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Two ushers of the court moved towards him, but he sank back down again before they reached the row of seats where he was. He, too, looked like a man who has seen an abyss open before his feet.
Pendreigh stood with difficulty; only the table in front of him supported his weight. He looked like a pale taper of light with his bloodless face and white wig with thick, golden hair beneath it. His voice came between his teeth hoarsely.
“You lie, sir. I, too, would like to believe that Dr. Beck is innocent, and have done so to this moment. But I will not have you blaspheme the memory of my daughter in order to save him. What you suggest is monstrous, and cannot be true.”
“It is true.” Monk answered him without anger. He could understand the rage, the denial, the unbelievable pain too immense to grasp. “No one thought she meant Hanna to die,” he said softly. “She was certain she would yield up the names long before that point, and would be released, humiliated but uninjured.” He found it difficult to breathe, and to keep control of his face. When he resumed, his voice was harsh with pain. “Perhaps that was the greatest injury of all, the insult. She was betrayed, and yet she died without giving her torturers the names of any of them.”
There was silence, as if every man and woman in the huge room were absorbing the agony into themselves. Even Mills did not move or speak.
Finally, the judge leaned forward. “Are you suggesting, Mr. Monk, that this is relevant to Mrs. Beck’s death?”
Monk turned to him. “Yes, my lord. It is obvious to us here that Dr. Beck is as shattered by this terrible story as Herr Niemann, or indeed Mr. Pendreigh, but there are those in Vienna who were aware of it and could piece together the tragedy, as I did. Surely their existence raises more than reasonable doubt that one such person, rather than Dr. Beck, may have been guilty of a fearful revenge?” He found his hands shaking as he held on to the railing of the box, palms wet. “If you convict Dr. Beck you will never lie easily in your beds that you have hanged a man innocent of his wife’s death, and that of poor Sarah Mackeson.”
“Mr. Monk,” the judge said firmly, “you are here to give evidence as to what you have seen and heard, not to make defense counsel’s summation speech, however well you are able to do that.” He turned to the prosecution. “Mr. Mills, if you have no more questions for your witness, you might offer him now to Mr. Pen
dreigh. . ” He looked at Pendreigh. “If you are well enough to continue? In view of the extraordinary nature of Mr. Monk’s testimony, and the way it cannot help but affect you personally, the court will be happy to grant you until tomorrow to compose yourself, if you wish?”
Pendreigh looked bewildered, as if he hardly knew where he was.
“I. . I will question Mr. Monk!” he said abruptly, swinging around to stare up at the witness box. His face had no vestige of color, and his eyes were bloodshot.
“What you have said of my daughter is a damnable lie, but I give you the credit that you may have been led to believe it. Therefore I must suppose that those who told it to you may also imagine it to be true. I concede that in their sickness someone might have felt it motive for revenge, and made this parody of justice a last, dreadful act. If so, as you say, this court cannot, in any semblance of honor, convict Dr. Beck. The defense rests, my lord.”
He made his way back to his seat like a man walking in the dark, almost feeling his way. His junior stood as if to guide him, but did not indulge in the familiarity of actually reaching out his hand.
Mills had little more to say. He pointed out that such an avenger of Hanna Jakob was entirely imaginary. No one had named such a person nor was there any proof that he or she existed. Dr. Beck, on the other hand, was very much there. He summed up all the evidence, but briefly, knowing that in the emotion-charged room he could lose their sympathy if he appeared too tied to reason.
The judge instructed the jury and they retired.
Kristian was taken down to the cells, and the rest of the court was left to wait in an exquisite suspense. No one knew whether it would be minutes, hours, or even days.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Callandra left the courtroom without any clear idea of where she was going, except to where she could be alone without the pretense of courtesy or that she was more or less all right. She had been as shattered by Monk’s testimony as had the rest of the court. She had seen Pendreigh stagger as if seized by a physical pain, but it was Kristian she had turned to. She had wanted to find Elissa human, not a heroine she could never equal, but she would never have wished this searing tragedy, this desolation which left only a broken and terrible grief for what had once been so beautiful.
She could understand being so in love it robbed you of your balance, your judgment of good and evil, but she could not make the leap to acting out the passion or the violence as Elissa had. There was nothing worth winning at the cost of your own being, the soul, the integrity that was the core of who you were. The act of doing such a thing made it impossible for you to hold the good, even if you could grasp it for an instant.
She pushed through the crowd, oblivious of individuals, wanting only to escape for a while.
Had Elissa submitted to a moment’s insanity when she was exhausted, frightened, pressed in by danger and threat on all sides, then spent the rest of her life regretting it, and unable to redeem any part of herself because she had kept the prize?
Callandra had expected to feel loathing, and yet, walking slowly out of the courtroom entrance and down the steps with the rain in her face, she was amazed that it was pity that stirred inside her for all that had been thrown away.
She stood on the pavement alone as people brushed past her. When would they bring in the verdict? Monk had taken a terrible chance. He had been brilliant. She knew why he had done it. It was like him, a desperate throw when all else was lost. He would have known how it would lacerate to the core and create scars for which there was no healing.
She did not know whether she would be allowed to see Kristian. The verdict was not in yet, so he was technically still an innocent man. She could lay no claim to be family, but she was a representative from the hospital; Thorpe had never taken that from her. Surely if they would permit him to see anyone at all, other than his lawyer, since he had no relative, it would be a colleague from his place of work.
She should hurry. They could bring in the verdict at any time, and then it might be too late. She turned and began to climb back up the steps.
She did not know if he would even wish to see her, but she must try. Whatever happened, and she refused to think it through to the end, he must know now, before the verdict, that she believed in his innocence.
She had feared he could have killed Elissa. The provocation was so great it was too easy to understand a moment of fear overcoming a lifetime’s morality and restraint. The act could be over and irretrievable in moments, before the brain had caught up with the action of the hands.
But she did not believe he could then have gone on and deliberately killed Sarah Mackeson. No fear whatever would have driven the man she knew to do that. She must look him in the face and he must see in her eyes that it was so.
“Can’t give you long, ma’am,” the guard said reluctantly, his voice tense, his eyes glancing back to be sure he was not observed by any higher authority. He was doing this as an act of compassion, and it made him nervous.
“Thank you,” she accepted sincerely.
