Bluegate Fields (19 page)

The last witness for the prosecution was Abigail Winters. She was an ordinary-looking girl, a little plump but with fine, clear skin that many a lady would have envied. Her hair was frizzy and her teeth too large, and a little discolored, but she was handsome enough. Charlotte had seen daughters of countesses who had been less favored by nature.

The evidence was short and to the point. She had neither Albie’s bitterness nor his vicarious education. She was not ashamed of what she did. She knew gentlemen and judges, even bishops, had patronized her and girls like her, and a barrister without his gown and wig looks much the same as a clerk without his suit. If Abigail had few illusions about people, she had none at all about the rules of society. Those who wished to survive kept the rules.

She answered the questions soberly and directly, adding nothing. Yes, she knew the prisoner in the dock. Yes, he had patronized her establishment—not that he wished her services for himself, but for a young gentleman of about sixteen or seventeen years old that he had brought with him. Yes, he had asked her to initiate the young gentleman into the arts of such a relationship while he, the prisoner, sat in the room and watched.

There was a murmur of disgust around the court, a long letting out of breath in self-righteous horror. Then there was total silence, in case the audience should inadvertently miss the next revelation. Charlotte felt sick—for all of them. This should never have happened, and they should not be here willingly listening to it. How on earth was Eugenie going to bear it when she knew—some busybody would be bound to tell her!

Land inquired whether Abigail could describe the young gentleman concerned.

Yes, she could. He was slender, fair-haired, with light blue eyes. He was very good-looking, and spoke with a fine accent. He was definitely a person of good breeding and money. His clothes were excellent.

He showed her a picture of Arthur Waybourne. Was this he?

Yes, it was he, without doubt.

Had she known his name?

Only his Christian name, which was Arthur. The prisoner had addressed him by it on several occasions.

There was nothing Giles could do. Abigail was unshakable, and after a brief attempt he accepted the futility of it and gave up.

That evening, by strict consent, neither Charlotte nor Pitt referred to Jerome or anything to do with the trial. They ate silently, absorbed in thought. Occasionally they smiled knowingly across the table.

After dinner they spoke quite casually of other things: a letter Charlotte had received from Emily, who had returned from Leicestershire, detailing social gossip, someone’s outrageous flirtation, a disastrous party, a rival’s most unflattering dress—all the pleasant trivia of daily life. She had been to a concert: there was an entertaining new novel—very risqué—and Grandmama’s health had not improved. But then it never had done so since Charlotte could recall. Grandmama enjoyed poor health, and was determined to enjoy it to the last!

On the third day, the defense began its case. There was little enough to say. Jerome could not prove his innocence, or there would have been no prosecution. All he could do was deny, and hope to bring forward enough witnesses to his previously impeccable character that there would be reasonable doubt.

Sitting in her accustomed seat near the aisle, Charlotte felt a wave of pity and hopelessness that was almost physical as Eugenie Jerome walked past her to climb into the witness stand. Just once she lifted her chin and smiled across at her husband. Then quickly, before she had time to see if he smiled back or not, she averted her eyes to take the Bible in her hand for the oath.

Charlotte lifted her veil so Eugenie could see her face and know there was one friend there in that anonymous, inquisitive crowd.

The court heard her in absolute silence. They wavered between contempt for her as an accomplice, the wife of such a monster, and compassion for her as the most innocent and ill-used of his victims. Perhaps it was her narrow shoulders, her plain dress, her white face, her soft voice, the way she kept her eyes a little downcast, then slowly gathered courage and faced her questioner. It could have been any of these things—or none, simply a whimsy of the crowd. But suddenly, like the moment when the tide slackens and turns, Charlotte could feel their mood change and they were with her. They were burning with pity, with hunger to see her avenged. She, too, was a victim.

But there was nothing Eugenie could do. She had been in bed that night and did not know when her husband had come home. Yes, she had planned to go to the concert with him, but that afternoon had developed a severe headache and gone to her room instead. Yes, the tickets had been purchased beforehand and she had fully intended to go. She had to admit, though, she was not fond of classical music; she preferred ballads, something with melody and words.

