Chapter Twenty-Three #2
In his conclusion to his opening remarks, Tindal said, “I put it to you, my lords, that this man, whose reputation as a libertine is well known to you all,” he waved in Jerome’s direction with disdain, “did willfully and maliciously seduce an innocent young girl of only eighteen summers, and when caught compromising her, refuse to do the right thing by her. Not content with that, he then, upon discovering her alone and frightened on the edge of a dangerous cliff, did throw her from said cliff into the sea and only afterward claim that she fell. This stain upon the peerage is a murderer in cold blood, so lost to all gentlemanly instincts that when given the opportunity to absolve his sin, he did refuse and place an innocent young girl in utmost peril. I therefore ask you, my lords, in good conscience, that you find him guilty of murder and sentence him to hang.”
He paused at this point while murmurs ran around the house. Jerome sat through this barrage of lies with his head up and attempted to look as unconcerned as possible.
“I shall now call my witnesses,” went on Tindal. “Is Lord Barrington in the house?”
“Aye,” said Barrington. A middle-aged man, short of stature and with a tendency to corpulence, rose in his seat.
“Will you step forward, my lord, and answer a few questions?” requested Tindal.
“Happy to, sir,” said Barrington, leaving his seat in the pews to join them at the table. Barrington was sworn in.
“My lord, were you a guest of Lord and Lady Mostyn in July of 1812 at their estate in Northumberland?”
“I was.”
“And was this man, the Marquess of Ravenshaw, also a guest at that time?”
“He was.” Barrington threw Jerome a dark look from under his graying brows.
“And did you note during your stay any contact between Miss Charis Dunsenay and the Marquess?”
“I should say so,” said Barrington with a hearty chuckle. “The little minx set her cap at him from the start.”
It was at this point that Sir William rose and said, “Do you affirm that Miss Dunsenay encouraged my client’s attentions?”
“Well, yes. It was obvious she was mightily taken with him, but then, that was nothing new. All the females in London were on the scramble for him.”
“Thank you, Lord Barrington.” Sir William sat and made a note.
Tindal, somewhat discomposed by Sir William’s interruption, continued his questioning. “And what, in your opinion, was the marquess’s reaction to Miss Dunsenay’s interest?”
“He flirted with her blatantly. We all saw it and commented,” said Barrington.
“Thank you, my lord, that is all. Unless my learned friend has any more questions?”
Sir William rose. “Thank you, Sir Nicholas. As a matter of fact, I do.” He cleared his throat and turned his gaze upon Lord Barrington.
“My lord, how much opportunity did my client have to pursue a flirtation with a girl not out in society? Surely Miss Dunsenay was too young to be mingling with a party of male guests, even if the event was at her home.”
“She had plenty. She was included in the hunt and sat down to dinner with us. In fact, I’m surprised to know that she was only eighteen. We all assumed she was older.”
“So, in your opinion, Lord Barrington, would you think it reasonable that the marquess thought the girl was a young woman of perhaps twenty?”
“Yes, perfectly reasonable.”
“Thank you, my lord, that is all.”
Barrington bowed and returned to his seat.
Tindal glared at Sir William, who smiled blandly back at him, and he called his second witness, Lord Revesby, who was also a guest of the Dunsenays that July. Lord Revesby’s testimony backed up Barrington’s and Sir William asked him the same questions and got the same answers.
Tindal’s third witness was Lady Mostyn. The lady’s performance was masterly. Dabbing tears from her ravaged cheeks, she denounced Ravenshaw as a libertine, a scoundrel, and a murderer.
Her bitter tirade was brought to an abrupt close by Sir William rising and addressing her stridently. “Madam, I put to you that everything you have said is balderdash!”
The lady stiffened in shock. But before she could say anything, he barreled on.
“Is it true that your eighteen-year-old daughter, who was not out yet in society, was permitted to participate in the events of the house party at which these gentlemen and my client were present?”
“My Charis was an accomplished horsewoman; she always rode to hounds with her father since she was twelve.”
“And was she accompanied on these forays by a chaperone?”
“She was accompanied by her father. She needed no chaperone.”
“And is it true that she sat down to dinner with a table full of gentlemen?”
“And myself, yes.”
“And how exactly was the marquess allegedly meant to have compromised your daughter, Lady Mostyn?”
“There is nothing alleged about it! He did. My husband found them in bed together!”
This bald statement sent a shock wave of murmurs around the room and Jerome willed himself not to blush guiltily.
“And when was this, Lady Mostyn?”
“On the evening of the 11th of July, 1812,” she said, swallowing and dabbing at her cheeks again. “It was the last time I saw her alive.” Her voice dissolved into sobs.
“So did you see your daughter in bed with the marquess?”
