Desperate Acts (28 page)

“Like Cyrus Crenshaw over that war-hero
business?”

“Exactly. And we owe that discovery to you.
And this one, too.”

“But I still don’t see how any of this is
gonna be of practical use.”

“Then it’s time I told you about the defense
I’m preparing for Brodie.”

***

As he had done so many times for Beth in the past,
Marc recounted the facts and theories of the case he was working
on. In this instance it took him nearly half an hour (while Maggie
slept on) to flesh out the preliminary notes she had already seen
and bring her up to date. He also knew better than to leave
anything out, however shocking or sordid. He revealed to her, as
gently as he could, the dark secrets that Albert Duggan had so
ruthlessly exploited. As was her custom, Beth listened quietly,
taking it all in – nodding or shaking her head from time to
time.

“Well, luv, what do you think?”

Beth looked solemn. “It seems like you’re
plannin’ to ruin four lives in order to save one.”

“That’s putting it rather bluntly. But it’s
all I’ve got.”

“Do you really haveta accuse four people of
bein’ a killer in front of the whole court – an’ the whole province
when the newspapers have their heyday with it?”

“I’m hoping not. If I can somehow choose the
actual killer and put him up first during my recalls, then I
needn’t use the ammunition I’ve got on the other three.”

“I see. An’ you’re inclined to agree with
Cobb about Budge?”

“Well, what I’ve done in my head – over and
over – is try to arrange the suspects according to the strength of
their motives. As I’ve worked out the time-line, any one of the
five had the opportunity.”

“The motives all look powerful enough to me.
Sir Peregrine won’t want his bigwig friends to think he’s more of a
woman than a man. Mr. Crenshaw’s built his life around his father
bein’ a war hero, an’ lied about it everywhere. Mr. Fullarton’s
afraid the news of his adultery could kill his ailin’ wife. An’
Tobias Budge is set to lose everythin’ he holds dear.”

Marc smiled grimly. “I do wish you hadn’t
such a talent for cutting to the nub of things. Put baldly like
that, there’s no way to choose, is there?”

Beth placed a hand on his wrist. “You could
try arrangin’ them in the order of who might be hurt the most or
the least.”

“You’d never make a lawyer, thinking humanely
like that. But you may be right anyway. Budge deserves to have his
life ruined, even if he turns out not to be the killer. He’s ruined
Etta without giving her a second thought.”

“An’ there’s a good chance his wife knows
about Etta by now,” Beth said with a knowing smile. “Women can
sense these things.”

“But Budge wouldn’t’ve known that when he saw
Duggan lying out there in the alley.”

“An’ he may not know yet. She could be
waitin’ to use it on him later, if she has to.”

Marc shook his head at the intricacies of
female reasoning. “And Sir Peregrine,” he continued, “has enough
money and stature to survive a revelation about cross-dressing,
even if it would cripple his hopes of joining the Family Compact.
He doesn’t seem to worry unduly about his wife’s serial and very
public affairs. Crenshaw, I do feel sorry for, but he and his
pathetic wife are shameless social climbers, who’ve been living a
lie. And I really ought to leave Fullarton to last, since Brodie
would prefer me to skip him altogether. The man has led an
exemplary life and has, according to Brodie, dedicated a large part
of it to making his wife’s last years tolerable.”

“An’ you think Mr. Dutton was bein’
blackmailed too, but you don’t know what for?”

“True. Even so, his opportunity seems the
weakest. Remember that, as far as we can tell, none of Duggan’s
victims – except perhaps Budge – knew who he was before that fatal
night. So, one of the Shakespeareans coming down those back stairs
must have heard Brodie accuse Duggan and concluded that here, a few
feet away, was the man who had been fleecing both of them and
threatening ruin. Dutton is the least likely to have heard that
part of the encounter.”

“Unless Duggan woke up an’ argued with his
attacker.”

“Yes. That is a remote possibility.”

“An’ you’re sure there’s no other way to
defend Brodie?”

