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She thought he said, ‘Whatever he was, Antonia, he’s dead now–he can’t come between us.’

‘You stupid besotted child!’ shouted Antonia. ‘Richard was never between us! He couldn’t have been! He was my brother!’





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE




In the police interviews and then later at her trial, Antonia said, with complete honesty, that she had simply snatched up the nearest weapon to hand. Don had been trying to rape her, and she had been terrified. He had killed her brother, and she had been afraid he was going to kill her as well.

The prosecution made much of this. ‘But you’ve just said, Dr Weston, that you thought Don Robards was going to rape you. In the same breath you’re saying he was trying to kill you. Which was it?’

Antonia said coldly, ‘When you’re pinned down by a murderer, you’re not in any condition to form precise conclusions. He was behaving violently, and as well as that his intentions were obviously sexual—’

‘You’re sure of that, are you?’


‘Oh, for pity’s sake, he had an erection like a gate post and his hands were inside my sweater!’ said Antonia angrily, and was aware of the entire press bench frantically scribbling in their notebooks.

‘So you stabbed him.’

‘I grabbed the knife which was lying on the floor, but it might just as well have been the brass doorstop. I simply hit out with whatever came to hand.’

‘And the thing that came to hand was the knife.’

‘Yes. I can’t even remember if I recognized it as a knife at that stage. But I can remember that the blade went straight in,’ said Antonia tersely, not wanting any of them to see how sick it still made her to remember the feel of the knife puncturing Don’s body, and to hear the harsh rasping of breath rushing from his lungs and the sudden warm wet gush of blood…But what none of them knew and what Antonia dare not let any of them guess, was that she had hated Don so deeply and so overwhelmingly for killing Richard, that for a short time she had not cared that he was dead. But this was so shameful a knowledge, she had resolutely ignored it.

‘My client was acting solely in her own defence,’ said Antonia’s counsel, leaping to his feet at this point. ‘And let’s remember that the charge against her is manslaughter, not murder.’

‘The knife,’ said the prosecution, steam-rollering on, ‘entered Don Robards’ body through the left side and pierced his heart instantly and exactly. The jury should ask themselves whether this was a calculated action–an action committed by someone with medical knowledge.’

‘Dr Weston is a psychiatrist, not a surgeon. While the jury are asking themselves your questions, they might do well to keep that fact in mind.’

‘But she would have more knowledge of anatomy than a layman.’

‘She was distraught at finding her brother dead, and frightened half to death by finding in her home the man who had been stalking her–and no, that isn’t too strong a word,’ said Antonia’s defence, anticipating the next interruption but with one eye on the judge who looked about to intervene. ‘What Dr Weston did was not calculated or deliberate. She was certainly in no frame of mind to judge where and how to penetrate a man’s heart with a kitchen knife.’

‘Mr Frazer, you will have your chance to argue your client’s case presently,’ said the judge. ‘For the moment, we will proceed with the prosecution.’

The arguments had gone on and on–the parrying and thrusting, the time spent debating legal points and interpretations. Antonia had tried to follow carefully, but several times she lost the thread which panicked her because if she could lose the thread how much likelier was it that the jury would lose it?

Medical evidence was called, showing that there had been some minor abrasions on Antonia’s hands. No, it could not be stated definitely that they were defence wounds, although they were consistent with a struggle. There had been nothing to suggest sexual assault or intention: no torn clothes, no bruises or lacerations to the defendant’s thighs. It had been useless for Antonia’s counsel to leap to his feet at that point, and say that the rape had not progressed to bruised thighs and torn clothes. Dr Weston had already described Don Robards’ actions and explained about his obsession, and there was no reason to disbelieve her account. As for the sexual intent, he said caustically, these days any half-intelligent female outside a nunnery was perfectly capable of knowing if a man intended sexual intercourse.

The events leading up to Richard’s death had been meticulously and methodically unfolded. Antonia and Richard’s movements had been charted, and witnesses had been called to verify everything: a phone call Richard had made to a friend shortly after eight o’clock; colleagues who had seen Antonia in the hospital until half past six; the drink with Jonathan. In the hands of prosecuting counsel, the blameless glass of wine had sounded like a Bacchanalian orgy.

Jonathan Saxon described Don Robards’ treatment at the clinic, and gave his own assessment of Don’s mental frame of mind. Matters had been complicated when Don had developed an obssession with Dr Weston, said Jonathan. He had fantasized about her, and it was not putting it too strongly to say he had begun stalking Dr Weston. She had not called in the police because she had been afraid of the effect on her brother, of whom she was extremely protective, but also because she was aware of Don Robards’ own precarious mental balance.