On a Desert Shore (16 page)

A blush covered the coroner's cheeks, making it obvious he had heard something of Marina's history but had not expected the subject to be raised. Hesitantly, he said, “Your mother, Miss Garrod?”

“She was a slave on my father's plantation in Jamaica, sir. I thought everyone knew that.” A few titters were heard in the room; then everyone got very quiet.

“I…I had heard something of that story, I do confess, ma'am. You cause me to remind the court that we also heard a hint from the gardener Higgins that your mother was some kind of native doctress, well versed in plant poisons. Forgive my rudeness.” His voice quivered as he spoke.

“She used plants as remedies, not poisons. You should have asked Mr. Chase about that. He'll tell you himself that my mother once saved him when he was dying of the yellow fever.”

Chase came forward. “Miss Garrod speaks the truth about her mother. But this has nothing to do with Mr. Garrod's death. May I suggest we move on, sir?”

“In good time,” said the coroner, dismissing this interruption with a glance in Chase's direction. He collected himself for a renewed attack. “So you deny, Miss Garrod, that the seeds—identical to those worn around your wrist and that were found in the boiler room near where the victims took ill—had anything to do with your father's murder?”

“I didn't say that,” she replied, demure.

This time the noise was deafening, and the bailiff had to raise his voice to quell the disorder. Chase uttered a smothered exclamation and stood in front of Marina's chair, willing her to look at him. But she resisted him.

Behind the coroner's assumed gravity, excitement blazed. “Explain yourself, Miss Garrod,” he said when he could make himself heard.

“The
Abrus precatorius
seeds were deliberately placed there. The person who buried them hoped suspicion would fall on me. This person did it to torment me. It is this same person who murdered my father.”

“An extraordinary assertion. Have you any proof, ma'am?”

She wouldn't look at him either, as though she feared to be silenced. “No proof, sir. But it was the same with the Obeah charm left above my father's door and the rubbish left in my reticule. There was another time that my cousin Ned didn't mention to you when someone put what I assumed was meant to be grave dirt in his bed.”

“Grave dirt?” he said, appalled. “What is this superstition you mention?”

“Obeah? A spiritual practice from Africa carried out among the slaves, often by old men and women who came from that continent. More and more, it has been eradicated by the Christian missionaries.”

“The intent of this practice?”

“It depends. Sometimes to offer a protective charm or a fortune-telling. An Obeah man or woman may also offer herbal remedies to cure disease.”

“You were born on the island?”

“Yes, I was.”

Again he stumbled a little over his words. “I'm sure you don't…subscribe to such notions.”

“Of course I don't,” she replied scornfully. “They say Obeah imposes on the credulous and encourages schemes of revenge and communion with spirits. They say it leads to wicked curses that cause harm and death. Many are afraid of it still—but its power depends on the belief in its validity.”

Surprised at the frankness of this answer, the coroner asked the next question quickly. “What do you think of it? Is it good or evil?”

“Neither, sir. Only a human can be good or evil.”

Chase, still hovering nearby, burst out: “Sir, this line of questioning is absurd. Miss Garrod is a gently bred Englishwoman who has been strictly reared in the Christian faith. She is very young and does not realize that she should guard her tongue. Allow me to speak to her in private.”

Waving a disdainful hand, the coroner said, “So that you can tutor her, Mr. Chase? I think not. You must trust me to handle this witness.”

As he listened to this exchange, Buckler had been thinking that Marina Garrod knew exactly what she was doing, though he understood why Chase was worried. His friend wore a look of unusual agitation, seeming too restless to remain in his place by the coroner's table. Buckler himself felt a heavy foreboding. Marina had decided to challenge her accusers, but this was a risky ploy in that it could easily feed the speculation about her lunacy. Lunacy was a subject to which Buckler had devoted a great deal of thought—too much thought. It was said that diseases of the mind had increased rapidly in recent years and that this affliction was increasingly common among the young. Buckler had fought a long battle with his own melancholia, fearing it might tip over some unseen ledge into something more alarming. And he knew how easily such ideas about a person could gain currency and become settled fact.

The coroner drummed his fingers on the table. “I must admit this testimony troubles me, since, as we've all heard, the seeds of an exotic plant are likely the agent that has taken the life of one person and nearly that of two others. Mr. Chase is correct in one thing. You must be careful what you say, Miss Garrod.”