Had her husband told her what was played that evening? Certainly he had, and that it was excellently performed. Could she recall what it was? She could and did. But was it not true that the program had been published, and anyone might know simply by reading one, without having attended the performance?

She had no idea; she did not read such things.

Land assured her that it was so.

She had married Maurice Jerome eleven years ago and he had been a good husband to her, had provided well. He was sober, industrious, and had never given her cause to complain in any way. He had certainly never mistreated her either verbally or physically; he had not forbidden her any friendships or the occasional outing. He had never embarrassed her by flirting with other women, or any manner of unseemly behavior; nor had he been coarse or overdemanding in private. And he had certainly never required of her any conjugal duties that were offensive or other than would be expected of any wife.

But then, as Land pointed out with something close to embarrassment, there was a great deal she did not know. And, being a lady of decent upbringing and gentle disposition, it would never have occurred to her to be jealous of a schoolboy! In fact, she probably had not even known of the existence of such depraved practices.

No, she admitted, white to the lips, she had not. And she did not believe it now. It may be true of some, if Mr. Land said so; but it was not true of her husband. He was a decent man—indeed, highly moral. Even uncouth language offended him, and he never took alcohol. She had never known him to exhibit the least vulgarity.

They permitted her to go, and Charlotte wished she would leave the court. It was hopeless—nothing could save Jerome. It was pathetic, even vaguely revolting, to hope.

Nevertheless it ground on.

Another, less biased witness—a previous employer—was called regarding Jerome’s character. He was embarrassed to be there and it was obviously very much against his wish. While he did not want to say anything that might ally him with Jerome in the public mind, he could hardly admit to having been aware of any long-standing flaw in Jerome’s character. He had recommended him without reservation; he was now obliged to stand by that recommendation or appear a fool. And since he was an investment banker, that he could not possibly afford to do.

He duly swore that while living in his house and tutoring his sons, Jerome had appeared to be of exemplary character, and certainly he had never behaved improperly toward either of his sons.

And would the witness know if he had, Land inquired courteously.

There was a long hesitation while he weighed the consequences of either answer.

“Yes,” he said firmly at last. “Certainly I would. I am naturally concerned with the welfare of my family.”

Land did not pursue it. He nodded and sat down, knowing a fruitless course when he saw it.

The only other witness of character was Esmond Vanderley. It was he who had recommended Jerome to Waybourne. Like the previous witness, Vanderley was caught between two poles: appearing to support Jerome and—far worse than merely being a poor judge of character—having been the single individual who had more than any other precipitated the tragedy they were discussing. After all, it was he who had brought Maurice Jerome into the house and thus into Arthur Waybourne’s life—and death.

He swore to his name and his relationship with the Waybourne household.

“Lady Waybourne is your sister, Mr. Vanderley?” Giles repeated.

“Yes.”

“And Arthur Waybourne was your nephew?”

“Naturally.”

“So you would not lightly or casually recommend a tutor for him, knowing the effect it would have on his personal and academic life?” Giles pressed.

There was only one answer that allowed self-respect.

“Of course,” Vanderley said with a slight smile. He leaned elegantly over the rail. “I would make myself unpopular rather quickly if I were to recommend regardless. They come home to roost, you know!”

“Home to roost?” Giles was momentarily confused.

“Recommendations, Mr. Giles. People seldom remember the good advice you give them—they always take the credit themselves. But let them take your bad advice and they will instantly recall that it was not their own idea but yours that was to blame. Not only that, but they will make sure everyone else is made aware of it, too.

“May we take it, then, that you did not recommend Maurice Jerome without some considerable inquiry into his qualifications—and his character?”

“You may. His qualifications were excellent. His character was not especially pleasing, but then I was not intending to make a social acquaintance of him. His morality was impeccable, so far as it was discussed at all. One doesn’t mention such things, you know, when talking of tutors. Underhousemaids one has to inquire into—or, rather, one has the housekeeper do it. But a tutor one expects to be satisfactory unless stated otherwise. In which case, of course, one doesn’t employ him in the first place. Jerome was a little stuffy, if anything—rather a prig. Oh—and a teetotaler. He’s the sort that would be.”

