Виктория Холт - Snare of Serpents

“You are observant. You are shrewd and when you think over the evidence, when you consider all we have heard in this court, you will say to yourselves and each other: ‘There is only one verdict we can give. That is Not Guilty.’ “

There followed the summing up by the Justice Clerk. He went through the evidence very carefully.

I was young and that must influence them. But this was an indictment of murder. There was the mysterious Ellen Farley who, according to me, had asked me to buy the arsenic for her and this I had done. The signed book at Henniker’s drug shop was evidence of that. But no one had heard Miss Farley ask me to buy arsenic; no one had seen the rat in the dustbin except— it might be—Ellen Farley. And Ellen Farley was unavailable. So that was a piece of evidence about which the jury would have to come to some conclusion. Did the mysterious Ellen Farley ask the accused to buy arsenic for the rats? Or did the accused buy the arsenic for the purpose of killing her father? She had reason. He was going to disinherit her if she married her lover.

On the other hand, the deceased had confessed to his wife that he had taken arsenic at some time and this he may have procured outside this country, which meant that it was impossible to trace the purchase. Did he find what was left in the packet, misjudge the amount, and so kill himself?

“That is what you have to decide, and only if you are convinced that this is not so and the arsenic was administered from the almost empty decanter by the accused who put it there— only then can you find the accused guilty.”

It was a fair summing up and the Lord Justice Clerk had made the jury’s duty clear to them.

They went out to consider their verdict.

I WAS TAKEN BELOW. How the time seemed to drag. An hour passed and there was no verdict.

What would happen to me? I wondered. Could this be the end? Would they condemn me to death? That was the penalty for murder. I wondered how many innocent people had been sent to their deaths.

I should be taken back to the courtroom. I should see Ninian … tense and waiting. And yet he had seemed so sure.

The Kirkwells would be there … Bess … Jenny … the whole household. Zillah would be waiting. If I were found Not Guilty I should owe my life to her. Jamie had shown me quite clearly that what he had felt for me was not true and lasting love.

I kept remembering incidents from my life, as they say people do when they are drowning. Well, I was—metaphorically— drowning.

I tried to look ahead. Suppose Ninian was right and I came through this? What would it be like? Nothing would be the same. Everywhere I went people would say: “That is Davina Glentyre. Do you really think she did it?”

No … nothing would ever be the same. Even if I walked free out of the courtroom, the memories of it would be with me forever … with others, too.

The jury was out for two hours. It had seemed like days.

As soon as I went up I was aware of a breathless tension in that room.

The jury had filed in. The Lord Justice Clerk asked them if they had reached a verdict and would they let the court know what it was.

I held my breath. There was a long pause. Then I heard a clear voice say: “Not Proven.”

There was a hush in the court. I saw Ninian’s face. For a moment an expression of anger touched it; then he turned to me, smiling.

The Lord Justice Clerk was talking to me, telling me I was dismissed from the bar.

I was free—free to carry with me as long as I lived the stigma of Not Proven.

I LAY IN MY OWN BED. The house seemed wrapped in an obtrusive silence—a silence broken only by whispering voices.

“They have let her go? But is she guilty? Her innocence was not proven.”

Those words seemed to go on and on in my mind. I could hear the foreman of the jury. I had so desperately wanted him to say “Not Guilty” and he had said “Not Proven.”

“The case is over. You are free.” That was Zillah, exultant.

But I knew I should never be free. Not Proven. Those words would come back again and again over the years. People would remember.

“Davina Glentyre,” they would say. “Haven’t I heard that name somewhere? Oh yes … she was the girl who murdered her father. Or did she? It was Not Proven.”

What a cruel verdict! A stigma to carry through one’s life.

Zillah had said: “I am going to put you straight to bed and you are going to stay there for a while. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal. It’s been a great shock. More than you realise. But you are going to be all right. I’m going to look after you.”

