The William Monk Mysteries_ The First Three Novels - Anne Perry [521]
The first witness of the next day was Valentine Furnival. For all his height, and already broadening shoulders, he looked very young and his high head could not hide his fear.
The crowd buzzed with excitement as he climbed the steps of the witness stand and turned to face the court. Hester felt a lurch almost like sickness as she saw his face and recognized in it exactly what Damaris must have seen—an echo of Charles Hargrave.
Instinctively she turned her head to see if Hargrave was in the gallery again, and if he had seen the same thing, knowing now that Damaris was the boy’s mother. As soon as she saw him, his skin white, his eyes shocked, almost unfocused, she knew beyond question that he understood. Beside him, Sarah Hargrave sat a little apart, facing first Valentine on the stand, then her husband next to her. She did not even try to seek Damaris Erskine.
In spite of herself, Hester was moved to pity; for Sarah it was easy, but for Hargrave it twisted and hurt, because it was touched with anger.
The judge began by questioning Valentine for a few moments about his understanding of the oath, then turned to Rathbone and told him to commence.
“Did you know General Thaddeus Carlyon, Valentine?” he asked quite conversationally, as if they had been alone in some withdrawing room, not in the polished wood of a courtroom with hundreds of people listening, craning to catch every word and every inflexion.
Valentine swallowed on a dry throat.
“Yes.”
“Did you know him well?”
A slight hesitation. “Yes.”
“For a long time? Do you know how long?”
“Yes, since I was about six: seven years or more.”
“So you must have known him when he sustained the knife injury to his thigh? Which happened in your home.”
Not one person in the entire court moved or spoke. The silence was total.
“Yes.”
Rathbone took a step closer to him.
“How did it happen, Valentine? Or perhaps I should say, why?”
Valentine stared at him, mute, his face so pale it occurred to Monk, watching him, that he might faint.
In the gallery Damaris leaned over the rail, her eyes desperate. Peverell put his hand over hers.
“If you tell the truth,” Rathbone said gently, “there is no need to be afraid. The court will protect you.”
The judge drew a breath, as if about to protest, then apparently changed his mind.
Lovat-Smith said nothing.
The jury were motionless to a man.
“I stabbed him,” Valentine said almost in a whisper.
In the second row from the front Maxim Furnival covered his face with his hands. Beside him Louisa bit her nails. Alexandra put her hands over her mouth as if to stifle a cry.
“You must have had a very profound reason for such an act,” Rathbone prompted. “It was a deep wound. He could have bled to death, if it had severed an artery.”
“I—” Valentine gasped.
Rathbone had miscalculated. He had frightened him too much. He saw it immediately.
“But of course you did not,” he said quickly. “It was merely embarrassing—and I’m sure painful.”
Valentine looked wretched.
“Why did you do it, Valentine?” Rathbone said very gently. “You must have had a compelling reason—something that justified striking out in such a way.”
Valentine was on the edge of tears and it took him some moments to regain his composure.
Monk ached for him, remembering his own youth, the desperate dignity of thirteen, the manhood which was so close, and yet so far away.
“Mrs. Carlyon’s life may depend upon what you say,” Rathbone urged.
For once neither Lovat-Smith nor the judge reproved him for such a breach.
“I couldn’t bear it any longer,” Valentine replied in a husky voice, so low the jury had to strain to hear him. “I begged him, but he wouldn’t stop!”
“So in desperation you defended yourself?” Rathbone asked. His clear, precise voice carried in the