“No. What Esther Rudd saw was an opportunity to get at me after I dismissed her.”
“She’s got a grudge against you, in other words?”
“Yes.”
“Just like the late Mrs. Ritter?”
“Yes.”
“Are you still having an affair with your father’s personal assistant?” asked Swift, changing tack without warning.
“No, we ended it soon after my father died.”
“I see. And how long before your father’s death did you start sleeping together?”
“A month. Maybe two. I’m not sure exactly.”
“But the photographs of Miss Vigne seized from your room were taken only two weeks before the murder. That’s what you told the police when they asked you about them.”
“Well, then, that must be right.”
“Good. Perhaps then you could explain to this jury why you felt the need to take long-distance photographs of Miss Vigne through her bathroom window, if you were already enjoying carnal knowledge of her in her bedroom.”
Silas didn’t answer. His cheeks flushed red and his eyes performed a rapid circuit of the courtroom until they ended up fixed on the judge, who looked like the personification of moral outrage.
“Come on, Mr. Cade,” he said angrily. “Answer the question.”
“It’s hard to say,” said Silas, in an almost inaudible voice. “It’s just that I found taking the photographs exciting. I shouldn’t have, but I did.”
“Speak up,” said Murdoch, looking down at Silas like he was some insect specimen that he’d just skewered on the end of a fork.
“I found it exciting,” repeated Silas, raising his voice a little. “Looking at her when she didn’t know I was looking. I’ve always found that exciting.”
“It’s not exciting. It’s disgusting,” said the judge with finality.
“Yes,” said Silas softly. “I know.”
“You’re a photographer by trade, Mr. Cade. Isn’t that right?” asked Swift, turning to a new page in his notes.
“Yes.”
“But I understand you’ve closed your shop in Oxford.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t need to do it anymore.”
“Because of all the money you’ve inherited from your father?”
“That’s right,” said Silas defiantly.
“But you wouldn’t have got any of that if he’d lived long enough to see his solicitor, would you?”
“No. But neither would Stephen.”
“Except that he’s not going to get any of it if he’s convicted. It’ll all go to you then, won’t it?”
“I suppose so,” said Silas slowly. “But that’s not my fault.”
“No. Unless, of course, you planned the whole thing. From start to finish.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“But is it so ridiculous? After all, you’re the one who’s been pulling the strings in your family for a long time now.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you? Well, let’s go back to the blackmail letter addressed to your father that you opened. It was you who insisted on reading it to your brother, and then, just a few weeks later, you were the one who got him up in the middle of the night to eavesdrop on your father and Sergeant Ritter while they were making their plans to kill Mr. Carson.”
“Stephen had a right to know.”
“Maybe. But it certainly mattered to you that he did. And then every time he went to confront your father, you hung back.”
“I couldn’t face it. I’ve already told you that.”
“Yes. But wasn’t that rather convenient for you? Stephen ended up out in the cold, while you stayed home taking photographs of your father’s manuscript collection.”
“I’m not saying what I did was right,” said Silas slowly. “Or that my father was a good man. But I didn’t have to quarrel with him if I didn’t want to. I had a choice just like Stephen.”
“Of course you did. But what were your motives in making that choice, Mr. Cade? Was it that you hoped to get Stephen disinherited while he was out of the way, so that you’d get everything when your father died? He was a sick man, after all.”
“I didn’t think about that. I didn’t want him to die. And it was me who persuaded Stephen to go back when I heard my father hadn’t got long to live. Why would I have done that if I wanted to cut my brother out?” asked Silas, suddenly confident, as if he felt he’d won the argument.
But Swift was ready with his answer. “Because your first plan hadn’t worked,” he said. “Your father was in the clutches of Reg Ritter, and you’d found out he was going to disinherit you as well as Stephen.”
“Stephen had a right to know what he was going to do.”
“Yes. But it was the same pattern as before, wasn’t it?”
“What pattern? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. You were pushing Stephen all the time behind the scenes-delivering letters, arranging visits. But yet you never stuck your head up above the parapet with your father. Not once.”
“I didn’t push Stephen to do anything.”
“Oh, yes, you did. You practically drafted his letter to your father.”
“I helped him write it. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Maybe not. But then you just happen to see the entry in your father’s diary about seeing his solicitor. Blackburn. Three o’clock. You remember that, Mr. Cade?”
“Of course I do. But I didn’t just happen to see it. Both Stephen and I agreed that it was important to watch what our father was doing, given what I’d heard him say to Ritter.”
“About the will?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you were certainly the one for the job, weren’t you? Always reading people’s mail and listening at their windows in the middle of the night. You led your brother along every inch of the way, telling him he was the one who should talk to your father, because you were adopted and he wouldn’t listen to you.”
“That’s true. He wouldn’t have.”
“Do you understand what I’m putting to you, Mr. Cade? You inflamed your brother to just the right level and then you kept him there. Until you were ready to arrange his final meeting with your father.”
“I didn’t arrange it. Stephen did.”
“But you told him to ask for it. Because you realised that you’d run out of time. You had to get rid of your father before he saw his solicitor, and you needed someone to take the blame.”
“No,” protested Silas angrily, but Swift ignored him.
“And who better than your brother?” he went on relentlessly. “You hated him because he took your place. Once he was there, you could never forget that you were adopted, that you were second best.”
“I wasn’t second best,” said Silas. Tears had welled up in his grey eyes and his knuckles were white from clutching the sides of his chair.
“You felt you were, though,” countered Swift. “He took your mother away from you, after all. And you hated him for it, didn’t you?”
“No. I loved him. He’s my brother.”
“You’re lying, Mr. Cade,” said Swift, relaxing suddenly. “You set your brother up for your father’s murder so that he’d be the one who paid for it and you’d inherit everything: the house, the art, the car, the money. The whole shooting match.”
