The Bellamy Trial

is both my recreation and occupation.” Mrs. Ives’s tranquil eyes smiled at the prosecutor as though she expected to find in him an understanding soul. “Those hours after dinner were a great happiness to me, and often after it was too dark for any further work I would prolong them by sitting on a bench in the rose arbour and thinking over work well done. It was generally dark before I came in.”

“And was on the night of the nineteenth of June?”

“Oh, yes; it had been dark for some time.”

“Did you go straight to bed when you came in?”

“No; I stopped for a moment in the flower room to put away the basket with my tools and to tidy up a bit. Gardening is a grubby business.” Again that delicate, friendly smile. “Just as I was coming out I saw Melanie, the waitress, turning out the lights in the living room, and I remember thinking that it must be ten o’clock, as that was the time that she usually did it if the family were not at home. Then I went on up to bed. It wasn’t very long after I had turned out the light that I heard the front door close and thought, ‘That must be Sue.’ ”

“It didn’t occur to you that it might be your son?”

“Oh, no; Pat never got in before twelve if he was playing cards.”

“You say that you saw Mrs. Ives. Did she come straight up to your room?”

“No; about five minutes after I heard the door close, I imagine. My room is in the left wing of the house, you understand, and I always leave my door a little ajar. Sue came to the door and asked in a whisper, ‘Are you awake, Mother?’ I said that I was and she came in, saying, ‘I brought you your fruit; I’ll just put it on the stand.’ ”

“Was she in the habit of doing that?”

“No, not exactly in the habit⁠—that was Pat’s task, but Sue is the most thoughtful child alive, and she had remembered that Pat wasn’t there.” Once more her eyes, loving and untroubled, smiled into Sue’s.

“Did you turn on the light, Mrs. Ives?”

“No.”

“Weren’t you going to take the fruit?”

“Oh, no; I am not a very good sleeper, and I saved the fruit for the small hours of the morning.”

“You were not able to see Mrs. Ives clearly, in that case?”

“I could see her quite clearly; there was a very bright light in the hall.”

“You noticed nothing extraordinary in her appearance?”

“Nothing whatever.”

“She was wearing the clothes that you had last seen her in?”

“She was wearing the dress, but she had taken off the coat, I believe.”

“Ah‑h!” sighed the courtroom under its breath.

“What kind of a coat, Mrs. Ives?”

“A little cream-coloured flannel coat.” Not by the flicker of an eyelash did Mrs. Ives admit the sinister significance of that sigh.

“Did she say anything further?”

“Yes. I asked her whether she had enjoyed the movie, and she said that she had not gone to Rosemont, as she had met Stephen Bellamy in his car on her way to the Conroys’ and he had given her a lift. He told her that the picture in Rosemont was an old one that they had both seen, and suggested that they drive over by the River Road and see what was running in Lakedale. When they got there they discovered that they had seen that film, too, so they drove around a little longer and then came home.”

“That was all that she said?”

“She wished me sweet dreams, I believe, and kissed me good night.”

Under the gentle directness of her gaze, the prosecutor’s face hardened. “Where was the fruit that you speak of usually kept, Mrs. Ives?”

“I believe that it was kept in a small refrigerator in the pantry.”

“Was there a sink in that pantry?”

“Yes.”

The prosecutor advanced deliberately toward the witness box, lowering his voice to a strangely menacing pitch: “Mrs. Ives, during the space that elapsed between the closing of the front door and Mrs. Patrick Ives’s appearance in your bedroom, there would have been ample time for her to have washed her hands at that sink, would there not?”

“Oh, surely.”

There was not even a second’s hesitation in that swift reply, not a second’s cloud over the lifted, slightly wondering face; but the little cold wind moved again through the courtroom. Over the clear, unfaltering syllables there was the sound of running water⁠—of water that ran red, as Sue, the thoughtful, cleansed the hands that were to bear the fruit for the waiting mother.

“That will be all, Mrs. Ives,” said the prosecutor. “Cross-examine.”

She turned her face quietly toward Lambert’s ruddy one.

“I’ll keep you only a minute, Mrs. Ives.” The rotund voice was softened to one of friendliest concern. “Mrs. Ives seemed quite herself when she came into the room?”

“Absolutely herself.”

“No undue agitation?”

“She was not agitated in the slightest.”

“Mr. Farr has asked you whether your son ever confided to you that he was having an affair with Mrs. Bellamy. I ask you whether he ever intimated that he was unhappy?”

“Not ever.”

“Did Mrs. Ives?”

“Never.”

“What was your impression as to their relations?”

“I thought⁠—” For the first time the clear voice faltered, broke. She forced it back to steadiness relentlessly. “I thought that they were the happiest people that ever lived,” said Patrick Ives’s mother.

“Thank you, Mrs. Ives,” said Mr. Lambert gently. “That will be all.”

“Want me to bring back a sandwich?” inquired the reporter hospitably, gathering up his notes.

“Please,” said the redheaded girl meekly.

“Sure you don’t want to trail along? That drug store really isn’t half bad.”

“I’m always afraid that something might happen to me and that I mightn’t get back,” explained the redheaded girl. “Like getting run over, or arrested or kidnapped or something.⁠ ⁠… One with lettuce in it, please.”

She sat contemplating the remaining occupants of the press seats about her with fascinated eyes. Evidently others were agitated by the same fears that haunted her. At any rate, three or four dozen were still clinging to their places, reading or