“Thank you.” Abercorn nodded.
Narraway said nothing at all. He did not even move in his seat.
Charlotte’s body was tense, her hands locked together in her lap.
“What happened, as far as you can recall?” Abercorn prompted.
Bossiney described the shock of the explosion, the earsplitting noise, the violence, confusion, and above all the unbearable pain, then nothing, just darkness. He used simple words, none that were not part of his ordinary language. Nothing he said sounded coached or rehearsed.
The horror of Bossiney’s description filled the room. Somewhere in the gallery a woman was crying. Emily was sitting close to Cecily Duncannon, who was holding onto her as if she were drowning.
Charlotte could not even imagine what she must be feeling. She wanted to scream at Abercorn to get on with his questions, and not to let them all sit here imagining the nightmare. But of course that was exactly what he was doing. That was what this was all for: to foster the horror, the fear that somehow it could happen to anyone here; to suggest that as long as people like Alexander were free, nobody was safe.
It was the judge who broke the silence.
“Have you anything more for the witness, Mr. Abercorn?”
“No, my lord,” Abercorn said quietly. “I think we have asked enough of him.” He walked slowly to his chair and sat down.
“Mr. Narraway?” the judge asked, and then corrected himself. “I beg your pardon, Lord Narraway.”
Narraway rose to his feet. “No, thank you, my lord. I believe Constable Bossiney has told us all he knows that is relevant.” He sat down again.
The judge looked startled. Abercorn was confused, uncertain whether to be triumphant or alarmed.
The judge adjourned the court for luncheon.
Charlotte, Vespasia, and Jack walked the short distance to the nearest public house seeking a good, hot meal. They did so in silence, wrapped up against the wind. Vespasia did not mention whether she had been to such an establishment before, but she looked around curiously only once. They all had more pressing weights on their minds than the chatter of the other diners, many of whom had also come from one of the nearby courts or offices.
They spoke briefly of Tellman, and his slow but steady recovery. Vespasia particularly asked after Gracie, and Charlotte smiled for the first time that day as she recounted how Gracie was completely in control and Tellman was for once doing exactly as she told him.
“Perhaps he at last realizes how much she loves him?” Vespasia suggested.
“I think so,” Charlotte agreed. “And he is allowing himself to admit that his family means more to him than anything else.”
Vespasia smiled back, and resumed eating a kind of meal to which she was totally unaccustomed.
Abercorn began the afternoon’s testimony by calling Constable Yarcombe. He was better recovered than Bossiney, but he still walked a trifle out of balance for having less than half an arm on one side. He also told of being lured to the house in Lancaster Gate, of how they all were prepared to find a major drug deal in progress, confident that the informer who had previously been so reliable would be so again.
He described the house much the way Bossiney had, but carefully using different words, as if they had not compared notes. Again it was enough to convey that he knew the place, but the account was not swamped in enough detail that any of it could be contradicted.
He spoke of the explosion with some distress, both for his colleagues who were killed and for the searing pain he had felt. When Abercorn asked him, he spoke highly of Ednam.
“Yes, sir, ’e were a fine man. Knew ’im for years, I did. Very brave, ’e were. Very fair. It were a terrible thing that ’e died of ’is injuries. Mind, the pain of it, there were days I wished I ’ad.”
There was an audible murmur of sympathy around the gallery. Charlotte saw one of the jurors muttering something, and then looking up at Alexander, who sat white-faced and stiff. But he was no stranger to pain. He had lived with it since his own accident, and would for the rest of his life. But of course the jury did not know that-and was it relevant to anything? Narraway had not pleaded insanity for Alexander. Why not? Surely the opium he had been prescribed, and then became addicted to, could have driven him mad? And madness was about the only defense for this.
Charlotte wondered what on earth Narraway was doing, and whether Thomas had any idea at all how appallingly this was going. It could hardly be worse.
But when Yarcombe came to the end of his evidence, and Narraway could have done something, again he declined to ask him anything at all.
The ripple of amazement around the court was tinged with anger, even contempt.
And contempt was written clearly on Abercorn’s aggressive face. He looked across once to where Cecily Duncannon sat and there was victory already in his eyes.
Charlotte wished she could somehow hurt him, take some weapon and hit him so hard with it that the pleasure in him would vanish forever. She knew that was ridiculous and childish. It was not really he who was at fault. He was only doing what he was supposed to. But she hated him for enjoying it. And he was! Staring at him, at the shine on his face, she was certain of it. This was a victory against Godfrey Duncannon, because Alexander was his son and he had what should have been Abercorn’s. Godfrey had abandoned Abercorn’s mother for Cecily, and left her to the pain of difficult birth and no one to support her. Perhaps, like Alexander, she too had turned to opium or some other drug. Where would that have left Abercorn as a child?
She turned her attention back to the trial. Abercorn could do nothing now except proceed. If Narraway had hoped to knock his confidence by behaving so extraordinarily, he was not succeeding.
Abercorn called the senior fireman who had attended the blaze after the explosion. His account was exact, harrowing, but with the expert detail that held the attention of everyone in the court. There was a horrible fascination in the power of fire to cause all-consuming destruction. Here, safely in the courtroom, the fear created a frisson of excitement.
Abercorn thanked the fireman and turned to Narraway.
Narraway rose to his feet. “Thank you, my lord,” he said to the judge. “I cannot think of anything this witness has left out, or indeed of anything that could be interpreted other than as he has done.”
“You’ve nothing to ask?” the judge said incredulously.
“Nothing, my lord, thank you.”
The jurors looked at one another, puzzled, even disconcerted.
There was a murmuring in the body of the court.
Charlotte turned to Vespasia, and then wished that she had not. The concern in her eyes was unmistakable. Charlotte reached out and put her hand gently on Vespasia’s and felt her fingers tighten in response.
Abercorn spent the rest of the afternoon calling one expert witness after another. Most moving were the doctors, especially the one who described the pain of those who had survived. The police surgeon described the causes of death of Newman and Hobbs. He also stated that Ednam’s injuries were the primary cause of his death, although it occurred a little later.
Again Narraway had nothing to say.
“Surely, Lord Narraway, you have some purpose here?” the judge said in complete exasperation. “You are hardly giving your client any kind of defense at all! Are you hoping for a mistrial, sir? You cannot claim incompetence. You are perfectly capable of mounting some sort of defense, or I would not have permitted you to undertake it. Do you wish to be replaced?”
“No, thank you, my lord,” Narraway said a little stiffly, as if his neck ached and his throat were dry. “I have not questioned the witnesses so far because I do not believe their evidence is in error or in any way incomplete. I will have questions later. I do not believe it is in my client’s interest to waste the court’s time over issues that are not in doubt.”