“You are flagrantly out of order,” Kroop says. “Let’s get back on track, Mr. Beauchamp.”
Arthur is chafing at having the rug pulled out from under him. Hoover probably does feed information to Flynn in exchange for his winks and nods, it’s smart police work. The jury may well resent Arthur for portraying this dutiful family man as a lecher on the take. Buddy had prepared Flynn well, advised him to take a few blows, bob and weave, then land a haymaker.
“Officer, how many times have you met with Ms. Hoover since the murder?”
“Two, three times. I took an initial statement from her that day.”
“From which you learned she was the last person to see Dr. Winters alive?”
“Except the killer.” He’s confident now.
Arthur flutters a page of Flynn’s evidence summary. “And this is all she had to say? A bit of inconsequential chat at the bar of a public house.”
“Yes, but she told me only half the story. About a week later she gave me the long version. About how she met Dr. Winters outside the bar, and they went by canoe to West Bamfield.”
Hearsay by the carload. But it’s Arthur’s fault, he has opened it up. He must stay on the attack. “I put it to you, officer, that you sought to dissuade her from admitting to this.”
“I certainly did not.”
“You told her to stick to the short version and not complicate matters.”
“I told her just the opposite. The conversation’s in my notes, and I copied them to Mr. Svabo.”
Arthur struggles not to show his distress, turns to Buddy.
“Don’t look at me,” Buddy says. “I sent a letter of further particulars, let’s see…” He bends, whispering to Ears, who shuffles through a file and hands him a memo. “On April 7, to Mr. Brian Pomeroy, when he was still acting for the accused.”
This cross-examination is turning into a disaster. Pomeroy, the inattentive ex-dissolute, is to blame, too engaged in marital strife to read his mail.
Kroop has enjoyed watching Arthur squirm, but reluctantly orders a break. Arthur needs it, a chance to retool. As the jury is led out, he sees disappointed looks from the counsel who came to watch the storied barrister in action.
Buddy hands Arthur a photocopy of Flynn’s handwritten notes. “I thought you had all this stuff.”
The notes back up the witness’s account: “Hoover attended Alberni h.q. 14:15 hours to see undersigned having ‘remembered’ she took deceased by canoe across inlet around 22:00 on prior 31 March. Because of rain, ‘we didn’t dawdle’ and not much conversation except deceased couldn’t wait to get out of wet clothes. Undersigned warned Hoover re withholding material evidence. She refused to sign statement until talked to lawyer.”
A version sketchier than the one she confided on that stormy night the lights went out at Brady Beach. No mention of Winters’s invitation to extend the evening over a glass of wine.
Again he reminds himself that this will matter little in the end. He’s merely spreading manure across the field, an odour for Buddy and Ears to sniff at, to distract them from Adeline Angella’s pungent Fantaisie.
Bolstered by that thought, he sticks it out, hoping to pick up the pieces of his cross-examination. When Flynn resumes the stand, he prods him about his threat to charge Hoover with obstructing justice.
“Why did you stay your hand?”
“I guess I figured no harm was done. Anyway, she had a right to see a lawyer and get advice on her situation, and I assume she did that.”
“She talked to a lawyer?”
“On Saturday, April 15, I saw her leaving the licensed premises with a six-pack of cider. I asked her where she was going. She said she was on her way to talk to you, Mr. Beauchamp.”
Her tongue in his ear, her hand between his legs, the clams roiling in his gut. Flustered, he can only ask, “Did you have any other dealings with her?”
“Just to serve a subpoena on her.”
Arthur shuffles through notes, unsure where to pick up. “Ms. Hoover claimed to remember paddling across the inlet with Dr. Winters?”
“Remember was the word she used.”
“And didn’t she also remember Dr. Winters invited her to join her at the cottage for some wine?”
The question causes a stir among the press and brings Buddy bouncing on his toes. “Mr. Beauchamp’s trying to sneak in a wild theory by the back door. It’s all hearsay.”
“It’s hearsay, Mr. Svabo, but we should give Mr. Beauchamp leeway, don’t you think, given the obstacles he’s encountering?” A patronizing knife. “What’s the answer, officer?”
“She didn’t say anything like that. But she tends to remember things when she wants to.”
This is going nowhere. Arthur must find a less-travelled road, where the potholes aren’t as treacherous. “Whatever she might have said, someone was being entertained in Dr. Winters’s cabin that night. The bottle of Chablis and the glasses in the sink might suggest she had a guest, do you agree?”
“It’s possible.”
“Hardly likely that she would be sharing wine with an intruder.”
“I couldn’t say, sir.”
“Who might very easily have slipped a few tablets of Rohypnol into her wine.”
“Yes, but someone could also have sneaked in and done that.”
“A garment stuffed down the victim’s throat-an odd means of suffocating someone, do you agree?”
“I guess so.” Flynn twiddles that moustache.
“Ever heard of anything similar in a murder investigation?”
A shrug. “I can’t bring anything to mind.”
“You’ve told us you found no fingerprints of interest. None of the accused.”
“That’s right, but the glasses had been washed, and the bottle wiped, it looked like.”
“You have a knack for answering questions I haven’t asked.”
“Oh, come now, Mr. Beauchamp,” Kroop says, “he’s doing his best.”
“Then he doesn’t need any help from the court.”
“This court does not take sides.”
Arthur wants to have it out with him, make the jury aware that behind a facade of fairness lurks a partisan for the prosecution, with a bias showing like poorly tucked-in underwear. But he must not let his temper get the best of him, for now he’ll take his licks.
“All but two prints came from known individuals, as you put it. From whom, precisely?”
“The deceased, of course. There were quite a few of hers. Inez Cotter, the owner of the cottage. And two of the women who had been hiking the trail with Dr. Winters.”
“And who else?”
“Well, Constable Beasely and I were the first into the cottage-that’s after we looked through the window-and we rushed straight to the bedroom, and I guess we didn’t put gloves on right away. So there’s a few of mine, and a couple of Beasely’s.”
Arthur can’t make headway even on this trifling irrelevancy. An accusation of careless police work would be seen as a cheap shot from an exasperated lawyer-the sergeant is human, he’d just seen a shocking sight.
“No prints from Holly Hoover?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.” The condescending smile grates.
“What about the third woman hiker?”
Flynn consults his notes. “That would be Ruth Delvechio. No prints from her.”
Finally, a point for the defence. The embittered Ruth Delvechio, graduate student, tossed away like a worn toy by the imperious Doctor Eve. It’s over, Ruth. Ef you, your effing highness. A last sharing of wine. Afterwards, the glasses washed, her prints wiped. A plausible script?
“Officer, I understand Ruth Delvechio was in a relationship with Dr. Winters.” The deceased’s homosexuality has been well reported by now. She hadn’t hid it, hadn’t advertised it.
“Yes, from what I’ve learned.”
“In your report you refer to the other two women as, quote, admitted lesbians.” Buddy winces, and Ears’s smile sits marooned on his face.
“That was a tasteless choice of words, Mr. Beauchamp. I guess what I meant to say is they were open about it.”