I was not really listening. I was still in the courtroom. I could not escape from those pictures which kept crowding into my mind. I could hear Ninian Grainger’s voice—vehement, tender, angry, sentimental, pleading to the jury’s good sense and humanity. He had been magnificent and I believed I owed my life to him … to him and Zillah, of course. When it was over he had held my hand briefly while the triumph shone in his eyes.

Of course, I represented success to him, for if he had not gained the verdict he wanted, he was halfway there. The case had been black against me and at one stage a conviction of murder seemed almost certain, but he had averted that—with Zillah’s help, and we must think ourselves fortunate that the verdict was Not Proven. I was a feather in his cap, a big step towards promotion; a case which had seemed hopeless and if it had not exactly been won, had been as successful as it possibly could have been in the circumstances.

I was glad to be alone. I did not want to have to face the rest of the household. They would be tactful, but I should read their thoughts.

“Did she do it?” they would be asking. “Who could be sure? But they let her go because it was Not Proven.”

Not Proven! Not Proven! It was like the tolling of a funeral bell.

ZILLAH HAD BROUGHT ME HOME. She had had the carriage, with Hamish Vosper, waiting for us.

“I knew it was going to be all right,” she said. “And I wanted to hustle you away from that place as soon as I could.”

We sat side by side, close. She held my hand, every now and then pressing it reassuringly and murmuring soothing words. “It’ll be all right. I’m here to look after you, dear.”

Everything seemed strange and unreal. Even the street seemed different.

“Don’t take the carriage to the front, Hamish,” I heard Zillah say. “Go straight to the mews. There might be people hanging about in the street.”

Yes, I thought. Come to see the peep show, to take a look at the young woman who might have been condemned to a murderer’s death. Who was to say whether she deserved it? Her innocence was not proved; it was a murder which was Not Proven.

There would be people like that always. They would be there to stare at me. They would remember. It was not proved against me but …

“Right you are,” said Hamish jauntily. “Mews it is.”

Then I was getting out of the carriage and entering the house by the back door. Mr. and Mrs. Kirkwell were embarrassed. How do people greet a member of the household who has just been on trial for murder and has come home because the case was Not Proven?

Mrs. Kirkwell managed: “Nice to see you back, Miss Davina.”

Mr. Kirkwell nodded and Jenny and Bess just stared at me. I was a different person to them all.

Zillah took charge.

“Now, dear, we’re going to get you to your room right away. I’ll get something sent up. You need to eat a bit … and you need rest. You’ve got to get your strength back. I’m going to see you’re all right.”

In my room she shut the door and faced me.

“It’s hard at first,” she said and repeated once more: “but it will be all right.”

“They don’t know what to say to me. They think I did it, Zillah.”

“Of course they don’t. They just don’t know how to express their feelings. They’re as pleased as dogs with two tails, because you’re back and the miserable business is over.”

How long those days seemed! I did not want to emerge from my room. I could not face the ordeal of seeing people and reading their thoughts. Zillah was often with me. She brought my food and sat and chatted while I ate it.

“Talk about it if you like,” she said. “It might help. I always knew you were innocent. I wish they’d given the proper verdict. Ought to have been clear to that pompous old judge and the stupid jury that you couldn’t have hurt a fly.”

Zillah had changed subtly. I fancied she was not keeping such a curb on herself. Her conversation was a little more racy, the red of her lips was brighter, her cheeks more coral-tinted. There was an air of something like triumph about her.

Occasionally she spoke of my father and when she did a mask of melancholy would slip over her face.

“He was such an old darling … always so good to me. He used to say he had never been so happy in his life as he was with me.”

I could not help myself saying rather sharply: “He was very happy with my mother. He loved her.”

“Of course he did, dear. That was different. And she’d gone and he was just reaching for a bit of comfort. He found me … and at his time of life. Oh well, I know men. It’s just that he never expected to find all that again … and that something extra … if you know what I mean. It’s a consolation to me that I was able to do so much for him. Not that he didn’t do a lot for me.”

“He seemed to change so much. He was quite different from what he had ever been before.”