William Monk 03 - Defend and Betray

forward, frowning, but he did not interrupt.
    “Several people have testified,” Rathbone went on, “that when you came down the stairs from seeing young Valentine Furnival, you were in a state of distress bordering on hysteria. Would you please tell us what happened up there to cause this change in you?”
    Damaris studiously avoided looking towards Felicia and Randolf, nor did she look at Alexandra, sitting pale-faced and rigid in the dock. She took one or two moments to steel herself, and Rathbone waited without prompting her.
    “I recognized—Valentine …” she said at last, her voice husky.
    “Recognized him?” Rathbone repeated the word. “What a curious expression, Mrs. Erskine. Was there ever any doubt in your mind as to who he was? I accept that you did not see him often, indeed had not seen him for some years while he was away at boarding school, since you infrequently visited the house. But surely there was only one boy present?”
    She swallowed convulsively and shot him a look of pleading so profound there was a murmur of anger around the room and Felicia jerked forward, then sat up again as Randolf’s hand closed over her arm.
    Almost imperceptibly Peverell nodded.
    Damaris raised her chin.
    “He is not the Furnivals’ natural child: he is adopted. Before my marriage fourteen years ago, I had a child. Now that he is—is of nearly adult height—a young man, not a boy, he …” For a moment more she had to fight to keep control.
    Opposite her in the gallery, Charles Hargrave leaned forward a little, his face tense, sandy brows drawn down. Beside him, Sarah Hargrave looked puzzled and a flicker of anxiety touched her face.
    “He resembles his father,” Damaris said huskily. “So much, I knew he was my son. You see, at the time the only person I could trust to help me was my brother, Thaddeus. He took me away from London, and he saw to the child’s being adopted. Suddenly, when I saw Valentine, it all made sense. I knew what Thaddeus had done with my child.”
    “Were you angry with your brother, Mrs. Erskine? Didyou resent it that he had given your son to the Furnivals to raise?”
    “No! No—not at all. They had …” She shook her head, the tears running down her cheeks, and her voice cracking at last.
    The judge leaned forward earnestly, his face full of concern.
    Lovat-Smith rose, all the brilliant confidence drained away from him, only horror left.
    “I hope my learned friend is not going to try to cloud the issue and cause this poor woman quite pointless distress?” He turned from Rathbone to Damaris. “The physical facts of the case place it beyond question that only Alexandra Carlyon had the opportunity to murder the general. Whatever Mrs. Erskine’s motive, if indeed there were any, she did not commit the act.” He turned around so that half his appeal was to the crowd. “Surely this exposure of a private grief is cruelly unnecessary?”
    “I would not do it if it were,” Rathbone said between his teeth, his eyes blazing. He swiveled around on his heel, presenting his back to Lovat-Smith. “Mrs. Erskine, you have just said you did not resent your brother’s having given your son to the Furnivals. And yet when you came downstairs you were in a state of distress almost beyond your ability to control, and quite suddenly you exhibited a rage towards Maxim Furnival which was close to murderous in nature! You seem to be contradicting yourself!”
    “I—I—saw …” Damaris closed her eyes so tightly it screwed up her face.
    Peverell half rose in his seat.
    Edith held both her hands to her face, knuckles clenched. Alexandra was frozen.
    Monk glanced up at the gallery and saw Maxim Furnival sitting rigid, his dark face puckered in puzzlement and ever-increasing apprehension. Beside him, Louisa was quite plainly furious.
    Monk looked along at Hester, and saw the intense concentration in her as she turned sideways, her eyes fixed onDamaris and her expression one of such wrenching pity that it jolted him at once with its familiarity and its strangeness. He tried to picture Hermione, and found, the memory blurred. He found it hard to remember her eyes at all, and when he did, they were bland and bright, without capability of pain.
    Rathbone moved a step closer to Damaris.
    “I regret this profoundly, Mrs. Erskine, but too much depends upon it for me to allow any compassion for you to override my duty to Mrs. Carlyon—and to Cassian.”
    Damaris raised her head. “I