It was Margaret, but she couldn’t talk either. Or barely. He heard, “Beat the plucker by a whisker.”
“I am bursting with pride.”
“Not counting my chickens. Recount ordered.”
“You’ll win. Ah, you’ll be the belle of the ball in Ottawa. I can hardly wait. The nation’s capital, its beating heart.”
“Bullshit artist.”
He would join her at Blunder Bay at trial’s end. Now comes the task of finding caretakers for the farm for the several months that Parliament sits. In the meantime, while he waits for the jury, he will do some library time, bone up on the recount process.
That’s where Wentworth found him a couple of hours later, reading precedents. A ballot must be rejected if it identifies the voter. An X consists of any two crossed lines, a swastika qualifies, not a circle.
“The sheriff says they’re talking a lot. No loud arguing. At the Gilbert Gilbert trial, we had this army drill major who tied the jury up for five days.”
“Has Pomeroy showed up?”
“Yes. He’s sitting down the hall. Isn’t saying much. Said you spoke with him last night.”
“We had a tete-a-tete.” Nothing else could be said. It was a monumental task, holding his terrible secrets. Already they had inspired a bad dream.
He’d left Hollyburn last night only after receiving Brian’s promise to attend court. There’d been a few final questions. Brian denied that Florenza ever told him she saw Cud do an act of murder. Instead, she teased him. “Darling, he kind of looked like you.”
Why had she lied so blatantly to the jury when she hadn’t needed to? Silent Shawn, of course-he’d not trusted her account of a stranger rushing at Raffy; it sounded incriminating, a scheme between her and Carlos, the hit-man scenario. Blame Cud Brown, he’d counselled, assuring her it was the safer course.
Not much more was said between confessor and priest last night. It was understood that Brian must make the right decision, the decent, moral one. Understood by Arthur, at least. Whatever remained of Brian’s humanity and nobility would be sorely tested if the jury convicted a man guilty of many things-including an unregulated sex drive and the writing of bad poetry-but not murder.
Wentworth was looking pensive, and Arthur was feeling sorry for having been curt. He must speak to the young man’s associates about granting him a partnership, long overdue. “You’ve done stellar work throughout, young man…Wentworth?” Far, far away this time.
He came to. “Sorry, what?”
“This case could not have been won without you at my side. If the jury remains out tonight, I intend to reserve the finest table…”
“I can’t, not tonight. I…I have a date.”
“April?”
“Yes, yes! How did you know?”
“The old man isn’t as tuned out as you think. Picked up the vibes.”
“God, I almost blew it with her. I hope I’m not in love.”
“Ah, well, given that wondrous possibility, it will be my pleasure to invite you both for dinner and quietly disappear.”
Here came the sheriff, huffing and puffing toward them, trying to keep his voice down in the silence of the library. “They’re ready, Mr. Beauchamp.”
Eleven-thirty, one would have thought they’d have waited until after Her Majesty bought lunch.
It didn’t take the courtroom long to fill, lawyers flooding in, the case’s faithful followers swarming in from God knows where, like bees to the hive. Cud’s groupie base had been decimated further, their hero an anxious, hunched-over, pale imitation of the cocky maverick of yore. He’d been placed in the prisoner’s dock for the verdict, Felicity behind him, tissue at her flooding eyes.
Pomeroy was in the back row, staring at his hands.
No surly faces as the jurors filed in, even Altieri seemed at ease with his conscience. Arthur made eye contact with Professor Glass. A barely perceptible smile. Arthur relaxed.
The clerk stood, slowly intoned the options: murder, manslaughter, innocence.
“Not guilty,” said the forewoman.
Kroop nodded, seeming not dissatisfied. “So say you all?”
All stood in confirmation.
“The accused is discharged.”
Cud couldn’t seem to move, then started to back up, stumbled, nearly fell. He was taking great gulps of air, the free air he’d thought he might never breathe again. He began to weep.
Felicity, as if turned off by this show of unmanliness, slipped his grasping, comfort-seeking arms, ran to Arthur, hugged him, and then, to his utter embarrassment, mounted him, her legs curled around his like pincers. “Thank you, thank you,” she repeated.
Looking over her shoulder, Arthur saw Brian numbly staring at this scene. He dared one look at Arthur, then joined the crush for the door.
A few minutes later, standing with Abigail at the terrace railing, Arthur watched as Brian, in raincoat now, slouched toward the exit, alone but for the spectre of the guilt that must stalk him for all his days. He turned again, looked up at the man who must forever hold his secret.
“What’s with him?” Abigail asked.
“I wish I could say.”
Brian whirled, and raced outside. He began to run, darting through traffic, his raincoat flapping in the wind. He ran and ran…