Arthur felt a little sorry for him, sorrier for Abigail, who was holding her head with both hands. He changed tack. “Sergeant, it’s fair to say, is it not, that Rafael Whynet-Moir was not the only local judge who died suspiciously, or at least mysteriously, last year?”
“Fair to say.”
“In the course of your meticulous investigations, did you consider whether these deaths were in any way connected?”
“I didn’t see how.”
“What about Justice Warren Naught, who drowned off a dock last August 18, at Fishermen’s Wharf?”
“Well, that’s out of my jurisdiction, I don’t know much about it except what I’ve been told.”
Arthur was tempted to ask the ultimate hearsay question-What were you told? — to test Kroop, to see if he had any fight left, but it didn’t seem cricket to take advantage of his suffering. It would be unjust to trigger an audible gas eruption-which, from the intense look in his eyes, seemed impending.
To give Wentworth more time in the witness room, he backtracked to the higher priority matter of Carlos Espinoza, directing Chekoff’s attention to the news clipping from 1992 relating the dashing dealer’s history of arrests and escapes. When he sought to file the story as an exhibit, Kroop gave no sign of response except for a slight bulging of eyes and tightening of face muscles.
“You’re looking into whether Carlos Espinoza was recently in Canada?”
“Well, I can check with immigration, if you like.”
“I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”
Arthur sat and looked around for Abigail, but she’d obviously bolted for the loo. Haley looked anxious, seeming not up to the task of standing in. “Well?” Kroop said, irritated at the delay. “Well?”
Well was obviously what His Lordship was not, for he suddenly stood, holding his stomach, and sped to his chambers, emitting a clenched squeak from behind as he hurtled inside and slammed the door.
A spell of awkward silence, not even a titter from the bemused gallery. Cud Brown, out of the loop again, gestured to Arthur: something weird’s happening, man, visit me, explain. Haley joined Arthur and asked, “What do we do?”
“I suggest, my dear, that we give thanks that we missed out on the canard a l’orange.”
A few minutes passed, some jurors fidgeting; others, more attuned to the fact that judge and prosecutor were in extremis, suppressing ungracious joviality. Charles Loobie caught Arthur’s eye, winked. It was hard to see him as a murderer, but if one accepts the wit and wisdom of the noted author Pomeroy, the perp is always the one you least suspect.
Arthur scanned the gallery for familiar faces. J. Dalgleish Ebbe had taken another day off to pursue his intense interest in this case. Presumably he had time off to compose judgments, and was playing hooky from that task.
The clerk took a call, then addressed the room. “His Lordship has advised that circumstances have arisen requiring us to recess until two p.m.”
All to the good, Arthur decided. It would give him a chance to get on top of things-the case had been moving too swiftly, the witness list expanding. And there was the matter of Donat LeGrand’s subterfuge to deal with, the hiring of April Wu, the adage-spouting private eye. LeGrand was somewhere on the grounds, along with his counsel. A big name, Abigail said.
He turned to Shawn Hamilton. “Take me to your leader.”
Though still in his gown, Arthur followed him outside, toward Robson Square, past its skating rink, where young couples were gracefully swirling, and across the street into the lobby of a boutique hotel. Shawn’s only words en route were to confirm he’d been at Kroop’s jamboree. “I had the salmon.”
“Good choice.” Appropriate, given he was on retainer to federal Fisheries. Arthur’s own firm, Tragger, Inglis, had handled their prosecutions until the Conservatives began rewarding their friends.
Shawn led him into an elegant penthouse suite. Donat LeGrand was standing by an ersatz fireplace, gas-powered and brightly flickering. He acknowledged Arthur with a nod but made no move to greet him, perhaps appalled on seeing Arthur black-robed, like the angel of death. The tycoon was tall, a thick thatch of greying hair, amply jowelled and girthed. A dejected look.
More welcoming was the cherubic silver-haired gentleman rising from behind a tray of pancakes and eggs to his full height of five foot six and extending not just a hand but both arms in loving embrace. Gib Davidson, Q.C., the most courteous and benign lawyer in the ranks of the bar. Such qualities disarmed all who opposed him while his weapon of choice, a polite stiletto, made them cautious. “King Arthur, the ground shakes whereon he walks.” He backed off a step, examining him. “Where have you been hiding, in a health club? My God, the years have treated you well.”
“More true of you than me, Gib. How a man keeps such robust health when he never stops eating is beyond me. But who else do we have aiding in this cabal?” Not that he needed to ask: the Kowloon Mata Hari herself, April Fan Wu, perched delicately on a lounger. “Ah, so you didn’t flee the country, my dear?”
“Once on a tiger’s back, it is hard to alight, Mr. Beauchamp.”
He couldn’t help but smile.
“Let’s hope the tiger will have less bite after he hears me out,” said Gib, “Then he will either make a meal of the lovely Ms. Wu or offer clemency. Would any of you mind if Arthur and I have several minutes?”
At the door, LeGrand finally took Arthur’s hand, saying, “My pleasure, sir, and I’m deeply sorry,” then led April and Shawn out.
Gib took a plate of wafers and blue cheese and a bowl of almonds to a couch, sat it on his lap, kicked off his shoes, rested his feet on a glass-topped table, and patted the seat beside him. Arthur took it.
“Nice cut, tres distingue, as Roberto might say. Still using him? That’s his British Ambassador, isn’t it? There’s coffee, sodas. Anything? Almonds?”
“Lost my appetite after seeing the casualty list from Kroop’s banquet.”
“Damn, I’m glad I missed that. There’s a rumour someone tried to poison the old bugger.”
“A gross canard. Okay, Gib, what is the game we’re playing here?”
“Face the music.”
“Play a few bars.”
He took a breath. “In the mid-1970s, Donat LeGrand was negotiating port fees for lucrative routes from Vancouver to the Far East, and he spent a lot of time in exotic places. One was Bangkok. That’s where Florenza LeGrand was conceived of the loins of Donat and his…lover? Concubine? Call girl? Who knows.”
This music, if not the food of love, was food for scandal, an explosive one. Gib nodded, as if in response to Arthur’s astonishment.
“He didn’t abandon her. Give credit to Thesalie too, Donat’s wife. She forgave-not because of possible stigma, but from her good heart. Lovely, decent woman. Shy. I didn’t feel she should be stressed by coming here; hope you agree.”
Arthur nodded. Gib had a subtle way of extorting agreement.
“Mrs. LeGrand consented to her husband bringing the young woman to Canada, on maternity leave, as it were. Given an apartment, an allowance, sent to a well-endowed clinic to have her child, then quietly returned to a comfortable job with LeGrand’s Bangkok office. Meanwhile baby Flo was adopted by both LeGrands. No papers exist to prove she’s his bastard child. Thesalie LeGrand was barren, poor thing-and they spoiled their sole heir. Let her go wild. And she grew up believing, despite the golden skin and the Orient in her eyes, that she was conceived in their bed.”
“I have a feeling I’d rather not be hearing this. And made to feel responsible if it comes crashing down.”
“Devastating for Mrs. LeGrand especially. Such a gracious lady. And despite his sins, Donat, too, has shown nobility, wouldn’t you say?”
“What are you trying to sell?”