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“What?” Kitteridge did not turn to look at him. He was trying to concentrate on the tedious testimony, feeling that there must be something in it, in all the mass of detail that surrounded the facts. He had already agreed with Daniel’s suggestion that Hillyer was keeping it going only because he was waiting for a final witness, or a piece of evidence yet to show up that would settle the case for him. Presumably, a damning one. But was the jury even listening anymore?
“I’m going to Alderney,” Daniel committed himself.
For a second, Kitteridge froze, and then he turned around in his seat. “You are…what?” he said incredulously.
“I’m going to Alderney,” Daniel repeated.
“When? And what on earth for?”
“Now. And I don’t know…not yet.” He stood up, felt the judge’s eyes on him, and bowed slightly. “Excuse me, Your Honor.” Then, to Kitteridge, “I’ll find you when I get back. Keep on going. It could matter.”
“Pitt!” Kitteridge scrambled to his feet. But Daniel was already striding up the aisle through the gallery, toward the door, and then out.
* * *
—
HE ARRIVED AT the fford Crofts’ and his heart sank. There was no taxi in sight and he felt ridiculously disappointed. Maybe this was somebody’s idea of a practical joke. Of course Miriam was not going to Alderney. How incredibly foolish he had been!
There was a very elegant-looking motorcar parked farther along the curb. It was clear red, like a post box, and had long, sweeping lines he loved on sight. It must be capable of amazing speed. It must mean she had visitors. He would go very quietly and never tell her about this. He would have to think of something to say to Kitteridge to explain it. Not that Kitteridge would ever let him forget it!
The front door of the house opened, and the butler came outside, onto the path. He looked around and saw Daniel. “Good afternoon, Mr. Pitt. Good of you to come, sir. Miss fford Croft will be out in just a moment. She had a late telephone call that is rather important. May I put your case in the car, sir?”
Wordlessly, Daniel gave it to him. Where was the driver? He hoped Miriam did not imagine he was going to drive it. He had intended to learn, but somehow other matters had always taken precedence. He had played around at it a little in Cambridge. A friend had a car and was keen to show it off, but it was nothing like this! And driving on the country roads in Cambridgeshire was another world from driving in London! There were few other cars on the road, but there were horses, wagons, drays, omnibuses, and who knew what else?
The front door opened again and Miriam came striding out. She was dressed in a shirt and what looked like a riding skirt, and she carried a tailored jacket in one hand. Her face lit up when she saw Daniel, and she increased her pace before stopping beside him. “You could come! I’m so pleased.” She took a breath. “It is always so much better to have another view of something. Binocular vision, so to speak. Are we ready to go?”
“Yes…” What else could he say? Not whether he was relieved, or terrified, or both.
“Excellent.” She indicated the passenger seat of the red car and climbed into the driver’s seat. She thanked the butler, who wished them both a successful journey.
“I have learned a little bit more about May Trelawny,” Miriam said, as soon as the butler had cranked the car, returned the handle into the place it was stored, and wished her bon voyage. She moved the car onto the road with ease, as if she enjoyed it, and Daniel kept his eyes straight ahead. He was determined not to let her guess that the thought of speeding along the open road toward the sea, with her at the wheel of this car, driving at over thirty miles an hour, was the second to last thing he wanted. The very last was for her to know he was afraid.
“Have you?” he said, his mouth dry.
“She was quite a rebel, in her own quiet way,” she answered. “She had a sister who was the obedient one, who was forced to marry ‘well’ and was very unhappy. She died in childbirth, poor soul, and I believe the child died soon after. May was terribly grieved. She never really put it behind her. Somebody who knew her said it was as if she were living for her sister, too.”
Daniel had never known them, and yet he felt the loss of that young woman and her child. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. He looked sideways at Miriam and saw tears glistening on her cheek.
“That was when May decided to break from her family and go her own way,” Miriam went on. She steered around a horse and a two-wheeled carriage going at about half their speed. “It was a rift never really mended,” she continued. “But she was a clever woman. She developed an interest in stones.” She stopped, perhaps obliged to look more carefully at the road ahead. The traffic was increasing, but Daniel thought it was more likely that she averted her eyes to compose herself from the emotion of that long-ago grief.
They drove in silence for several minutes at a steady speed. They seemed to be taking the road for the south coast, through Guildford, the village of Haslemere, and then over the glorious sweep of the South Downs to Portsmouth.
“Stones?” he prompted her.
“Yes. All kinds, except the really precious ones. She had no interest in diamonds and rubies and such. She liked rock crystal, malachite, topaz, and other less well-known semiprecious stones. And river pearls. They come in different pale colors, you know. And dark ones sometimes, grays and purplish shades.”
“What did she do with them?” Daniel was interested, in spite of himself.
“She made jewelry and sold it. That was how she supported herself. She worked for a famous jeweler. She just signed her name ‘Trelawny,’ and became quite famous herself. She probably made the rock crystal pendant she gave to Rebecca. If it were a Trelawny piece, it’ll be worth more than if it were not.”
“Do you think that matters?”
“It might. She did quite well, but she was never rich—at least, as far as anyone knows. She gave quite a lot away, so it was said. But to unusual characters, like those who cared for old and unwanted animals, such as horses that couldn’t work anymore.” She was picking up speed again along the road leading to the coast.
Daniel wanted to ask if she had booked tickets for them on the ferry, or if there was more than one crossing, in case they missed the next one. But he was not sure he wanted the answer yet. Maybe there were several at this time of year. They would travel from Portsmouth to Cherbourg on the French coast, and from there by another ferry to Alderney, which was far closer to France than any of the other Channel Isles.
He realized that in some ways he knew Miriam so well from the Graves case. He knew her imagination, her logic, the strength of the anger and the pity that drove her to find the truth. He had felt the fierce gentleness of her compassion for Graves’s son in the wheelchair, possibly for the rest of his life, who painted such beautiful pictures of birds in flight, as if he had felt the exaltation of freedom, the soaring wings, the endlessness of it. He had felt the same emotion himself.
