Beyond the Veil of Tears (42 page)

Again Justice Cook warned the barrister, who graciously apologized to the court.

‘Mrs Golding was assumed dead in the fire, and Mr Golding was left trying to rebuild his shattered life.’ The barrister paused again, glancing around the court and then at Oswald,
who sat with his head in his hands, the picture of dejection. ‘Some years later he meets the lady sitting next to him today, a lady who made him believe in love again, who infused in him the
will to trust another woman sufficiently to take the momentous step of marriage. And what happens? Mrs Golding, who we can only assume has been waiting and watching for reasons of her own –
reasons that must seem acceptable to her poor, damaged mind – makes herself known to him. After seven years.
Seven years!
Your Honour,’ the barrister now looked straight at the
JP, his voice ringing out in condemnation as he said, ‘Mrs Golding’s illness has made her dangerous and cunning. My client feared for his life many times in the past and he fears for it
now, if she is left to her own devices. This was never a real marriage; from the first Mr Golding was her carer, her nurse, her warder, if you like. Never has a Decree of Nullity been more
deserved, and for her own sake – her own protection – Mrs Golding must be detained in a secure place indefinitely. Let us not lose sight of the fact that, but for the tragedy of the
fire that killed so many innocent people, she would still be in Earlswood today.’

Turning back to the court, he went on, ‘I would like to call the family doctor who attended Mrs Golding at the time of her marriage, along with others who can testify to the truth of the
attacks on Mr Golding by Mrs Golding.’

Angeline had sat as still as stone during the barrister’s discourse. Mr Havelock had warned her before the case began that she must be calm and circumspect at all times, and that any show
of emotion or anger would be used by Oswald’s counsel against her. Now, as she looked over to where Dr Owen was preparing to speak, she was assailed by so many terrible memories of the time
when she had lost the baby that for a moment she thought she was going to faint.

Dr Owen spoke quietly – so quietly that he was asked to repeat certain statements – but his description of her mental state was damning. Another doctor, a London man whom Angeline
knew for sure she had never set eyes on in her life, took the stand and said much the same. He was followed by one of Oswald’s friends, Robert Taylor, a plump cocksure little man who
described an incident when he had had to pull Mr Golding’s wife off him as she had tried to scratch his eyes out. His crime? Taylor asked sadly; Mr Golding hadn’t been sufficiently
enthusiastic about a new frock she was wearing.

Oswald had persuaded people to lie for him. Angeline’s eyes were drawn to where he sat, and just for a moment he looked at her, one eyebrow slightly raised.
You don’t stand a
chance
, that eyebrow said.
You cannot win. I will crush you as I would an ant, and with as little feeling.

She turned to Mr Havelock. Jack was sitting on the solicitor’s other side, for Mr Havelock had not wanted them next to each other and had warned them, more than once, not to look at each
other or communicate during their time in court. Now, as she caught sight of Jack’s face, she prayed he wouldn’t do anything foolish. Mr Havelock must also have noticed his
clerk’s murderous expression, because he murmured something in Jack’s ear, and Jack lowered his head, pretending to fumble with some papers in his lap.

‘Mr Havelock?’ Angeline touched the solicitor’s arm. ‘The second doctor, he’s the one I haven’t seen before. And the incident Oswald’s friend described
never happened.’

Mr Havelock nodded, but said nothing, and after a moment she sat back in her seat.

The next person to speak was Mrs Gibson, Oswald’s housekeeper and, unlike Robert Taylor, she seemed reluctant. With the barrister prompting her, she related what had happened the night
before the morning Mrs Golding was taken to the asylum. ‘And you saw Mrs Golding attack her husband, leaving him with severe lacerations to the face and throat?’ the barrister intoned
solemnly.

There was a pause, and Mrs Gibson’s eyes moved from the barrister to Oswald and then back to the barrister.

‘Mrs Gibson?’ Justice Cook spoke gently and firmly. ‘I’m sure this is an ordeal for you, but please answer the question.’

‘I . . . ’ Mrs Gibson was twisting her hands together and then, as though she had made up her mind about something, she straightened. ‘I did not see it, no.’

‘You did not?’

‘No.’ Seemingly undeterred by the barrister’s tone, Mrs Gibson went on, ‘When I came into the room, Mrs Golding was lying across the bed. The master was shouting and
carrying on, but I didn’t actually see her attack him.’

