Chapter 43
The rash is spreading across Matthew’s hand, little blisters popping up now all over the palm, creeping up to the finger joints.
He doesn’t want to keep scratching it but the itch is so intense he can’t stop himself.
The biggest blister is emerging right in the centre of his left hand, not yet fully formed, hot and irritated.
He glares at it, turning his hand over and over to catch the light, give him a better sense of what’s happening.
Some kind of eczema, he remembers it from medical school.
Trivial, as health complaints go. But he doesn’t like it. Not one bit.
The vicar is facing cross-examination now.
He didn’t have much more to say after his revelation about Christian’s foreknowledge of her own death.
He offered to pray with her and she said no; he never saw her in Bible Studies class again.
He was ashamed to say that he hadn’t followed up on the conversation.
He wishes that he had. The girl was clearly deeply unhappy; he failed in his duties towards her.
Matthew can’t imagine why someone looking like that would go into the church – makes no sense to him.
Shoulders like that, the man would be an asset on any rugby pitch.
Muscular Christianity. He wouldn’t be out of place as an eighteenth-century missionary, fighting his way through a jungle with a machete on his way to inflict religion on anyone unfortunate enough to get in his way.
Wasted on a school. Maybe this was meant to be a stepping stone to something better.
Not any more. After this experience, the vicar has lost faith in his ability to provide spiritual guidance.
It was my duty to do more, and I failed in my duty.
His final answer in examination-in-chief still echoes in Matthew’s ears. Duty. An outmoded concept these days.
Miss Brodie makes what Matthew is now coming to recognise as her usual point – Reverend Thomas never discussed Christian with Eliza, rarely saw Eliza with Christian, never heard Eliza’s name mentioned to him as a source of any trouble.
‘The contrary, I’d say,’ the vicar says. ‘She always seemed very sweet and concerned for Christian, at least in terms of how she acted when I was around. Also, Christian never looked unhappy when I saw her with Eliza. If anything, she looked happier with her than she did with anyone else.’
‘Including Isobel?’
‘I never saw her alone with Isobel,’ he says. ‘So I can’t speak to that. But when I saw her walking round the school with Eliza, she always seemed very relaxed.’
‘Did you have any dealings with Eliza separately?’
He nods. ‘Yes, I did.’ A warmth has come into his voice. ‘She volunteered with some of the younger girls. We ran a mentoring scheme via the chapel for new pupils who had started in Year Nine. She was always very kind to them.’
Matthew looks at the girl. She’s got a small smile on her face but it’s not smug at the praise. More tinged with sadness. An easier time, long past.
Miss Goodly doesn’t bother to cross-examine. Matthew supposes that she doesn’t have anything to say. Not that he wants to be prejudiced about appearances, but Isobel doesn’t exactly look like the kind of girl anyone would want mentoring someone young or impressionable.
Lunch break. All the female jurors are fluttering about the hot priest. Other than Emma, who mutters darkly that she prefers her clerics less decorative.
At last, something on which she and Matthew can agree.
Not that he says anything. His hand is pissing him off, hot and itchy.
It’s spreading up on to his wrist now, too, a small blister making its appearance on his right hand.
He needs to go and buy some cream but the break won’t be long enough, not now, not by the time he’s eaten.
He’ll pass by Boots on the way home later.
As usual, everyone is slagging off Isobel.
‘You don’t think it’s a bit convenient, that they’re all pinning the blame on her?’ Matthew turns in surprise – it’s Nicola. He’s never heard her speak inside the jury room, only seen her outside smoking. Marlboro, he remembers.
‘Convenient?’ That’s Aisha.
‘All this being laid out against her. Maybe that’s just what they want us to think.’
‘They?’
‘Oh, you know,’ she waves a hand, ‘the prosecution, the family. Pin it on the problem girl.’
Matthew’s interested that someone else is possibly thinking along the same lines. He tests it. ‘Or maybe it’s adding up because that’s actually the evidence? There hasn’t been anything to suggest otherwise, you know.’
‘What Sasha said? That they were both in it?’
‘She’s just trying to play down her role in the whole thing,’ Jasmine says. She’s glaring at Nicola as if the woman has insulted her family.
Barring a miracle, Isobel’s guilt really is emerging, clear for all to see.
But there’s a doubt in his head, an ugly growth, like fungal spores multiplying in the dark.
He doesn’t think she’s innocent, either.
But it’s all starting to feel a little too contrived.
Images of the dead heart keep flashing into his mind; there’s something not right there, too.
But the edges of it are dark; he can’t go behind it. It nags at him, just the same.
After he’s eaten, Matthew goes out for a quick walk round the block.
His legs are feeling twitchy, in need of a stretch, even though they’ve been stiff ever since he launched himself up North Berwick Law.
His fitness is slipping away from him every day that this trial goes on.
He scratches at his hands again, feels an itch on his face too, his heart sinking at the thought that he’s going to come out in a rash there as well. He’s falling apart.
As he left the court building, he saw Gill’s head over the road, but he quickly went in the opposite direction, heading down the Royal Mile to the Palace of Holyroodhouse at the bottom before turning round and heading back up again.
On the way back up he spots a pharmacy and goes in, showing the pharmacist behind the desk what his hand looks like.
Before she can stop it, she makes a face, a moue of disgust twitching her lip up.
‘It’s eczema,’ she says. ‘Pompholyx is the most likely diagnosis. Have you been very stressed lately?’
He nods, pays for the cream that she recommends.
‘If it gets worse, you need to see a doctor,’ she says. He keeps walking.
‘Everything all right?’ A voice brings him up short as he leaves the pharmacy. It’s Gill.
His immediate response is to turn and run.
Not because he doesn’t want to talk to her – there’s nothing he wants more.
But he can’t . . . She’s got such a real expression of concern on her face, though, that Matthew can’t bring himself to be so unkind.
On the other hand, they’re so close to court .
. . While he knows there’s nothing untoward about the conversations they’ve had, he also understands that someone else involved in the trial might take a different view.
‘I’m fine,’ he says, keeps on walking. She trots to keep up with him but he refuses to turn and look at her.
‘Matthew,’ she says. At that he stops.
‘I can’t talk to you,’ he says. ‘Don’t you understand that? I can’t talk to you, I can’t answer any of your questions. You need to leave me alone.’
He strides off without looking to see if she’s taken the point or if she’s still pursuing him.
The distraught state of Christian’s mother has brought it home to him how serious all this is, how much is at stake.
Whatever happens, he can’t be seen to be consorting with anyone outside of the jury.
Much as he’s intrigued by her, he just can’t.
Emma is entering the court building at the same time as him and she raises an eyebrow as she hears him puff his way up the stairs.
‘Went for a run, did we?’
‘I walked further than I intended,’ he says through gritted teeth. He’d rather ignore her but there’s no point alienating her. Not yet.
‘A little walk with your blonde friend?’ She’s standing next to him now, her breath hot on his ear. He freezes.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he says after a moment.
‘I’ve seen you, you know. Exchanging glances in court. Little chats outside. You shouldn’t be doing that, you know.’
‘I’m not doing anything,’ he says.
‘I should really tell the jury officer,’ she says. ‘You know what they told us about jury interference. Pretty woman, too, isn’t she? I bet you’d like her to interfere with you.’ She lets out a laugh, a low, horrible sound that chills Matthew’s blood.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he says as he walks away. But the sound of her laughter still echoes in his ears.