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‘Not another traffic accident, I hope,’ the judge remarked with barely concealed sarcasm.
Kitteridge flushed, but he knew better than to antagonise the judge, or to attempt humour, although he was not without a sense of the ridiculous. ‘No, my lord. I did not ask for details.’
‘Very wise.’ The judge gave Daniel a scorching look. ‘Please proceed. If you need reminding, Mr Tranmere has just drawn from Major Lydden his professional opinion of the accused, and of the victim.’
‘Yes, my lord. Thank you.’ Kitteridge faced the grey-haired man standing to attention in the witness box. He was dressed in a perfectly ordinary suit, such as any gentleman of means might wear, but a regimental tie made it appear a uniform. ‘Major Lydden, I believe you live less than half a mile from the home of Mr and Mrs Graves, and you were socially acquainted?’
‘With Mr Graves, yes. Yes. Good historian. Accurate, you know, which very few are,’ Lydden replied.
‘Less so with Mrs Graves?’
‘Do not speak ill of the dead. Don’t you know that, young man?’
‘You speak the truth in court, sir,’ Kitteridge reminded him.
Lydden was unused to being corrected and he did not take it well. ‘I know very little about her. Women like that are a mystery to me. Plain man, and all that.’
Kitteridge was playing a losing hand, and he was only too aware of it. He tried another approach.
Daniel studied the jury. It was supposed to be a jury of one’s peers. He knew nothing about Graves at all. There had been no time even to take a curious look at the notes last night. He was charged with killing his wife, that was all Daniel knew. And all London knew that!
What he did not know was what on earth Kitteridge was offering as a defence. To judge by the jurors’ faces, it was not going over-well.
Kitteridge tried again. ‘In fact, an officer in the Indian Army?’ he said, looking impressed. ‘A major?’
‘Retired rank of major. Acting colonel, to be precise,’ Lydden corrected him with quiet satisfaction.
‘In command of an entire regiment of men?’ Kitteridge asked with respect.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘A pretty good judge of men, then. Know who’s capable of what, and who will stand their ground under fire, and all that?’
Lydden would rather have been stripped naked than deny such a thing. He stood even taller. ‘Yes, sir. I believe so,’ he replied.
Daniel hid a smile. Kitteridge had made a good opening. But what could he put into it?
Pretending to be searching for a piece of paper he had dropped, Daniel bent over. In straightening up, he glanced to his left, high up where the dock was, placed above the courtroom, and reached by a different stair. He looked steadily at the man sitting between the warders.
Russell Graves was a big man, at least average height, and solid. He was quite handsome, with hair greying at the sides, but still thick. He had a fleshy face; not coarse, but perhaps insensitive. But how could any man be looking his best in a hostile court that had accused him of murdering his wife? He did not look like a grieving widower, but then why should he show his feelings to a prurient and alien public?
Daniel brought his attention back to Kitteridge and Major Lydden. He was eliciting details of the kind of man Graves was, his place in the community.
‘Excellent chap,’ Lydden repeated. ‘Quiet. Not one of those who arrives in a place and instantly expects to be taken notice of. Too many like that. Think they know better how to run a place than those of us who’ve lived there all our lives.’
Kitteridge drew everything he could out of Lydden’s testimony; it proved nothing. He sat down at the end weary and, in spite of his best effort at courage, defeated.
They adjourned early that afternoon.
‘You look asleep on your feet,’ Kitteridge said testily to Daniel as they left the court. ‘You are not much use to me like that. Would a meal put some stuffing into you?’
Daniel thought not. What he wanted was about ten hours’ sleep. ‘Yes,’ he said firmly. ‘I got about two hours’ sleep on Ottershaw’s couch last night.’
‘Who is Ottershaw?’ Kitteridge asked, matching his stride to Daniel’s as they went down Ludgate Hill towards one of the best pubs in London.
‘Fingerprint expert,’ Daniel replied.
‘Won’t need him for this.’ Kitteridge shook his head. ‘Do you know anything at all about this case?’
