“Did you see him do anything else at that moment?”
“Yes. He had one of his hands stuck in a pocket.”
Marc drew in his breath at this. The colonel’s story had sharpened quite a bit from the initial rendering that Marc had elicited.
“We shall hear testimony that a packet containing granules of strychnine was subsequently found in one of those pockets. Think carefully now, did you see the defendant with such a packet in his hand at this time?”
“No, sir, I did not.”
“But you did see one of his hands fumbling at the pocket of a coat?”
“I did. But that was all. There was noise and confusion, as I’ve said.”
“Thank you, Colonel Stanhope. I have no more questions, milord.”
He didn’t need any more, Marc thought. He had established Gideon Stanhope as a credible witness and honourable man. The duel was pointed to as Billy’s first, and failed, attempt at murder, followed by unequivocal death threats. Cobb and, if necessary, the rear-gate sentries would corroborate this testimony. Then, galling though it be, Marc and Cobb would be used to attest to Billy’s statements about why he hated Coltrane and to give the damning details of the Thursday visit and its immediate aftermath. It would be Cobb, alas, who would tap in the final coffin naiclass="underline" finding the poison packet in Billy’s coat, where the lad’s hand had been seen “fumbling.” This was the story that the defense team had to break or diversify.
“You do have questions for this witness, I presume?” the judge said, squinting down at the defense bench.
“One or two, milord.”
“But you mustn’t ask them sitting down, Mr. Dougherty,” the judge said, and did nothing to stint the giggles rippling through the chamber.
As the heads of the dignitaries bobbed and weaved in front of him in an effort to observe the rise of the seated counsellor, Marc was able to spot Celia and Broderick Langford sitting nearest their “uncle” in the front row of the side gallery. Broderick wore his formal business suit and Celia, a modest, muted frock in a style now current (if Beth’s shop were an indicator of approved fashion). It took Dougherty all of two minutes to lift his mammoth bulk to an upright position, wobble up on his spindle legs until they adjusted to gravity, and take two flesh-jiggling steps to the lectern, which he then seized in both huge hands to steady himself. The wheezing, gasping effort at locomotion left the spectators spellbound and the defense counsellor pink and breathless. Somewhere a tailor had been found who could imagine a cut of cloth bizarre enough to encompass such girth, for his black barrister’s suit coat was brand-new, his striped gray trousers uncreased, and his waistcoat free of debris. Upon his bald dome there slithered a scruffy wig, three sizes too small, like an abandoned bird’s nest.
“Are you quite ready, Mr. Dougherty? We could bring in a block and tackle tomorrow if you would find it helpful.” The chief justice turned to accept the laughter due him.
“Milord is most kind.”
The cross-examination was about to begin. Dougherty conducted it as he was to conduct each interrogation during the course of the trial, with his eyes and voice only. The sloth’s body was incapable of gesture. The only dramatic effects it was able to achieve-and these may well have been unintentional-occurred when, on rare occasions, he teetered an inch or so to the left or right or half an inch forward. At such moments, the onlooker was compelled to consider whether defense counsel would topple to the floor with a gargantuan thud or whether the lectern would explode under the additional weight, like a shrapnel bomb. Thus did Doubtful Dick Dougherty, late of the New York Bar and a fall from grace, make his debut in the Court of Queen’s Bench, Upper Canada.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Stanhope. I was intrigued by your lofty description of the relationship that developed between you and the deceased Mr. Coltrane.”
“I wouldn’t characterize it as a relationship, sir. We practised the customary courtesies of the officer class.”
“Indeed. However, beyond acceding to every whim and fancy of your prisoner, you claim to have visited him in person only during the initial week of his more than three-week sojourn under your roof.”
“I did not ‘claim,’ as you put it, I stated the facts.”
“Would you mind stating to the jury, then, your reason for neglecting to mention your private audience with the victim on Wednesday evening, mere hours before the poisoning occurred?”
Stanhope’s Adam’s apple bobbed twice, and he glanced over at Kingsley Thornton.
“The prosecutor, sir, is not permitted to prompt-alas. You must answer on your own tick, I’m afraid.”
Stanhope gave Dougherty a malevolent look, smiled tightly, and said, “I was not asked that particular question, sir. If I had been, I would have said that I received a note from Major Coltrane indicating he wished to see me. As soon as I finished a short meeting in my study with Mr. Farquar MacPherson, my banker, I went down and let myself into the prison chamber.”
“Lieutenant Bostwick was not on duty?”
“He left my house a little after six and hasn’t been seen or heard from since.”
“What did you and Mr. Coltrane discuss?”
This time Thornton did not need cueing: he was on his feet. “Milord, I don’t see the relevance of these questions.”
“Nor do I, Mr. Thornton. Mr. Dougherty?”
“I was ambling towards the snuff boxes.”
“Then amble more expeditiously, please.”
“Mr. Stanhope, did you and Coltrane discuss any matter that might remotely impinge on his subsequent murder?”
“Milord, I must-”
“Overruled.”
“None that I can think of,” Stanhope said forcefully, with a glance at the nearby jury.
“Did either you or Coltrane take snuff during your little tête-à-tête?”
“I do not indulge, sir. But the major may have. He was an inveterate snuff taker and invariably snorted when he had visitors.”
“How many snuff boxes were on his desk that Wednesday evening?”
“Two. He always had at least two. And drew from them randomly, as far as I could make out.”
“So, even if he did take snuff that evening, he may have used only one of the two boxes available?”
“It’s possible, yes.”
“Where is this going, Mr. Dougherty?” This time it was the judge who interrupted.
“Straight to the point, milord. Mr. Stanhope, it is conceivable, then, that you, or someone there before you-like Mr. Bostwick or one of Tuesday’s or Wednesday’s visitors-could have planted the strychnine and the victim not have sampled that particular box until one o’clock the next day!”
“That’s preposterous!” Stanhope cried. “The major took snuff morning, noon, and night-from both boxes! And what about the medicine packet with-”
“Mr. Stanhope, please refrain from editorializing,” Dougherty said evenly. “You’re here to answer my questions.”
“And he has, Mr. Dougherty,” the judge said less evenly. “However, you do have a problem with that packet, don’t you?”
“Thank you for pointing that out,” Dougherty said from under his bristle brows. He cranked his head twenty degrees to face the witness. “Let us now move the clock back to Monday, the day of the duel.”
Stanhope looked wary but still very much composed.
“You are, sir, a much-decorated militia officer and lieutenant-colonel of a Toronto regiment, I understand.”
“I am.”
“And so organized and successful that you were asked to help train a new regiment down in Essex last November?”
“I was.”
“Milord. .” Thornton was on his feet, pleading.
“Get to the point, Mr. Dougherty. Now.”
“Yet you would have us believe that, despite your creating a prison chamber in your own home right down to the nth detail and supervising the sentries front and back and vetting every visitor, you were unaware that a duel had been planned to take place in your garden with two pistols taken from your premises, a duel to be fought between your prisoner and the defendant?”