Trial of Passion (44 page)

More peals of laughter.

“Boy, girl, boy, girl,” mimics Patricia. “Les' all have another Bimberly Martin. Hard for a guy to shay no when that cherry pie is spread on a platter.” She has his voice down pat. I applaud.

But it is also time for me to go. I must ready myself for tomorrow, for Kimberley, for Mrs. McIntosh and Dr. Sanchez, the screams
and the bruises. I brush aside offers of rides. I bribe Pierre and his staff lavishly, hinting at my displeasure were I to read anything untoward in the gossip columns, and I walk out into the cold drizzle, suddenly tired. I wave down a taxi.

My message light is blinking, an urgent, rhythmic throb. Midnight. Who calls? Now I hear a recorded message from Margaret.

A deep unease wells up within me as I listen to her halting broken phrases. “Arthur, I don't . . . I don't know how to tell you . . .”

A stab of fear: I am being rejected by voice mail.

Her voice continues. “It's awful. I'm still at George's . . .”

Oh, dear God. But I pray futilely, too late, to the deity he denied: George Rimbold has committed the final sacrilege.

Her voice becomes tearful. “Oh, Arthur, he hanged himself. From a balcony post. We're all over here now, neighbours, his friends in AA — Doc Dooley is here. Call me.”

I had sent Margaret on a tragic mission and she found him swinging from a rope. The call came in three hours ago. She will not yet be asleep. She answers immediately.

“Oh, Arthur, I'm a wreck.”

I am, too. I must be strong for her. “Is someone with you?”

“No. But that's okay. I'm just . . . I found him, you know.”

“Yes. I don't know if it helps, Margaret, but you know you have my love.”

“It helps.” She sniffles.

“Had he been drinking?”

“Yes. There was an empty bottle.”

I lay my shattered frame upon the bed and close my eyes. “I was deaf to what he said. He told me he'd just bought a graveyard plot, and wasn't going to make it to the fair.”

“Arthur, he left a will. Just a note, really. He . . . thanked all his friends for their support, and asked forgiveness.” From whom? Not
God. “He wanted you to have … well, his words were: ‘I give to my dear and noble friend Arthur Beauchamp my fishing gear, my blessing and my love.' Everything else to the
AA.”

As she describes her busy, grisly night, ridding herself of it all, she becomes more composed. I ask her what arrangements have been made.

“Doc Dooley is going to call it natural causes so we won't have all sorts of police and coroners. He says, ‘I think we should just pop good old George in the ground quickly tomorrow.' We're not to talk to anyone. What's tomorrow? Thursday. Well, we'll be doing it in the after-noon. There'll be a sort of
AA
honour guard. They asked about you.”

“I'll be there.”

I awaken dense of brain from a black, dreamless night, but the fog clears and I am left with a sickly sense of loss. A man I have learned to love is dead. I must survive this day; I must not bring my sorrows to court: They could be misread. I reserve a one o'clock flight, then slog through the rain to the law courts, only to learn the judge has ordered a late start.

“He's on his way,” says Sheriff Willit. “Traffic problems is what he said.”

Augustina and the two prosecutors appear the worse for last night's wear, and doubtless Wally will be a shambles. Near me, Jonathan is conferring with Dr. Dix. In the gallery, watching them with narrowed eyes, is Kimberley Martin, seated next to a slight, balding gentleman of about sixty-five, in a navy-blue suit of a dated style. Shrewd eyes under an imposing beetle brow. This cannot be her father: too old world. Her psychiatrist? On her tapes she had mentioned therapy for her “awful nightmares.”

I have seen him before. Yes, it comes back: an expert witness in a trial I did many years ago, a gentle, honourable professional, widely respected. I confirm his identity with Jane Dix: Dr. Benjamin Kropinski. “He was
my mentor, actually. “The therapists' eyes meet; both smile.

“Have you a few minutes now, Mr. Beauchamp?” Dr. Dix says.

I really do not want to confer with her. I suspect we will argue. George's death has put me in a grim mood. “They tell me the judge is on his way. What about lunch? No, that won't do, I have a funeral. . . . Tomorrow morning?” I invite her for breakfast in my hotel; I will be in a better frame of mind by then, prepared to deal with this interfering psychiatrist and her bad advice to Jonathan.

