The Widow's Demise (20 page)

“Would you describe the man for us,” Marc
said.

“I couldn’t see his face as he had a hat on
and his coat was pulled up over his chin.”

“Was he tall? Short? Fat? Thin?”

“I only got a quick glimpse, sir. He wasn’t
tall and I’d say he was on the thin side.”

“Let’s be absolutely clear. This figure, in a
great hurry, was scuttling along the east wall and coming from the
direction of the front of the house, where the crime took place
about seven-thirty?”

McBride started to interrupt, thought better
of it, and sat back down.

“That’s right, sir.”

“Thank you very much, Miss Doyle. We
appreciate your testifying under difficult circumstances.”

Marc was elated. He had his third party – a
thin man or a woman in disguise.

McBride now began his cross-examination. He
gave Peggy Jane an avuncular smile and said, “You testified that it
was seven-thirty when you came down the east stairs?”

“Yes, sir. I always come down to do my
evening chores at seven-thirty.”

“Did you look at a clock before you came
down?”

“Well, no, I – ”

“How did you know it was exactly
seven-thirty?”

“Well, I looked at the upstairs clock about
seven-fifteen and I guessed it was about fifteen minutes later when
I came down.”

“So you can’t be
sure
it was
seven-thirty?”

“I guess not,” Mary Jane said very
softly.

McBride glanced over at Marc with a small
grin of triumph on his round face.

“Now, the east side of Rosewood – is that not
an alley running between Rosewood and the building next door?”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

“And do people not use it as a short-cut to
the lane that runs behind Rosewood?”

“Sometimes.”

“So this so-called mysterious stranger could
have been anybody wishing to take a short-cut through to the
lane?”

“I suppose so.”

“At anytime between seven-fifteen and quarter
to eight?”

“It couldn’t have been that late because when
I got downstairs, a few moments later I was called to the foyer to
see what the to-do was in front of the house.”

“But it could have been, say,
seven-twenty?”

“Perhaps. I’m not sure.”

“No more questions, Milord.”

McBride had weakened parts of her testimony,
but the essential part remained. There was now a third party in the
vicinity about the time of the murder. It was now up to Marc to let
the jury know that there were plenty of candidates for that role.
The next candidate was John Perkins, the dismissed servant.

“Mr. Perkins,” said Marc, “you worked in the
household of Mr. Humphrey Cardiff?”

“Yes, sir. I was assistant to the butler, Mr.
Diggs.”

“And were you recently dismissed from that
position?”

“I was.”

“Under what circumstances were you
fired?”

“Mrs. Cardiff-Jones dismissed me because I
answered a question truthfully put to me by Mr. Cardiff.”

“And you considered this unfair?”

“It was unfair. I was only doing my
duty.”

“Did you seek the assistance of Mr. Cardiff
to intervene?”

“I did, but he refused. He said the servants
were beholden only to Mrs. Cardiff-Jones.”

“Were you given references?”

“No,” Perkins said bitterly. “She wouldn’t
give me a reference.”

“And you haven’t been able to find other
employment?”

“Not yet, no.”

“Did you harbour feelings of resentment
towards Mrs. Cardiff-Jones?”

“I was unhappy with her, yes.”

“And did you, in front of other servants,
swear to get even with Mrs. Cardiff-Jones?”

“I was just blowing off steam.”

“Where were you on the evening of the
crime?”

“I was home. Alone.”

“Can you substantiate that?”

“No.”

“So you harboured a grudge against Mrs.
Cardiff-Jones and you have no alibi for the time of the crime?”

Perkins glared at Marc. “No,” he said.

“Did the police ask you to try on the glove
that was found at the scene of the crime?”

“Yes.”

“And did it fit?”

“Yes. But it wasn’t mine,” Perkins cried,
looking bewildered.

Marc turned Perkins over to McBride.

“Just a few simple questions, Mr. Perkins.
First, where you home all evening on the night of the crime?”

“I was.”

“And did you throw acid in Mrs.
Cardiff-Jones’s face?”

“I did not!” Perkins said loudly.

“And regarding this glove. Would you say you
were an average size?”

