Trial of Passion by William Deverell Read Free Book Online Page A

gold necklace.
Q
Pretty odd that a supposed rape victim would crawl into bed after her ordeal and have a nice nap.
A
I thought so.
Q
Did you believe a word she said?
MS. BLUEMAN:
This is becoming too much —
THE COURT:
I will decide who is to be believed, Mr. Cleaver.
MR. CLEAVER:
You said Mr. Clarence de Remy Brown spent a fair bit of time with Miss Martin before he ushered you to her bedroom.
A
It seemed quite a while.
Q
Time enough to have a good long conversation with her.
A
Well, I wasn’t there.
Q
You said Mr. Brown was angry. He was fuming, swearing, carrying on like that?
A
Like that.
Q
Okay, I take it you knew that Mr. Brown’s father is awealthy industrialist. The Brown Group of Corporations.
A
I didn’t at the time. I do now, yes.
Q
Did you see an engagement ring?
A
A big diamond, yes, on her finger.
Q
The heir to a great fortune would be quite a catch for any young lady, wouldn’t he?
A
I guess so.
    Arms folded, Mrs. Margaret Blake stands sternly at my doorstep amid the rubble of my former veranda. Her cocker spaniel, an energetic creature named Slappy, sniffs me with contempt.
    â€œSo you
are
tearing down the house.”
    â€œMerely alterations, my dear Mrs. Blake.”
    â€œIt’s a historic old place. There should be a law against this sort of thing.”
    â€œI am sure you will find one if you look hard enough.” I intend to say this in a jocular tone, but the words emerge with gruffness. I am not in a good mood this morning.
    â€œWell, I’m afraid I’ve had my fill of laws and lawyers.”
    Perhaps the source of her enmity to me is some wound suffered at the hands of my ever-maligned profession. But she doesn’t elaborate. Slappy keeps sniffing at my feet, as if detecting something unusual or foul.
    I try to be pleasant. “Can I offer you a morning coffee?”
    Her tone softens slightly. “Thank you, but I have a zillion things to do. I just dropped by to ask if you’ve seen one of my sheep.”
    â€œI presume that’s the animal I chased away this morning upon finding it defecating on the back porch.”
    â€œOh, dear, I don’t know how they get through the fence.”
    â€œPerhaps they use the holes.”
    Again I have been brusque, and this comment riles her. “Mr. Beauchamp, I have built and rebuilt that fence with my own two hands, and I think you should be prepared to take some responsibility for your share of it. I mean . . . you obviously have money to burn.”
    The resentful tone, together with her apparent fondness for rules and regulations, suggests this feisty woman is some manner of socialist. She seems determined to distrust me, and I find no reason to apologize for or explain myself.
    But as she and Slappy take their leave, I reproach myself for my unkind thoughts about her. She lost her husband not many years ago, and grief shows its colours in ways often harsh. Eventually, perhaps, she will learn I am merely a harmless pouf who prefers to be alone with his dead Latin poets.
    Her visit, however, causes some inner rumblings of disquiet that remain with me through the day. In former times, the antidote was usually a bracing tumbler of Beefeater gin, a cure that sad experience taught me was worse than the disease. But as the days pass, I feel a slow ebbing of strength, of will. In every cell of my body, I can still taste that dulcet syrup, can sense its seductive offering of warmth and courage.
    Oh, what a worshipper of Bacchus was I. Until one night, nine years ago, locked out of my house, and vigorously seeking audience with a wife temporarily estranged, I fell through the skylight and onto her exercise bicycle. Promises were made at my hospital bedside. (I kept mine; she broke hers. She tried. I believe she tried.)
    After a few days of doubtless pensive rumination, Stoney and Dog return to their tasks: sweaty, resolute work, pouring concrete pads, and nailing up supports for the new veranda.