Defend and Betray - Anne Perry [132]
“I don’t think you’d do any better with women,” he said, pulling his face into a bitter expression and looking at the fat woman in front of them. “Not that it would make the slightest difference if you did.”
She knew it was irrelevant. They must fight the case with the jury as it was. She turned around to look at others in the crowd. They seemed to be all manner of people, every age and social condition, and nearly as many women as men. The only thing they had in common was a restless excitement, a murmuring to one another, a shifting from foot to foot where they were standing, or a craning forward if they were seated, a peering around in case they were to miss something.
“Of course I really shouldn’t be ’ere,” a woman said just behind Hester. “It won’t do me nerves any good at all. Wickedest thing I ever ’eard of, an’ ’er a lady too. You expec’ better from them as ought ter know ’ow ter be’ave their-selves.”
“I know,” her companion agreed. “If gentry murders each other, wot can yer expec’ of the lower orders? I ask yer.”
“Wonder wot she’s like? Vulgar, I shouldn’t wonder. Of course they’ll ’ang ’er.”
“O’ course. Don’t be daft. Wot else could they do?”
“Right and proper thing too.”
“ ’Course it is. My ’usband don’t always control ’isself, but I don’t go murderin’ ’im.”
“ ’Course you don’t. No one does. What would ’appen to the world if we did?”
“Shockin’. And they’re sayin’ as there’s mutiny in India too. People killin’ an’ murderin’ all over the place. I tell yer, we live in terrible times. God ’isself only knows what’ll be next!”
“An’ that’s true for sure,” her companion agreed, sagely nodding her head.
Hester longed to tell them not to be so stupid, that there had always been virtue and tragedy—and laughter, discovery and hope—but the clerk called the court to order. There was a rustle of excitement as the counsel for the prosecution came in dressed in traditional wig and black gown, followed by his junior. Wilberforce Lovat-Smith was not a large man, but he had a walk which was confident, even a trifle arrogant, and full of vitality, so that everyone was immediately aware of him. He was unusually dark of complexion and under the white horsehair wig very black hair was easily visible. Even at this distance, Hester could see with surprise as he turned that his eyes were cold gray-blue. He was certainly not a handsome man, but there was something compelling in his features: sharp nose, humorous mouth and heavy-lidded eyes which suggested sensuality. It was the face of a man who had succeeded in the past, and expected to again.
He had barely taken his place when there was another murmur of excitement as Rathbone came in, also gowned and wigged and followed by a junior. He looked unfamiliar to Hester, lately used to seeing him in ordinary clothes and informal in his manner. Now he was quite obviously thinking only of the contest ahead on which depended not only Alexandra’s life but perhaps the quality of Cassian’s also. Hester and Monk had done all they could; now it lay with Rathbone. He was a lone gladiator in the arena, and the crowd was hungering for blood. As he turned she saw the familiar profile with its long nose and delicate mouth so ready to change from pity to anger, and back to wry, quick humor again.
“It’s going to begin,” someone whispered behind her. “That’s the defense. It’s Rathbone—I wonder what he’s going to say?”
“Nothing ’e can say,” came the reply from a man somewhere to her left. “Don’t know why ’e bothers. They should ’ang ’er, save the government the money.”
“Save us, more like.”
“Ssh!”
“Ssh yerself!”
Monk swung around, his voice vicious. “If you don’t want a trial you should vacate the seat and allow someone who does to sit in it. There are plenty of slaughterhouses in London if all you want is blood.”
There was a gasp of fury.
“ ’Ow dare you speak to my wife like that?” the man demanded.
“I was speaking to you, sir,” Monk retorted. “I expect you to be responsible for your own opinions.