Soul

Up in the public gallery, a tall, once-handsome, red-headed woman dressed in a tight-fitting day dress, slipped through the door and wound her way to an empty seat next to the Reverend Kane. The cleric sat with his Bible clutched in one hand, his jaw set tightly against the indignity of the circumstances. Turning to acknowledge the woman’s presence, he startled and dropped his Bible.

‘Meredith?’ he said aloud, only to be hushed by the surrounding spectators.

Meredith Murphy bent down and retrieved his Bible. ‘The devil herself, back from the grave,’ she replied as she handed back the sacred book.

In the witness box, Hamish Campbell was giving evidence about the rite the Colonel had been engaged in at the time of his death. He sensed a wave of support from the jurors, a gleam of friendly recognition for a well-dressed gentleman of refined appearance, someone from their own class, someone for whom they felt some natural empathy.

‘Colonel Huntington had informed me that he intended to carry out the ritual, which was based on a similar experience he had undergone when living with the Bakairi tribe in the Amazon jungle,’ the student’s voice rang out confident.

‘And had he also informed you that he had asked his wife to assist him in this instance?’ Erasmus encased his question with a polite, non-accusatory tone.

Hamish hesitated, then glanced over at Lavinia, who looked back at him blankly. This was the first time he had seen her sinc

e the constable had banged on his door to inform him of the terrible event.

‘He had.’

‘And why, do you think, he chose her and not you, his associate, to assist him?’

‘I can only surmise it was because she had been preparing a pamphlet, under his instruction, on the hallucinogenic flora involved in the preparation of the brew used in the ritual. I believe he wanted her to bear witness as a scientific observer.’

‘Surely it was because he trusted her? Because he trusted her with his life?’

‘If so, it was a trust ill-placed,’ Hamish retorted passionately.

The court broke out into a commotion and the judge was forced to bang his mallet furiously. ‘Order! Order!’ he cried.

The room quieted. Erasmus paced up and down in front of the jury.

‘Tell me, would it not be true to say that the deceased and yourself had a close…a very close friendship?’ he asked Hamish.

‘As is appropriate between a mentor and his protégé.’

‘Protégé. A grand word, Mr Campbell. Is it not also true that Colonel Huntington was known to indulge frequently in the consumption of opium, and that you joined him on these occasions?’

‘I don’t see how that is relevant.’

‘It is relevant, Mr Campbell, because it may be possible that Colonel Huntington suffered an accidental death at his own hands.’

‘Colonel Huntington was experienced in these matters.’

‘I see. Is it also not true that Colonel Huntington and yourself were discovered on the night of July twenty-fourth at Feng’s Oriental Palladium, otherwise known as a notorious opium den in Mincing Lane, and that Colonel Huntington was so intoxicated he had to be carried out of the building?’

‘It would not be the first time two city gentlemen were guilty of a little overindulgence,’ Hamish replied wryly.

The gallery and several members of the jury broke into laughter.

Smash! The judge’s mallet resounded. ‘Mr Cohen, will you please desist from attacking the victim’s reputation.’

‘I apologise, Your Honour.’ Erasmus swung back to Hamish. ‘Mr Campbell, would you say that Colonel Huntington might have been in a fragile state of mind at the time of his death?’

‘I cannot answer that. I was not privy to his psychology.’

‘No, but you were privy to a rather generous stipend, which included an apartment rented for you by your “mentor”. Pray tell me what kind of “research” required the use of…’ He pulled a list from his pocket and, lifting his spectacles to his face, read aloud: ‘Two Louis V sofas, a Napoleon III ebony and brass-inlaid bedstead with mattress, a piano, the use of a butler and maid…oh, and several opium pipes?’

Flummoxed, Hamish Campbell looked over at Mr Abby, the prosecutor, who lifted his brows quizzically. Sensing support slipping away, the young student faltered. ‘I cannot say.’

‘I have no more questions.’