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"And then he died?"
"Yes. Very sad, that was. Died young, even though he was older than her, of course. Took an attack and was gone in a matter of days. She missed him very badly."
"Until she met Lucius Stourbridge?"
"Yes—but that was three years after."
"But she had no children with Mr. Gardiner?"
"No." Her voice was torn. "That was one blessing she wasn’t given. Only the good Lord knows why. It happens, more often than you’d think."
Tobias rose to his feet with exaggerated weariness.
"My lord, we have listened with great indulgence to this life story of Miriam Gardiner, and while we have every sympathy with her early experiences, whatever the truth of them may be, it all has no bearing whatever to the death of James Treadwell, or that of Verona Stourbridge—except as it may, regrettably, have provided the wretched Treadwell with more fuel for his blackmailing schemes. If he knew of this first child of Mrs. Gardiner’s, perhaps he felt the Stourbridge family would be less willing to accept her—a victim of rape, or whatever else it may have been."
A look of distaste passed across the judge’s face, but Tobias’s point was unarguable and he knew it.
"Sir Oliver?" he said questioningly. "It does seem that you have done more to advance Mr. Tobias’s case than your own. Have you further points to put to your client?"
Rathbone had no idea what to say. He was desperate.
"Yes, my lord, if you please."
"Then proceed, but make it pertinent to the events we are here to try."
"Yes, my lord." He turned to Cleo. "Did you believe that she had been raped, Mrs. Anderson? Or do you perhaps think she was no better than she should be and..."
"She was thirteen," Cleo said furiously. "Twelve when it happened. Of course, I believed she had been raped! She was half out of her mind with terror!"
"Of whom? The man who raped her—then, nine months afterwards? Why?"
"Because he tried to kill her!" Cleo shouted.
Rathbone feigned surprise. "She told you that?"
"Yes!"
"And what did you do about it? There was a man somewhere near the Heath who had raped this girl you took in and treated as your own, and then he subsequently tried to murder her—and you never found him? In God’s name, why not?"
Cleo was shaking, gasping for breath, and Rathbone was afraid he had driven her too far.
"I believed she’d been raped—or seduced," Cleo said in a whisper. "But God forgive me, I thought the attack was all jumbled up in her mind because of having a dead baby, poor little thing."
"Until ... ?" Rathbone said urgently, raising his voice. "Until she came running to you again, close to hysteria and terrified. And there was really a dead body on the Heath this time—James Treadwell! Who was she running from, Mrs. Anderson?"
The silence was total.
A juror coughed, and it sounded like an explosion.
"Was it James Treadwell?" Rathbone threw the question down like a challenge.
"No!"
"Then whom?"
Silence.
The judge leaned forward. "If you wish us to believe that it was not James Treadwell, Mrs. Anderson, then you must tell us who it was."
