More Than You Know (103 page)

“Mr. Brigstocke, I believe you and Mrs. Shaw work together.”

“Yes, yes, we do.”

God, he looked scared, Eliza thought. And he didn’t know what the cringing, slimy private eye Jim Dodds had just let him in for.

“She advises you on fashion as it relates to the advertisements you work on. How the models are dressed and so on. Is that right?”

“Yes. Yes, that’s right.”

“Is it a close working relationship? We know it extends to the personal, of course.”

“Well … yes. We spend a lot of time together in the office.”

“And do meetings and so on run on into the evening? I ask because, for example, of the need for Emmeline to be brought to the office.”

“Well … yes, sometimes.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you can’t stop thinking about a campaign, not if you’re really getting going, just because it’s six o’clock.”

“Of course you can’t stop thinking about it. But … do the two of you continue to discuss it?”

“Sometimes. Not often, because Eliza—Mrs. Shaw—always has to rush off home.”

“But if she does … stay … you have meetings in your department?”

“Yes, we do.”

“And do you ever enjoy a drink while you chat?”

“Yes, we do. I don’t believe that’s illegal.”

“Drink—no. There is talk, according to Mr. Dodds, of other … substances. Do you and Mrs. Shaw ever partake of those?”

A long silence.

“Mr. Brigstocke, you are under oath.”

“We have smoked … er, hash—very occasionally.”

“How would you define ‘very occasionally’?”

“Oh … once or twice.”

“Once or twice a day?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then … how often?”

“During our entire association.”

“I see. No more questions.”

“Mr. Gilmour?”

“No questions, Your Honour.”

“I would now like to call Mrs. Fullerton-Clark.”

This was it. This was when she really finally lost her. Drinking,
taking drugs, abandoning Emmie in a foreign city—nothing compared to hitting her.

“Mrs. Fullerton-Clark …”

Clifford Rogers won’t like her
, Philip Gordon thought, looking at Sarah, dressed in a skirt and twinset and, of course, pearls—her grandmother’s pearls, as Eliza could have told him—answering the questions in her rather dated upper-class voice.

Generations of good breeding stood in that witness box—the kind that Clifford Rogers most resented.

“So you have looked after Emmeline quite a lot over the years?”

“Yes, I have. And enjoyed it, of course.”

“And … did your daughter enjoy looking after her, would you say?”

“Very much, yes. She was an excellent mother. She was very tired, of course, in the early stages, as we all are, but she coped very well.”

“Did she ever discuss going back to work with you?”

“Well … occasionally. She always enjoyed being a working gel …”

Philip Gordon could almost feel the judge wince at that pronunciation.

“But she was happy to be at home?”

“Oh … yes. Very happy.”

“Now, home for you all is your family seat in Wiltshire—”

“Oh, I’d hardly call it a seat,” said Sarah. “It’s just a small country house.”

“I see. How many bedrooms does it have?”

“Ten—well, it depends how you count them, whether you include the rooms on the top floor. If you do … then … ten. Yes.”

“Not too small then. And you have continued to live there since your husband died?”

“Yes. Yes, I have.”

“Your son didn’t inherit it? Is it not true that the house required a great deal of restoration, and that no one in the family could afford it?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And your son-in-law bought the house—that you broke a trust to make it possible and that he has spent a lot of money doing it up and so on. And he allows you to live there?”

“Yes. That is correct. Matthew has been a very kind, generous son-in-law.”

“Indeed. And how often do the young family come down?”

“Oh … in the summer, most weekends. Emmie loves it there; she has a pony that we keep in the paddock.”

“And that you look after?”

“Oh … well, not exactly—a girl from the village comes every other day to groom and exercise him.”

This gets worse and worse
, thought Toby.

“Very good. Now … I want to hear about the time your daughter lost the baby. The little boy.”

“Oh … yes.”

She looked down, fiddled with the pearls.

“It must have been a very sad time for you all.”

“It was, yes.”

“Did your daughter spend much time with you over that period?”

“Yes. Yes, she did. She was very low, couldn’t sleep, wasn’t eating. Matthew was very upset too, but of course he had to go back to work and … well …” Her voice faded.

“Well what, Mrs. Fullerton-Clark?”

“It is always worse for the mother.”

“That is your view? That your son-in-law was not as upset by the death of his son as your daughter?”

“No, that is not my view.” Sarah faced him down. “I said that Matthew was very upset; I simply meant that it is always worse for the mother; she can’t escape into the world of work; she has fewer distractions, and I truly believe we feel such loss more; it’s in our biology.”

