“I shall not pay you a penny!” Godfrey replied grimly. “Mrs. Radley is also a witness to that. You may call on any others you wish. You will only make a spectacle of yourself. I cannot imagine what you hope to gain by this, but I promise you, it will be nothing.”
“I do not require payment, Mr. Duncannon. Not everything is done for money, at least not by all of us. I have not and shall not ask you for anything whatever. I am defending Alexander, with his consent, because I believe I can bring to pass a certain justice that Sir Robert Cardew cannot. I do not require your consent in this. I am telling you because you have the right to know, not to interfere. Good day, sir. Mrs. Duncannon. Emily, perhaps it would be a good time for you to take your leave also.” With a very slight bow of his head to Cecily, he turned and walked out into the hall.
Godfrey used an expletive he would not normally have used in front of women.
Cecily said absolutely nothing.
Emily squeezed her arm very gently, then turned also and went after Narraway.
She caught up with him on the front doorstep where he had hesitated, apparently waiting for her. She did not bother with niceties. The wind was bitterly cold and both their carriages were waiting at the curb, horses restless.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. A year ago she would have held him in too much awe to have been so abrupt, but since he had married Vespasia she had seen a far more human and vulnerable side to him, to her great liking. “Can you really help Alexander?”
“He is beyond anyone’s help,” he said with startling gentleness. “He will not live a great deal longer. But I believe I can do as he wishes, and save his reputation both as a man of sanity and of loyalty to his friend, who was innocent of the crime for which he was hanged. Then Alexander will not have given his life for nothing.”
She nodded, emotion overwhelming her. “Please let me know if I can help.”
“You can be with Cecily Duncannon,” he replied. “It will be hard for her, and I doubt her husband will be of much comfort.”
The contract had not been signed, and perhaps now it never would be. There was nothing any of them could do about it, and she found that she did not care enough to make an issue of it. It must be won or lost on its own merits.
“Of course,” she agreed.
He smiled, and waited a moment or two for her to accept the assistance of her coachman. Then he walked briskly over to his own coach and climbed in.
The trial of Alexander Duncannon began late in the morning of the third Monday in January 1899. He was accused of the murder of three policemen and the attempted murder and serious injury of two more. They were all named.
Charlotte sat in the body of the courtroom between Vespasia and Jack. Emily was with Cecily Duncannon, as she had promised she would be. Godfrey might be called as a witness, and much to his displeasure, could not be present. He was still furious with Narraway but he had exhausted all avenues of objection to his representing Alexander and there was nothing further he could do.
Pitt could not attend, because he was naturally the chief witness for the prosecution. He also had no choice in the matter.
They all maintained silence, not because it was appropriate, or good manners, but because there was no longer anything left to say.
All the initial court procedures were carried out. They seemed to go on for ages before finally Abercorn called his first witness. He did it with tremendous gravity, making sure that every eye in the room was on Bossiney as he walked slowly, with help from the usher, up to the witness stand. He climbed the steps one at a time, drawing his left foot up to the next step, then the other level with it, clinging onto the rail.
Finally he reached the top and turned to the court. There were gasps from the jury and the crowded gallery.
Charlotte felt her stomach turn and the sweat break out on her body at the sight of his ravaged face, the scars still red, twisted, and hideous.
Even the judge, Lord Justice Bonnington, was pale-faced.
Abercorn stepped forward and looked up at the stand with awe. He listened while Bossiney swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but, and gave his name and police rank.
Charlotte glanced at Vespasia. What could Narraway, or anyone, do against this horror? No one would forget this.
“Wait,” Vespasia whispered. “We are a long way from the end, my dear.” She did not look toward Narraway at the defense table, only at Abercorn as he stood in the center of the court, like a gladiator in the arena.
“Constable Bossiney, we can all see the terrible burns that have altered your face irreparably. How much more of your body do they cover?” Abercorn’s voice was clear but gentle.
The judge frowned, but he did not interrupt.
If Narraway felt any disgust at such an extraordinary beginning, it did not register in his calm, grave expression.
“All down my right side, sir,” Bossiney answered. “Far as my knee.”
“I imagine the pain of it was beyond description,” Abercorn observed.
“Yes, sir,” Bossiney agreed.
The judge looked at Narraway to see if he objected. There had been no question in Abercorn’s remark, but Narraway did not protest.
“Did you have any mark or disfigurement before the explosion and the fire at Lancaster Gate?” Abercorn asked.
“No, sir,” Bossiney answered.
“How did you come to be there?” Abercorn went on, his voice light and courteous, as if it were possible that anyone in the room did not already know.
“I was on duty. Information had come in to the station that there was going to be a big sale of opium, sir. We wanted to catch the dealers.”
“Just so,” Abercorn agreed. “And where did this information come from? I assume it must have been a source you considered reliable?”
“Yes, sir. The source’s information had been accurate on several occasions.”
“Regarding the illegal sale of opium?” Abercorn pronounced the word carefully, so no one should miss it.
“Yes, sir,” Bossiney agreed.
“Did you know the name of this informer?”
“No, sir. Just signed his letters Anno Domini or A.D.” As if involuntarily, Bossiney glanced up at the dock where Alexander Duncannon was sitting.
“The same person each time?” Abercorn reinforced the impression.
“Looked like it, sir.”
Vespasia shifted very slightly in her seat. Charlotte knew why. Bossiney was answering every question carefully, as Abercorn had schooled him, never overstating anything. He would be very difficult to catch out. She wondered how Narraway thought he was going to do it. It must be decades since he had stood up in court to defend anyone. Did he really have any idea what he was doing? She glanced at Vespasia, and met her eyes. Vespasia read her anxiety perfectly, and mirrored it for an instant in her own expression, before she very carefully replaced it with a look of complete assurance. But Charlotte knew now that it was a mask, and that it hid fear.
“How many of you went to the house in Lancaster Gate?” Abercorn continued.
“Five of us, sir.”
“And who were they?”
“Inspector Ednam, Sergeant Hobbs, Sergeant Newman, Constable Yarcombe, and me,” Bossiney replied.
“Sergeant Newman and Sergeant Hobbs were killed at the site, and Inspector Ednam later died of his wounds, is that correct?” Now Abercorn looked very grave. His voice was somber and he stood stiffly, almost to attention. He might have been at the funeral now.
No one in the room stirred.
Bossiney’s expression was unreadable because of the damage to his face, but his voice was thick with emotion.
“Yes, sir.”
“Could you describe the house when you arrived, Constable, as well as you can?”
Bossiney did so in some detail. Again Charlotte had the distinct feeling that he had been told exactly how much to say-enough to make it real so the jury could imagine it, smell the staleness in the air, hear the silence, but not enough to lose their attention. It frightened her that Abercorn was so skilled, so very much in control.