Chase said, “You've no right to browbeat the young lady, sir. Let her step down. She has just lost her father—”

“We have a poisoner among us,” said the coroner, cutting him off. “Of all deaths, murder by poison is the most detestable and least preventable. How do we know but that the poisoner may strike again? It is my duty to get to the bottom of this matter.”

Several jurymen gave wise nods at this juncture, but Chase folded his arms and assumed a belligerent stance. Abruptly, he glanced over his shoulder in Buckler's direction. And Buckler realized with a jolt that Penelope was looking at him too, her expression very troubled. He put his hand over hers for a moment and rose to his feet to approach the coroner's table.

“I wonder if I may be of service in drawing out this witness, sir?” he said, bowing. “I am Edward Buckler, a barrister of the Inner Temple.”

Chapter Sixteen

The coroner was inclined to resent this interference but unsure how to reject it. He said, “You are too good, sir. But I believe we can dispense—”

“Let him do it,” interrupted Chase. “Mr. Buckler is well-versed in the art of examination. You could do much worse in this fix.”

Buckler smiled. “A moving tribute, John,” he murmured. In truth, he wondered if he did right to thrust himself into these proceedings, but, obedient to his lady's will, he had not thought to refuse. Over his shoulder he saw that Penelope was giving him a look of encouragement. Foolish woman, he thought fondly, glad to take action and lay aside the stark depression he'd been feeling ever since she'd told him their relationship must come to an end. He supposed it was worth it to interfere if he could be of use to Chase. Besides, Marina Garrod intrigued him. What was she about here? As usual in these situations, he could hear the voice of his lawyer friend Ezekiel Thorogood advising him to charge to the rescue of some unfortunate:
On your feet, Buckler. Any action is better than nothing.

Trying to be tactful, he said, “I am more than happy to put myself at your disposal, sir.”

As the coroner started to shake his head, Samuel Tallboys, both vicar and magistrate in this parish, called from his seat, “A capital idea. Mr. Buckler may be able to help us shed some light here. Why not make use of his considerable experience?”

“You know this man?” asked the coroner.

“He is a well-known Old Bailey lawyer, whose name is often in the papers. Mr. Chase had already mentioned him to me as a possible resource. Do remember that Miss Garrod is a minor under my wing. I am responsible for her, and I say let Mr. Buckler question her.”

“He'll demand a fee for his services. You hold the purse strings, Mr. Tallboys. You know we can't afford it.” Though he protested, the coroner's tone toward the much older man remained deferential.

Buckler put in quickly, “I would be happy to do this for you at no charge, to see justice done.”

Left with no more to say, the coroner sat back, looking sulky. Buckler turned to Marina. “First, I must tell you that you are not charged with any crime. I wish to allow you to tell your story more fully. Will you answer my questions?”

“Willingly,” she said, her voice steady.

“Good. Let's begin. My friend Mr. Chase was hired to discover who has been making you the mark of a secret malice. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir. My father was worried about me.”

“What were these tricks? Describe them, if you please.”

“Some of my possessions would appear and reappear to make it seem I had been absent-minded. My shawl was slashed with a knife. There was the dirt put in Ned's bed to make it look I had played a vindictive game with him—and the same rubbish put in my reticule to embarrass me. The worst of all was the light that would be seen at night in the garden. Someone would throw a handful of gravel at my window to awaken me. Sometimes I would go outside to try to catch the trickster. But I never could.”

“That sounds most distressing, Miss Garrod,” said Buckler.

“It was.” There were tears in her eyes, and she raised a handkerchief to her face and staunched them angrily.

“How did this treatment affect you, ma'am?”

“I was never comfortable in society, sir. The rooms always seemed too bright and too loud for me. Too many richly dressed strangers who knew nothing about me. But this made it all so much worse. I'm afraid I disappointed my father with my awkwardness, but, indeed, I could not help it.”

“I am as certain that your father loved you dearly as I am of my own belief in your account, Miss Garrod. I hope you may take comfort in that.” This was not said just for effect, he realized. He did believe in the girl and wanted to help her for her own sake. He waited until he thought her ready to resume. The spectators weren't sure what to make of Marina Garrod. She made a convincing witness, but there was something about the way she opposed the world that made them uneasy. From his long experience in reading the mood of a courtroom, Buckler could feel their doubts surging around him. The whispers grew in volume.