Marc hesitated, then said carefully, “It’s
conceivable that tomorrow, as I get to cross-examine the
‘possibles,’ as I call them, I may be able to shake up the details
of their eye-witness accounts enough to throw doubt on what they
saw and how they interpreted it. If the jury finds them confused or
uncertain, then, if I can in my summation convince them that
Brodie’s statement is a more accurate and credible account of what
happened – that might be sufficient. Especially when Fullarton and
Dutton will have provided strong character-references.”

“But you don’t want to risk it?”

Marc paused before saying, “I haven’t
mentioned yet that I’m being opposed by Kingsley Thornton.”

Beth let out a long, slow breath. “I see.”
And she did, having watched the famous barrister in action last
January.

“Whatever I do to shake the eye-witness
testimony, Thornton is sure to rebut immediately – with all the
cunning and skill he’s developed over decades at the Old Bailey.
That’s what I’m truly afraid of.”

“You’ve faced bullets an’ cannonballs, luv,
an’ blizzards, when you had to.”

Marc nodded, wondering now – as he had during
the rebellion and during the nightmarish blizzard he and Beth had
barely survived – where courage came from.

“Brodie’s in good hands,” Beth said, holding
his in hers.

“That’s what Brodie said.”

FIFTEEN

Marcus Edwards, counsellor-at-law, tried to look as
if he had sat so often on this seat reserved for defense attorneys
in the Court of Queen’s Bench that he had become indifferent to its
awful majesty. The side-galleries were packed with spectators from
town and county, and the benches behind him thick with local
dignitaries and fellow members of the legal profession. Robert and
Francis Hincks were busy at the Legislature, but Dr. Baldwin and
Clement Peachey, the firm’s solicitor, were just two rows back.
With a slight movement of his head to the left, Marc could see Beth
smiling down upon him with a confidence he himself did not feel.
Above her, in the prisoner’s dock, stood Brodie Langford, his own
gaze fixed upon Diana Ramsay sitting nervously beside Beth. Marc
adjusted his wig for the tenth time and tried to shrug his
shoulders more comfortably into the folds of his black gown. He
felt much as he had six years before when he had first donned an
ensign’s regalia with its jangling accoutrements: a sham unworthy
of the uniform. But a uniform, he knew now, was not something you
wore, it was a livery of honour you grew into – or not.

At this point in his thoughts, the clerk
stood up to announce the case, and all rose as Justice Gavin Powell
entered and took his seat high above them all. It was only then
that Marc risked a peek at his formidable adversary standing
fifteen feet to his right. Kingsley Thornton, QC, was a tall and
elegant gentleman of some fifty-five years, who could grin like a
grandfather one moment and scowl like a beadle the next, and whose
baritone rumble would not have been amiss in an opera-house.
Thornton seemed to sense Marc’s eye upon him, and turned his head
just far enough to expose a smile with the merest hint of pity in
it.

Thornton’s opening statement was brief but
effective. In a low but well-modulated tone that prompted the
jurors to lean forward on their benches, he outlined what he
claimed was a simple, straightforward case, implying that the whole
business in this courtroom was so clear-cut that it was barely
worth their time and attention. A foolish young man, threatened
with blackmail, had decided to take the law into his own hands. He
had confronted the extortionist, one Albert Duggan, as he arrived
to claim his booty, argued with him, struck him on the cheek with
his fist, and then, in a further rage, beat the unconscious man to
death with his walking-stick. Almost all of these actions were
subsequently admitted to in the defendant’s own hand – in a sworn
statement at the police quarters – and those he didn’t mention had
been observed by no fewer than four eye-witnesses. He (Kingsley
Thornton) might even feel sorry for the accused, an apparently
upright young bank clerk (as the defense was certain to portray
him) who murdered a fellow none of them (the good gentlemen of the
jury) would be pleased to associate with. But the right-to-life was
sacred under British law. Even blackmailers were entitled to live.
And cold-blooded killers must be hanged for depriving them of that
right.

Marc swallowed hard, then stood up to his
lectern and faced the jury. With his ironic smile and his final
comment, Thornton had neatly undercut Marc’s planned references to
Brodie’s exemplary life. Marc decided to omit them. It might be
wiser to use his character-witnesses on Monday and build on their
testimony in his closing remarks. Rather, he drew the attention of
the jurors to two areas where, he said with more bravado than
conviction, they would discover serious discrepancies in the
Crown’s evidence. First, there would be gaps and inconsistencies in
the eye-witness accounts, and, second, the so-called “confession”
would be seen to be the most complete and accurate account of the
events of that fatal evening, an account that would in and of
itself exonerate his client.

