The Diamond Waterfall (65 page)

Angela Gilmartin.
I do not trust her.
I remember now she had that too
gushing manner. All stupid emphasis. I can't believe she was a good influence on her dreadful brother.

“I am a spinster, presently living at …”

Red eyes. No, delicately pink-rimmed. The court can see she has been crying recently. (Be fair—hasn't she lost a brother?) Already she has their sympathy.

She is being examined by Matthew Purchase, K.C., for the Crown, a formidable man. Our man is looking worse by the minute.

“You would agree then, Miss Gilmartin, that your brother was a man determined to make a success of his marriage, even if through circumstances beyond his control he was not to be successful in business? We could say that home life was to him of the utmost importance?”

“Oh yes. He—you see, our parents were not too happy together. Our mother … Shall I say?”

Mr. Spencer-Loring rose suddenly. At first a sneeze impeded speech. “Objection—”

“Yes, Mr. Spencer-Loring?”

“The relevance of this excursion into family history of the deceased, what bearing can it have on the innocence or guilt of the accused?” Objection not sustained.

“Now Miss Gilmartin, as you were telling the court just now—your parents did not have a happy marriage?”

“Indeed not. And unfortunately the unhappiness was made by our mother. She was—”

The judge: “Mr. Purchase, where is this leading? It is not the deceased's
mother
on trial.”

“M'lud, if you will be patient with me—we are coming to the point. As you were telling the court, Miss Gilmartin, your mother—”

“Our mother was … Forgive me, I don't care to speak of these matters. She—I think they call it a—nymphomaniac.”

The judge interrupted, “For the benefit of the court, Mr. Purchase, what is meant by this expression ‘nymphomaniac'?”

“I think, m'lud, it is best defined as an uncontrollable and morbid sex urge. In a woman, of course.”

“Thank you, Mr. Purchase.”

“Miss Gilmartin, your brother was unhappy, was he not, even as a boy— about the home life of your parents?”

“I myself only knew what he told me. But, yes, he had seen, and heard— things which distressed him.”

“And as a result of this he had quite rightly a very high standard indeed of marital behavior. By contrast … An idea that a wife should be above reproach—”

“Yes. He was looking … He thought he'd found in my sister-in-law a
good
woman.”

“But he discovered, did he not, that in fact history was repeating itself—”

Mr. Spencer-Loring: “I object most strongly.” (His voice came out most feebly.) “Counsel is leading his witness in a quite blatant manner—”

“Objection sustained. Mr. Purchase, you will kindly confine yourself to straight questions which the witness will then answer in her own words.”

But in seconds he was away again:

“Miss Gilmartin, what sort of marriage did your brother have?”

“Objection—”

“His marriage was a mockery—”

This, Teddy thought, is what they call Sensation in Court.

“In what way, a mockery? Please continue, Miss Gilmartin, even if it causes you distress. The court must hear.”

“A mockery because—she was pregnant when they married—”

“And the father of that child?”

“Mr. Purchase, you are leading your witness
again—”

What is all this? What twist is this? Teddy thought.
Why, oh why, does our man say nothing?

“I apologize, m'lud. Miss Gilmartin, what effect did the accused's condition have on your brother?”

“He was greatly distressed. It was entirely for chivalrous reasons—he was always absurdly gallant—that he married her, knowing
it was someone else's child”

“How much did he tell you of this?”

“Only that it wasn't his. That it was the result of a casual encounter. Just as later—”

“Yes, yes, we shall come to that. Your brother was in the Great War, Miss Gilmartin?”

“He fought … he …” She sobbed.

The judge said, “The court understands your distress, but I must ask you to try and answer clearly.”

“He fought at—he lost an arm, on the Meuse, the last month of the war.”

“Yes, yes. Tell me now—did his war service have any other adverse effects on him?”

“Yes, I'd say he had a great deal of nervous trouble. He was neurasthenic—”

“So that he suffered more than the normal person would when under strain?”

“Yes.”

“Would you tell the court now what you know of your brother's marriage, after this—unfortunate beginning?”

“He suffered particularly. You see, he had business worries which were made worse by his realization that my sister-in-law … that she consorted frequently with other men—”

“And you realized this first—when?”

“When we were trying to run an hotel in Ireland, and she took the opportunity … the run of men staying there. It was a paradise for her type. I had cause to speak to her. I said—”

Before there could be any objection, Mr. Purchase:

“We do not need to deal just now with what you said. Rather, can I ask you what were your brother's reactions to this—behavior?”

“After the first confidences, he didn't often discuss these—affairs with me. I know only that he was constantly distressed. Despairing.”

“There was never any question of his being that rather unattractive character, the
mari complaisant?”

In the second's silence following: Dear God, thought Teddy. Are we to have
that
defined?

“Never. I know he spoke to her directly about these matters—angrily quite often. But of course without any results. On more than one occasion I was actually witness to—flagrant … to things I would rather not have seen. I was concerned too for the children—”

Teddy thought, Such a picture of our darling Sylvia. It is not possible people can tell such lies. Except that perhaps this woman
believes
her own lies.

“One last question, Miss Gilmartin. Did you not yourself intend to be married?”

“My—fiancé was killed. In 1918.” “Thank you. That is all, Miss Gilmartin.”

Now, thought Teddy, she is made out to be almost a war widow. She had been watching two of the women jurors while Angela spoke last. One, in her early forties, whispered to another and shook her head sympathetically. No doubt that Angie had made a good impression.

The turn now of Sylvia's counsel to cross-examine. If only he did not look so ill. Where was that well-known thrust of the head, the sudden, piercing, unexpected question that would finish Angela Gilmartin, puncturing the balloon of her self-righteousness?

“Miss Gilmartin, did you like your sister-in-law?”

