Death of a Stranger - Anne Perry [143]
“Excuse me,” he said, trying not to be abrupt, and yet his voice was sharp.
The man made an effort to be civil. He was still trying to catch up with his notes. His writing was cramped, awkward, and with an odd, backward slope. Monk felt a strange dizziness in his mind as if there was something familiar about it. Could his idea be right?
“Yes, sir?” the clerk said patiently.
“What did you do to your hand?” Monk asked him.
“I burned it, sir.” The clerk blushed very slightly. “On the cooking stove.”
“You were writing with your other hand yesterday, weren’t you?”
“Yes, sir. Fortunately, I can write with either hand. Not so neatly, but it’ll do.”
“Thank you,” Monk said with a surge of understanding like a blaze of sunlight. He could picture exactly the odd characteristic capital G’s and E’s in Katrina’s diary, and sloping back, but still the same, in Emma’s. And suddenly the inscription in the recipe book—Eveline Mary M. Austin—EMMA! She had loved Katrina, and Katrina had kept her alive in her imagination by writing to her, and even from her, using her left hand.
It was a painful and eccentric thing to do, and even with the explanation, it troubled him.
At the beginning of the afternoon there were even fewer people in the public seats.
“I call Miss Livia Baltimore,” Rathbone said to an immediate hiss of speculation and distaste. Livia herself looked startled, as if she were unprepared, but there was interest again from the crowd. Several jury members straightened in their seats as she made her way across the floor of the court and climbed the steps to the stand, pulling herself a little on the handrail as if she needed its support.
“I apologize for putting you through this ordeal, Miss Baltimore,” Rathbone said gently. “Were it avoidable I would not do so, but a man’s life hangs in the balance.”
“I know,” she said so quietly it was barely audible. The slight rustle of movement in the body of the court ceased, as if everyone were straining not to miss a word. “I will do anything I can to help you prove that Mr. Dalgarno did not do this terrible thing.”
“And your testimony will assist me greatly,” he assured her. “If you tell the exact truth as you know it, absolutely exact! Please trust me in this, Miss Baltimore.”
“I do,” she whispered.
The judge asked her to speak more loudly, and she repeated it: “I do!”
Rathbone smiled. “I imagine you have a natural sympathy for Miss Harcus. She was young, like yourself, not more than four or five years older, and very much in love with a charming and dynamic man. You must know how she felt, her whole future before her, full of promise.”
She swallowed convulsively, and nodded.
“I am sorry, but we need you to speak,” Rathbone said apologetically.
“Yes, I do,” she said huskily. “I can imagine it very well.”
“Have you ever been in love, Miss Baltimore, even if it had not yet reached more than a matter of understanding between you?”
Fowler was on his feet. “My lord, that is completely irrelevant to the issue of this court, and it is grossly intrusive! Miss Baltimore’s personal feelings have no place here and should be respected by—”
The judge flapped his hand at him impatiently. “Yes, yes, Mr. Fowler. Sir Oliver, your point? Or you may continue no further on this rambling excursion of yours.”
“My lord.” Rathbone looked up at Livia. “Miss Baltimore, has Mr. Dalgarno paid court to you? Please do not be modest or discreet to the detriment of the truth. Trust me. And do not oblige me to ask other witnesses to refute any denial made in the effort to protect your reputation. There is nothing to be ashamed of in someone’s paying court to you, even professing love and asking you for your hand in marriage.”
Her face was scarlet, but she looked directly at Rathbone. “Yes. Mr. Dalgarno has done me the honor of asking me to marry him. We are simply not in a position to make the matter public so soon after my father