“Yes, Mr. Thompson. I thought you might be wanting to do that,” said Judge Murdoch. “Just step outside for a minute, ladies and gentlemen, please. This shouldn’t take long.”
The jurors filed out, looking puzzled. Some of them even seemed irritated. And who could blame them, thought Trave. They were being sent out just when the trial was getting interesting. The Frenchwoman looked like she’d got plenty more to say about Silas Cade. Trave glanced over at the public gallery and noticed that Silas had disappeared, although Ritter was still there, looking like thunder. Trave considered going after Silas, but then thought better of the idea. There was no way of knowing where he’d gone, and Trave needed to hear the rest of the Ritter woman’s evidence. It was his case, after all.
The door at the back of the court closed behind the last juror, and the judge turned to the witness.
“Sit down, young woman,” he said coldly. “I need to talk to counsel.”
Jeanne obeyed. She looked terrified now, like someone who has jumped headlong into the water and found it to be far colder and deeper than she’d expected.
“There’s nothing of what the witness has been saying about this man in the courtyard in her witness statement. That’s your point, isn’t it, Mr. Thompson?” asked the judge.
“Yes, my lord. And I need to ask her why. The jury needs to have the full picture.”
“Yes. And I am sure defence counsel will agree with that proposition. Am I right, Mr. Swift?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Swift. Mrs. Ritter had entirely changed her story, and there was no basis on which he could object to Thompson’s application. Besides, he wanted to know what else she would say. Perhaps she would implicate Silas even further.
“Very well,” said Murdoch. “The prosecution’s application to cross-examine their witness is hereby granted. Let’s have the jury back. And you can come back into the witness box now, Madam,” he added. “There’ll be some more questions for you.”
“You remember making a statement to the police, Mrs. Ritter?” asked Thompson, once the jurors were back in their places.
“Yes, I remember,” said Jeanne softly.
“Good. Let me read you a bit of it then. This is what you said: ‘I went to sleep quite early with my husband, and I wasn’t aware of anything unusual until the sound of someone shouting woke me up.’ That’s what you told the police. You were asleep until you heard the shouting. Not a word about anyone in the courtyard.”
“It’s not true. What I said there isn’t true.”
“But that’s not what you said at the time, is it, Mrs. Ritter?” said Thompson, with a smile. “Look, you signed a declaration saying that your statement was all true. You even agreed that you could be prosecuted if it wasn’t.” Thompson held up the last page of the statement for everyone to see, with his finger pointing at Jeanne Ritter’s rather laborious-looking signature at the bottom.
“I was lying. I wanted to protect Silas.”
“Why?”
“Because I loved him.” Jeanne almost shouted the words, glorying in the momentary sense of complete release that they gave her. “I loved him, and I thought he loved me. But he didn’t. He never loved me at all.”
“And that’s why you’ve made up this story about him. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Ritter?” asked Thompson, scenting victory. “It’s revenge you’re after. Not the truth.”
“No, I’m telling you the truth now.”
“But you were lying before.”
“Yes, can’t you understand?” Jeanne was crying now, and her words came out in short rushes between the heaves of her body. “I was downstairs in the hall, and Reg was shouting about the colonel, about him being dead, and I knew what I had to do. First of all, I locked the door. Then I picked up the mackintosh and the hat, and I hung them up so that no one would see. And afterward I told the policeman that I saw nothing. Nothing at all. But it wasn’t true. I saw him, and I know what he did.”
“So you say, Mrs. Ritter,” said Thompson. His icy calm was a sharp contrast to the obvious distress of his witness. “But it’s what you would say, isn’t it, now that Mr. Cade has rejected you?”
“No,” said Jeanne weakly, but it sounded more like a protest than a denial. She felt suddenly terribly tired, drained of all emotion. Thompson was staring at her, making no effort to hide his contempt, and it took an enormous effort of will to turn away from him. She scanned the courtroom, looking for a friendly face, but everyone seemed indifferent to her. Except Stephen. She could not bear the look in his eyes. “You protected Silas and you condemned me,” he seemed to be saying. “And it’s too late now. Too late for you and too late for me.”
Thompson was asking her more questions, pressing her to tell the jury the story of her adultery, but she couldn’t answer anymore. She was no match for the mean little barrister with the effeminate voice or the judge who talked to her like she was so much dirt. Suddenly she felt an intense longing to see her father again, coming whistling up the lane at twelve o’clock with the mailbag over his shoulder and a present for his own little girl in the pocket of his black serge uniform. She could feel the hair of his thick moustache against her cheek as he picked her up and told her that everything was going to be all right, because she’d cried a lot back then as well. Before any of the bad things happened. Before her father died. And her mother too. Before Reg Ritter came to claim her. She needed everything to have been different, but it wasn’t, and something inside her, deep inside her vital organs, seemed to snap, and her legs buckled beneath her as everything faded away. The policeman told her afterward that she was lucky to have been standing in the witness box. The side of it apparently broke her fall.
By the time she regained full consciousness of her surroundings, the judge had disappeared from off his dais, and the people in the courtroom were moving around, gathering up their possessions.
The policeman who’d taken her statement was leaning over her, encouraging her to drink from a glass of water he had in his hand. She remembered his big hands with the bitten-down fingernails and his sad, sympathetic pale blue eyes. She hadn’t found it easy to lie to him on that June morning when he’d come to see her at the manor house. But now everyone knew she was a liar and an adulteress. The shame of it, the sense of the spectacle that she must have made of herself in front of all these people, was almost more than she could bear. She closed her eyes, and Trave leaned forward instinctively and loosened her high collar.
“What happened?” she asked. She found it difficult to speak, and the words came out in a whisper.
“You fainted. And the judge left you to it,” Trave said with a smile.
“So please, can I go?” Jeanne asked, getting unsteadily to her feet.
“Yes. But they want you back tomorrow, I’m afraid. Have you got somewhere to stay? I don’t think you should go back to Moreton.”
“Yes, I can find somewhere. There are places up near Baker Street where I was living before. I’ll be all right.”
In truth, Jeanne had no idea if she would be all right. All she knew is that she wanted to be alone, far away from anyone who had seen her in court, but the police officer was persistent. He wouldn’t let her go so easily.
“What about money?” he asked.
“I’ve got enough.”
“Well, I’ll walk you to the tube.”
Trave felt frightened for the woman. Either tonight, that she’d do something to herself, sitting on the side of the bed in some ill-lit cheap hotel room in the early hours with bottles of pills lined up on the dresser, or tomorrow, when Ritter found her. There was no sign of him anywhere in the courthouse or in the street when they got outside, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t lurking somewhere, ready to grasp his wife in his thick pudgy hands as soon as Trave’s back was turned.
But there was nothing Trave could do. That much was obvious to him as his companion hurried down Blackfriars Road toward the underground station, intent only on getting away from him. He couldn’t guard her if she didn’t want to be guarded, and even if she did, it was probably outside his job description.
The station was crowded, and she had to queue for a ticket.
“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” he asked, as if in need of some kind of blessing for leaving her alone. But she didn’t answer. She was looking in her purse for coins, and Trave felt as if he’d already been left behind.
At the foot of the stairs, Trave turned back, hoping to get a last glimpse of her at the turnstiles, but she was gone, swallowed up into the throng of afternoon travelers, and so he climbed back up into the day and walked out onto Blackfriars Bridge.
The great grey river washed against its stone banks, too dirty to reflect the solid nineteenth-century buildings rising up on either side. And, despite the sunshine, there was almost no river traffic. Just a police launch