‘Let me phrase my question differently. When you came into the room, was Mr Golding’s face scratched and bleeding?’

‘Aye. Aye, it was.’

‘And was there anyone else in the room besides Mrs Golding?’

‘No, it was her bedroom.’ Mrs Gibson sounded faintly scandalized at the question. ‘And she’d been very poorly. None of us expected her to pull through
and—’

‘Quite. And had Mrs Golding been unpredictable and emotional for some time before this violent assault on her husband?’

Mrs Gibson stared at the highfalutin London barrister with the pompous voice. She stared at him for some moments. Then she said, ‘The mistress was seven months gone when her baby, a little
lassie, was stillborn, and after that she was out of it for a good month and not expected to recover. When she came to herself, we had to tell her the baby was gone. Yes, sir, she was
emotional.’

‘That is not what I meant.’

Mrs Gibson made no reply to this, but her chin went up a notch.

‘Thank you, that is all.’

Oswald had been staring at his housekeeper, and he continued to stare at her as she nodded at the barrister and resumed her seat, but she did not glance his way.

The barrister continued to speak for some minutes more, contriving to paint a picture of a loving, desperate husband trying to cope with his demented wife. Angeline didn’t recognize any of
the characters in the fairy story he was telling so persuasively, but she was sick with fear. One of Jack’s most bitter criticisms of the upper classes was that they had the money and power
to make black into white, and it was happening here in front of her. The barrister was good, very good, and if she had been sitting in the court listening to him and didn’t know any better,
she would be feeling sorry for the poor man who had been hoodwinked into marrying a deranged madwoman.

She felt Jack’s eyes on her more than once, but she didn’t dare reach out for the comfort he was trying to give soundlessly. If she met his eyes she would break down, she knew it,
and she must not. Mr Havelock had stressed that she must not give way, but must maintain a dignified silence, and she could see why.

At last the London barrister came to the end of his summing up, and Mr Havelock stood up. He did not cut such a commanding figure as his adversary, who looked every inch a polished man of the
world, but from his first sentence he had the attention of everyone in the room.

‘“What a twisted web we weave, when we first practise to deceive.” I don’t know who said that, but never has it been more true than in the case of my client’s
husband, Mr Oswald Golding. He has told my learned colleague who is representing him a pack of lies – lies that are grievous and wicked in nature. Grievous, because it is sad to see how far
one human being will go in pursuit of his own ends; and wicked because, should his lies succeed, they will commit an innocent woman once again to the horrors of a lunatic asylum. And I say
“once again” advisedly because – and let me stress this – Mrs Angeline Golding is not, and never has been, mentally infirm. What she was, and she admits this herself, was
foolish and young when she met Oswald Golding, naive and ingenuous, a true innocent in every sense of the word.’

Mr Havelock turned, looking straight at Oswald. ‘It has been said Mrs Golding led a very sheltered life before her parents were tragically killed in a coach accident, and this is true, but
not for the reason my learned friend implied. She was simply the only, treasured child of loving parents – parents who were aware of the beauty in the child that we now see in the woman, and
who feared for her in this fallen world in which we live. They protected her, as any parent worth their salt protects their children, but there never was, or has been, the slightest suspicion of
insanity. With Justice Cook’s permission, I would like to challenge every point Mr Golding has made. And with that in mind I would ask Miss Selina Robson to take the stand.’

Miss Robson proved to be a calm, unruffled speaker who stated categorically that the young Angeline Stewart had been intelligent, biddable and enjoyable to teach, and was, she emphasized, as
sane a girl as anyone could wish to meet. Furthermore her uncle, Mr Hector Stewart, was very happy to become her guardian and take her into his home, and it was only Mr Golding’s insistence
on marrying Angeline at the earliest opportunity that rushed the marriage into being.

Mr Havelock then called Dr Owen, but spent little time on him, beyond establishing that his position as family doctor to Oswald Golding was a lucrative one. The London doctor was a different
kettle of fish, and from the first Mr Havelock went on the attack. Where did he examine Mrs Golding, and how many consultations were there? Six examinations took place at the Golding estate? Now
that was strange, because none of the servants could remember even one such visit by the good doctor. Oh, they might have taken place in London? And there were records detailing this? Records are
only kept for five years? Surely not! In fact, impossible to believe. And so on. Mr Havelock savaged the man – there was no other word for it. Angeline was in awe of Jack’s
employer.

