Spider Light(68)

But she had known by then that a verdict of manslaughter was inescapable–the difference between manslaughter and murder had been explained to the court at the outset–but beneath the grinding pain at Richard’s death, she had thought there might be a recommendation for clemency. Would it even result in a suspended sentence? Probation? But nagging at her conscience like an aching tooth was the memory of how she had felt when Don died…Glad, strong, triumphant…You’re dead, you bastard, and serve you right for killing Richard. It was absurd to think she should be punished for thinking and feeling that, and it was probably verging on clinical hysteria, but she did think it and she did feel it.

Summing up, the judge said the facts of Richard Weston’s own murder seemed clear enough, and were not really in question. Don Robards had been seen in the area at the significant time, and he was known to have formed a violent passion for Dr Weston. It was reasonable to surmise that he had gone into the pub to bolster his courage with a few drinks before going along to confront her with his feelings for her.

They had the neighbour’s evidence of raised voices from the bungalow, as of two people engaged in an argument, and although they could not know the state of Don Robards’ mind that night, it was reasonable to assume he had taken Richard Weston to be Dr Weston’s lover or husband, rather than her brother, and had attacked and killed him out of blind jealousy. Dr Weston had told the court this seemed to be Don Robards’ belief in the last few minutes of his life, and there was no reason to disbelieve that. She had given a frank account of everything that had taken place, and there was no reason to doubt any of it.

And although the jury must take into account the fact that Antonia Weston had been distraught at her brother’s death, and, if they were to believe her evidence, afraid for her own safety, they must not allow themselves to be unduly swayed by any false sentiment or sympathy. Now the court would rise, and the jury were to retire to the jury room and consider their verdict.



It took the jury the best part of eight hours to reach a verdict, but in the end it was that of guilty, as everyone had known it would be. Guilty of manslaughter.

Sentence was not passed until the following day, and Antonia spent a miserable night, watching the clock crawl through the hours. She tried to convince herself that she did not care what happened to her, but somewhere between midnight and four a.m. she knew she did care.

Caring what happened did not make any difference to the sentence. The judge told the court that the gaoling of a professional woman of considerable intelligence–a woman who had clearly been a dedicated and gifted psychiatrist–offended every sensibility, but that the facts could not be ignored. And those facts, quite simply, were that a doctor bound by the Hippocratic oath had killed a patient. There was a good deal more about the sanctity of the doctor–patient relationship and a fair amount about the judge’s own reluctance to pass a custodial sentence.

But despite his reluctance, Antonia was sentenced to eight years in gaol.



Lying wakeful in Charity Cottage, reliving the trial and the dreary years in prison, Antonia felt again the ache of loss for Richard, and a wave of anger and bitterness that he had not lived to enjoy his music and his life. He had lost so much in the car crash that had killed their parents when he was eight and Antonia was eleven: he had lost the use of his legs because his spine had been irreparably damaged, and had lived the rest of his life in a wheelchair. One of the things Antonia had always found unbearably sad was that Richard would never know the closeness and the delight of being in bed with a lover. But he had clung tenaciously to optimism and had clung even more tenaciously to his music. He had worked hard, and so had Antonia, and after a few years–after she had qualified in psychiatric medicine and Richard had left the Royal College of Music–they had been able to buy the big comfortable bungalow. They liked living there, and they liked one another’s company. Richard had acquired some pupils and was making a modest name as a music researcher. Life had not been perfect but it had been very good.

One of the many tragedies in this entire mess of tragedies, was that they had had such a few short years to enjoy it all.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR




Each evening after dinner George Lincoln sat in the comfortable drawing room of Toft House. He derived a deep satisfaction from looking about him, and knowing that this house, this big well-appointed house, belonged to him. Who would have thought the young man from such modest roots–his father had been vicar of a small parish adjoining Amberwood–would have done so well for himself?

On a dank autumn night he was not expecting anyone to call, but shortly after half past eight there was a rather timid plying of the door knocker, and since Mrs Plumtree would have retired to her own sitting room upstairs, George went along to answer it himself. Standing on the doorstep was Mrs Minching, the housekeeper from Quire House, looking deeply anxious.

‘Mr Lincoln, I’m that sorry to be knocking on your door, but I’m afraid there might be trouble up at Quire.’

‘Trouble? What kind of—Is it Maud?’ said George. ‘Has something happened to Maud?’ And then, belatedly aware of the chill night air, he said, ‘You’d better come inside, Mrs Minching, and sit down. What’s wrong?’

Mrs Minching, perched on the edge of the sofa, was inclined to be voluble. ‘I’d been to evensong, Mr Lincoln. I always go along of a Tuesday evening. Miss Thomasina knows, of course, and I leave a cold supper out.’