The lady sniffed and blew her nose. “No. But my husband told me of it and the conversation he had with Ravenshaw and the fact that Ravenshaw refused to marry my poor innocent girl.”
“That is hearsay, Lady Mostyn, and not permitted as evidence. Your Lordships must disregard it. Lady Mostyn, is it true that your husband is dead, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“And he shot himself ten days after Charis’s death, am I correct?”
“Yes. He was so distraught over Charis—”
“Then the only witnesses to this compromising, other than my client, are dead—your daughter and your husband. Is that correct?”
Lady Mostyn looked to her counsel.
“Is that correct, Lady Mostyn?” pressed Sir William. “Were any servants present?” he asked.
“N-no. There were no servants present. To my knowledge, only my husband and my daughter.”
“I see. My lords, I suggest to you that you consider several points here in this case: firstly, that there is no independent eyewitness to the events purported to have occurred. Secondly, that the young lady in question behaved with unbecoming boldness as witnessed by Lords Barrington and Revesby, with the connivance and positive encouragement of her parents, to entrap my client who is—or rather was, until recently—one of London’s most eligible bachelors.
And Lord Ravenshaw is a wealthy man. This may seem irrelevant to the case until it is revealed that at the time these heinous events took place, Lord Mostyn was in serious debt.
” He paused to let this sink in with his audience, who were all riveted to his discourse.
Lady Mostyn whimpered at this and wiped her eyes.
Tindal rose and said, “There is one more point I would like to make in closing out the case for the prosecution, my lords. I wish to apprise you of facts that have come to light recently in relation to the present Marquess of Ravenshaw’s mother—” Jerome heard this with alarm, his heart rate increasing and a sweat breaking out on his forehead.
“How is this relevant to the case?” asked Sir William.
“If you will allow me a moment, I will explain,” returned Tindal with a supercilious air. “The late Marchioness of Ravenshaw was prone to ill health. And—strange fancies.”
“I repeat of what relevance—”
“If you will allow me to continue!” Tindal said with some asperity.
“Her Ladyship’s condition was a sad trial to her husband.
On several occasions he contemplated having her committed to an institution where her condition could be treated.
” Jerome’s hands clenched on the arms of his chair, wondering wildly where this was going.
“But his compassion for his wife stayed his hand.” Tindal paused.
“It is a well-known fact that the marchioness fell to her death from the balcony of her bedchamber window at the height of a terrible storm. It should also be noted that it was a full moon that night. The coroner gave a verdict of accidental death under the, ah—persuasion of the former marquess. in order that the lady could be buried in hallowed ground.”
Sir William Garrow slapped his hand upon the table and said loudly, “If my friend at the bar could get to the point of his peroration, perhaps we could see the relevance of this piece of hearsay to the case at hand?” A quite murmur went round the room.
“It is not hearsay, Sir William.” He produced a slender leatherbound book and held it aloft.
“This is the late marchioness’s diary. A perusal of it will make it quite clear that Lady Ravenshaw suffered from delusions, that she was subject to fits of melancholy, and that she had persuaded herself that her husband was an evil man bent upon her destruction.
In short, Lady Ravenshaw was mad. And it was only her husband’s kindness and forbearance that stood between her and Bedlam. ”
Jerome clenched his teeth and looked at Sir William, who was frowning at Tindal in bewilderment.
“I shall quote a short passage,” continued Tindal, perching his glasses upon his nose and opening the volume to a marked page. He cleared his throat and began to read. “Gareth means to have me locked up. The laudanum brings me no relief from my nightmares. I cannot go on.”
He looked up from the page and lowered the book, removing his spectacles. “That entry was dated the very day that Lady Ravenshaw took her own life by flinging herself from the balcony of her bedchamber. The woman committed self murder. She was therefore, by definition, insane.”
He looked across at Jerome and said calmly, “It is a well-known fact that insanity is hereditary. I ask you gentlemen to consider that the marquess may be subject to the same illness of the mind as his mother. After all, not so long ago he was found asleep under a tree in Hyde Park. And a witness saw him the previous night hugging that tree. Is that the behavior of a sane man? I put it to you, gentlemen, it was that illness that caused him to be so lost to honor as to refuse to do right by Miss Dunsenay and to subsequently push her into the sea. The man is a murderer. There is no question of that. The only real question is: Was he of sound mind when he did it?”
The effect of this on the house was electric, a loud buzz springing up.
Jerome sat stunned. How had Tindal come by his mother’s diary?
Could he be right? Had he been wrong in his assumptions that it was his father’s hand that killed his mother?
Could she indeed have jumped? He had not been home at all that year, choosing to stay at school rather than come home in the holidays.
He was dizzy with the possibility, as his life appeared to be unraveling in front of him.