Marc sat down. The faces of the jurors
remained impassive. He straightened his wig, then glanced up. Beth
beamed him a smile.

***

As expected, the coroner, Dr. Angus Withers, was the
first to testify. With admirable efficiency, Kingsley Thornton led
him his through his evidence. He focussed on the blow to the cheek,
which, Withers said, had cracked the bone and certainly would have
been enough to stun the victim or render him unconscious.

“The two
savage
blows to the rear of
the skull, then, were delivered
after
the injury to the
cheekbone?”

Marc felt like objecting to the word “savage”
but saw little use in doing so. However, he did notice Justice
Powell frown at the remark – surely a sign that Thornton’s
theatrics would get short shrift here.

“Definitely,” Withers said. “The first one
alone, administered with a blunt instrument, would have killed him
instantly – the skull was crushed – and was delivered while the
victim was nearly face-down, as I found him when I arrived on the
scene. After two deadly strokes such as these, a mere blow to the
cheek – made by a fist after the fact – would have been redundant.
Moreover, it would have meant the assailant having to turn the body
face-up in order to deliver it.”

“Hence, patently absurd.”

Marc leaned forward, but the judge said, “I
take it, Mr. Thornton, that that was a question, not a
comment?”

“It was intended as such, Milord.”

Thornton then moved to confirm that the
“savage” death-blows had in fact been administered by a
walking-stick with a wolf’s-head carved on its knob, said
instrument now being offered into evidence.

“This is definitely the murder-weapon,”
Withers said solemnly as the jurors craned forward. “It was found
nearby, covered with fresh blood, bone fragments and brain
matter.”

The time of death was not much in question,
Withers continued, because when he arrived in the alley the body
was still warm. Finally, Withers told the court that the victim had
been identified at the scene by a Mr. Nestor Peck as Albert Duggan,
his cousin from Montreal.

Thornton turned to the judge and said with a
rueful smile, “Mr. Peck is not available to testify to that fact,
Milord, because the police tell me he has fled the city.”

“But no-one has claimed the victim to be
other than Albert Duggan?” the judge asked, looking at Thornton and
then over at Marc.

“No, sir,” Thornton said, bowed, and sat down
– well satisfied.

“Do you have any questions for this witness,
Mr. Edwards?”

Marc might have found one or two things to
quibble over in Withers’ testimony. For example, it was more likely
that Duggan had fallen on his back after the punch to the face,
making it probable that he had regained his senses some time later
and was then struck from behind – a fact more consistent with
Brodie’s written account than that of the eye-witnesses to come.
But, then, the wily Thornton would rebut simply by suggesting that
Duggan could have fallen backwards and, stunned, have rolled over
and away from his assailant, who then struck him with the
walking-stick. In watching Dick Dougherty here last January, Marc
had learned the wisdom of not pulling your trigger too soon, of
biding your time so that when you did pounce, the effect was not
only dramatic, but substantive – and irreversible.

“No questions, Milord.”

***

Constable Horatio Cobb was extremely uncomfortable
as he stood in the witness-box in his Sunday suit with his hair
slicked down as much as it would allow and his fingers gripping the
rail as if he might otherwise topple over it. Thornton was quick to
sense not only Cobb’s anxiety, but the hostility that accompanied
it.

“You are a veteran police constable, are you
not, Mr. Cobb?” Thornton began with a smile as wide as a butcher’s
greeting a favoured customer.

“Almost five years.”

“And you have apprehended any number of
miscreants over those years?”

“Yup.”

“Are you heading somewhere relevant with
this?” the judge said, raising one black eyebrow beneath his
periwig.

“I am, Milord.” Thornton turned towards Cobb
and said sweetly, “Have you ever had a criminal rush up to you on
the street, confess to a serious crime he’s committed not ten
minutes before, and beg to be taken to the police quarters so he
can put it all down in an affidavit before he forgets it?”