I explain to Patricia why I must be absent this afternoon. “Wally will be only
too
happy to take the rest of the day off,” she says. But I insist that the trial continue without me:Augustina can do the remaining minor witnesses; Kimberley can be deferred until tomorrow.

Wally Sprogue must be taking the scenic route: Forty minutes pass before his bleary-eyed lordship finally struggles up to the bench. He makes no apology for his lateness or explanation for his condition. Indeed, he can barely seem to talk — he will not be much of a nuisance factor today.

Kimberley is excused so that we may hear from Mrs. McIntosh, a tall, severe-looking woman in her mid-sixties, her hair done up like a large ball of knitting wool. She has the thin, grim-lipped look of one who disapproves of hanky-panky.

I order myself to pay attention, not to think of George entering the cold, cold ground, as Patricia leads Mrs. McIntosh through her resumé. She came from Scotland when she was eighteen, married to an older man who has since passed away. A former health-care worker and an active churchgoer, she has served Reverend Hawthorne for the last nineteen of his eighty years. She lives in. She is devoted to the retired bishop.

“When did you go to bed that night?”

“I settled the reverend in at about nine o'clock — a little early for him, but he hadn't had his nap. And then I went up.”

“His bed is on the main floor?”

“Yes. Mine is on the second floor, to the rear.”

“And is it as shown in these photos?” Patricia directs her attention to two photographs taken a day after the event: the first one showing the witness's immaculately kept bedroom, its window facing the second floor of Jonathan's house; the other offering a better view from that window. We see a small corner of Jonathan's master bedroom window opposite, the remainder of it obscured by a not-quite-leafless weeping willow.

“I read for about an hour, then I turned the light out and went to sleep. I don't sleep soundly — I always have half an ear tuned to sounds from below. The reverend likes to sneak into the fridge when he thinks I'm asleep.”

“Did anything disturb you during the night?”

“Yes, in the wee hours Professor O'Donnell came home with a group of friends, and then I heard some laughter from next door, raised voices. And after a while a taxi came and picked three people up. Two men and a woman.”

Augustina whispers, “This wasn't in her statement.”

“It's minor,” I say.

“Did you see that taxi?”

“Yes, from my window. Well, I was quite disgusted — one of the men urinated on the lawn. And I fell asleep again, and then another noise woke me.”

“Tell us about that.”

“Well, I always keep my window open for the air. And I heard these voices, but I couldn't make out what they were saying.”

An urgent voice in my ear: “Arthur, we have to call a stop to this. Her statement only mentioned screams.”

Do I object? Do I let the jury know I am nervous about this evidence? How bad can it be?

“Could you tell where these voices were coming from?”

“From Professor O'Donnell's house, right from his bedroom opposite. His window was partly open, and the curtains weren't drawn. It was dark in there, but there was a light on in the bathroom
next to it. I could just make out someone moving in the bedroom — but I couldn't say if it was a man or a woman.”

None of this is damaging yet. Helpful, if anything. I should be a coiled spring, but my wits aren't sharp today, much blunted by the loss of a friend.

“Then what did you hear?”

“Well, I heard a few slaps. And Professor O'Donnell said, ‘I am Satan and you are a naughty, naughty girl.'”

Satan? Naughty girl? With all the calm I can muster, I rise. “M'lord, a matter has arisen about which my learned friend and I should have a friendly chat. A minor oversight.” Minor, indeed — does the jury hear the quaking in my voice? I have allowed Mrs. McIntosh to open Pandora's box, and all its evil moths are winging forth.

Even in his condition, Wally can tell I am unnerved, and offers a look of pity as he adjourns court. Among the jurors: shocked expressions, grins. When the last of them leaves, my own smile snaps shut and I stalk to the prosecution table.

“Where have your ethics gone? Lawyers have been disbarred for less than this.”

Patricia looks astonished. “What are you talking about?”

“Non-disclosure. This
booby-trap.”
I wave my copy of Mrs. McIntosh's statement in her face. “Where does it say Satan? Where are the naughty, naughty girls?”

“You
did
get her second statement, didn't you?”

