Twenty-One Days (Daniel Pitt #1)(18)

Tranmere rose to his feet. ‘My lord, my learned friend . . .’ He hesitated. ‘My learned friend’s assistant is leading his own witness. Is this . . . torture . . . necessary?’

The judge looked at Daniel.

‘I apologise, my lord,’ Daniel said. ‘I fear Mr Graves is suffering a very natural distress . . . and needed some assistance. It is compassionate.’

The judge turned to Graves. ‘Are you able to continue, sir?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ Graves replied. The brief respite had been sufficient for him to regain his composure, perhaps even to realise what Daniel was doing.

‘Do you wish me to repeat the question?’ Daniel asked.

‘No, no, thank you. That is not necessary. God knows why, but you want me to tell you how I informed my children of their mother’s . . . death.’ And he proceeded to give a harrowing, even brutal account of telling each of them, and their deep distress. It was all that Daniel could have wished.

‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘I have only one more question.’

Graves glared at him. He had been humiliated by having to expose his emotions to this staring, speculating, accusing public.

‘Did you kill your wife?’ Daniel asked.

‘No!’ It was an incredulous answer, almost a shout.

Daniel sat down.

Kitteridge rose to his feet. He was pale, but totally composed. ‘The defence rests, my lord.’

Tranmere considered for a moment, stood up, said, ‘The prosecution has no questions for the accused, my lord,’ then sat down.

‘Then you may begin your summations,’ the judge replied. ‘We will adjourn for luncheon when you are finished.’

Tranmere stood up and faced the jury. He seemed less confident now. He described the brutality of the crime, and the fact that there was no other reasonable suspect. Even Graves himself had claimed to know very little of his wife’s acquaintances and could suggest no one. It drew a picture of a very cold, disinterested man, and a distant marriage. But that in itself made it seem unlikely that Graves would have committed such a violent murder.

Kitteridge took his place and pointed that out. He did not labour anything but its inconsistency. He reminded them instead of Graves’ obvious care for his children, attributing his apparent detachment to his deep care for his wife and his very private nature that did not wish to disclose his grief to the public to pry into. He also wished to protect what was left of his wife’s reputation. Press comment had been vulgar, to say the least.

The jury retired and the court adjourned. Daniel was not at all sure how Kitteridge would regard his interference. His instructions had been plain enough. They walked out of the courtroom together, but without speaking. They could not go far. There was no way to tell how long the jury would be out. A swift return would almost certainly mean a guilty verdict, but the jurors themselves would at least have lunch.

Once Daniel and Kitteridge were out in the street, and walking down to the Magpie and Stump, one of the public houses that served a reasonable lunch, Kitteridge spoke at last.

‘If you ever do that again, I will have you kept out of court for half a year,’ he said. ‘But as it happens, I think you probably improved the situation. We might even have a chance of winning. You’ve no respect for anyone, have you?’

Daniel was not sure if he was referring to himself or to Graves. He chose to interpret it as if Kitteridge had meant Graves. ‘He’s an arrogant sod. They need to see him as human, capable of showing weakness or pain – like anyone.’

Kitteridge gave him a quick glance, then looked away again. ‘He won’t forgive you for exposing him like that.’

‘If they hang him, it won’t matter,’ Daniel replied. ‘And if they find him not guilty, he might even be grateful.’

Kitteridge gave him a frozen look. ‘I am rather more concerned about what Marcus says, you idiot!’

Daniel had no answer for that, and he decided to say nothing for a while.

They had lunch largely in silence, Kitteridge buried in grim concentration on his food, pushing it around the plate and eating very little. Then suddenly he would look up, as if to say something, then change his mind.

Daniel ate, but he had no idea what it was on his plate. He had ordered steak and kidney pie, but it did not taste like anything. Had he ruined his career in fford Croft and Gibson? His father would probably be angry; without question, he would be disappointed. That is what would hurt. He had accepted his father’s gift and squandered everything it offered him in one melodramatic and ill-judged attempt at – what? Getting an extremely unattractive, and publicly guilty man hanged!

Then what would Daniel do? He could explain all he wished that he thought the jury found Graves so cold as to believe anything possible of him. Perhaps he was wrong, and really the disobedience in not having kept quiet was all that mattered.

He looked up from his plate and found Kitteridge’s blue eyes directly upon him. ‘What is it?’ Daniel asked.

Kitteridge hesitated. ‘Do you still think he didn’t do it?’ he asked.

‘Then who did?’ Daniel had previously avoided the question. He was not sure what his own answer was.

Kitteridge returned to his meal, pausing a moment to answer. ‘Doesn’t matter now. It’s up to the jury.’ When Daniel did not reply, he said with sudden savagery, ‘Do you care about anything? Don’t you care about the law? No, that’s a stupid question. I know that you don’t. Not really. You play around the edges, which is a sin, Pitt! Because you could be good at it. Do you even understand that?’