Vanderley smiled a little tightly.

“Married to a pleasant woman,” he went on. “Inquired into her reputation. Spotless.”

“No children?” Now Land took over, attempting to shake him. He pressed the point, as if it had some meaning.

“Don’t think so. Why?” Vanderley’s eyebrows went up innocently.

“Possibly indicative.” Land was not prepared to commit himself to something that might mar his case by being considered prejudicial. And of course he might also offend many others, dangerous others. “We are dealing with a man of most peculiar tastes!”

“Nothing peculiar about Mrs. Jerome,” Vanderley answered, his eyes still wide. “At least not that I could see. Looked like an average sort of woman to me—quiet, sober, well mannered, pretty enough.”

“But no children!”

“For heaven’s sake, man, I only met her twice!” Vanderley sounded surprised and a little irritated. “I’m not her doctor! Thousands of people don’t have children. Do you expect the to be able to account for the domestic lives of everyone else’s servants? All I did was inquire as to the man’s scholastic abilities and his suitable character. Both appeared to be excellent. What more do you want me to say?”

“Nothing, Mr. Vanderley. You may go.” Land sat down, recognizing defeat.

Giles had nothing to put in re-examination, and Vanderley, with a faint sigh, found himself a seat in the body of the court.

Maurice Jerome was the last witness to be called in his own defense. As he walked from the dock to the stand, Charlotte realized with surprise that she had not yet heard him speak. Everything had been said about him; it was all other people’s opinions, other people’s words, their recollections of events. For the first time, Jerome would be real—a moving, feeling creature, not a two-dimensional picture of a man.

Like all the others, he began with the oath and identification. Giles worked hard to present him in a sympathetic light. It was all he had: the chance somehow to create the feeling in the jury that this man in reality was a far different person from the one the prosecution had drawn; he was ordinary, decent, everyday—like one of themselves—and could not have been guilty of such obscene offenses.

Jerome stared back at him with a cold, pursed face.

Yes, he answered, he had been employed for approximately four years as tutor to Arthur and Godfrey Waybourne. Yes, he taught them in all academic subjects, and on occasion a little sports as well. No, he did not favor one boy above the other; his tone expressed disdain for such unprofessional conduct.

Already Charlotte found him hard to like. She felt, without real reason, that he would have disliked her. She would not have met his standards of how a lady should conduct herself. For a start, she had opinions, and Jerome did not look like a man who found opinions acceptable when they were not his own.

Perhaps that was unfair. She was leaping to conclusions with just the sort of prejudice she condemned in others. The poor man was accused of a crime not only violent but disgusting, and if he was found guilty he would lose his life. He was entitled to less than the best behavior. Indeed, there must be some courage about him, for he was not screaming out or in hysteria. Maybe this icy calm was his way of controlling the inner terror. And who could claim to do it better, with more dignity?

There was no point in skirting the subject.

“Did you ever, at any time, have an indecent physical relationship with any of your pupils?”

Jerome’s nostrils flared very slightly—the thought was distasteful.

“No, sir, I did not.”

“Can you imagine why Godfrey Waybourne should lie about such a thing?”

“No, I cannot. His imagination is warped—how or why I do not know.”

The additional comment did not further his cause. Any man asked such a question would deny it, yet the curling lip, the suggestion that somehow someone else was to blame engendered less sympathy than simple confusion would have done.

Giles tried again. “And Titus Swynford? Could he have misunderstood some gesture, or some remark?”

“Possibly—although what gesture or remark, I cannot think. I teach academic subjects, things of culture and of the brain. I am not accountable for the moral atmosphere in the house. What they may have learned in other areas was not my responsibility. Gentlemen of a certain class, at that age, have money and opportunity to discover the ways of the world for themselves. I should think a rather fevered adolescent imagination, coupled with a little looking through keyholes, has conjured such stories. And people occasionally indulge in lewd conversation without realizing how much youths hear—and understand. I can offer no better explanation. It is otherwise to the both incomprehensible and disgusting!”