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“The bank clerk whom Commander Monk found dead in the river,” Rathbone explained.
“Yes. I had met her once. In a matter of…of Kate’s trust.”
“Bella Franken died sometime between six and eight o’clock on the evening of the twenty-ninth of November. Do you recall what you were doing at that time? On that day?”
In the gallery, everyone, men and women alike, sat motionless, as if they were paintings rather than people.
Hooper felt his own breath suffocate him.
“Yes,” Celia said at last. “I was visiting Harry. We had supper…” Her voice trailed off. “And we spoke of Kate.” She finished in almost a whisper.
“So, he was at home at that time?” Rathbone pressed.
She fought for control of herself. “Yes.”
“Thank you, Miss Darwin.” Rathbone resumed his seat, nodding to Ravenswood.
Ravenswood hesitated, looking confused. It was obvious to Hooper, and must have been to the rest of the court, that he had not expected this testimony. If he had spoken to her before, she cannot have given it to him then. Was he going to try to shake her? Hooper felt hot at the thought, and then freezing. Would she be able to withstand him? Was it the truth? She had mentioned none of it to Hooper. But then, it was her private life, her extended family. Why on earth should she have told Hooper anything about it? He realized with a wave of misery just how much he had presumed she had liked him, trusted him, when in truth it was possible that she was merely being polite. She was a courteous woman. She was probably polite to everyone. How foolish of him, how very vulnerable and naïve! It could be excused a nineteen-year-old, but not a man in his early fifties.
Ravenswood stood up at last. “Miss Darwin, you mentioned none of this before when we spoke. Why was that?”
She looked surprised. “Did I not? I…I’m sorry…I must have forgotten. Or perhaps I did not understand your question. I was very distressed by Kate’s death and the manner of it. And I was so…so grieved for myself, and for Harry. I did not mean to mislead you.” She looked very miserable, as if she had a pain deep within that was tearing her apart, something so deep she was barely in control of herself.
“Did Mr. Exeter ask you to say that you were at his house for supper the night Bella Franken was killed?” Ravenswood’s voice was soft, but his expression offered no forgiveness for evasion. “Think carefully, please.”
She breathed in and out, trying to keep command of herself. Then she opened her eyes, tears running down her cheeks. “No, Mr. Ravenswood, I am quite sure.”
Ravenswood hesitated, doubt, pity, and finally defeat all reflected in his face. “Then I have no further questions. Thank you.”
The judge offered Rathbone the opportunity to speak to Celia again, but he had won, and he knew it.
The judge adjourned the court for the day and told Rathbone to call his final witness when they reconvened tomorrow.
Hooper should go and find Monk and tell him that they had won—or very nearly. Exeter would tell his own story. He must feel safe to do so now. If he made no major error, he would be found not guilty. Probably Doyle would be arrested, and Maurice Latham, too, regarding the embezzlement. But the edge was gone; they could not convict Harry Exeter now. It was victory snatched from the jaws of defeat. Why did Hooper feel so terrible?
Everyone was leaving the court. Hooper stood up and followed the stream of people going out into the bleak winter air. Celia would probably be going home. He spotted her in the crowd easily by her walk and her isolation. She looked as if she’d been leaving the funeral of all she loved. Her step was even slower than usual, her shoulders bowed. She was probably making for the river and the ferry home again. Or perhaps she would take a hansom all the way and go across one of the many bridges.
Hooper was walking swiftly to catch up with her. Why? What could he say to her? He had no right to say anything at all. Still, he walked as fast as he could, until he was level with her. The emotion was so choking inside him that he did not even stop to think of the inappropriateness of it. If she was not furious with him, he had nothing else to lose now. He caught her arm, not hard, but enough to cause her to stop abruptly and swing round to face him. Her eyes were angry and full of tears.
“I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “I…” Then he did not know what to say. She had lied, and he knew it, but he had no idea why. What on earth would make a woman like her tell a lie, and under oath? It was against everything he thought he knew of her. Was he so wrong? It was not her face that attracted him, although it pleased him; it was her voice a little, but it was really her purity. What a funny choice of word! It was the inner honesty and gentleness in her that pleased him so intensely. He had to speak. He had spent far too much time thinking of her, imagining what it would be like to know her.
“Please leave me alone, Mr. Hooper,” she said quietly. “I did what I had to. There really isn’t anything to say.”
“You have to protect him? Why? For Kate’s sake? Do you really think that’s what she would want you to do? Is he going to say something of her that’s…?” He began to see what the reason could be. “Are you protecting her memory? What could he say? Nothing could justify what was done to her.”
She pulled her arm away from him, looking not at him but straight ahead of her. “No. It was nothing to do with Kate. You…you don’t understand at all. Please leave me alone.”
He moved to block her way. He was not thinking, just reacting to his own emotions, the beliefs he had of her. “He’ll get away with it! Is that what you think is right?”
“Maybe Doyle did it.” Still she did not look at him. He had believed because he thought he knew how she disliked Exeter, far too much to have shared her grief for Kate with him. He had guessed she was lying because she seemed almost ashamed of what she was saying. Now he was convinced she was lying, but why?
“Who are you protecting?” he asked, letting his hand fall from her arm. “Why? Do you really think it was Doyle who killed her?”
“There’s no way out of it. Please, John, leave it alone.” It was the first time she had used his name. It mattered. It was an expression of instinct, as if she had touched him.
“Do you know how serious it is to lie?” he said more gently.
She swung round to look at him again, her eyes filled with tears. “Yes, of course I do. Just…leave it alone! You don’t know Harry! He will do what he says. He’ll have nothing to lose, and he won’t go alone. He’ll see everyone else suffers, too!” She was crying now, and terrified.