“You mean the one your secretary forgot to mail?”

“I put it right into the hands of Gowan Cleaver. We did a trial together last week.”

I am speechless, apoplectic.

“Oh, dear, Arthur, I was wondering why you were
so
confident. I had to do her second interview myself, after the pre-trial. Well, I told you how the police weren't really busting their asses, Arthur. Gowan screwed up? Well, it was a rough trial, must have slipped his mind.” She finds a clean copy, three typewritten pages. “Take all the time you
need.” She sees the whiteness in my face; she feels sorry for me.

Augustina and I spend a few tense minutes huddled over the housekeeper's bad news. Here on the second page are the words that have torpedoed the Commander's ship: “There were some slapping noises, and then I heard him say something about being Satan, and he shouted at her, ‘You are a naughty, naughty girl.'” I turn to the last page, knowing the worst is not over. “I heard the girl's voice pleading, and she went on for several minutes, whimpering and begging. ‘Don't,' she said. ‘Oh, please, don't.' Then several minutes later I heard her scream loudly, about three or four times. “Then silence. And a few minutes later, Kimberley came calling with her frantic hue and cry.

“You have to go after her, Arthur. She's a snoop and a liar.”

The entire jury denies me eye contact as they file in: I have betrayed them, sold them a slick bill of goods. Astonishingly, Jonathan seems impassive, either unconcerned or in shock, or simply beyond hope as he gazes at Mrs. McIntosh over his half-moon glasses. Wally finally graces us with his presence, gingerly easing into his chair.

Fear wonderfully concentrates the mind, and I behold Mrs. McIntosh in chilled, bright focus as she continues her evidence. “She was arguing with him, pleading with him to let her go. She was saying, ‘Stop, Jonathan, stop! Please help me, God. Please don't make me.' Words like that. And, ‘You're torturing me.' I remember that very clearly. Well, I couldn't make out all her words. Then I heard nothing for a while until she started screaming. I was afraid she was going to wake Dr. Hawthorne.”

“Were you concerned in any other way?”

“I was confused. I didn't know what to do.”

Shortly after, she heard a commotion at the front door. “I could hear her very clearly. She said, ‘Help, he's going to kill me.'” Hurrying downstairs, she found the reverend fully awake and entertaining a naked, hysterical young woman decorated lavishly with lipstick.

Mrs. McIntosh identifies the blanket in which she wrapped Kimberley, then it is passed among the jurors: smears of the bloodred
tone called Shameless. “After she settled down, she kept apologizing. She didn't want the police. She wanted her fiancé. That's what she said.”

“Aside from the lipstick, did you notice any injuries, bruises?”

“To be honest, I didn't. The blanket covered her.”

“Your witness, Mr. Beauchamp.”

Wally turns to me with a hangdog expression. He hasn't had the strength to make any notes today. With a pleading look, he says, “Do you need an adjournment, Mr. Beauchamp?”

I contemplate this offer. “No, m'lord.” I blatantly lie: “I am prepared.”

As I stand, Augustina makes a discreet fist — release the dogs of war, the gesture says. The Commander takes on a sour, frowning countenance as he confronts this priggish peeping Tomasina. Let the jury think I find her testimony all too unbelievable.

“After you first heard these so-called screams from the neighbouring house, you didn't call the police?”

“I wasn't quite sure what was going on.”

“But even when she later came by hysterically and claimed someone was trying to kill her, you didn't immediately call 911?” I am aware of a brittle edge in my voice. I am exceedingly — perhaps perilously — upset, in danger of taking out on the witness all my rage at Gowan Cleaver.

“No. I asked her and she said not to. Mr. Brown came quickly. He seemed like a person used to taking charge.”

“She was intoxicated, wasn't she?”

“Yes, I suspect she was. I could smell it on her.”

“And incoherent.”

“The poor lass was very upset.”

“From the photographs it appears that your window is a few feet away from the head of your bed.”

“Yes.”

“Then how did you observe the arrival of this car full of people?”

“Well, I got out of bed.”

“And you would have had to poke your head out the window to obtain a clear view.”

“Well . . . yes.”

“And later you heard laughter, loud talk, the sound of people having a good time?”