The Black Swan (7 page)

His name was Fergus O’Neill. He had been involved in similar trouble before. It was, no doubt, how he had received the scar on his face. He had served a term in an Irish jail where he had been involved in a riot; he was a member of an organization which took the law into its own hands. He was a killer who served a cause; and he had no compunction in taking life to do so. The police had had him under surveillance; it was the reason why through my description they had been able to arrest him so quickly.

Mr. Thomas Carstairs, QC, Counsel for the Crown, opened for the Prosecution. He spoke for what seemed like a long time setting out what had happened. Benedict Lansdon, a well-known member of the Liberal Party, highly respected in the political world—and indeed destined for Cabinet rank—had been wantonly done to death outside his own house in the presence of his daughter.

He went on talking about my father’s openly stated opposition to Mr. Gladstone’s Home Rule Bill, and how Fergus O’Neill, already known to the police as an agitator, had waited on the night previous to the murder, with intent to kill. He had been foiled by the late sitting of the House of Commons on that night, for on these occasions, Mr. Lansdon stayed at the house of friends in Westminster and did not come home. He referred to the fact that I had seen Fergus O’Neill loitering outside the house. It had been a windy night. O’Neill’s opera hat had blown off, and, as there was a street lamp nearby, I had had a clear view of his face. The next time I had seen him was at the time of the murder and with a gun in his hand.

And so on.

Then began the evidence for the Prosecution. Several people were called. There was the landlady in the house where Fergus O’Neill was lodging. He had come over from Ireland a week before the murder and had apparently spent the intervening time preparing for it.

There were two people who had rented rooms in the house; there were the pathologists and the doctor who had attended to my father; and a few others. I was to be the most important witness because I had actually been present at the time of the murder and had seen and identified the assassin. It was clear, even to myself—and I knew little of court procedure—that it was my evidence which would prove the case against Fergus O’Neill.

After the first day I arrived home exhausted. Rebecca and Celeste sat by my bedside and talked to me until I fell asleep.

But even in sleep I was haunted by that man. I knew that I had had to do what I did. I could not have withheld anything. I was as certain as I could be of anything that the man was my father’s murderer; but I kept imagining the rope about his neck, and I could not stop telling myself that I was the one who would put it there.

When I told Rebecca this, she said, “That’s nonsense. He has put it there himself. The man’s a murderer and if he is guilty he must be punished. You cannot allow people to go free so that they can go round killing people just because they disagree with them.”

She was right, I knew, but how could one drive morbid fancies out of one’s mind?

“As soon as this is all over,” announced Rebecca, “I am definitely going to take you to Cornwall. And you are coming with us, Celeste. You need a break. You need to get away from all this. And it is no use saying you cannot come, because I am going to insist.”

“I think I should be here,” said Celeste.

“And I think you should not,” replied Rebecca firmly. “You need not stay long, but it is necessary for both of you to get away from here for a while. It has been a great shock to you both. You need a break … right away.”

We both knew that she was right and I must say that, for me, the prospect of getting away was enticing.

But the trial was not yet over. I should have to return to the courtroom. Mr. Thomas Carstairs thought that the Defense might want to put me in the witness box and endeavor to discredit my evidence.

And so it had to be. The solemn atmosphere of the courtroom was awe-inspiring with the judge sternly presiding over the barristers and the jury; but the one I was constantly aware of was Fergus O’Neill, the memory of whose face would, I began to fear, haunt me for the rest of my life.

The Defense, after all, did not call me. I suppose they thought that anything I could say would only be damning against the prisoner.

The Prosecution, however, put me briefly in the box. I was asked to look at the prisoner and tell the court whether I had seen him before.

I answered that I had seen him the night before my father died and at the time of the shooting. I told how I recognized him.

It was over very quickly, but it was the deciding factor.

The judge gave his summing up. The verdict was inevitable, he said. The case had been proved (not only, I kept telling myself, by me). The man was a fanatical terrorist and anarchist. He had very likely killed before. He was a man already wanted by the police.

I wished I was anywhere but in the courtroom when the jury came back and gave the verdict of guilty and the judge put on the black cap.

I shall never forget his voice. “Prisoner at the bar, you have been convicted by a jury, and the law leaves me no discretion and I must pass onto you the sentence of the law and this sentence of the law is: This Court doth ordain you to be taken from hence to the place of execution; and that your body there be hanged by the neck until you are dead; and that your body be afterward buried within the precincts of the prison in which you have been confined after your conviction and may the Lord have mercy on your soul.”

I took one last fearful look at him. His eyes were fixed on me—venomous, revengeful and mocking.

Rebecca wanted us to leave at once, but I could not go. I had to stay.

“Sometimes there is a reprieve,” I said. “I want to be here … so that I know.”

“There would not be a reprieve in a case like this,” said Rebecca. “For Heaven’s sake, Lucie, the man deserves to die. He murdered your father.”

“It was for a cause. It wasn’t for personal gain. It’s different somehow.”