By the time the doctor stood down, he was sweating and red in the face. Mr Havelock was as fresh as a daisy. As the Harley Street consultant whom Angeline had recently seen came to the stand,
Angeline tugged on Mr Havelock’s sleeve. ‘How did you manage to talk to the staff at the house, without Oswald knowing?’

‘I didn’t.’ Mr Havelock was pleased with himself. ‘But you were sure you hadn’t seen him, so I thought I’d try a bluff.’

He then proceeded to verify from the Harley Street consultant that Mrs Golding was mentally sound and in possession of all her faculties, which the good doctor was only too happy to elaborate
on, with Mr Havelock encouraging him.

Nurse Ramshaw was called next. She described in harrowing detail how desperately ill her patient had been, and how very detached Mr Golding had seemed, both with regard to his wife’s
condition and to the loss of his daughter. She also repeated Mrs Golding’s accusation that her husband was responsible for the tragic miscarriage.

‘Did she say what had happened?’ asked Mr Havelock.

Nurse Ramshaw shook her head. ‘Not exactly, but Mrs Golding had sustained a broken nose, equivalent to being punched in the face by a man’s fist.’

Objections from Oswald’s barrister followed.

‘Did your patient exhibit any symptoms of madness during this period?’ Mr Havelock asked, when the furore in court had subsided. The reply was a definite No. Grief, pain, distress
aplenty, along with extreme physical weakness, but that was all.

Mr Havelock thanked the nurse and pretended not to notice the argument Oswald was having with his barrister, who was trying to calm his client down. Clearing his throat, Mr Havelock looked
across the court. ‘At this point I would like to make it clear that Mrs Golding was wrongfully incarcerated in Earlswood Asylum on the orders of her husband, and state that the fire which
proved so devastating was not – and could not have been – started by her. In fact an inquiry sometime after the event suggested that another patient, one Lady Lindsay, who had run amok
that same day, was probably responsible. Also, my client was only twice locked in a padded cell: once on the day of admission, when she was naturally terrified and horrified to find herself in such
a place, and again after a visit by her husband sometime later, when he proved most objectionable. Yes, she escaped on the night of the fire, but may I ask: wouldn’t each one of us take such
an opportunity, if we were wrongfully imprisoned with no hope of appeal?’

The court was perfectly quiet, with most eyes on Angeline’s pale but composed face.

‘And this supposed madwoman then not only survived, on finding herself thrust into a hostile environment, penniless and reduced to pauper level, but over the last seven years has risen to
the point where she holds down a responsible job and has a comfortable home of her own. Why, you may ask, did she not make herself known to Mr Golding before now? Again, I ask you: would you have
done so, knowing with absolute certainty that he would attempt to have you forcibly locked away again? It was only when my client discovered her husband was planning to marry again that she knew
she couldn’t remain silent any longer, because if she had allowed him to commit bigamy, she would not have been able to live with her conscience. She would not wish another woman to live
through the hell she has been through at the hands of this man – a violent, cruel and totally unprincipled man who married her simply for the fortune that came with her. Yes,’ Havelock
said, as a stir swept through the room, ‘I have it on good authority that, due to his profligate and dissolute lifestyle, Mr Golding needed an injection of money into his estate, and needed
it fast.’

This time the objections from Oswald’s barrister came thick and fast, with Justice Cook adding his weight as he asked if Mr Havelock could prove such accusations.

For answer, and with drama worthy of anything seen at the theatre, Mr Havelock said in ringing tones, ‘Would Mrs Mirabelle Jefferson please take the stand?’

Angeline had known nothing of this, and now she half-rose in her seat, while Jack leaned round Mr Havelock to say, ‘Sit down, and say not a word. He knows what he’s doing.’

Mirabelle here? Angeline stared at the other woman, who had swept in with such dignity and aplomb. Mirabelle was looking every inch the noble lady, perfectly coiffured and dressed, as only
unlimited wealth and good taste could produce. For an instant – just a moment – the emerald-green eyes met hers, but Mirabelle’s lovely face showed no expression beyond a haughty
expressionlessness, which continued as Mr Havelock began his questioning.