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Kitteridge began very courteously. ‘Mr Graves, you stand accused of having particularly violently not only murdered your wife, but then set fire to her so as to disfigure her face and upper body. The prosecution has not offered any reason why you should do such a thing. Can you tell the court something about your wife? She is not here to speak for herself. I do not wish to harrow your children by asking them to describe their dead mother. It might help the court to understand you and your family better, perhaps more fairly.’
Graves looked plainly distressed.
Daniel breathed out a sigh of relief. It seemed as if Graves would at last defend himself.
‘What did she look like?’ Kitteridge prompted. ‘We have no way of knowing, since whoever did this to her destroyed her face . . .’
Graves winced. The jury must have seen it.
‘She was beautiful,’ Graves said quietly. ‘In an unorthodox way. She had lovely hair, thick and wavy. Black as night. Marvellous eyes. She had grace in the way she moved, and the way she spoke. She had imagination, and she was original and funny.’
Daniel tried to visualise her. For a moment, she was alive in his mind, and he felt a grief that she no longer existed. He became impatient that they discover what had happened to her. It was more than not losing a trial. The truth mattered.
‘Thank you,’ Kitteridge answered. ‘She sounds like a unique and valuable person. I imagine she had many friends?’
Tranmere was growing restless. If Kitteridge were not very careful indeed, he would appear cold to the jury’s sense of outrage that such a woman had been killed, and so far they had no one but Graves himself to suspect.
Daniel knew what Kitteridge was trying to do: establish that Graves had loved her. He was playing with fire, but what else had they left to try?
‘Yes,’ Graves said.
‘Was she always wise in the choice of friends?’ Kitteridge could not keep a certain edge from his voice. Graves was doing nothing to help himself.
‘No,’ Graves said flatly. There was curiously little life in his voice. ‘She failed to grasp that they did not always like her. I could see that many were hangers-on, people thirsty for excitement, and her way of life, her vitality, her possibility in certain circles, drew them in.’ There was emotion, but also a certain condescension in his tone, even in the expression of distaste in his face.
Daniel wondered if that was what he truly felt. Would the jury see that too?
Kitteridge was addressing Graves again, asking more about Ebony, and then also her two children, Sarah and Arthur. Graves’ expression was unreadable when he answered. Had the man not enough sense of his danger to let his feelings show through?
Daniel felt he should step in and say something. He could understand Kitteridge’s desire not to embarrass the man, but a show of emotion was about the only thing that would save him! Did Kitteridge not understand that?
He looked across at Tranmere. Did he perceive the jury’s regard for Graves’ stoicism, and read it as indifference?
Daniel tweaked the edge of Kitteridge’s gown.
Kitteridge ignored him.
Daniel tweaked it again, harder.
Kitteridge glared at him. ‘What is it?’ he hissed.
‘Let me try! The man looks like ice,’ Daniel replied.
‘You’ll ask the same things as I do,’ Kitteridge answered.
‘You’re getting nowhere. I can’t make it any worse,’ Daniel responded.
‘My lord!’ Tranmere rose to his feet. ‘If my learned friend has run out of questions, I will begin my own.’
‘You will not!’ Kitteridge snapped. ‘My associate is going to question the witness.’ He turned to Daniel again. ‘This had better be good!’ he whispered under his breath as he sat down.
Daniel stood and faced the witness. ‘Mr Graves, tell us something about the day your wife was killed. Were you at home at all that day?’
Graves turned to Daniel, not completely masking his impatience.
‘No. I was in the London Library for much of the day. I arrived home early in the evening.’
‘Did you see your wife, or greet her when you arrived?’
