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‘I know,’ Daniel took over again. ‘You did that all by yourself. Or were you going to tell me that Mr Falthorne helped you?’
The struggle in her face was obvious. It was painful to watch.
‘I can help you, but I have to know the truth.’ Was he making more rash promises he was not able to keep? ‘Ebony,
if you lie the court will know it! Do you want to be hanged for killing Winifred?’
‘I didn’t kill her!’ Her voice was desperate now. ‘She came at me, screaming, clawing. I pushed her away. She was trying to get at my face, my eyes. I pushed her and she fell backwards over her own skirts and hit her head on the hearthstone. I swear!’
‘Then help me prove it! For Sarah and Arthur’s sake, if not your own!’ Daniel begged. But he wanted her freed as well, and Graves proved a liar and totally discredited, and imprisoned long enough to break him. ‘Please!’
She stared at him, searching his eyes, looking for hope, belief that she could trust him. She couldn’t believe, but she was tired of fighting, and there was no one else to turn to. ‘All right. But Sarah had nothing to do with it! You’ve got to prove that!’
Daniel glanced at Miriam, but she shook her head, just a fraction, as he had known she would.
He did not tell Ebony that it was not true, and he knew it. One problem at a time. There was no other, better answer.
Miriam held out her hand. Wearily, too exhausted to fight any more, Ebony took it.
Chapter Eighteen
It was now little over a week before Russell Graves would hang, if they did not launch an appeal against his conviction, which, since Ebony was not dead, would not be difficult to substantiate.
Miriam had taken the X-rays of both Ebony and Sarah, and was satisfied that they were clear and accurate.
‘See,’ Miriam said in her laboratory in the cellar, as she pointed to the X-ray machine’s pictures of Ebony. ‘The bones here have been broken also, and here, and here, in the wrist.’
‘Could it have been an accident?’ Daniel hoped profoundly that it could not.
‘Hardly one accident,’ Miriam murmured. ‘See how they are differently shaded? This one on the wrist is plain? The other one is duller white, and this one is the whitest of all, that means it is older. It was healed a long time ago. I would estimate it is sixteen or seventeen years old. There are others there, in the left leg, and another in the right foot. And three ribs. There are no two made at the same time. And nobody has that many accidents.’
‘We can’t prove he caused them, can we?’ Daniel held only the faintest hope, but it was worth asking. ‘Someone must know!’
‘The lady’s maid probably does. Except he would have got rid of her. I’ll wager you that she has had a series of maids.’
‘Wouldn’t she want to keep them, to look after her? She must have wanted someone to trust,’ he insisted.
She rolled her eyes, in momentary exasperation. ‘Daniel, for heaven’s sake, she wouldn’t hire the servants! He would! And he’d get rid of a maid who knew too much, whether she was brave or rash enough to say so or not.’
Daniel had a sudden, searing impression of Ebony’s loneliness. What a façade she must have kept from society, from her friends, the people beside whom she fought for the same issues she cared about, and even from her servants.
How many of them knew anyway, and were too tactful to let her see? Or too afraid? He felt almost overwhelmed with his revulsion for the man! ‘We have to prove it. We can’t let him go back to that again. And Sarah—’
‘I wish we could let him hang,’ Miriam said seriously, the light completely gone from her face. ‘But we can’t.’ She looked at him intently. ‘What are you going to do, Daniel?’
‘I cannot leave it any longer before telling Kitteridge, whose case this is. And I have to tell Mr fford Croft when I am certain I know what proof I have of anything. But . . .’ He stopped. He wanted to tell her more about the biography, which was always on his mind. He struggled for a way to tell her without admitting that there was some strong element of truth in the accusations about his father – at least about the things that Narraway had known about vulnerable people, people who had made mistakes somewhere, and thus had given a lifetime as hostages to fortune. His father had said there was such a file. One could not work in Special Branch without learning some people’s secrets, at least. It was judgement, a balancing act, weighing one person’s happiness against perhaps someone else’s life.
Were all Narraway’s judgements right? Were anybody’s?
Daniel did not want to be in a position to judge anyone, least of all those he cared for, and had never before questioned. Were most people like that? See kindly those you loved, and less kindly anyone you disliked? That was unfair. It was unkind, and impractical. And it was not the law. The very essence of justice was that it was impartial. How often was affection wrong?
In practical terms, what damage could Graves’ book do to Special Branch and its ability to hold the power it needed in order to perform its functions? Could he possibly report it from his father’s point of view, no matter how much he might wish to? Somebody had told him that a good portion of wisdom was humility; he could not remember who.
He would see his father, and speak to him. Warn him, if nothing else. But before that, he must see Kitteridge. He owed him that much.
He found Kitteridge in the law library, where Impney had said he would be. He recognised Kitteridge’s awkward figure as soon as he entered the reading room. He was bent over a huge table and he appeared uncomfortable, because his elbows stuck out and his jacket puckered at the shoulders. He was deep in concentration. Daniel had reached him and his shadow lay across the page before Kitteridge looked up.
‘What do you want?’ he whispered. ‘I’ve got the publisher for you, but nothing more.’ His face looked tired and disappointed, rather than angry. He was senior in position, as well as age; it was his duty to lead the way.