He signaled for quiet and turned back to the witness. “What do you think was the motive for these tricks?”

“To lower me in my father's eyes. To make it plain to him that I could never belong here. And it worked.”

“You think this person would go so far as to poison your father? You can see why that would seem improbable to an unbiased observer. It must seem an exaggerated fancy.”

“I don't know why! There must be a reason.”

“Miss Garrod,” he said gently, “it will be said that you are not to be credited because you have become disordered in your mind. It is known you take a powerful opiate to sleep. And you tell us that you have sometimes left the safety of your bedchamber to wander in the night, performing acts you only imperfectly recall.”

“Yes.”

“For instance, you destroyed some of your father's flowers in the presence of Mrs. Wolfe?”

Her head drooped, as though her fatigue were suddenly intense. “I did that, yes. I was dreaming of uprooting weeds from the garden. It's true I was not myself that night.”

“So you can see why this behavior might be questioned, especially in view of the recent tragedy at Laurentum? Why didn't you tell anyone about your persecution and ask for help?”

“Why?” she cried. “Because I don't trust any of them.”

Not a sound could be heard in the court as Marina made this pronouncement. Even the journalists had lifted their pens from their notebooks to stare at the witness in fascination. Feeling a sudden reluctance to continue, Buckler glanced at Chase, who gave a sharp nod.
Carry on
, it said.

“Your family?” said Buckler. “The family that has nurtured you and showered you with the gifts of fortune—and love?”

“They don't love me. They only pretend and scheme for their own advantage.”

That was enough, Buckler judged. He moved on. “Let's have it out, Miss Garrod. It will be better for you to answer these questions now rather than later. Did you take the loose beads from your necklace and crush them to make a powder?”

“I did not.”

“Have you any notion how the wild licorice beans came to be in the boiler room?”

“None.”

“You are on your Bible oath, ma'am,” he reminded her. “Did you tamper with the sugar or with any other foodstuff in the household?”

Marina's lips tightened, and she gazed back at him somberly. “A wicked person did that. No, I was not the one.”

“Why did you leave your bed the other night?”

“I saw the light again. Mr. Durant and Mr. Chase saw it, too.”

Buckler could feel the attention swinging toward Chase, but his friend stayed by the coroner's table, his expression impassive, though his jaw was rigid. Buckler also saw that Lewis had laid one hand on his sister's arm as she leaned forward, intent on the questioning. Most of the spectators had probably never been out of England, and it struck Buckler how strange this encounter must seem to them. They would be shocked, too, by the young girl's charges against her family. Most would deem her ungrateful and shockingly indecorous to speak these words in public.

“Miss Garrod, have any measures been taken to keep you from your friends or restrict your movements? Has your liberty been restrained in any way?”

“Never, sir.”

“Knives are not withheld from you, for example? No one has expressed a reluctance to leave you alone? You are not considered a threat to yourself or others?”

“Never.”

“In fact, you spent the last few months mixing in the best society and pursuing all the normal activities of a debutante?”

She smiled at him. “Yes, sir.”

Buckler bowed to the coroner “I believe that is all for the moment, sir, unless you have other questions to pose?”

He seemed uncertain. “Thank you, Mr. Buckler,” he said at last. “You have given us much to think on. The hour grows late. We will adjourn these proceedings pending the results of the chemical tests.”

“An appropriate decision, sir,” said Buckler.

“I own I'm ready for some refreshment,” said the coroner, stretching and glancing toward his companions. The jury brightened, the spectators stirred in their hard chairs, and conversations began to break out. One or two people got to their feet and began to edge toward the exit. Others remained to watch the final moments of the play.

Buckler put out a hand to help Marina to her feet. Chase, Penelope, and Lewis joined them, forming a tight circle around the girl.

“Let's go,” said Chase urgently.

Tallboys was there too. “Marina, how could you say such things? My dear girl, I am beyond words. Come let us go home, where we can speak privately.” He pushed rudely by Lewis, sweeping past the journalists who, scenting blood, had started to converge. “At once, Marina,” he snapped.