“I see. And … how did Eliza cope with Emmeline at this time? I imagine it must have been difficult for her, a lively—what, three- or four-year-old?”

“Emmie was five at the time. Yes, my daughter did find it difficult, Emmie’s a demanding little girl and—Yes …” Her voice trailed off.

“Was she … irritable with the child, that sort of thing?”

“A … a little, yes.”

“What form did this irritability take, Mrs. Fullerton-Clark? Did Mrs. Shaw snap at Emmie, that sort of thing?”

“Er … yes. That sort of thing.”

“Were you ever worried about her ability to cope with the situation?”

“A little, I suppose. Yes.”

“Did you suggest she seek help?”

“Yes, yes, I did, but she didn’t want to give in, as she put it. I was very glad when she agreed to go and see a … a doctor.”

“A doctor? Surely it was a psychiatrist she saw?”

“Well … we agreed together she should seek help. We didn’t actually define what sort of help. It seemed to me at the very least she needed perhaps some sleeping pills. And to—”

She stopped.

“And to what, Mrs. Fullerton-Clark?”

“And to talk to someone. About how she was feeling, how … how wretched she was.”

“And … was there one particular incident that persuaded her this was necessary? Or did she slowly come round to the idea?”

Does he know?
Eliza wondered.

“Well … well, she … That is, I—”

“Mrs. Fullerton-Clark, please answer the question,” said Clifford Rogers. He sounded irritable.

“Well … she was down one weekend, without Matthew and … and she became very upset …”

“Why was that, particularly?”

“Well, Emmie was being very difficult. She … she wanted to go to the village shop and buy some sweets, and Eliza said she couldn’t. Emmie was very angry and started having a tantrum. Shouting at Eliza and so on.”

“And …”

“Well … Eliza became very … very distressed.”

“And …”

“And she … she, well, she lost her temper with Emmie.”

“And …”

“Well, and she … she …”

“Mrs. Fullerton-Clark, I have to ask you this. Did you ever observe any violence towards Emmie from your daughter?”

Sarah was silent; she looked at Bruce Hayward and then at the judge and then down at her hands, fiddling with her rings.

Finally she said, “Yes. Yes, I’m afraid I did. Just … just the once. She … well, she hit her. I wasn’t there, in the room, but I heard screaming and shouting and I went in and Emmie … Emmie was holding her head, which was bleeding—not from the blow; she’d fallen against the table—we had to go to casualty; she needed stitches.”

Eliza looked at Matt, who was staring at her, sitting bolt upright, his dark eyes brilliant, blazing in his white face.

She would lose Emmie now, absolutely without doubt. And she would deserve to.

“Matt,” said Louise, “I’m sure—I’m quite, quite sure—it must have been a one-off thing. Otherwise, Emmie would have been frightened of her. We’ve all done awful things that we’re ashamed of. Haven’t you?”

“What?”

“I said, haven’t you ever done anything you were ashamed of?”

“Oh … yes, yes, of course I have. But not to a child. Not to my own daughter. And then to lie about it, and obviously to encourage her to lie about it. I just don’t know what to do, Louise; I really don’t.”

“You don’t have to do anything. That’s the whole point of all this. The judge will do it for you.”

“And she knew all along, Sarah, that is. I trusted her, you know. And she knew that and she didn’t tell me. Well, she’ll never be alone with Emmie again either.”

“Matt! Didn’t your mother ever wallop you? I know mine did.”

“Yes, of course, but that’s quite different.”

“I don’t see why. Look, Matt, you decided to go down this road, to turn Emmie into an object that you were going to acquire at all costs. I know this is awful for you. It’s awful for everyone. You, Eliza, Emmie, everyone involved, actually, your mother, Scarlett, Sarah—it’s horrible. Of course it is. It didn’t have to be. You chose to do it like this and I’ve backed you all the way. Of course it was bad that Eliza hit Emmie, and of course it was very … unfortunate that she lost her in Milan. But neither of them was as bad as you’ve made out; there are reasons, explanations. Eliza is not a bad person and nor are you, but the barristers and the solicitors and the judge are turning you into bad people, and you
can’t blame them either, because that’s their job. So just … just grow up, Matt. I’m going home now; I can’t stand this any longer. You’d better do the same. Remember me to Jimbo.”

Clifford Rogers spoke. “Mrs. Shaw, please take the stand and try to tell us why you feel Emmeline should remain in your care.”

She is terrified
, Philip thought, looking at Eliza’s eyes as she stood, gripping the edge of the box.
She has lost faith in herself and her cause; she does not believe she can win. Which is dangerous
—he scribbled a note and passed it to Gilmour.