She’d been a guest at similar arts events, and on learning her neighbours planned to host one had left a phone message commending them. “I had read that three writers of note would be present, but I’d heard only of Professor Chandra and Ms. Tinkerson. The name Cudworth Brown meant nothing.”
Arthur managed to resist the impulse of turning to see how Cud was taking this.
“Living alone these many years has made me a curious old woman, I suppose-my other excuse is that it was a lovely fall evening-so I took my tea out to the balcony. Their outdoor lights were on, but I was a little embarrassed to be seen, so I didn’t turn on mine.”
Abigail asked how well she knew Whynet-Moir and Florenza.
“Well enough to shout occasional greetings across the water. I’d met Florenza through her parents-before they passed the property on to her and Rafael. That was a year and a half ago; 2 Lighthouse Lane was their wedding gift. Flo and Rafael have been over for tea, and I’ve attended a couple of their dinner parties.”
“And what view of 2 Lighthouse Lane do you have from your balcony?”
“I can see about, oh, a hundred feet of the upper cedar deck and the adjoining living quarters-not inside, the curtains are usually drawn. Evergreens block their front entrance and the entire rear of the house, but there’s a gap between their driveway and the parking area.”
“What about their garage?”
“It’s obscured. You can just see the roof.”
“And where is that garage in relation to the deck?”
“It’s about a hundred feet behind it, on higher ground.”
“Tell us what you observed on the deck.”
“It looked like dinner had concluded. I saw a caterer bustling about replacing ashtrays. Florenza was smoking-she loves those smelly Gitanes-with a gentleman in blue jeans and suspenders-I believe they were red-over a denim shirt. Shaggy light brown hair, over the collar. Some kind of chain around his neck, with what looked like a medallion. I could only suppose this was the poet, Mr. Cudworth Brown, and that was soon confirmed-though I shouldn’t get ahead of myself.”
Arthur listened with morbid fascination. The clarity of her phrasing, her management of details, her disarming frankness: all indicators of the truthful informant. An impressive witness. He had expected she’d be…flightier.
“How well could you see this man in the suspenders?”
“Well, from over a hundred and fifty feet away…I must confess I’m quite astigmatic, but I’d had my eyeglasses renewed just two months earlier.”
“And you were wearing them?”
“Yes, I’d taken my contacts out. I could see him well enough.”
This was neatly blunting Arthur’s main line of attack. He may have to remodel his cross-examination.
“Describe this man.”
“Average height, fairly broad in the chest, an open face, handsome, good lines. A little rugged, I thought.”
“His age?”
“Mid-forties.”
She didn’t mention the nose. Its slight warp at the crown must not have registered.
“Had you ever seen him before?”
“I very much doubt it.”
“Or since?”
“I’ve had no cause to. I’ve been instructed many times by Detective Sergeant Chekoff not to contaminate my evidence by looking at newspapers and newsreels.”
“Good for you, madam,” Kroop said, reinforcing her as a witness of vast probity.
“Could you hear any conversation?”
“No, they were speaking softly, they were quite close together. I had no trouble hearing Rafael when he came out to fetch them. He said, ‘Ah, here you are, Cudworth.’”
“Then what happened?”
“The three of them went back in. So did I. Olivier was prodding me, my poor old tomcat-I’d forgot to feed him and give him his medicine.”
Wentworth Chance’s reaction to this appallingly sweet witness was to fidget like a monkey with fleas. Arthur nudged him in the ribs. In contrast, the chief justice was placid, his eyes calflike, soft with adoration. The sight of Pomeroy writing furiously in the back row caused Arthur a spectral, preternatural twinge, an odd sense he was a character in a book. An echo from his dreams.
“After putting away my tea things, I plugged in the movie-Vertigo, with Jimmy Stewart and Kim Novak.”
“To my mind, one of Hitchcock’s best,” said Kroop, surprising Arthur, who hadn’t imagined him as a film devotee.
“I’d only just settled in front of the set-maybe twenty minutes had passed-when I saw several headlights, so I went out again. The guests were leaving, and Rafael and Florenza were seeing them off. I had a clear view of the man in the braces-he was smoking a cigar near the stairs to…I guess their pool, but it’s walled in, I can’t see it from my house…Oh, you’ll think I’m a terrible snoop.” The jurors smiled. So did Arthur; she practically owned the courtroom.
“How was he dressed?”
“The same, denim shirt and dark trousers, medallion, work boots. One of the braces had come loose, and he tugged it back up.”
“About what time was this?”
“Oh, maybe ten o’clock. And I went back to my movie, and…well, quite honestly, I fell asleep in front of the set.”
“I’ve done that myself, madam.” Bonding with her.
The jury’s attention shifted, a stirring at the door: Felicity Jones, looking sullen with loss of pride. An overly considerate deputy found her an empty seat, far enough from Cuddles to reduce, though not eliminate, the risk of a rattle-brained scene that would help Leich pick him out.
Meanwhile, Arthur had lost the thread of her evidence. As he picked it up, she was upstairs, asleep in her four-poster bed.
“And did something awake you?”
“I often doze in fits and starts, it’s something to do with age, I’m told.” A smile for one of the older women on the jury, who nodded sympathetically. “I’m not sure what it was, the noise, but it was like something slamming shut, a shutter or a door, an unusual sound in the small hours. So I put on my glasses and dressing gown and went out.”
“To the upstairs balcony you described, off the bedroom.”
“Yes.”
“And what did you see?”
“Nothing at first, everything was quite dark, but when my eyes adjusted, I saw something very odd. A few night lamps were on at 2 Lighthouse, and in their glow I saw him standing on a chair. Rafael, Judge Whynet-Moir. He was in a dressing gown. I couldn’t see what he was looking at, an area back of his house, I think.”
“He was upright?”
“Yes, as if craning to see someone or something. He didn’t look all that steady, and I was worried for him.”
“Then what happened?”
“Then a man came…almost out of nowhere, running along the deck, and as he reached Rafael, he just gave him a shove, with both hands, like this…” She pushed her hands forward and slightly upward, forcefully. “It sent him right off the chair and…oh, it was horrible, I’m sorry…”
“Shall we take a break, Miss Leich?” Kroop said.
A tissue to her eyes, a brave smile, a sip of water. “No, I’ll be fine. It’s, well, I’ve had nightmares, but I was told this could be…an appropriate way to purge them.”
Told by a therapist? Arthur stood to lose, not gain, if he made an issue of that. He ought not to whale away at this entirely too bright and engaging witness. After she identifies Cud Brown, as assuredly she will, he must beg the jury to believe she made an honest mistake.
With the pained look of one forcing down bitter medicine, Leich composed a graphic scene of Raffy spilling headfirst over the railing, a strangled, phlegm-thick wail, a sickening thud. When she went silent, Arthur could almost hear the slapping of the waves on those bloodied rocks.
“I think you’re over the worst of it, Ms. Leich,” Abigail said, solicitous but obviously pleased, entertaining thoughts of pulling it off, a surprise win for the Crown. “And what about the attacker? What did he do?”