Chase said, “Allow me to escort Miss Garrod. I am better able to deal with the riffraff than you, Mr. Tallboys.”

A few feet away, Honeycutt looked as if he was about to come to blows with the reporters. Chase strode over, grasped Honeycutt's arm, and drew him away. “Do you want to figure in the press as the man who started a fight at your uncle's inquest? Don't be an ass.”

“Mr. Chase is right, Ned,” said Mrs. Yates. She wrapped an arm around Marina, but the girl shook her off. An arrested expression showed on the old woman's face, and she shrank back, her eyes wide. At this, Marina began to sob with deep, hopeless gasps that seemed torn from her body.

Lewis said, “Don't be distressed, Miss Garrod. A cup of tea in your own room at home will revive you.” Then he became tongue-tied, having realized the implications of this artless sentence.

Her shoulders heaving, Marina choked out, “I understood the kindness meant in your remark, Mr. Durant.”

Chase used his walking stick to clear a path, and they made their way out of the courtroom. With high-handed dispatch, he got Marina and Lewis into the carriage with Buckler and Penelope, jumped on the box, and instructed the coachman to drive on. A scowling Ned Honeycutt was left to accompany his aunt and Mr. Tallboys back to Laurentum.

***

As evening fell, Buckler and Penelope walked through a small wilderness of beech trees and followed the path, which led by a moderate ascent to the summerhouse. It was a stone, octagonal structure with a bell-shaped roof and cupola from which a statue of Mercury pierced the cool, blue sky. After pausing to admire the statue, they went up the stairs and stepped through a door set between Ionic columns. Inside they found walls decorated with paintings of the seasons and a row of windows that framed a serene view of the surrounding fields. In the foreground they glimpsed the corner of the farmyard and piggery; in the distance the city steeples blurred to extinction in the waning day.

Having opened a window to admit the air, Buckler turned from a contemplation of the meadows to study his love. She looked tired after several sleepless nights, and this touched him and filled him with misgiving. He knew his duty: he must persuade her to leave Laurentum that very night. Even though the inquest was not complete, she had already given her testimony and was unlikely to be recalled. She would not attend the funeral, which was to take place on the following day, though Buckler himself was to remain in Clapham. Surprisingly, Ned Honeycutt had taken him aside on their return to the villa and had requested he make himself available in case the coroner should again summon Marina.

“You've shown you'll stand by her,” Honeycutt had said. “Of course, we must give you a bed here in the meantime.”

“I am comfortable at the pub,” Buckler had objected.

“That won't do. You'll be pestered. I believe the journalists have taken over the place.” So Buckler had allowed a servant to be sent to collect his shaving gear and clean shirt.

Now Penelope said abruptly, “Did you observe John's face when Marina Garrod was testifying? He seemed so grieved.”

“Natural, isn't it? The girl has fought him at every turn.”

“I suppose you're right.” She added on a tentative note, “The evidence against Miss Garrod is merely circumstantial and not very persuasive at that. Do you agree?”

“That's common in poisoning cases,” he answered, carefully nonchalant, for he did not want to encourage Penelope's investigative instincts on this occasion.

She sat down on one of the chairs covered in red silk cushions. Untying the strings of her bonnet, she removed it and set it aside on the table, a beautiful piece inlaid with several different kinds of tropical woods. As she ran her hand over its polished surface, Buckler watched the thoughts chasing across her mobile features. Her pallor and the dark circles under her eyes were pronounced, and he felt the urgent need to keep her safe. Recollections of that horrific tea party had been keeping him awake too.

Her hand stilled. “Don't you think, Edward, that it's all rather convenient?”

“You mean the campaign of suspicion against Miss Garrod?”

“All the stories intended to discredit her. The effort to make her look unbalanced. She's little more than a child, certainly not a monster.”

He went to sit with her. “She was very adult today, self-possessed and entirely rational. But, Penelope, the deranged often seem sane. It is sometimes only on one topic that a lunatic reveals his mania. Reasoning well from false premises—that's the essence of delusion. I have met such people. Once I was asked to defend a patient who had been confined to a private madhouse. It was one of the few times Thorogood was fooled into taking an unworthy case. The madman was that convincing. We lost on our writ of
habeas corpus
. The doctors produced witness after witness to prove his insanity. The man had threatened to stab his own wife multiple times.”