“You figure you can unsettle the Crown’switnesses all along?”
“I have no other choice. I must attackrelentlessly and toss out alternative versions of the crime as Igo.”
Beth frowned. “You mean the way Doubtful Dickoperated?”
“Yes. All I need to do is unsettle the juryabout the Crown’s patched-together fairy tale, and Uncle Seamus’scharacter and name will do the rest. It’s a reasonable doubt, asDick always reminded me.”
Beth reached over and stroked her husband’scheek. “But my darling, you are not ruthless. And you’re not DickDougherty.”
TEN
By ten o’clock Monday morning the courtroom wasjammed. Citizens of every class and gender were packed into theside-galleries, and the VIP benches facing the august, judicialpodium were fully occupied by a who’s who of the Family Compact,the proprietors of a dozen newspapers from Toronto and theadjoining counties, and of course the family and friends of theaccused. Robert Baldwin and his father sat directly behind Marc’sbench, and in back of them were Diana Ramsay, Brodie Langford (oncethe ward of Doubtful Dick Dougherty) and Robert’s eldest son,William. Beth was in the witness-room. And high above them alclass="underline" thepitiable figure of Uncle Seamus in the dock.
Despite the size of the crowd, the place wassubdued. People chatted in desultory whispers, in part because themorning sun slanting in through the tall, elegant windows uponvarnished wood and polished brass gave this regal space theambience of a cathedral and in part because the trial itself wasalmost too sensational for words. The jury had been selected onSaturday. Everything was set for the proceedings to begin.
Marc sat at his bench and studied the jury.They looked as ordinary as he knew them to be. There was no-onehere more prominent than a tobacconist. Tradesmen and labourers,the rest. How would they judge a privileged gentleman alleged tohave seduced and raped his brother’s maidservant, and thencallously slipped her five pounds for a botched abortion? It wasgoing to be uphill all the way. Across the aisle from him satNeville Cambridge, his blond hair just showing under his wig,elegant in his silks, unflappable. He did not look once in Marc’sdirection, probably because he was serenely confident of aconviction. Cobb had assembled an airtight case for him.
Mr. Justice Gavin Powell struck his gavel onthe bench before him and ordered the trial to begin with thereading of the charges
***
In his opening address, as expected, Cambridge spunthe seamless story of a gentleman, pampered and privileged, whodisported himself in unseemly ways with the young women in hishousehold and with occasional female guests, and who subsequentlyand ruthlessly raped one Betsy Thurgood on the third day of Augustin the barn of Whittle’s mill. Thereafter he dallied with the girlat will for the next two months until he discovered she waspregnant. Cambridge went on to detail the horrors of the botchedabortion and the gentleman’s role in it, a role that, without adoubt, bespoke manslaughter. Numerous references were made tounimpeachable eye-witness testimony. For his part, with noelaborate defense to outline, Marc was compelled to offer the jurythe distinct possibility that said witnesses were mistaken and thatone or more other villains could just as easily have committed thecrime. Further, a plausible and exculpating explanation would beoffered for the circumstances of the abortion. He planned to savehis arguments about Uncle Seamus’s true character until hissummation.
The first witness called by the Crown wasBurton Thurgood.
Neville Cambridge greeted him with thebriefest of smiles, then effected a sombre, almost tragic,expression, as if alerting the jury to the dire nature of what wasto follow. “Mr. Thurgood, we realize that you have recentlysuffered an unspeakable loss, and hence I propose that we moveslowly, one step at a time. Just answer the questions as best youcan under these trying circumstances.”
Cambridge’s voice was in the middle rangebetween tenor and baritone, and would not have been forceful orcolourful enough to have earned him a place on the stage. However,he used it to startlingly good effect. Marc could see the membersof the jury lean forward as if they wished to be included in aconversation too compelling to be missed.
“Thank you, sir. I will do my best.”Thurgood’s attempt a humility was not completely successful. Hehung his head and spoke in a hoarse whisper, but in the eyes -peering up under the humble, black brows – there lurked defiance,aggrievement and scorn.
“If you will, sir, cast your mind back tothat terrible night when your daughter, Betsy, informed you thatshe might be with child. Tell us in your own words and in your ownhonest way precisely what happened from that point on.”
The prosecutor was suave enough to beappointed British ambassador to France, Marc thought. Butterwouldn’t melt . . . And slipping that “honest way” into thequestion! For the moment, though, there was little Marc could dobut watch and listen.
With occasional, always gentle, prompts fromNeville Cambridge, Thurgood narrated the events surrounding thebotched abortion. He started by explaining that Betsy had been homefor three days to look after her sick mother, her first trip homesince she had started to work full-time at Spadina. Her motherrecovered and all seemed well until Betsy told them, on the thirdevening, of her suspected pregnancy. Then he spoke of sending forElsie Trigger, with great reluctance because she was known to drinkon occasion. But she was the midwife in their area and, he stressedseveral times, she was only summoned to examine the girl todetermine whether or not she was with child. “I’d’ve never let thatharridan anywheres near my precious Betsy otherwise!” he cried inhis only uncontrolled outburst. Marc saw several jurors nod insympathy. Childbirth and the goings-on associated with it were bothmysterious and frightening matters for most men.
Thurgood further mesmerized the jury with hispiteous account of how he and his wife discovered the girl indistress and bleeding. What to do? Dora Cobb was sent for, whilethey sat on either side of their stricken daughter watching thefever take hold. There was nothing faked or overblown about themisery in Thurgood’s face. However, from Marc’s point of view, theywere a long way from the rape, and Cambridge was taking a chance ongoing for the jury’s emotional jugular too soon. He had littlechoice, though, for he had opted to begin at the end of the storyand work backwards. What really puzzled Marc, though, was the factthat no mention was made of Mrs. Trigger’s dramatic exit. Cambridgemoved quickly past it to Dora Cobb. Her arrival and ministrationswere related in a calm and direct manner until Thurgood reached thegirl’s final moments.
“You must have realized your daughter wasnear death?” Cambridge prompted.
Thurgood nodded. “She was shakin’ with feverand Mrs. Cobb couldn’t get the blood to stop comin’. It washorrible.”
“Indeed it was, and all of us who are parentssympathize – ”
“Mr. Cambridge,” said Justice Powell. “Youknow better.”
Ah, nice, Marc thought. He went too far andgot interrupted at a critical moment.
“Tell us, sir, if you can bear to, about thelast minute of Betsy’s life.”
Thurgood’s lower lip trembled and theligaments in his neck stiffened with the strain of his reply: “Mywife and me had asked the girl many times who the father was, butshe wouldn’t tell us. Then Auleen, that’s my wife, she thought totry one more time before – before . . .”
“Betsy passed away?”
“Yeah.”
“Your wife asked her outright?”
Marc considered an objection, but held back.It was going to be a long trial and he would have manyopportunities to interrupt.
“She did. She said ‘Who is the father, Betsy.Tell us,’ or somethin’ like that.”
“Did Betsy, despite her fever anddeteriorating condition, hear those words?”
Marc got halfway to his feet, then sat backdown.
“Well, she answered ‘em.”