Defend and Betray

“Proceed, Mr, Rathbone,” the judge instructed.

“Thank you, my lord. Mrs. Sobell, have you spent much time with your nephew, Cassian Carlyon, since his father's death?”

“Yes of course. He is staying in our house.”

“How has he taken his father's death?”

“Irrelevant!” Lovat-Smith interrupted again. “How can a child's grief possibly be pertinent to the accused's guilt or i

“He does not need your pity, Mr. Lovat-Smith,” Rathbone said irritably. “He needs you to hold your tongue and let me proceed with uncovering the truth.”

“Mr. Rathbone,” the judge said tartly. “We sympathize with your predicament, and your frustration, but your language is discourteous, and I will not allow it. Nevertheless, Mr. Lovat-Smith, it is good counsel, and you will please observe it until you have an objection of substance. If you interrupt as often as this, we shall not reach a verdict before Michaelmas.”

Lovat-Smith sat down with a broad smile.

Rathbone bowed, then turned back to Edith.

“I think you are now permitted to continue, Mrs. Sobell. If you please. What was your observation of Cassian's ma

Edith frowned in concentration.

“It was very hard to understand,” she replied, thinking carefully. “He grieved for his father, but it seemed to be very-very adult. He did not cry, and at times he seemed very composed, almost relieved.”

Lovat-Smith rose to his feet, and the judge waved him to sit down again. Rathbone turned to Edith.

“Mrs. Sobell, will you please explain that curious word relieved. Try not to give us any conclusions you may have come to in your own mind, simply your observations of fact. Not what he seemed, but what he said, or did. Do you understand the difference?”

“Yes, my lord. I'm sorry.” Again her nervousness betrayed itself in clenched hands on the witness box rail, and a catch in her voice. “I saw him alone on several occasions, through a window, or from a doorway when he did not know I was there. He was quite at ease, sitting smiling. I asked him if he was happy by himself, thinking he might be lonely, but he told me he liked it. Sometimes he went to my rather- his grandfather-”

“Colonel Carlyon?” Rathbone interrupted.

“Yes. Then other times he seemed to go out of his way to avoid him. He was afraid of my mother.” As if involuntarily, she glanced at Felicia, then back to Rathbone again. “He said so. And he was very upset about his own mother. He told me she did not love him-that his father had told him so.”

In the dock Alexandra closed her eyes and seemed to sway as if in physical pain. A gasp escaped her in spite of all her effort at self-control.

“Hearsay,” Lovat-Smith said loudly, rising to his feet. “Mylord…”

“That is not permitted,” the judge apologized to Edith. “I think we have gathered from your testimony that the child was in a state of considerable confusion. Is that what you wished to establish, Mr. Rathbone?”

“More than that, my lord: the nature of his confusion. And that he developed close, and ambivalent, relationships with other people.”

Lovat-Smith let out a loud moan and raised his hands in the air.

“Then you had better proceed and do so, Mr. Rathbone,” the judge said with a tight smile. “If you can. Although you have not shown us yet why this has any relevance to the case, and I advise that you do that within a very short time.”

“I promise you that it will become apparent in later testimony, my lord,” Rathbone said, his voice still calculatedly light. But he abandoned the course for the present, knowing he had left it imprinted on the jury's minds, and that was all that mattered. He could build on it later. He turned back to Edith.

“Mrs. Sobell, did you recently observe a very heated quarrel between Miss Buchan, an elderly member of your household staff, and your cook, Mrs. Emery?”

A ghost of amusement crossed Edith's face, curving her mouth momentarily.

“I have observed several, more than I can count,” she conceded. “Cook and Miss Buchan have been enemies for years.”

“Quite so. But the quarrel I am referring to happened within the last three weeks, on the back stairs of Carlyon House. you were called to assist.”

“That's right. Cassian came to fetch me because he was afraid. Cook had a knife. I'm sure she did not intend to do anything with it but make an exhibition, but he didn't know that.”

“What was the quarrel about, Mrs. Sobell?”

Lovat-Smith groaned audibly.

Rathbone ignored it.

“About?” Edith looked slightly puzzled. He had not told her he was going to pursue this. He wanted her obvious un-awareness to be seen by the jury. This case depended upon emotions as much as upon facts.

“Yes. What was the subject of the difference?”

Lovat-Smith groaned even more loudly. “Really, my lord,” he protested.

Rathbone resumed facing the judge. “My learned friend seems to be in some distress,” he said unctuously.

There was a loud titter of amusement, nervous, like a ripple of wind through a field before thunder.

“The case,” Lovat-Smith said loudly. “Get on with the case, man!”

“Then bear your agony a little less vocally, old chap,” Rathbone replied equally loudly, “and allow me to.” He swung around. “Mrs. Sobell-to remind you, the question was, would you please tell the court the subject of the quarrel between the governess, Miss Buchan, and the cook?”

“Yes-yes, if you wish, although I ca

“We none of us can,” Lovat-Smith interrupted again.

“Mr. Lovat-Smith,” the judge said sharply. “Mrs. Sobell, answer the question. If it proves irrelevant I will control Mr. Rathbone's wanderings.”

“Yes, my lord. Cook accused Miss Buchan of being incompetent to care for Cassian. She said Miss Buchan was… there was a great deal of personal abuse, my lord. I would rather not repeat it.”

Rathbone thought of permitting her to do so. A jury liked to be amused, but they would lose respect for Miss Buchan, which might be what would win or lose the case. A little laughter now would be too dearly bought.

“Please spare us,” he said aloud. “The subject of the difference will be sufficient-the fact that there was abuse may indicate the depth of their feelings.” Again Edith smiled hurriedly, and then continued. “Cook said that Miss Buchan was following him around everywhere and confusing him by telling him his mother loved him, and was not a wicked woman.” She swallowed hard, her eyes troubled. That she did not understand what he wanted was painfully obvious. The jury were utterly silent, their faces staring at her. Suddenly the drama was back again, the concentration total. The crowd did not whisper or move. Even Alexandra herself seemed momentarily forgotten.

“And the cook?” Rathbone prompted. “Cook said Alexandra should be hanged.” Edith seemed to find the word difficult. “And of course she was wicked. Cassian had to know it and come to terms with it.” “And Miss Buchan's reply?”

“That Cook didn't know anything about it, she was an ignorant woman and should stay in the kitchen where she belonged.”

“Did you know to what Miss Buchan referred?” Rathbone asked, his voice low and clear, without any theatrics.

“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.”