William Monk 03 - Defend and Betray

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    “No.”
    “Was a Miss Hester Latterly present at this exchange?”
    “Yes.”
    “When you had parted the two protagonists, did Miss Latterly go upstairs with Miss Buchan?”
    “Yes.”
    “And afterwards leave in some haste, and without explanation to you as to why?”
    “Yes, but we did not quarrel,” Edith said quickly. “She seemed to have something most urgent to do.”
    “Indeed I know it, Mrs. Sobell. She came immediately to see me. Thank you. That is all. Please remain there, in case my learned friend has something to ask you.”
    There was a rustle and a sigh around the court. A dozen people nudged each other. The expected revelation had not come … not yet.
    Lovat-Smith rose and sauntered over to Edith, hands in his pockets.
    “Mrs. Sobell, tell me honestly, much as you may sympathize with your sister-in-law, has any of what you have said the slightest bearing on the tragedy of your brother’s death?”
    She hesitated, glancing at Rathbone.
    “No, Mrs. Sobell,” Lovat-Smith cautioned sharply. “Answer for yourself, please! Can you tell me any relation between what you have said about your nephew’s very natural confusion and distress over his father’s murder, and his mother’s confession and arrest, and this diverting but totally irrelevant quarrel between two of your domestics?” He waved his hands airily, dismissing it, “And the cause at trial: namely whether Alexandra Carlyon is guilty or not guilty of murdering her husband, your brother? I remind you, in case after all this tarradiddle you, like the rest of us, are close to forgetting.”
    He had gone too far. He had trivialized the tragedy.
    “I don’t know, Mr. Lovat-Smith,” she said with a sudden return of composure, her voice now grim and with a hard edge. “As you have just said, we are here to discover the truth, not to assess it beforehand. I don’t know why Alexandra did what she did, and I wish to know. It has to matter.”
    “Indeed.” Lovat-Smith gave in gracefully. He had sufficient instinct to recognize an error and cease it immediately. “It does not alter facts, but of course it matters, Mrs. Sobell. I have no further questions. Thank you.”
    “Mr. Rathbone?” the judge asked.
    “I have no further questions, thank you, my lord.”
    “Thank you, Mrs. Sobell, you may go.”
    Rathbone stood in the center of the very small open space in front of the witness box.
    “I call Miss Catriona Buchan.”
    Miss Buchan came to the witness box looking very pale, her face even more gaunt than before, her thin back stiff and her eyes straight forward, as if she were a French aristocrat passing through the old women knitting at the foot of the guillotine. She mounted the stairs unaided, holding her skirts in from the sides, and at the top turned and faced the court. She swore to tell the truth, and regarded Rathbone as though he were an executioner.
    Rathbone found himself admiring her as much as anyone he had ever faced across that small space of floor.
    “Miss Buchan, I realize what this is going to cost you, and I am not unmindful of your sacrifice, nevertheless I hope you understand that in the cause of justice I have no alternative?”
    “Of course I do,” she agreed with a crisp voice. The strain in it did not cause her to falter, only to sound a little more clipped than usual, a little higher in pitch, as if her throat were tight. “I would not answer did I not understand that!”
    “Indeed. Do you remember quarreling with the cook at Carlyon House some three weeks ago?”
    “I do. She is a good enough cook, but a stupid woman.”
    “In what way stupid, Miss Buchan?”
    “She imagines all ills can be treated with good regular meals and that if you only eat right everything else will sort itself out.”
    “A shortsighted view. What did you quarrel about on that occasion, Miss Buchan?”
    Her chin lifted a little higher.
    “Master Cassian. She said I was confusing the child by telling him his mother was not a wicked woman, and that she still loved him.”
    In the dock Alexandra was so still it seemed she could not even be breathing. Her eyes never left Miss Buchan’s face and she barely blinked.
    “Is that all?” Rathbone asked.
    Miss Buchan took a deep breath, her thin chest rising and falling. “No—she also said I followed the boy around too much, not leaving him alone.”
    “Did you follow the boy around, Miss Buchan?”
    She hesitated only a moment. “Yes.”
    “Why?” He kept