Death Of A Stranger

“Have you ever been in love, Miss Baltimore, even if it had not yet reached more than a matter of understanding between you?”

Fowler was on his feet. “My lord, that is completely irrelevant to the issue of this court, and it is grossly intrusive! Miss Baltimore’s personal feelings have no place here and should be respected by-”

The judge flapped his hand at him impatiently. “Yes, yes, Mr. Fowler. Sir Oliver, your point? Or you may continue no further on this rambling excursion of yours.”

“My lord.” Rathbone looked up at Livia. “Miss Baltimore, has Mr. Dalgarno paid court to you? Please do not be modest or discreet to the detriment of the truth. Trust me. And do not oblige me to ask other witnesses to refute any denial made in the effort to protect your reputation. There is nothing to be ashamed of in someone’s paying court to you, even professing love and asking you for your hand in marriage.”

Her face was scarlet, but she looked directly at Rathbone. “Yes. Mr. Dalgarno has done me the honor of asking me to marry him. We are simply not in a position to make the matter public so soon after my father’s death. It would be insensitive… and… wrong.”

There was a gasp of breath around the court. Now, at last, Rathbone had their attention. The judge’s eyes opened very wide, and he shook his head slowly from side to side, not in denial but in surprise.

Fowler rose to his feet, and then before anyone directed him, sat down again.

“Just so,” Rathbone said when the noise permitted him. “Not to mention the death of his previous fiancée, who heard of his change of heart only weeks earlier, but still kept her own passionate feelings toward him. I assume, Miss Baltimore, that although she must have been made aware of you, you were not aware of her?”

Hester looked across at Dalgarno and saw the tight, desperate look in his face. He had to see the jurors’ increasing contempt for him. In law, to have deceived and discarded a woman, unless there were a promise, was not an offense. But he also knew that logic does not always override emotion. He shot a look of pure loathing at Rathbone, which had he seen it, should have scorched his tongue into silence.

Livia looked as if Rathbone had struck her. The blush faded from her face, leaving her ash pale, struggling to catch her breath. “Michael wouldn’t kill her!” she gasped. “He wouldn’t!” But it sounded more like a plea than an assurance.

“No, Miss Baltimore,” Rathbone agreed loudly and very clearly. “Of course he wouldn’t. He had no cause to wish her harm, merely to desire that she leave him alone to pursue a more fitting bride. Did you ever see her in your home after the time Mr. Dalgarno began to court you?”

She shook her head, her eyes brimming with tears.

“No,” Rathbone repeated for her. “Or in any public place, seeking to embarrass or pursue Mr. Dalgarno?”

“No,” she whispered.

“In fact, you were unaware of her interest in him at all?”

“Yes… I was.”

“Thank you, Miss Baltimore. That is all I have to ask you.”

Fowler shook his head. “This is irrelevant, my lord. We are chasing ghosts. All my learned friend has demonstrated is Dalgarno’s abandonment of his commitment to a relatively poor woman when a richer one gave him hope that he might woo her successfully.”

“No, my lord,” Rathbone contradicted him. “I am showing the court that Miss Harcus had every reason to feel desperately betrayed by a man she loved, and whom she had sincerely believed loved her. That, with other facts I shall also bring witnesses and documents to prove, will explain what happened on the night of her death, and why. And it will show that Mr. Dalgarno had no intentional hand in it. He is guilty of no more than abusing a woman’s love, which I regret to say is something many men have done and walked away from. It is regarded by most of us as contemptible, but not as criminal.”

“Then do so, Sir Oliver,” the judge instructed. “You have still some way to go.”

“Yes, my lord,” Rathbone said obediently.

He was bluffing, Hester knew it with certainty. A coldness gripped her.

“A witness, if you please, Sir Oliver,” the judge said plaintively. “Let us proceed. We still have at least an hour before we may reasonably adjourn.”

“Yes, my lord. I call Mr. Wilbur Garstang.”

“We have already heard from Mr. Garstang… at some length!” Fowler protested.

“We have already heard from everybody at some length, yourself included,” the judge retorted. “Please keep your interruptions to the minimum, Mr. Fowler. Sir Oliver, is there really anything Mr. Garstang can do beyond fill the time?”

“Yes, my lord, I believe so,” Rathbone answered, although there was surely more truth in the judge’s comment than he could afford to admit.

“Call Wilbur Garstang,” the judge said wearily.

Mr. Garstang climbed the steps and was advised by the judge that he was still under oath. He was a precise little man with a carping attitude and an inclination to pick fault.

“I have already told you what I observed,” he said to Rathbone, looking down at him over the top of his gold-rimmed eyeglasses.

“Indeed,” Rathbone agreed. “But I wish to reestablish it in the minds of the jury, with rather a different emphasis. You are an exact and acute observer, Mr. Garstang, that is why I chose you to speak yet again. I apologize for the inconvenience no doubt it causes you.”

Garstang grunted, but a look of satisfaction smoothed out his features a little. He did not consider himself susceptible to flattery, in which he was profoundly mistaken.

“I shall do my best,” Garstang said, straightening his lapels a trifle and assuming an expression of readiness.

Rathbone hid a smile, but he was tense. Even his movements lacked their usual grace. “Thank you. Mr. Garstang, you were at your window on the night of Miss Harcus’s death. Would you please remind us of the reason for this?”

“Certainly.” Garstang nodded. “My sitting room is opposite her rooms, and very slightly below, the stories of the house in which my apartment is situated being a foot or two less in height. I heard a noise, as if someone were crying out. In case that were so, and they were in need of assistance, I went to the window and drew the curtains so that I might see.”

“Just so,” Rathbone cut across him. “Now, would you tell us exactly what you did see, as precisely as if you were painting a picture? Please do not tell us what you believed or have since heard that it was. I realize that this is difficult, and takes a very exact and literal mind.”

“Oh… really…” Fowler groaned.

Garstang shot a look of acute dislike at him. He felt insulted, cut short and dismissed before he had even begun.

“Please, Mr. Garstang,” Rathbone encouraged. “It is of the utmost importance. Indeed, someone’s life is at stake.”

Garstang assumed an attitude of intense concentration and held it until the court was silent, then he cleared his throat and began.

“I saw a dark shape on the balcony opposite. It seemed to heave and change outline violently, and to move from the open doorway across towards the edge. It surged back and forth for several moments, I ca

“Why was that?” Rathbone said.

“You asked me to be literal,” Garstang said crossly. “I described to you exactly what I saw, but it was perfectly obvious to me that it was two people struggling with each other, one intent upon hurling the other off the balcony onto the stones beneath.”

“But you did not see two separate figures?” Rathbone asked.

“I did not. They were locked in mortal combat.” Garstang’s voice was schoolmasterly, as to a particularly stupid child. “If he had even once let go of her she might have escaped him, and we should not be here to see justice done after the event.”