Slaves of Obsession - Anne Perry [130]
It was a sentiment Rathbone felt profoundly, and yet Deverill’s giving voice to it irritated him like a scraped elbow. Whether Deverill meant it or not, Rathbone had no doubt he expressed it to manipulate the emotions of the court.
Dorothea had no idea what to make of it. She stared at him with open confusion.
“Mr. Deverill,” the judge admonished, leaning forward, “are you chastising the witness for her lack of knowledge as to the outcome of the present tragedy across the Atlantic?”
“No, my lord, certainly not. I am simply trying to point out that some people feel passionately enough about the issues of slaving to kill those who differ from them.”
“It is unnecessary, Mr. Deverill. We are aware of it,” the judge said dryly. “Have you anything further to ask Miss Parfitt?”
“No, my lord, thank you.” Deverill turned to Rathbone. His foretaste of victory was plain in his face, in the confidence of the way he stood, balancing with his back a trifle arched and his shoulders squared. “Sir Oliver?”
Rathbone rose to his feet. The watch was the most powerful piece of evidence against Merrit, the one thing he could not explain away. Deverill knew it as well. What mattered was what the jury saw.
“Miss Parfitt,” he said, matching Deverill smile for smile, gentleness for gentleness. “Of course you have no choice but to tell us that Merrit Alberton showed you the watch that Breeland gave to her as a token of his feelings for her. You said it first with no knowledge of its meaning, and now cannot withdraw it. We all understand that. But Mr. Deverill omitted to ask you exactly when this incident occurred. Was it the day of Daniel Alberton’s death?”
She looked suddenly relieved, seeing escape. “No! No, it was several days before that. At least two, and maybe three. I don’t recall exactly now. I could get my diary?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he declined. “Not for me, anyway. Could she have given it back to him for any reason? A quarrel, possibly? Or to have the catch altered, or put on a chain, or something else engraved?”
“Yes!” she said eagerly, her eyes widened. She seemed to hesitate for a moment.
“Thank you,” he said quickly, afraid she would embellish it and be caught in an invention. “That is all we need to know, Miss Parfitt. Please do not strive to help. Only what you know is evidence, not what you may wish, or even believe.”
“Yes …” she said awkwardly. “I … I see.”
The judge looked at Deverill.
Deverill shook his head with a slight smile. He knew he did not need to make more of it.
The court adjourned for the day, and Rathbone went straight to see Merrit. He found her alone in the cell used for such meetings. The wardress was stationed outside the door, a big woman with her hair scraped back severely and a pink, scrubbed face. She shook her head slightly as Rathbone went past her and the key clanked in the lock.
“It’s not going well, is it?” Merrit said as soon as they were alone. “The jury think Lyman did it. I can see it in their faces.”
Did she instinctively think of Breeland before herself, or had she not yet grasped that she also was charged equally with him? No one believed she had fired the shots herself, but an accomplice in such a crime would be held just as responsible and punished with the same finality. He could not afford to be gentle with her. She must face the truth of the situation before it was too late even to try to save it.
“Yes, they do,” he agreed candidly. He saw the pain in her eyes, the trace of unreasonable hope that she was wrong die away. “I am sorry, but it is inescapable, and I would not be helping your cause if I were to pretend otherwise.”
She bit her lip. “I know.” Her voice was hoarse. “They are so mistaken in him. He would never do anything so vile … but even if they could not understand that, surely