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Had any of the girls ever come to her to say, in however roundabout a manner, that any of the male staff, Percival or anyone else, had made improper advances to them?
No they had not. Percival fancied himself, to be true, and he was as vain as a peacock; she had seen his clothes and boots, and wondered where he got the money.
Rathbone returned her to the subject: had anyone complained of Percival?
No, it was all a lot of lip, nothing more; and most maids were quite able to deal with that for what it was worth—which was nothing at all.
O’Hare did not try to shake her. He simply pointed out that since Octavia Haslett was not part of her charge, all this was of peripheral importance.
Rathbone rose again to say that much of the character evidence as to Percival’s behavior rested on the assessment of his treatment of the maids.
The judge observed that the jury would make up their own minds.
Rathbone called Cyprian, not asking him anything about either his sister or Percival. Instead he established that his bedroom in the house was next door to Octavia’s, then he asked him if he had heard any sound or disturbance on the night she was killed.
“No—none at all, or I should have gone to see if she were all right,” Cyprian said with some surprise.
“Are you an extremely heavy sleeper?” Rathbone asked.
“No.”
“Did you indulge in much wine that evening?”
“No—very little.” Cyprian frowned. “I don’t see the point in your question, sir. My sister was undoubtedly killed in the room next to me. That I did not hear the struggle seems to me to be irrelevant. Percival is much stronger than she …”He looked very pale and had some difficulty in keeping his voice under control. “I presume he overpowered her quickly—”
“And she did not cry out?” Rathbone looked surprised.
“Apparently not.”
“But Mr. O’Hare would have us believe she took a carving knife to bed with her to ward off these unwelcome attentions of the footman,” Rathbone said reasonably. “And yet when he came into her room she rose out of her bed. She was not found lying in it but on it, across from a normal position in which to sleep—we have Mr. Monk’s evidence for that. She rose, put on her peignoir, pulled out the carving knife from wherever she had put it, then there was a struggle in which she attempted to defend herself—”
He shook his head and moved a little, shrugging his shoulders. “Surely she must have warned him first? She would not simply run at him with dagger drawn. He struggled and wrested the knife from her”—he held up his hands—“and in the battle that ensued, he stabbed her to death. And yet in all this neither of them uttered a cry of any sort! This whole tableau was conducted in total silence? Do you not find that hard to believe, Mr. Moidore?”
The jury fidgeted, and Beatrice drew in her breath sharply.
“Yes!” Cyprian admitted with dawning surprise. “Yes, I do. It does seem most unnatural. I cannot see why she did not simply scream.”
“Nor I, Mr. Moidore,” Rathbone agreed. “It would surely have been a far more effective defense; and less dangerous, and more natural to a woman than a carving knife.”
O’Hare rose to his feet.
“Nevertheless, Mr. Moidore, gentlemen of the jury, the fact remains that she did have the carving knife—and she was stabbed to death with it. We may never know what bizarre, whispered conversation took place that night. But we do know beyond doubt that Octavia Haslett was stabbed to death—and the bloodstained knife, and her robe gashed and dark with her blood, were found in Percival’s room. Do we need to know every word and gesture to come to a conclusion?”
There was a rustle in the crowd. The jury nodded. Beside Hester, Beatrice let out a low moan.
Septimus was called, and recounted to them how he had met Octavia returning home on the day of her death, and how she had told him that she had discovered something startling and dreadful, and that she lacked only one final proof of its truth. But under O’Hare’s insistence he had to admit that no one else had overheard this conversation, nor had he repeated it to anyone. Therefore, O’Hare concluded triumphantly, there was no reason to suppose this discovery, whatever it was, had had anything to do with her death. Septimus was unhappy. He pointed out that simply because he had not told anyone did not mean that Octavia herself had not.
But it was too late. The jury had already made up its mind, and nothing Rathbone could do in his final summation could sway their conviction. They were gone only a short while, and returned white-faced, eyes set and looking anywhere but at Percival. They gave the verdict of guilty. There
were no mitigating circumstances.
The judge put on his black cap and pronounced sentence. Percival would be taken to the place from whence he came, and in three weeks he would be led out to the execution yard and hanged by the neck until he was dead. May God have mercy upon his soul, there was none other to look for on earth.
10
“I AM SORRY,” Rathbone said very gently, looking at Hester with intense concern. “I did everything I could, but the passion was rising too high and there was no other person whom I could suggest with a motive powerful enough.”
“Maybe Kellard?” she said without hope or conviction. “Even if she was defending herself, it doesn’t have to have been from Percival. In fact it would make more sense if it was Myles, then screaming wouldn’t do much good. He would only say she’d cried out and he’d heard her and come to see what was wrong. He would have a far better excuse than Percival for being there. And Percival she could have crushed with a threat of having him dismissed. She could hardly do that with Myles, and she may not have wanted Araminta ever to know about his behavior.”