“Yes. Average.”

“And therefore the glove might well fit
hundreds of average-sized men in this city?”

“That’s right.”

“That you,” McBride said.

At this point Horace Macy was recalled to the
stand.

“Mr. Macy,” Marc said, “were you paying court
to Mrs. Cardiff-Jones?”

“We spent much time together,” Macy said. He
looked wary.

“Did you ever propose marriage to her?”

“Several times.”

“And how did she respond?”

“She said she was not quite ready to be
married.”

“And how did you take this refusal?”

“I was disappointed, but not discouraged. I
loved her and I knew she liked me.”

“Were you under the impression that you were
her only suitor?”

“At first I was.”

“When did you discover that there was another
man in the picture?”

“One afternoon recently when I came out the
back door of Rosewood, I found a Mr. Lionel Trueman waiting for me
in the yard.”

“And he was as shocked to see you there as
you were to see him there?”

“You could say that.”

“Did you subsequently get into an
argument?”

“We quarrelled over who was the true
suitor.”

“At some point did you challenge Mr. Trueman
to a duel?”

“He accused me of seeking Mrs.
Cardiff-Jones’s money.”

“And you took that as n insult to your
honour?”

“I did.”

“Even though duelling is illegal?”

“We never intended to go through with
it.”

“Did you not meet at dawn the next morning in
the cricket grounds, armed with pistols?”

“It was all show – ”

“And were you not in the process of pacing
off each other, pistols cocked, when you were interrupted by the
police?”

“It wasn’t what it seemed.”

“Be that as it may, Mr. Macy, you were so
besotted with Mrs. Cardiff-Jones that you were willing to fight a
duel over her. What I want to know is when your affection, your
obsession, turned to hatred.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
Macy cried, looking desperately at the judge.

“You discovered that the object of your
affections was double-dealing with you, isn’t that right? She was
seeing Lionel Trueman seriously. And you couldn’t forgive her for
that, could you?”

“That’s nonsense. I loved her. I hated
him.”

“Yet you were seen after the duel talking to
Trueman in a most friendly manner. Had you both decided you were
being played for fools? Was that why you decided to get even?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Did the police ask you to try on the glove
that was found at the scene?”

“Yes.”

“And did it fit?”

“It was a little too small. And it wasn’t
mine!”

“Where were you on the evening of the
crime?”

Flustered, Macy managed to blurt out, “I was
at home at seven-fifteen.”

“Can you prove that?”

“My maid Gladys was in the room next to my
study. She can verify that I never left the house.”

“What if I were to tell you that we have an
affidavit from your maid saying that she fell asleep and therefore
cannot vouch for your alibi?”

“That doesn’t mean I’m not telling the truth,
does it?”

“I suggest, sir, that you left your house and
went to Rosewood to confront your faithless lover, outraged as your
were by her behaviour. And threw acid in her face.”

“Milord!” McBride was teetering, his jowls
a-flush, his tragedian’s eyes blazing. “Mr. Macy is not on trial
here.”

“I agree,” said the judge. “Cease this line
of questioning immediately. The jury will ignore that last
remark.”

Ignore it? Marc thought. It was now seared
into their memory.

“I apologize, Milord.” Marc said, then turned
abruptly to Macy. “Did you know Mrs. Marion Stokes?”.

Macy looked puzzled, but said, “Of
course.”

“Did you know that Mrs. Marion Stokes and
Mrs. Cardiff-Jones were friends?”

“I did. We both moved in the same social
circles.”

“Two more questions. Did the police ask you
to try on the glove found at the scene?”

Macy looked smug as he said, “They did, and
it fit. But it wasn’t mine. I don’t wear brown.”

“Finally, sir, do you have access to
sulphuric acid?”

“You know I do. I’m a chemist.”

“No more questions,” Marc said.

“Mr. McBride?”

“Mr. Macy,” said McBride, “did you throw acid
at Mrs. Cardiff-Jones?”

“I certainly did not.”

“Did you harbour any ill-feelings towards
her?”

“None.”

“Were you at home all evening on the night of
the crime?”

“I was.”

