went immediately to see Miriam. She was alone in the police cells, her face drawn, her eyes dark. She did not ask him why he had not crossexamined, and her silence made it harder for him. He had no idea if she had even hoped for anything, or how much she understood. It was so easy, when he was accustomed to the flow of a trial and its hidden meanings, to assume that others were as aware. He would have liked to allow her the mercy of remaining unaware of how serious her situation was, but he could not afford to.

He drew in his breath to ask her the usual question as to her feelings, or to offer some words of encouragement, true or not, but they would be empty and a waste of precious time and emotion. It would make almost a greater division between them, if that was possible. Honesty, his honesty, was all they had.

"Mrs. Gardiner, you must tell me the truth. I was silent today because I have no weapon to use against Tobias. He knows it, but if make a show of fighting him, and lose, then the jury will know it as well. Now they think I am merely biding my time. But I am walking blindly. I don’t know what he may know that I don’t. Or what he may discover-which is worse."

She turned half away from him. "Nothing. There is nothing he can discover."

"He can discover who killed James Treadwell!" he said sharply. The time for any consideration of feeling was past. The rope was already overshadowing not only her but Cleo also.

She turned slowly to look at him. "I doubt that, Sir Oliver. They would not believe it, even if I were to tell them. And I won’t. Believe me, it would cause far greater injury than it would ever heal. I have no proof, and all the evidence you have, as you have said, is against me."

The cells were warm, even stuffy, but he felt chilled in spite of it.

"It is my task to make them believe it." He feared even as he said it that she had closed her mind and was not listening to him. "At least allow me to try?" He was sounding desperate. He could hear it in the stridency of his voice.

"I am sorry you don’t believe me," she said softly. "But it is true that it would cause more pain than any good it would do. At least accept that I have thought long and very hard about it before I have made this decision. I do understand that I will hang. I have no delusion that some miracle is going to save me. And you have not lied to me or given me any false sense of comfort. For that I thank you."

Her gratitude was like a rebuff, reminding him of how little he had actually done. He was going to be no more than a figurehead, barely fulfilling the requirements of the law that she be represented. The prosecution need not have called in Tobias, the merest junior could have presented this case and beaten him.

He found he was shaking, his hands clenched tight. "It is not only you who will hang-Cleo Anderson will as well!"

Her voice choked. "I know. But what can I do?" She looked at him, her eyes swimming with tears. "I will testify that I was there and that it was not she who killed him, if you want. But who would believe me? They think we are conspirators anyway. They expect me to defend her. I can’t prove she wasn’t there, and I can’t prove he wasn’t blackmailing her or that she didn’t take the medicines. She did!"

What she said was true.

"Someone killed Treadwell." He picked his words carefully, trying to hurt her enough to make her tell him at last. "If it was not either you or Cleo, the only person I can think of that you would die to defend is Lucius Stourbridge."

Her eyes widened, and the last vestige of color fled from her face. She was too horrified to respond.

"If you will hang for him," he went on, "that is your choice. But is he really worth Cleo Anderson’s life as well? Does she deserve that from you?"

She swung around to face him, her eyes blazing, her lips drawn back in a snarl of such ferocity he was almost afraid of her, small as she was, and imprisoned in this police cell.

"Lucius had nothing to do with it. I am not defending Treadwell’s murderer! If I could see him hang I would tie the rope with my own hands and pull the trapdoor and watch him drop!" She took a deep, gasping breath. "I can’t! God help me, there is nothing-nothing I can do. Now go away and leave me at least to solitude, if not to peace."

Other questions beat in his mind, but his fury and his despair robbed him of the words. He longed to be able to help her, not to increase his own reputation or to defend his honor, but simply to ease the pain he could see, and even feel, as he watched her. She was only a yard away from him, and yet an abyss existed between what she experienced and what he understood. He had no idea at all how he could cross that space. They could have been in separate countries. He did not even know what else he felt: anger; fear that she was guilty; fear that she was not and he would fail her and she would be destroyed by the wheels of the law he was supposed to guide or by pity; even a kind of admiration, because quite without reason, he believed there was something noble in her, something beautiful and strong.