William Monk 03 - Defend and Betray

to say and reluctant to commit an error.
    “Thank you, Mrs. Pole. We quite understand.” Lovat-Smith smiled and sat down again, leaving the floor to Rathbone.
    Sabella looked at Rathbone guardedly, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wary and miserable.
    Rathbone smiled at her. “Mrs. Pole, have you known Mrs. Furnival for some time, several years in fact?”
    “Yes.”
    “Did you believe that she was having an affair with your father?”
    There was a gasp of indrawn breath around the courtroom. At last someone was getting to the crux of the situation. Excitement rippled through them.
    “No,” Sabella said hotly. Then she looked at Rathbone’s expression and repeated it with more composure. “No, I did not. I never saw or heard anything to make me think so.”
    “Did your mother ever say anything to you to indicate that she thought so, or that the relationship gave her any anxiety or distress of any sort?”
    “No—no, I cannot recall that she ever mentioned it at all.”
    “Never?” Rathbone said with surprise. “And yet you were very close, were you not?”
    For the first time Sabella quite openly looked up towards the dock.
    “Yes, we were—we are close.”
    “And she never mentioned the subject?”
    “No.”
    “Thank you.” He turned back to Lovat-Smith with a smile.
    Lovat-Smith rose.
    “Mrs. Pole, did you kill your father?”
    The judge held up his hand to prevent Sabella from replying, and looked at Rathbone, inviting him to object. It was an improper question, since it had not been part of the examination in chief, and also she should be warned of the possibility of incriminating herself.
    Rathbone shrugged.
    The judge sighed and lowered his hand, frowning at Lovat-Smith.
    “You do not need to answer that question unless you wish to,” he said to Sabella.
    “No, I did not,” Sabella said huskily, her voice little more than a whisper.
    “Thank you.” Lovat-Smith inclined his head; it was all he had required.
    The judge leaned forward. “You may go, Mrs. Pole,” he said gently. “There is nothing further.”
    “Oh,” she said, as if a little lost and wishing to find something more to say, something to help. Reluctantly she came down, assisted for the last two steps by the clerk of the court, and disappeared into the crowd, the light catching for a moment on her pale hair before she was gone.
    There was an adjournment for luncheon. Monk and Hester found a man with a sandwich cart, purchased a sandwich each and ate them in great haste before returning to find their seats again.
    As soon as the court reassembled and came to order the next witness was summoned.
    “Fenton Pole!” the bailiff said loudly. “Calling Fenton Pole!”
    Fenton Pole climbed up the stairs to the stand, his face set, his jaw hard in lines of utter disapproval. He answered Lovat-Smith tersely but very much as though he believed his mother-in-law to be guilty, but insane. Never even for an instant did he turn his head and look up at her. Twice Lovat-Smithhad to stop him from expressing his view in so many words, as if it excused the family from any connection. After all madness was like a disease, a tragedy which might strike anyone, therefore they were not accountable. His resentment of the whole matter was apparent.
    There were murmurs of sympathy from the crowd, even one quite audible word of agreement; but looking at the jury again Hester could see at least one man’s face cloud over and a certain disapproval touch him. He seemed to take his duty very seriously, and had probably been told much about not judging the case before all the evidence was in. And for all he sought impartiality, he did not admire disloyalty. He shot Fenton Pole a look of deep dislike. For an instant Hester felt unreasonably comforted. It was silly, and her wiser self knew it, and yet it was a straw in the wind, a sign that at least one man had not yet condemned Alexandra outright.
    Rathbone asked Fenton Pole very little, only if he had any precise and incontrovertible evidence that his father-in-law was having an affair with Louisa Furnival.
    Pole’s face darkened with contempt for such vulgarity, and with offense that the matter should have been raised at all.
    “Certainly not,” he said vigorously. “General Carlyon was not an immoral man. To suppose that he indulged in such adulterous behavior is quite unbalanced, not rational at all, and without any foundation in fact.”
    “Quite so,” Rathbone agreed. “And have you any