McBride smiled, but some of the smugness was
gone. Marc had shown that a third party had been seen running from
the front of the house near the time of the crime. Now he had a
suspect with a motive and no alibi.

Marc’s next witness was Cecil Denfield.

“Mr. Denfield, you told the police that on
the evening of the crime you were at home from six o’clock
onwards.”

“Yes, I did.”

“You also told them your wife was home with
you, and she verified that?”

“That is so.”

“But your maid also told the police that you
were ill and went to bed.”

“That’s correct.”

“She told them as well that Mrs. Denfield
went out to visit her cousin about seven o’clock.”

Denfield was taken aback, but recovered
quickly. The galleries were leaning forward, intent. “I was in bed.
She may very well have slipped out without me knowing it.”

“And your maid said she herself went to her
room for the rest of the night.”

McBride rose. “Where is this meandering
dialogue leading, Milord? And Mr. Edwards should bring this maid on
if he wishes to use her testimony.”

“Get to the point quickly,” the judge said to
Marc.

“Yes, Milord. Mr. Denfield, is it not true
that no-one can vouch for the fact that you were alone in bed
during the time the crime was committed?”

“It would seem so. But I was, I swear.”

Marc looked down at his notes, then back up
again. “Mr. Denfield, how long had you been Delores Cardiff-Jones’s
lover?”

Sensation in the galleries. Then slowly all
eyes turned to Audrey Denfield, seated in the left gallery. She
stared ahead impassively.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Denfield
sputtered.

“May I remind the witness he is under oath,”
Marc said. “Please answer the question.”

Denfield looked down at his hands on the
railing.

McBride interjected, having regained his
aplomb. “What is the relevance of such an impertinent question?” he
said.

“It goes to motive, Milord.”

“Well, tread carefully, Mr. Edwards,” said
the judge. “Mr. Denfield is not on trial. The witness will answer
the question.”

Denfield whispered, “Delores and I were
lovers for almost three months.”

Again, Audrey Denfield stared straight
ahead.

“And how was this affair managed?”

“We met several nights a week. I came
secretly to her back door, and she or her trusted maid would let me
in. I would always leave by midnight.”

“And as far as you were concerned, this was a
secret affair?”

“Yes. Delores wished it and so did I.”

“When did you discover Mrs. Cardiff-Jones was
being courted by other men?”

“I didn’t know that!” Denfield stammered.

“You weren’t aware that Mrs. Cardiff-Jones
went riding with Lionel Trueman and entertained Horace Macy during
the afternoons?”

“No, sir. I thought
I
was her
lover.”

“So you didn’t become jealous of her
behaviour? You didn’t find your affection turning to anger and
outrage at the way she was playing with your affections? You were
not angry enough to decide to seek revenge?”

“Milord, Mr. Edwards is badgering the
witness. And he is accusing him of murder! Does he intend to accuse
every adult male in Toronto? Including the bailiff?”

“Mr. Edwards, you have had your questions
answered. Please refrain from embellishment and unsubstantiated
accusations. The jury will ignore defense counsel’s remarks.”

“No more questions, Milord,” Marc said. But
he sat down, well-pleased that he had produced another candidate
for that third party. A man with motive and no alibi. Moreover, he
had an even more likely candidate in the offing: Lionel
Trueman.

McBride went through the motions of having
Denfield deny he had thrown acid at the widow, and the court
adjourned for lunch.

Lionel Trueman stood up ramrod-straight, and stared
across the courtroom at the defense attorney – waiting. Marc
fiddled with his notes, then looked up.

“Were you a suitor for the hand of Mrs.
Cardiff-Jones?” he said.

“I was. We often went out in her carriage in
the mornings.”

“Only in the mornings?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Was that because the afternoons were
reserved for Mr. Horace Macy and the evenings for Mr. Cecil
Denfield?”

“Milord,” McBride said, rising. “How is the
witness supposed to know the intimate habits of Mrs.
Cardiff-Jones?”

“If he doesn’t,” said the judge, “he can say
so.”

“We preferred the coolness of the mornings,”
Trueman said. “And I was under the impression that I was the only
suitor.”