Though I Know She Lies, page 13
In court the prosecution had launched a long string of witnesses who had known the Wentworth sisters from infancy There was a dreary sameness about their stories, and the trouble was, thought Derek Stringer, they’re telling the truth, as they see it, so what’s the use of trying to shake them? His head had been better when he got up, but it all started aching again halfway through the morning, probably from sheer frustration.
And some of the evidence, of course, wasn’t only a matter of opinion. There could be no doubt, for instance, that Barbara, at the age of fourteen, had said “I hate her!” and rushed out of the house in a temper when told she couldn’t go on some cherished expedition unless Laura went, too. For all Lamb’s melancholy, and the matter-of-fact nature of the elderly cook-general in the witness box, it was a curiously vivid picture. And believable, thought Derek ruefully.
Nor was there any doubt that the vicar’s wife was telling the truth when she said that Barbara had flatly refused to be her sister’s bridesmaid. “You could tell Laura was hurt about it, and Mrs. Wentworth and I did our best to persuade her,” she said. “But she was always a very determined girl, and I’m afraid she was jealous.”
And so it went on. Such silly little episodes, thought Derek, savagely; the trouble was they formed a sort of logical progression, something the jury might feel they were working out for themselves. And the impact wasn’t diminished by the information which recurred with depressing regularity . . . Mrs. Canning had worried about her sister . . . well, her job you know, a model . . . and one didn’t feel her friends could be quite, not quite the sort her family would have approved. In each case, Sir Nicholas disclaimed the desire to cross-examine with a negligent gesture, as though what had been said wasn’t worth the trouble of denying. But his junior, angry and increasingly uncomfortable, knew only too well that the prosecution was making its points.
And, if he had to admit it, the prisoner’s bored expression didn’t help matters at all.
They saw her for a few moments just before the court reassembled after the luncheon recess, and Sir Nicholas again tried to impress on her the importance of the impression she made, especially on the jury. She listened to him patiently and then shook her head. “I think whatever I do will look wrong to somebody,” she said. “If I smile they’ll say I’m shameless; if I look sad they’ll think it’s remorse.” Counsel waved a hand in reply, as though dissatisfied with her argument but unable to deny it.
It was left to Derek to say bluntly, “If only you wouldn’t look quite so—so disdainful.”
She burst out laughing at that, and he thought resentfully that she seemed pleased with the description. “No . . . do I?” she said. “But you can’t expect me to look as if I care.” And though she promised before they left her to “try to amend her ways,” none of them felt very satisfied with the results of the interview.
There were a few more friends of the family after lunch, and still the picture continued to emerge with overwhelming clarity: of Laura thoroughly identified with her parents, with Barbara the odd-man-out . . . resentful of the position, sometimes furiously angry, and almost always indiscreet. Can’t they see how it was? Derek raged to himself. He was conscious of the hostile feeling in the courtroom as an almost tangible thing. She’d changed now, or at least schooled herself to indifference. But they’d only mistrust her the more for that.
The last witness that day, and probably also the most damaging, was the solicitor from Southbourne who had looked after Arthur Wentworth’s affairs. He was a tall man, and dignified, with shining grey curls surrounding what looked like a tonsure. He took the oath with a ponderous air and gave his evidence in resonant tones.
He described the family and its affairs, so far as he had observed them while his client was alive. He gave details of the late Arthur Wentworth’s estate, which was a sizable one; and told how the two daughters had come down to Southbourne for the funeral after their father’s sudden death. And how he had informed them of the provisions of the will . . . “One hundred pounds to his younger daughter; everything else went to Mrs. Laura Canning.”
“Did it occur to you that there was anything inequitable in the arrangement?” That was Lamb, underlining the point. As though it wasn’t obvious enough already.
“He told me he made the decision after very serious thought.” The ponderous tone had its own effect of emphasis. “I ventured to suggest that, even if the main provisions stood, a slightly more generous bequest to Miss Barbara Wentworth might be made, but I found him adamant.”
“Did he give you his reasons?”
“In a way. Laura, he said, had remained at home until her marriage and had always been guided by his wishes and those of his wife. He felt that Barbara had cut herself off from the family when she left home.”
“And it was your task to tell these two young ladies how things were left?”
“It was.”
“How did they receive the news?”
“Mrs. Canning behaved very properly and modestly. She was much upset by her father’s death and seemed touched by his thought for her.”
“And Miss Wentworth?”
“She looked very white and angry. And then she asked how soon she could have the money.”
“You continued to act as Mrs. Canning’s solicitor?”
“I did.”
“And can you therefore tell us of her testamentary dispositions?”
“Indeed I can. It was a very simple arrangement—”
Perhaps Sir Gerald had been caught before by solicitors disserting upon “simple arrangements.” In any event—to everyone’s relief he did not allow the witness very much latitude. “We are concerned to know whether Miss Wentworth was remembered in her sister’s will.”
“To the extent of five thousand pounds.”
“That is, in Mrs. Canning’s last will, which was made three years ago?”
