Chapter 54
Another terrible night’s sleep. More nightmares.
Isobel, Eliza, wheeling around his mind, pleading with him.
Eliza wringing her hands, which are dripping in blood.
Isobel stabbing a pigeon through the heart, once, twice, three times, a beatific expression on her face.
The heart balloons rolling after him, chasing him wherever he goes.
It was her no it was her no it was her no it was her.
They’re both guilty, neither of them is guilty, only one of them is guilty, murder, culpable homicide, innocent, not guilty, guilty guilty guilty . . .
Final witness for the defence. That’s what the judge tells them when the jury gets into court.
Closing speeches will be today as well, and if they’re lucky (the judge’s tone indicates this, rather than her words) they can get through her directions as well.
The case will certainly be completed by tomorrow lunchtime at the latest, before the jury is sent out for their deliberations.
The end is in sight. Matthew feels a lightening in the air around him, as if the jury is dropping its shoulders, breathing a collective sigh of relief. They’re nearly there.
But first, Isobel’s father. Rupert Smyth.
He doesn’t look like a Rupert. Given the account that Isobel’s mother gave of him, a domestic abuser, a coercive controller, Matthew is expecting someone tall and imposing to walk into the courtroom, a man used to throwing his weight around and getting what he wants.
Instead, a mole-like man in thick glasses emerges blinking into the witness box, as if he hasn’t seen bright lights for some time.
His voice is hesitant, the way that he gives his name apologetic, as if he’s sorry to be taking up any of the court’s valuable time. Matthew thinks back to the elegant self-confidence of Fiona Smyth, how well put together she was. This man couldn’t be more her contrast.
Isobel stands by the advocate’s lectern. Her face is as ever half-hidden by her hair, but she looks more open and warm when she looks at her father than Matthew has seen at any point in the proceedings.
‘What do you want to tell the court?’ she says, smiling at her father. There’s a simplicity to the question that touches Matthew’s heart.
He clears his throat. Coughs again. Pushes his glasses up and rubs at his eyes for a moment.
Then he puts both hands down on the bar in front of him, leaning on the witness box as if for support.
‘You were such a lovely little girl,’ he says.
He looks over at the jury. ‘I don’t know what you’ve been told about my Isobel, what her mother has said, but I would urge you to hear me out. You’re not seeing the girl that I see.’
A loud tutting from the public gallery. Matthew looks over to see that Fiona, Isobel’s mother, is sitting there, her face frozen in an expression of deep disapproval.
It does not deter Rupert. He continues to talk to the court, telling a story of an ordinary child who behaved in an ordinary way, the usual fallings-out and ups and downs of any primary schoolgirl.
‘I don’t know why it was, but her mother always wanted her to be more of a problem than she was.
It’s as if she’d thought herself into the role of the mother of the difficult child, and nothing was going to shift that position in her head.
Fiona had the most remarkable ability to turn everything to bad. ’
More tutting. The woman in question is now shaking her head, disapproval radiating off her.
‘I never noticed anything untoward about Isobel’s behaviour. Sure, she was robust and took an interest in subjects that others didn’t. But all this stuff about bullying? I never believed a word of it.’
‘What do you think of magic?’ Isobel asks. Her mother laughs from the public gallery, quickly muffles the sound.
‘We do not know what we do not know,’ he says.
‘There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. Hamlet, as I’m sure you’re aware.
I do not think that it’s possible entirely to rule out that there is another dimension out there, where the supernatural dwells.
Some may be gifted with the ability to see this.
I have always wondered whether Isobel was one of them. ’
Matthew squints at him. Mole-like the man may appear to be, but he has taken on some authority as he speaks, his shoulders squared.
‘I have some interests in the area myself,’ Rupert continues, ‘and I have often been struck by the insights provided by my daughter.’
The Devil rearing up at Matthew, the smell of rot in the air.
Suddenly he’s cold, that same sense of dread infusing him as it did before, on the castle esplanade.
On North Berwick Law. An image creeps into his mind – this man, seemingly harmless, wielding a knife while his daughter watches along, cutting into the living flesh of a bird.
He shakes his head – it’s come out of nowhere.
Nothing to say that the man is evil rather than harmless as he appears.
Mercifully it’s the end of the evidence as far as Isobel is concerned. Though not cross-examination. Mr Alexander is the first to rise.
‘Can you tell the court what your professional title is, please?’
‘I’m a professor at the university,’ Rupert says.
‘What are you a professor in?’
‘I’m a professor of parapsychology.’
Matthew has never heard of it.
‘Can you tell the court what this is?’
‘It’s the history and psychology of magic and the paranormal, conducting research into the pseudo-psi (things which look psychic but may not be), beliefs in the paranormal and the history of accounts and studies of anomalous phenomena.’
‘Is belief in witchcraft one of your areas of study?’
‘Yes, it is.’
Mr Alexander looks over at the jury and spreads his hands wide. He may as well say and there it is, the source of all the nutty thoughts. He hasn’t quite laboured his point enough, though.
‘Have you often talked about your work to Isobel?’
‘Yes. She has always been fascinated by it.’
A long pause while the advocate depute looks through his notes.
‘You said that one of your areas of study is something you call pseudo-psi, things which look psychic but aren’t?’
‘Yes.’
‘So presumably you had a lot of material available about the ways that unscrupulous people prey on the vulnerable with fraudulent practices intended to look like visitations of spirits and the like?’
Rupert blinks. ‘I suppose so, yes.’
‘No further questions.’
Miss Brodie’s turn for Eliza. ‘Just a couple of questions, given your area of expertise. In your experience, would it be possible to fake a tarot card reading so that it looked as if the cards were selected at random, but they were already set up for an unwitting victim to select?’
‘Well, of course, yes.’ He’s looking a bit brighter now, happy that his knowledge is being tested. Matthew’s heart sinks.
‘Let’s take a Ouija board – could one of the people present at the séance push the planchette in such a way that it was not conspicuous to the other participants?’
‘Yes. Naturally. All of these psychic phenomena are ripe for charlatans. People are so desperate to believe in the paranormal that they will shut their eyes to any number of signs that all is not as it seems.’
Miss Brodie nods. She’s hit the jackpot. Rupert may have attended court to assist his daughter, but he’s damned her out of his own mouth.