William Monk 03 - Defend and Betray

cause, Mr. Pole, to suppose that your mother-in-law, Mrs. Carlyon, believed him to be so deceiving her, and betraying his vows?”
    Pole’s lips tightened.
    “I would have thought our presence here today was tragically sufficient proof of that.”
    “Oh no, Mr. Pole, not at all,” Rathbone replied with a harsh sibilance to his voice. “It is proof only that General Carlyon is dead, by violence, and that the police have some cause, rightly or wrongly, to bring a case against Mrs. Carlyon.”
    There was a rustle of movement in the jury. Someone sat up a trifle straighter.
    Fenton Pole looked confused. He did not argue, although the rebuttal was plain in his face.
    “You have not answered my question, Mr. Pole,” Rathbone pressed him. “Did you see or hear anything to prove to you that Mrs. Carlyon believed there to be anything improper in the relationship between Mrs. Furnival and the general?”
    “Ah—well … said like that, I suppose not. I don’t know what you have in mind.”
    “Nothing, Mr. Pole. And it would be quite improper for me to suggest anything to you, as I am sure his lordship would inform you.”
    Fenton Pole did not even glance at the judge.
    He was excused.
    Lovat-Smith called the footman, John Barton. He was overawed by the occasion, and his fair face was flushed hot with embarrassment. He stuttered as he took the oath and gave his name, occupation and residence. Lovat-Smith was extremely gentle with him and never once condescended or treated him with less courtesy than he had Fenton Pole or Maxim Furnival. To the most absolute silence from the court and the rapt attention of the jury, he elicited from him the whole story of the clearing away after the dinner party, the carrying of the coal buckets up the front stairs, the observation of the suit of armor still standing on its plinth, who was in the withdrawing room, his meeting with the maid, and the final inevitable conclusion that only either Sabella or Alexandra could possibly have killed Thaddeus Carlyon.
    There was a slow letting out of a sigh around the courtroom, like the first chill air of a coming storm.
    Rathbone rose amid a crackling silence. Not a juryman moved.
    “I have no questions to ask this witness, my lord.”
    There was a gasp of amazement. Jurors swiveled around to look at one another in disbelief.
    The judge leaned forward. “Are you sure, Mr. Rathbone? This witness’s evidence is very serious for your client.”
    “I am quite sure, thank you, my lord.”
    The judge frowned. “Very well.” He turned to John. “You are excused.”
    Lovat-Smith called the upstairs maid with the red hair, and sealed beyond doubt the incontestable fact that it could only have been Alexandra who pushed the general over the stairs, and then followed him down and plunged the halberd into his body.
    “I don’t know why this has to go on,” a man said behind Monk. “Waste o’ time.”
    “Waste o’ money,” his companion agreed. “Should just call it done, ’ang ’er now. Nothing anyone can say to that.”
    Monk swung around, his face tight, hard, eyes blazing.
    “Because Englishmen don’t hang people without giving them a chance to explain,” he said between his teeth. “It’s a quaint custom, but we give everyone a hearing, whatever we think of them. If that doesn’t suit you, then you’d better go somewhere else, because there’s no place for you here!”
    “ ’Ere! ’Oo are you callin’ foreign? I’m as English as you are! An’ I pay me taxes, but not for the likes of ’er to play fast an’ loose wi’ the law. I believe in the law, I do. Can’t ’ave women going ’round murderin’ their ’usbands every time they get a fit o’ jealousy. No one in England’d be safe!”
    “You don’t believe in the law,” Monk accused bitterly. “You believe in the rope, and mob rule, you just said so.”
    “I never did. You lyin’ bastard!”
    “You said forget the trial, overthrow the courts, hang her now, without waiting for a verdict.” Monk glared at him. “You want to do away with judge and jury and be both yourself.”
    “I never said that!”
    Monk gave him a look of total disgust, and turned to Hester, as they rose on adjournment, taking her a trifle roughly by the elbow, and steering her out through the noisy, shoving crowd.
    There was nothing to say. It was what they could have expected: a crowd who knew no more than the newspapers had led them to believe; a judge who was fair, impartial