William Monk 11 - Slaves of Obsession

the air like a hot, stinging smell.
    Rathbone’s mind raced as to how he could undo the emotional damage. Mere facts would be drowned in the revulsion of feeling.
    The last witness of the day was Dorothea Parfitt, the seventeen-year-old friend to whom Merrit had shown the watch and bragged a little of her love affair. Dorothea walked across the open space of the floor and tripped on the very first step up to the box. She had hold of the railing, so it was only barely noticeable, but she let out a little gasp and straightened herself, blushing.
    Deverill was extremely gentle with her, doing all he could to ease her obvious consciousness that her words could condemn her friend, perhaps to the rope. What motive she had had in first saying this to the police no one else could know. It might have been envy, because Merrit had won the love of a most glamorous man who was older, braver, more mysterious and exciting than the youths she knew. It is very natural to want to prick vanity, especially ifit is exercised at your expense. She could not then have foreseen the terrible consequences. She would not even have been able to imagine standing here now, about to repeat her words, because she could not take them back, and give Deverill the power to place a rope around Merrit’s neck.
    She faced Deverill like a rabbit in front of a snake. Never once did she allow her eyes to stray towards Merrit in the dock.
    The watch was passed up to her but she refused to touch it.
    “Have you seen it before, Miss Parfitt?” Deverill asked gently.
    At first her throat was so tight, her lips so dry, that her voice would not come.
    Deverill waited.
    “Yes,” she said at last.
    “Can you tell us where, and in what circumstances?”
    She swallowed convulsively.
    “We all realize that you would immeasurably rather not,” Deverill said with a charming smile. “But loyalty to the truth must outweigh the desire not to cause trouble for a friend. Just tell me exactly what happened, what you saw and heard. You are not accountable for the actions of others, and only an unjust or guilty person would hold you to be. Where did you see this watch, Miss Parfitt, and in whose possession?”
    “Merrit’s,” she answered, her voice little above a whisper.
    “Did she show it to you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why? Did she say?”
    Dorothea nodded. Deverill held her gaze as if she were mesmerized.
    “Lyman Breeland had given it to her as a token of his love.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “She really thought he loved her. She had no idea he was wicked … honestly! She must have found out, and given it back to him, because she wouldnever have had anything to do with killing her father … not ever! I know she argued with him because she thought he was terribly wrong to sell the guns to that man from the South, because the South keeps slaves. But you don’t kill people over things like that!”
    “I am afraid they do in America, Miss Parfitt,” Deverill said with wry regret. “It is a subject about which some people feel so violently that their behavior is beyond the bounds of ordinary law and society. One of the most tragic of all kinds of war is beginning, even as we stand here in this peaceful courtroom and argue our differences. And we none of us know where it will end. Please God, we will not, with our own prejudices and greeds, make it any worse.”
    It was a sentiment Rathbone felt profoundly, and yet Deverill’s giving voice to it irritated him like a scraped elbow. Whether Deverill meant it or not, Rathbone had no doubt he expressed it to manipulate the emotions of the court.
    Dorothea had no idea what to make of it. She stared at him with open confusion.
    “Mr. Deverill,” the judge admonished, leaning forward, “are you chastising the witness for her lack of knowledge as to the outcome of the present tragedy across the Atlantic?”
    “No, my lord, certainly not. I am simply trying to point out that some people feel passionately enough about the issues of slaving to kill those who differ from them.”
    “It is unnecessary, Mr. Deverill. We are aware of it,” the judge said dryly. “Have you anything further to ask Miss Parfitt?”
    “No, my lord, thank you.” Deverill turned to Rathbone. His foretaste of victory was plain in his face, in the confidence of the way he stood, balancing with his back a trifle arched and his shoulders squared. “Sir Oliver?”
    Rathbone rose to his feet. The watch was the most powerful piece of