William Monk 03 - Defend and Betray

tears.
    “You must answer,” the judge said gravely. “Did your father abuse you also?”
    “No!” There was no mistaking the amazement and the honesty in his voice and his startled face. “No! Never!”
    The judge took a deep breath and leaned back a little, the shadow of a smile over his mouth.
    “Then why did you not tell him, appeal to him to protectyou? Or to your mother. Surely she would have protected you.”
    The tears brimmed over and ran down Valentine’s cheeks unchecked.
    “She knew.” He choked and struggled for breath. “She told me not to tell anyone, especially Papa. She said it would … embarrass him—and cost him his position.”
    There was a roar of rage around the room and a cry of “Hang her!”
    The judge called for order, banging his gavel, and it was several minutes before he could continue. “His position?” He frowned at Rathbone, uncomprehending. “What position?”
    “He earns a great deal of money from army contracts,” Valentine explained.
    “Supplied by General Carlyon?”
    “Yes sir.”
    “That is what your mother said? Be very sure you speak accurately, Valentine.”
    “Yes—she told me.”
    “And you are quite sure that your mother knew exactly what the general was doing to you? You did not fail to tell her the truth?”
    “No! I did tell her!” He gulped, but his tears were beyond his control anymore.
    The anger in the room was now so ugly it was palpable in the air.
    Maxim Furnival sat upright, his face like a dead man’s. Beside him, Louisa was motionless, her eyes stone-hard and hot, her mouth a thin line of hate.
    “Bailiff,” the judge said in a low voice. “You will take Louisa Furnival in charge. Appropriate dispositions will be made to care for Valentine in the future. For the moment perhaps it would be best he remain to comfort his father.”
    Obediently a large bailiff appeared, buttons gleaming, and forced his way through the rows to where Louisa still sat, face blazing white. With no ceremony, no graciousness at all, he half pulled her to her feet and took her, stumbling andcatching her skirts, back along the row and up the passageway out of the court.
    Maxim started to his feet, then realized the futility of doing anything at all. It was an empty gesture anyway. His whole body registered his horror of her and the destruction of everything he had thought he possessed. His only concern was for Valentine.
    The judge sighed. “Mr. Rathbone, have you anything further you feel it imperative you ask this witness?”
    “No, my lord.”
    “Mr. Lovat-Smith?”
    “No, my lord.”
    “Thank you. Valentine, the court thanks you for your honesty and your courage, and regrets having to subject you to this ordeal. You are free to go back to your father, and be of whatever comfort to each other you may.”
    Silently Valentine stepped down amid rustles and murmurs of compassion, and made his way to the stricken figure of Maxim.
    “Mr. Rathbone, have you further witnesses to call?” the judge asked.
    “Yes, my lord. I can call the bootboy at the Furnival house, who was at one point a drummer in the Indian army. He will explain why he dropped his linen and fled when coming face-to-face with General Carlyon in the Furnival house on the evening of the murder … if you believe it is necessary? But I would prefer not to—I imagine the court will understand.”
    “We do, Mr. Rathbone,” the judge assured him. “Do not call him. We may safely draw the conclusion that he was startled and distressed. Is that sufficient for your purpose?”
    “Yes, thank you, my lord.”
    “Mr. Lovat-Smith, have you objection to that? Do you wish the boy called so that you may draw from him a precise explanation, other than that which will naturally occur to the jury?”
    “No, my lord,” Lovat-Smith said immediately. “If the defense will stipulate that the boy in question can be proved to have served with General Thaddeus Carlyon?”
    “Mr. Rathbone?”
    “Yes, my lord. The boy’s military record has been traced, and he did serve in the same immediate unit with General Carlyon.”
    “Then you have no need to call him, and subject him to what must be acutely painful. Proceed with your next witness.”
    “I crave the court’s permission to call Cassian Carlyon. He is eight years old, my lord, and I believe he is of considerable intelligence and aware of the difference between truth and falsehood.”
    Alexandra shot to her feet. “No,” she cried out.