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She opened her reticule and produced a gold half guinea, the last she had left, and offered it to him.
He took it with courteous thanks and slid it into his pocket.
He rose, pulled her chair out for her, and she left the coaching inn with an intense feeling of satisfaction quite unwarranted by the circumstances, and sailed out into the street for him to hail her a hansom and direct it back to Queen Anne Street.
The trial of Percival Garrod commenced in mid-January 1857, and since Beatrice Moidore was still suffering occasional moods of deep distress and anxiety, Hester was not yet released from caring for her. She complied with this arrangement eagerly, because she had not yet found other means of earning her living, but more importantly because it meant she could remain in the house at Queen Anne Street and observe the Moidore family. Not that she was aware of having learned anything helpful, but she never lost hope.
The whole family attended the trial at the Old Bailey. Basil had wished the women to remain at home and give their evidence in writing, but Araminta refused to consider obedience to such an instruction, and on the rare occasions when she and Basil clashed, it was she who prevailed. Beatrice did not confront him on the issue; she simply dressed in quiet, unadorned black, heavily veiled, and gave Robert instructions to fetch her carriage. Hester offered to go with her as a matter of service, and was delighted when the offer was accepted.
Fenella Sandeman laughed at the very idea that she should forgo such a marvelously dramatic occasion, and swept out of the room, a little high on alcohol, wearing a long black silk kerchief and flinging it in the air with one white arm, delicately mittened in black lace.
Basil swore, but it was to no avail whatever. If she even heard him, it passed over her head harmlessly.
Romola refused to be the only one left at home, and no one bothered to argue with her.
The courtroom was crammed with spectators, and since this time Hester was not required to give any evidence, she was able to sit in the public gallery throughout.
The prosecution was conducted by a Mr. F. J. O’Hare, a flamboyant gentleman who had made his name in a few sensational cases—and many less publicized ones which had earned him a great deal of money. He was well respected by his professional peers and adored by the public, who were entertained and impressed by his quiet, intense manner and sudden explosions into drama. He was of average height but stocky build, short neck and fine silver hair, heavily waved. Had he permitted it to be longer it would have been a leonine mane, but he apparently preferred to appear sleek. He had a musical lilt to his voice which Hester could not place, and the slightest of lisps.
Percival was defended by Oliver Rathbone, and as soon as she saw him Hester felt a wild, singing hope inside her like a bird rising on the wind. It was not only that justice might be done after all, but that Rathbone had been prepared to fight, simply for the cause, not for its reward.
The first witness called was the upstairs maid, Annie, who had found Octavia Haslett’s body. She looked very sober, dressed in her best off-duty blue stuff dress and a bonnet that hid her hair and made her look curiously younger, both aggressive and vulnerable at the same time.
Percival stood in the dock, upright and staring in front of him. He might lack humility, compassion or honor, but he was not without courage. He looked smaller than Hester remembered him, narrower across the shoulders and not as tall. But then he was motionless; the swagger that was part of him could not be used, nor the vitality. He was helpless to fight back. It was all in Rathbone’s hands now.
The doctor was called next, and gave his evidence briefly. Octavia Haslett had been stabbed to death during the night, with not more than two blows to the lower chest, beneath the ribs.
The third witness was William Monk, and his evidence lasted the rest of the morning and all the afternoon. He was abrasive, sarcastic, and punctiliously accurate, refusing to draw even the most obvious conclusions from anything.
F. J. O’Hare was patient to begin with and scrupulously polite, waiting his chance to score a deciding thrust. It did not come until close to the end, when he was passed a note by his junior, apparently reminding him of the Grey case.
“It would seem to me, Mr. Monk—it is Mr. now, not Inspector, is that so?” His lisp was very slight indeed.
“It is so,” Monk conceded without a flicker of expression.
“It would seem to me, Mr. Monk, that from your testimony you do not consider Percival Garrod to be guilty.”
“Is that a question, Mr. O’Hare?”
“It is, Mr. Monk, indeed it is!”
“I do not consider it to be proved by the evidence to hand so far,” Monk replied. “That is not the same thing.”
“Is it materially different, Mr. Monk? Correct me if I am in error, but were you not sincerely unwilling to convict the offender in your last case as well? One Menard Grey, as I recall!”
“No,” Monk instantly contradicted. “I was perfectly willing to convict him—in fact, I was eager to. I was unwilling to see him hanged.”
“Oh, yes—mitigating circumstances,” O’Hare agreed. “But you could find none in the case of Percival Garrod murdering his master’s daughter—it would strain even your ingenuity, I imagine? So you maintain the proof of the murder weapon and the bloodstained garment of the victim hidden in his room, which you have told us you discovered, is not enough to satisfy you? What do you require, Mr. Monk, an eyewitness?”
“Only if I considered their veracity beyond question,” Monk replied wolfishly and without humor. “I would prefer some evidence that made sense.”
“For example, Mr. Monk?” O’Hare invited. He glanced at Rathbone to see if he would object. The judge frowned and waited also. Rathbone smiled benignly back and said nothing.
“A motive for Percival to have kept such—” Monk hesitated and avoided the word damning, catching O’Hare’s eye and knowing a sudden victory, brief and pointless. “Such a useless and damaging piece of material,” he said instead, “which he could so easily have destroyed, and a knife which he could simply have wiped and returned to the cook’s rack.”
“Perhaps he wished to incriminate someone else?” O’Hare raised his voice with a life of something close to humor, as if the idea were obvious.
“Then he was singularly unsuccessful,” Monk replied. “And he had the opportunity. He should have gone upstairs and put it where he wished as soon as he knew the cook had missed the knife.”