“Yes. But the legacy to Miss Wentworth was also included in the previous disposition of her estate, that is, in the will made after Arthur Wentworth’s death but before her divorce.”
“Thank you. That is very clear.” And indeed it was, thought Derek, gloomily . . . only too clear.
This time Sir Nicholas did not waive the chance to cross-examine; he came to his feet slowly and stood looking at the witness for a while before saying, “When you spoke to Arthur Wentworth about his will, did he give you any other reason that you have told us for his attitude toward his younger daughter?”
“He did not.”
“No hint of irregular behaviour?”
“No.”
“Just that she had disregarded his desires in this one matter when she wished—as so many young people do—to leave home.”
“I understood there was a general dissatisfaction.”
“But no very serious matter to justify it? Would you say he was of a vindictive disposition?”
“I should say he liked to be obeyed.”
“And this—er—testamentary disposition of Mrs. Canning’s, under which Miss Wentworth was to inherit a small proportion of her sister’s estate—”
“Five thousand pounds,” said the witness, who obviously liked to have things accurate.
“Yes . . . I am glad you reminded me of the exact sum,” said Sir Nicholas, insincerely. “Mrs. Canning asked your advice, no doubt, before deciding on this particular amount?”
“Well . . . yes.”
“There seems to be some doubt in your mind. Perhaps you will explain.”
“At first Mrs. Canning was reluctant to do anything that seemed to go against her father’s wishes. I think it was her husband who persuaded her, then she consulted me.”
“I see. And now perhaps you will tell us—”
It had to be done, of course, thought Derek; you have to go through the motions, even when you know there’s nothing to gain. And through all the long afternoon he couldn’t see that the prisoner, for all her protestations, had modified her scornful expression in the slightest. Perhaps it wasn’t to be expected, but the fact depressed him.
*
There seemed to have been some sort of a hitch. Antony got home about seven o’clock to find a scene of frenzied activity. Stringer, with the potato pan in one hand and a fork in the other, appeared in the kitchen doorway with a cloud of steam behind him; in the living room Jenny was pulling table mats out of the drawer in a distraught way and muttering to herself as she did so. Only Sir Nicholas had dissociated himself from the preparations, and was sitting in his usual chair. After one look at his expression Antony gave him a glass of the sherry he was trying to save for Christmas, and stoked up the fire, before going away to wash. When he returned, calm seemed to have been restored, and his uncle looked a little less austere.
All through the meal he had a feeling Jenny had something she wanted to tell him, but she’d get round to it when she was ready. Afterward, of course, there was information to exchange. Antony put his coffee cup on the mantelpiece, thought for a moment of Emmie Canning and her milky brew, and took his favourite position with his back to the fire.
“I hope you were right,” he said, “when you thought they wouldn’t reach Stanley Prior’s evidence today.”
“They didn’t.” The cigars were at Sir Nicholas’s elbow. He selected one and began his careful preparations.
“But we had a good dose of motive for all that,” said Stringer. He paused, and then, “It was deadly,” he added, disconsolately.
“As bad as that?”
“As far as I’m concerned, it made me feel it was no wonder the damned woman had been killed,” said Derek. “And that was before they got to the financial details. By the time Prior’s got through telling the jury that both sisters were in love with him—” He broke off with a helpless gesture and looked up at Antony. “There wasn’t a thing we could do,” he said.
“Any special points?”
“Not really. Nothing we didn’t expect.”
“And I drew a blank, too, in Southbourne. Do you mean to call any witnesses, besides Barbara Wentworth?”
“I’m in two minds about that,” said Sir Nicholas.
“It might be as well to have the last word with the jury,” Antony agreed. “However, for what it’s worth, I found two people who couldn’t stand the sight of Laura—”
“That won’t help,” said Stringer.
“No, but have you noticed that nobody likes them both?”
“Except Stanley Prior.”
“Well, except Prior, if you like. These two could only be useful as a sort of counterbalance to what went on today. I mean, they’ve nothing of particular interest to say.”
“That would be altogether too much to expect,” said Sir Nicholas, apparently addressing the tip of his cigar.
“One is a chap called Walter Midland, who says Laura was ‘calculating’ and Barbara ‘generous’; and the other is a schoolmistress, and quite terrifying.” He began to feel in his pocket for the envelope on which he had written the lady’s name, but all that came to light was the sketch of the crocodile. “She says Barbara had serious faults of temperament, but jealousy wasn’t among them. And before you comment on that, either of you, let me tell you that even a juryman who was three parts asleep couldn’t miss the fact that she was extremely fond of her.” He paused, and then added, conscientiously, “That Miss Dillon was fond of Barbara, I mean.”
“I think you’ve wasted your time,” his uncle told him. “But as a matter of interest, what did she think of Laura?” The cigar was drawing well now.
“She called her ‘underhand.’ I’ve been wondering, sir—”
“Has it occurred to you that we have had some extremely divergent opinions on Mrs. Canning?” Sir Nicholas was pursuing his own train of thought. Antony turned the crocodile envelope over and studied the notes he had made on the back of it with rather a blank look.
