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“Thank you, my lord,” Kittering replied. “I shall stand as long as I am able.”
Antrobus nodded. “Mr. Brancaster, perhaps you will keep your examination as brief as you may, and still serve your purpose.”
“My lord.”
Kittering was sworn in and Brancaster came into the body of the floor, speaking respectfully as to a man who had earned the right to it. He established Kittering’s military record and the regiment in which he had served, that he had been wounded in Egypt and had returned to England earlier in the year.
“Are you acquainted with the accused, Gamal Sabri?” Brancaster asked.
“No, sir, not personally.”
“His family?” Brancaster enquired.
Kittering’s face was stiff, as if he were controlling his inner pain only with difficulty. “No, sir, only by repute.”
“Repute?”
There was not a sound in the courtroom except for a woman coughing and instantly stifling it.
“Yes, sir. My friend Captain John Stanley knew Sabri’s family …” Kittering’s voice faltered and he struggled to maintain his composure. His emotion was palpable in the room.
“You use the past tense, Major Kittering,” Brancaster said gently. “He does not know them anymore?”
Kittering lifted his chin and swallowed hard. “I regret to say that all Mr. Sabri’s family perished in the massacre at Shaluf et Terrabeh.”
“All of them?” Brancaster said incredulously.
“Yes, sir. There were two hundred people who died that night. Every man, woman, and child in the village.” His voice broke and his face was ashen.
Brancaster’s question was little more than a whisper, but the room was motionless; every word was audible.
“You used the word ‘massacre.’ Do I take it that they were murdered … two hundred of them?”
Kittering, standing ramrod stiff, swayed a little.
“Yes, sir. By marauding mercenaries who mistook where they were.”
Brancaster moved forward a step, as if he were afraid Kittering might fall.
“Were you there, Major?”
“No, sir, I was not. I heard of it from Captain Stanley.”
“He was there?”
“Yes, sir. He tried to prevent it, but the officer in command wouldn’t listen. Mercenaries, all nationalities …” His voice tailed off. His skin was ashen. “But the man in charge was British …”
“Captain Stanley told you this?”
“Yes, sir. The man in charge was arrogant, brave, a good soldier spoiled by a filthy temper.”
Kittering looked so fragile Brancaster began a sentence and changed his mind, afraid to draw the questioning out any further than he had to. “Stanley was there, and saw it all?”
“Yes, sir, almost all. In trying to stop the massacre, he was knocked senseless. That may have saved his life.”
“Then why are you here testifying, and not Stanley?” Brancaster asked, moving another step forward.
“He was injured and had only just returned to England, sir. He went down on the Princess Mary.”