“Of course I was fond of her. Why should you imagine I was not?”

“
I
am asking the questions, Miss Gilmartin. Now tell me, would you describe yourself as at all
jealous
of your sister-in-law?”

Objection by Matthew Purchase.

An apology. Then, sneezing and snorting, Mr. Spencer-Loring resumed.
Picking Angela up about this, about that. Getting nowhere. The fox fur trembled with outrage at the suggestion that any of her story might be biased, that Reggie's business failures were other than bad luck, that Sylvia could have been in any way provoked.

“Did you know that your brother was in the habit of drinking too much? Was dependent on drink to a great extent?”

“What is too much? My brother was used to it, from his days in the trenches. He was able to hold large amounts without apparent effect. It was quite different with
her
drinking. And of course if she was drunk at the time of—”

“Miss Gilmartin, you were not called into the box to make suppositions. That is the task of others.
You
are here to answer questions. Now tell me, did you actually see the accused, ever, the worse for drink?”

“Not actually
see
—I was not there so much of the time lately. I was abroad, and …”

“Tell me, did your brother ever threaten suicide in your presence?”

“Certainly
not!”

“Did you know that he had, lately, often threatened to take his life?” “No—I … If he did—it would be to escape the hell
she
was making for him.”

“Miss Gilmartin, I must ask you again. These allegations of immorality … Now tell me, do you know whether he in fact spoke with the accused about … these alleged infidelities?”

“I don't—he did not say. Because he was unhappy and said it was to do with her, I naturally supposed …”

“We are not here to deal with supposition, as I think I told you before. I will rephrase my question. Did your brother
tell
you he had spoken to the accused of his suspicions? That it was an issue between them?”

“Not exactly. I … perhaps …”

“Thank you, Miss Gilmartin. No further questions.”

Teddy looked over at the dock. Sylvia in her little turquoise hat, worn on one side to the front of her head. A hat chosen by me, and sent in together with the suit, fur-trimmed at lapels and cuffs.
My sister is a doomed woman,
she thought now. She hasn't even the wistful beauty which surely a few years ago would have won over the most hardened of jurors. All, all gone. I have been witness, slowly, inexorably to its departure. I did not notice enough when I should have.

And now these terrible, false accusations—Sylvia the drunk, Sylvia the whore. (It is
I who am the whore.)

The remainder of the trial passed for her in a haze. Words rolled over her head. She could not look at Sylvia, could not have borne to. … There would be character witnesses—someone, someone surely would make it all right.

They came and went: the headmistress of Willow's school, the mother of one of her friends. Mr. Purchase was rough with two of them. No one appeared to know Sylvia at all closely. She had not confided in her neighbors. Or in anyone.

“May it please Your Lordship, members of the jury …”

Closing speech for the Crown:

“We have heard all we need to show that the deceased was not only a man crippled in many senses, but a man provoked beyond imagining—ironically married to the very kind of woman who had made his youth such a shameful torment. A man who not surprisingly was driven to possess a revolver—knowing that there would be an honorable way out if all this should prove beyond his supporting.
Little knowing
it would be the very person driving him to this whose finger would be on the trigger.”

Listening, half listening to Matthew Purchase, Teddy could not understand his reasoning. She reminded herself that Ronald Spencer-Loring would have a chance after to refute everything, to turn it all upside down,
in Sylvia's favor.

Mr. Purchase still:

“It is not important that no one comes forward other than her sister-in-law to state that she drank habitually. It is not necessary for the case that she should drink habitually. The question is, was she drunk enough
on this occasion
to cloud her judgment, so that she thought she was doing something other than killing her poor husband? You have heard the evidence of the deceased's sister—that the accused was in the habit of deceiving the deceased and that he was at the limits of his toleration. An evening was chosen when the children were absent. …

“It is not in dispute that the deceased was shot by the accused. We seek to prove that it was a deliberate, cold-blooded act. That she sought by this means to free herself of one who through no fault of his own had been unfortunate in business matters, and who now tried to curb and to interfere with her pleasures. That she took drink to give her courage—whether or no she habitually drank—and that her intention that night was …”

The closing speech now, on behalf of the prisoner Gilmartin.

What is our man making of the defense?

He flounders, coughs, begs the pardon of the court. As Teddy tried to concentrate, it seemed to her that his speech might as well be for the prosecution. It rested as far as she could make out, on that struggle with the Smith & Wesson (Exhibit 24, horribly with them in court). That in attempting to stop his suicide, in trying to wrest it from him, she accidentally pulled the trigger. (And indeed, in my own mind, I never for a moment thought anything else happened.)
But he does not sound as if he believes it

Now listen to his voice, tailing away to a murmur. This story that drink
was forced down her.
I
believe it, but told by him it sounds the feeblest of defenses. He seems too to be using as defense that, fuddled by alcohol, she did not know what she was doing. (This wretched business of drink. Sylvia never drank. No one will make me believe that she was a secret toper. And of course she has told me—us,—nothing but “I shot him.” And words like “There can't be excuses for killing someone.” We are no further forward.

I can only hope, she thought, that the judge (looking now more and more like Gib's father) will direct the jury, those twelve good men and true, so that if she cannot be acquitted, if it cannot be called accidental death, at least it will be only manslaughter.

He has begun his summing up:

“The fact that the accused is a person who has been guilty of immorality in circumstances which you may deplore has nothing to do with the case. You must judge the evidence from your knowledge of the world and experience— you are not supposed when you enter the jury box to leave that knowledge and experience outside.

“A man is presumed to intend the reasonable consequences of his act. If a man is so insane that he hits at somebody's head with an ax, believing that he is cutting down a tree, then he does not know what he is doing but thinks he is cutting down a tree.
That
is what is meant by not knowing the nature and quality of the act. He does not know what he is doing.