Twenty-One Days (Daniel Pitt #1)(16)

One thing Daniel did understand, and that was why they would dislike Graves’ arrogance to the point where they would find it a pleasure to return a verdict of guilty. ‘The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker,’ he said aloud. ‘No, perhaps they would not, you being a man whose time is too important to attend their events.’

‘Whatever you think of them, Mr Graves,’ said Kitteridge, ‘they have your life in their hands. If you don’t want to hang, you’d be wise not to treat them so condescendingly. Their revenge will be all too easy. One word will do it . . .’

Graves look startled. ‘One word? I . . .’

Kitteridge spoke it for him. ‘Guilty.’

‘But I’m not guilty!’ Desperation raised Graves’ voice almost an octave.

‘Convince me,’ Daniel said.

Graves looked at Daniel as if he were a rather tedious child who needed even the simplest things explaining.

‘I wasn’t even at home! I have no idea who her close friends were. I don’t know whether she was having an affair, or even half a dozen. I don’t know if she offended someone. She was outspoken, even rude. She had unconventional ideas, unsuitable and eccentric friends. She gave her opinions far too freely, regardless of whom she offended. She was a beautiful woman, and dressed to show it off far too frequently. God knows how many enemies she may have made. I didn’t restrain her activities at all.’

Graves’ face was sad, and twisted with outrage at the injustice of the situation.

Daniel looked at Kitteridge. Oddly enough, it was not exasperation he felt, or even anger at the man’s arrogance. It was something of the same feeling as he thought Kitteridge had: a genuine concern that the man might be speaking the truth. And, the moment after, the near certainty that the jury would be only too happy to convict him.

He glanced at Kitteridge and saw that same conclusion in his eyes. He also saw that Kitteridge had an idea, albeit a faint one.

Kitteridge rose to his feet. ‘We will see you shortly, in court, Mr Graves. We will do our best for you, whether you assist us or not. That is our job.’ And he walked past Daniel and went to the door.

Daniel stood also, but still looking at Graves. Whatever he felt, it was his duty to defend him. And it was very much in his interest to please Marcus fford Croft, whatever his reason for taking Graves’ case. His feelings for Kitteridge were more mixed than before. He did not dislike him so wholeheartedly. It had been a very good dinner last night, and there was a pleasure in working with someone as clever as Kitteridge was.

The trial reopened exactly on time. The judge presiding was an elderly man with a thin ascetic face and a reputation for surprising wit. Daniel fancied he could see traces of it in the deep lines around his mouth. His face might look quite different if he smiled.

For the prosecution was Alister Tranmere, KC. It was a title any lawyer would aspire to: KC stood for King’s Counsel. He was a formidable opponent for Kitteridge to face. Daniel wished he had taken the time to look him up. Not that he was going to do anything but assist Kitteridge in finding the right references at the right times. And it would take a lot more than that to keep Russell Graves from the gallows.

In a hushed court, Kitteridge stood and called Graves to the stand. Daniel could not help but contrast this with yesterday. Was it only twenty-four hours ago that he had been in Kitteridge’s position, standing in a far lower court, with a gallery full of a noisy, jostling crowd, trying to save Blackwell’s life? But then he had had a plan, and Ottershaw on his side.

Kitteridge, with his odd face, his well-cut suit, and his bony hands, looked far more afraid than Daniel had felt. He was facing a pillar of the establishment in Alister Tranmere, and Daniel would bet a week’s rent that every one of the sober, well-fed jury already believed Graves to be guilty.

Graves crossed the body of the court, and walked with shoulders back and head high across to the steps to the witness stand. He climbed up with only one slight stumbling step when he was almost at the top. Daniel saw his muscles clench as he grasped the rail.

Would the jurors take his attitude as arrogance, or courage? What did Daniel himself take it for?

Kitteridge began very courteously. ‘Mr Graves, you stand accused of having particularly violently not only murdered your wife, but then set fire to her so as to disfigure her face and upper body. The prosecution has not offered any reason why you should do such a thing. Can you tell the court something about your wife? She is not here to speak for herself. I do not wish to harrow your children by asking them to describe their dead mother. It might help the court to understand you and your family better, perhaps more fairly.’

Graves looked plainly distressed.

Daniel breathed out a sigh of relief. It seemed as if Graves would at last defend himself.

‘What did she look like?’ Kitteridge prompted. ‘We have no way of knowing, since whoever did this to her destroyed her face . . .’

Graves winced. The jury must have seen it.

‘She was beautiful,’ Graves said quietly. ‘In an unorthodox way. She had lovely hair, thick and wavy. Black as night. Marvellous eyes. She had grace in the way she moved, and the way she spoke. She had imagination, and she was original and funny.’

Daniel tried to visualise her. For a moment, she was alive in his mind, and he felt a grief that she no longer existed. He became impatient that they discover what had happened to her. It was more than not losing a trial. The truth mattered.