“And only early in the relationship, before seduction is assured,” she said, grinning.
“You are a cynic.”
She laughed. “Nailed you, huh?”
He tried not to smile. “Certainly not.”
Stone washed the dishes, then stuck his head up through the hatch for a look toward the Shipwright’s Arms. The bar was jammed with people, and their raucous laughter reached all the way to the marina. He noticed that two of Henry’s policemen stood near the restaurant, ready to stop any journalist who so much as ventured onto the lawn between the bar and the marina.
“I think we’re safe for the evening,” he said, climbing back down the companionway.
She met him, tugging at his shirttail. “No safety for you,” she said, unzipping his fly.
At ten sharp on Friday morning, Stone, with Allison beside him, began walking across the lawn toward the Shipwright’s Arms. Somebody had nailed together a little platform and on it stood a forest of microphones, taped and lashed together, their wires snaking into the crowd of reporters like so many reptiles. There were two ranks of cameras, high and low, and the TV reporters stood by, microphones in hand, for their own comments. The print journalists stood in clutches or sat on the grass, notebooks at the ready, and photographers were everywhere. Stone had never faced anything like this, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. The buzz of voices turned to a shout as he and Allison approached.
“Good morning,” he shouted over the crowd, taking a sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and waiting for the noise to subside. When they were quiet, he spoke. “My name is Stone Barrington; I am one of the legal team representing Mrs. Allison Manning in the case against her, about which I am sure you have all heard. I will be making a statement, and then I will take questions for thirty minutes. Then Mrs. Manning will make a brief statement and will answer no questions.”
There was a roar of outrage from the assembled media.
Stone shouted them down. “I hope you can understand that Mrs. Manning is facing a serious charge in a strange country, and that by answering questions at this stage, she might inadvertently put herself in further je
opardy. I know that none of you would wish to contribute to her difficulties.” He began to read his statement, covering events from the time of Allison’s arrival in St. Marks, including the coroner’s inquest and her questioning by Sir Winston Sutherland. He gave them a brief primer on the workings of the St. Marks criminal justice system, and they listened, rapt and astonished. Finally, he wrapped up his statement and asked for questions, glancing at his watch. “To preserve some sort of order, I will point to a questioner and answer his or her question only. Let’s do this one at a time, people.” He pointed at a woman television reporter.
“Mr. Barrington, do we understand you to say that in St. Marks, the judge selects the jury, and that the defense may not even question them or object to them?”
“Both the defense and the prosecution may ask the judge to address particular questions to a prospective juror, but the judge will ask the question only if he deems it relevant to the proceedings.”
The questions continued, mostly about the legal system and his plans for mounting a defense. When thirty minutes had passed, Stone pulled Allison forward. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, Mrs. Allison Manning will make a statement, and at its end, this press conference will be over. She will take no questions after that, nor will I; I hope that’s clearly understood.” He turned to Allison and nodded.
Allison stepped forward to the microphones and, with a shy smile, began to speak. “Good morning,” she said, and after those words there was complete silence among the reporters. “My name is Allison Manning; I am the widow of Paul Manning, the writer, with whom some of you may be familiar.” She recounted their voyage across the Atlantic and their time in England, Spain, the Mediterranean, and the Canaries, then she began her account of their trip back across the Atlantic.
“Ten days out of the Canaries Paul hoisted me to the top of the mast to make a repair.” She smiled. “He was too large for me to hoist him.” This got a laugh from the crowd. “While I was at the top of the mast I saw Paul clutch his chest and collapse in the cockpit. It took me more than two hours to get myself back down the mast.” She pointed at her yacht. “You can see how tall it is. When I was able to reach him, he was dead. Some hours later I managed to bury him at sea and then began trying to sail the yacht the rest of the way across the Atlantic. Somewhat to my own surprise, I was able to manage it. Then, to my astonishment, after I had saved my own life and reached St. Marks, I found myself charged with my husband’s murder. Now I must place my faith in Stone Barrington and Sir Leslie Hewitt, who could not be here today, because he is working on my defense. I thank you all for coming here and hearing my story. I hope we will meet again in happier times. “She stepped back from the microphones to a hail of shouted questions.
Stone quieted the group. “As I said earlier, Mrs. Manning will answer no questions. Now you may have thirty minutes to photograph her yacht, down at the marina.” He pointed to the boat, and most of the crowd sprinted across the lawn. Another clutch of reporters tried to approach Allison and were pushed back by police officers.
Stone hustled Allison upstairs to his rented room. “We’ll wait them out here, then go back to the yacht,” he said. He walked to the window and looked out. The reporters were swarming over the dock, prevented from boarding the yacht by the police. Then his eye was caught by another sight in the parking lot. Sir Winston Sutherland was standing next to his chauffeured car, watching the reporters, an outraged expression on his face.
Thomas was standing next to Stone. “I predict an explosion,” he said, grinning broadly.
Chapter
21
Stone sat at the little table near the window and watched Sir Winston, who was speaking into a cellular phone. A few minutes later, a bright yellow school bus pulled into the parking lot, and the driver received some instructions from Sir Winston. Abruptly, the bus left the tarmac and started across the lawn toward the marina. When it stopped, a dozen police officers got down from the bus, one with a bullhorn.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the officer was saying, “a press conference by the Ministry of Justice will be held in ten minutes, and I have come to transport you there. Please board the bus immediately, as we are short of time.”
Stone watched as the journalists crowded the entrance to the bus, ready to fight to get on, if necessary. Shortly the bus pulled away and, to Stone’s surprise, took the road not toward the capital, but toward the airport. “What the hell?” he muttered.
There was a rap on the door and Thomas entered. Allison, who had been dozing on the bed, sat up on one elbow and looked at him.
“What’s going on?” Stone asked.
“Half a dozen cops are going through my rented rooms, taking suitcases and clothes belonging to those reporters.”
“Sir Winston wouldn’t have the balls to arrest that many journalists, would he?”
“I can’t see it happening,” Thomas replied, “but he’s taking them somewhere.”