‘You look the part, you see,’ Rosalind continued. ‘As far as they are concerned, you have been summoned to sit in judgement.’
‘Why is the result so important?’
‘Because if it goes wrong, Willdon is inherited by Gontal, merges with Ossenfud and...’
‘... the combination is overwhelmingly powerful and the whole of Anterwold is unbalanced. Yes, yes. I remember. Hence the need for a figure of Solomonic wisdom.’
‘Probably. But all we have is you, who can’t even remember his own plot. So will you just listen and look solemn? At least it will gain us some time. Go and sit on that stone thing over there. I will concoct some ceremony, and you act the part of a spirit of awesome power.’
‘I still think it is all ridiculous.’
‘Can you come up with a better explanation of why you are standing in the middle of a field, surrounded by worshippers while dressed in your bath robe?’
‘Very well. I will do my best. But stay close, in case I need your help.’
‘Do any here deny the evidence of their own eyes? Do any here deny that Esilio has returned as foretold?’ Rosalind intoned, once the manifestation had taken his place on his own tomb. ‘Do any deny that he has been summoned, to this place and to this moment, for a purpose beyond understanding? Do any think they are greater than he? That they have a greater claim to sit in judgement?’
Not a whisper. She stared pointedly at Gontal for the last one, but he pretended not to notice.
‘Do any doubt that if his will is gainsaid in any way, then his wrath will be more terrible than the land of Anterwold has ever witnessed?’
A quiet muttering, which sounded like assent.
‘Pamarchon and Catherine, accused. Jay, defender, Henary, defender. Step forward.’
Henary moved first, if anything more nervous than his pupil. He went to the altar and bowed. Jay followed his lead. Both were conscious of the calm, wise gaze examining them with what seemed like curiosity and, in a way, kindness.
Before he could say anything, Gontal also stepped forward and approached the figure on the altar. ‘I humbly request the right to speak, lest a great injustice occur,’ he said.
‘You must be Gontal,’ Lytten said. ‘Putative heir to this place, known to friends and foes alike as Gontal the Fat. Is that so?’
Gontal shuffled from one foot to the other.
‘What is the injustice you are worrying about?’
‘Henary cannot speak for Pamarchon,’ he said. ‘It would compromise the validity of the trial.’
‘Your reasons?’
‘He is a close friend of Catherine. All would be concerned that he did not argue Pamarchon’s case well enough, out of favour for her.’
‘What is your recommendation?’
‘That this trial be postponed until a more suitable advocate be found.’
‘Your point is a good one, Gontal the... Yes, a very good one. Do you not think so, Henary?’
‘I would speak as my duty compelled,’ Henary said.
‘And very unpleasant it would be for all concerned, if I understand things properly. Gontal here does not wish you to be put in an unfortunate position, though. Very kind and thoughtful of him. Good for you, sir.’
He nodded approvingly at the now smiling Gontal. ‘You are quite right, Gontal. Henary must not speak for Pamarchon. Fortunately, a suitable advocate is to hand, so there is no need to postpone.’
‘Who is that?’
‘Why, you, man. You. I know full well that for the past few years you have studied in minute detail every circumstance of this business, hoping to find some way of dislodging Catherine from her place. You have lain awake at nights rehearsing the speech you would give that would cast her out. Now’s your chance! How fortunate, eh?’
‘I am very much afraid that I must refuse.’
‘I am very much afraid you will do no such thing,’ came the thunderous reply.
Gontal stared at the figure which seemed to know all about him.
‘You will speak for Pamarchon. There is no more to be said.’
Gontal bowed and withdrew.
‘How was that?’ Lytten whispered to Rosalind.
‘Pretty good,’ she said. ‘You’re a natural.’
57
Lytten hoped very much that the participants would talk for as long as possible. Rosie, the one in his house, had told him that Anterwold existed, but he had assumed that she was talking nonsense. Yet here he was, listening to people act out his own book. Except that they weren’t. He had jotted down notes on the death of Thenald, but only as a device to explain Catherine. It was not something that he had ever intended to explore in any depth. He had only very vaguely forged a link between Pamarchon and the death, and then once more to explain his existence in the forest, so he could discourse on the young and those outside the law. Not for a single moment had he thought about drawing all the threads together into a murder. He wasn’t writing a detective story, dammit.
Yet this — thing — this invention, this whatever it was, had developed some huge crisis out of it all. Taken a few pencilled jottings and extrapolated outwards, adding the details he had never bothered with. This trial, for example. The legal method, the stone circle, the crime, the participants. Idle musings had come together in ways he had never thought possible. And there they were. Gontal talking, laying into Catherine, while Jay stood stony-faced, no doubt wondering how he was going to reply. Catherine and Pamarchon, standing apart on opposite sides. Henary, who currently felt that he had failed everyone. He didn’t know how lucky he was.
Had this been Shakespeare or Sidney, it would all have been easy. In As You Like It a goddess comes down and sorts it out. In A Midsummer Night’s Dream the action is controlled and directed by Oberon. Homer also, when he gets stuck, sends a god from Olympus to intervene. Modern novelists of a lesser variety have recourse to a man jumping through a door holding a gun. But, of course, that was exactly what was happening. He was the coincidence, the god descending. He had appeared out of nowhere and was now meant to wave his magic wand and sort everything out. He was Oberon, Athene, even Poirot himself. The trouble was that he had no magic wand, and he hadn’t a clue how to sort it out, and his little grey cells were not at their best this morning. He hadn’t even had time to finish his coffee.
He listened to Gontal’s speech, and it didn’t help him in the slightest.
Gontal scarcely touched on the subject of who had actually killed Thenald. Lytten hoped for detail, evidence, background, something to give him a hint. He got none of it. Gontal defended Pamarchon by barely referring to him. The man began with motive, hammering away at the fact that Catherine had gained the most from her husband’s death. That this was the best reason to suspect her guilt. That she had no other claim to Willdon, and could not have taken it unless both her husband and Pamarchon were either dead or discredited, preferably both. That she was, therefore, a monster of unparalleled duplicity.
Hardly based on solid evidence, but the trouble was that Gontal didn’t even stick to this line of argument. Rather, he picked out minor details, then referred them to some part of the Story and launched into a lengthy piece of literary criticism. The object seemed to be to find which story was the closest parallel. The more the parallels, the greater the proof. Gontal’s entire speech, in fact, was a complex exercise designed to persuade the audience that the murder of Thenald most closely resembled a story in which a wicked stepmother steals from her husband and blames his son. ‘For what is murder, except the theft of life?’ Gontal intoned gravely to make an entirely specious link between the two.
He finished with a positive broadside of quotations, voice rising melodramatically, right arm extended. Lytten knew where that came from. A performance of Racine in France when he was young, the static, ponderous, overwrought declamation, the mannered pose, the over-abundance of language. Yes, that was it, and it was evidently as big a success here as it had been at the Comédie-Française: the audience was cowed. Gontal had a smirk of satisfaction on his face as he turned with a flourish to Lytten, then to Pamarchon, then to the people watching, silent in admiration for the man’s skill and learning. Gontal felt sure it was in the bag. How could a seventeen-year-old student stand a chance against such overwhelming erudition?