“Sensitive . . . shy . . . highest principles . . . gentle. Oh, yes, and ‘spiritual,’ of all things. And a lot more besides. On the other hand, ruthless, calculating, underhand . . . she sounds a pretty fair menace to me.”
“You will not help matters, Antony, by allowing your prejudice to blind you.”
“Well, sir . . . what do you think?”
“Oh, I agree with you.” His uncle smiled at him blandly. “But the comment remains a fair one.” Derek laughed and put down the cigarette on which he had been drawing nervously, and began to drink his coffee. Jenny looked up at her husband.
“What were you wondering?” she asked.
“What sort of a hold Laura had over Madame Raymonde.”
“Are you seriously suggesting—?”
“I was thinking about it in the train, and I’m beginning to feel she wouldn’t have been above a little genteel blackmail.”
“You’re implying that Mrs. O’Toole might not have found it possible to refuse her a partnership?” said Sir Nicholas.
“And that cash might not have been the only consideration that passed. Precisely, sir.”
“Where does that take us?” wondered his uncle.
“Nowhere, at the moment,” Antony admitted.
Derek had heard about last night’s events from his leader over the luncheon table. He said now, frowning, “You seem to be contradicting yourself. If you think madame tipped off Stanley Prior—”
“I think she’s by far the most likely person to have done so, if he’s the man responsible for the attacks. I agree,” he added discontentedly, “nothing makes sense.”
“Wait a minute. I have a message for you from Sykes,” said Sir Nicholas. “He ’phoned just before I left chambers.”
“Well, sir?”
“He said you might be interested to know that Prior is a frequent visitor at the house of a Mrs. Edgecombe-Daly. She’s a wealthy widow and lives in Kensington.”
“I don’t see—”
“She is also a regular customer of Madame Raymonde’s,” said Sir Nicholas. “And while you’re considering that, let’s accept your guesswork for a moment and see where it takes us. If you recognise Prior tomorrow—”
“Well, it would depend who I recognised him as, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, I suppose it’s infernally tricky,” said Sir Nicholas, testily. “And I don’t see how it’s going to help us, even if he is a crook of some kind. Unless you can prove he murdered Laura Canning, and as far as I can see he had neither motive nor opportunity.”
“I’m afraid not. All the same—”
“You saw Douglas Canning last night.” The discussion was proceeding rapidly in circles, and Sir Nicholas abandoned it without apology. “I should have thought your talk with him would have been worth at least a brief report.”
“I made some notes in the train,” said Antony, feeling in his pocket again. This time he brought out a notebook and opened it at the first page. Sir Nicholas looked at it with an affectation of surprise and produced his spectacles in a resigned way. “I think they’re fairly legible,” his nephew added, encouragingly.
Sir Nicholas read, and passed the book across to Stringer in silence. Antony picked up the coffee pot. Jenny leaned back in her corner of the sofa, her eyes on Derek’s face.
“It would seem,” said counsel at last, as his junior returned the notebook to its owner, “that there is here more obvious cause for interest.”
“That’s what I thought, sir, until I got home last night. And I don’t mean I’ve lost interest in the Cannings, only that the other has to be looked into as well. I’d like to see Emmie Canning during the day—”
“It would be a shame,” said Jenny, “to upset the little girl and more.” Antony was not deceived for a moment by her casually aloof air.
“It’s not as straightforward as all that, love.”
“You think she knows something?” asked Sir Nicholas, with interest.
“I’ve no reason to think so. But Emmie implied that Clare was ill because of the shock of her mother’s death, while I’d have said she was far more concerned with what was happening to Auntie Barbara.”
Derek said irritably, “What does that prove?”
“I just think it’s queer, that’s all. And there’s another thing—”
“Well?”
“I’m not too sure whether it was the doctor’s opinion of her condition I was being given.”
“Say what you mean,” growled Sir Nicholas.
“Emmie said—” he closed his eyes, remembering “ ‘—there are places where they understand these things.’ That means an asylum of some sort . . . a mental home . . . psychiatric treatment . . . whatever the modern jargon is. I just don’t like the position, that’s all.”
Derek was frowning over this. “I don’t see that it helps,” he said, at last.
“Not as it stands,” Antony agreed. He had been watching Jenny’s expression, but now he turned to Stringer. “Refresh my memory,” he requested. “What is Douglas Canning’s job?”
“He’s with the Imperial Insurance Company,” said Derek. “He manages one of their head-office departments, which sounds impressive, but the salary isn’t. And while Laura was alive he was paying her twenty pounds every month toward Clare’s upkeep.”
“Which she didn’t need.”
“No, but seemed fair enough to the court, I suppose.”
“I seem to remember . . . wasn’t there a hint somewhere of financial difficulties?”
“There was some local gossip, Bellerby said. The impression was he’d found it pretty difficult, after he remarried. Certainly they’ve been going carefully.”
“And now?”
