Seven Dials - Anne Perry [155]
“It was not Tariq el Abd who was trying to dispose of the body!” The counsel for the prosecution was on his feet, his voice harsh with indignation. “If Ayesha Zakhari did not kill Lovat, why was she outside in the garden with the corpse in a wheelbarrow? That is not the action of an innocent woman.”
“It is the action of a frightened woman!” Markham said instantly. “If you came upon the body of a murdered man with your gun beside him, might you not attempt to hide it?”
“I would call the police,” the counsel for the prosecution retorted.
“In a foreign country?” Markham was close to jeering. “You would have such confidence in their justice, when you are of a different race, a different language, a different culture?” He did not continue. He could see in the faces of the jurors that he had made his point.
The counsel for the prosecution swung around to the judge, his arms spread wide. “Why, my lord? What reason in the world could an Egyptian house servant have for murdering an English diplomat in the middle of London?”
There was a movement in the gallery. A man rose to his feet. He was slender, elegant, beautifully dressed, his thick hair waved back from an aquiline face.
Pitt was astounded. It was Trenchard! He must have come home on leave.
“My lord,” Trenchard said with the utmost respect. “My name is Alan Trenchard. I am with the British Consulate in Alexandria. I believe I may be able to answer the court’s questions on that subject. I have lived and worked in Egypt for over twenty-five years, and I have been able to find a certain amount of knowledge on the issues concerned here since Mr. Pitt left Alexandria, which I was therefore unable to tell him at the time of his enquiry.”
The judge frowned. “If Sir Anthony wishes to call you, then in the interest of justice, we should hear from you.”
Markham had no choice. He excused Pitt, and Trenchard climbed the steps up to the witness stand and turned to face the court.
Pitt sat next to Narraway and felt him stiffen as Markham moved forward again and Trenchard swore to his name and his residence.
Markham seemed perfectly relaxed. His clients, who yesterday had faced certain conviction, now suddenly were on the brink of acquittal. It had been none of his doing, it was entirely due to circumstance he could not have foreseen or contrived, but it was still going to be an astonishing victory for him.
“Mr. Trenchard,” he began, “were you acquainted with Lieutenant Lovat during his army service in Egypt?”
“Not personally,” Trenchard replied. “I am in the diplomatic service; he was in the military. It is possible we may have met, but I am not aware of it.”
The judge frowned.
The jury glanced around them, their interest still barely caught.
Pitt found his hands clenched, nails digging into his palms.
Markham deliberately kept his eyes on the witness stand. “Did you know the dead man, Tariq el Abd?”
“I learned a great deal about him,” Trenchard replied. He was standing very stiffly with his hands on the rails, knuckles white.
Pitt felt a ripple of fear go through him, wild and unreasonable. He turned to look at the dock. Ryerson was intent, but there was no leap of emotion in him; he dared not yet hope. But Ayesha was leaning forward, her eyes wide in amazement as she gazed at Trenchard, and Pitt realized with horror that unmistakably she knew him, not by repute, as he had said, but personally, face-to-face.
Now, at last, the jury were straining to catch each word, even a look.
The courtroom was warm, but Pitt felt a deep and terrible chill inside himself. He remembered Trenchard’s saying that he had loved an Egyptian woman who had died in an accident a short time ago. Suddenly, almost as if he were there sitting on the ground with his bones aching and the soft lapping