“Murder is murder,” said Rebecca firmly.” And the punishment for murder is death. Let’s leave soon. The children and Pedrek think I have been away too long.”

“You go back, Rebecca. Celeste and I will come when this is all over.”

Rebecca shook her head. “I have to stay with you, Lucie. Pedrek understands.”

Three weeks had passed since the judge uttered that sentence and the day for the execution came. There had, of course, been no reprieve; in my heart I had known there could not be.

I sat in my room. Rebecca and Celeste wanted to be with me. But they understood my feelings. I wanted to be alone, and they respected that.

So I sat there while it was happening. This man … this Fergus O’Neill, a man to whom I had never spoken, was dying and I was the one who, figuratively, had put the rope round his neck.

Rebecca was right. I was being foolish to think that. Her calm common sense should be like a douche of cold water to my fevered fantasies. And so it was … at times. Yet at others these thoughts would come back to me.

Who would have believed this time last year that I, a simple girl, happy in the life she shared with her brilliant father, had lost him and gained a terrible burden of guilt?

How could it be possible for life to change so drastically in such a short time!

“There is nothing to detain us,” said Rebecca. “What we must do now is plan for the future. And you will do this better away from here. You will be able to think more clearly in Cornwall.”

I knew that she was right.

“So pack what you need,” she went on. “We’ll catch tomorrow morning’s train.”

“There is something I have to tell you, Rebecca,” I said. “It’s about Joel Greenham.”

She smiled and I saw the understanding in her eyes.

“Before he went away,” I added, “we became engaged … secretly.”

She turned to me, smiling. I had not seen her look so happy since the tragedy.

“Oh, Lucie,” she said, “I am so pleased. This is wonderful. Of course, I knew there was something between you and Joel. He will take care of you. When is he coming home?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything yet.”

“These missions don’t usually last very long and he has been away some time. I wonder whether he will have heard … he can’t have done so. If he had I am sure he would have come home right away.”

“It seems so long since he went away,” I said.

“As soon as he comes home you can go back to London … or he could come down to us. Oh, Lucie, I can’t tell you how happy this has made me.”

“I should have told you before only we didn’t intend to announce it until he came back.”

“It will help so much. You’ll be able to start afresh. I can see that you don’t want to make too many plans until he is with you.”

Her mood had changed. She was clearly thinking what a help Joel would be to me.

She was right, of course.

“So,” she went on, “we’ll leave tomorrow morning.”

Celeste was coming with us. We had insisted that she did; and I think she was relieved to do so, although she was a little diffident, as was her way; she confided in me that she was not sure whether Rebecca really wanted her, but was asking her out of kindness.

Poor Celeste! Her life with Benedict had nurtured this feeling of being unwanted; although in the last years he had tried hard to make things different between them.

So we prepared to leave. I was telling myself that, in the peace of Cornwall, I should see everything more clearly. I would be able to convince myself that I was foolish to harbor these uneasy feelings about a man who had deliberately set out to kill my father, shattering his life in a matter of seconds and bringing misery to his family.

I had packed and we were ready to leave.

“We should get a good night’s sleep,” advised Rebecca.

She herself brought a glass of milk to my bedroom. She stayed by my bed and talked to me.

“Everything will be different in Cornwall,” she said soothingly. “The children will love to see you. They are rather adorable. And the grandparents … ours and Pedrek’s. You know how they love it when you come. Ours will be trying to snatch you away from us and get you to Cador. But I shan’t allow it.”

“It all sounds so cozy.”

“It will be best, Lucie. And soon we shall be hearing from Joel. I am sure he will come straight to Cornwall when he knows you are there.”

“I’m getting rather worried about him. It seems so long since he went.”

“Well, it is a long way off, and I don’t suppose getting letters through is very easy. Soon he’ll be home. Oh, I am so glad you and Celeste are such friends. Poor Celeste!”

“I always feel that I want to look after her,” I said.

Rebecca nodded. “Now drink that milk and get off to sleep. We’ll have a long day tomorrow.”

She took the glass, set it down and tucked me in as she used to do when I was a child.

I put my arms round her neck.

“I am so glad to have you, Rebecca,” I told her.

“And I to have you, little sister,” she replied.

Then she kissed me and went out.

I think I dozed a little. Then … something wakened me. It sounded like a scratching on the window. I lay staring into the darkness. The light from the street lamp showed me the outline of familiar furniture. It was something I had found comforting when I was very young. I was thankful for that street lamp. It had played a part in my life. And then it had shown me clearly the face of my father’s murderer. I could not have been so sure of him if I had not seen him standing hatless under it on that fateful night.

Again that scratching on the window. I looked and was in time to see that it was a handful of small pebbles which had been thrown at it.

I got out of bed and went to the window. My heart seemed to stop for a second as I caught my breath, for standing there, under the street lamp, was a figure in an opera cloak and hat. It was a man. He looked straight up at me as I stood at the window. For a few seconds we remained motionless, then suddenly he took off his hat and bowed. As he was standing under the street lamp I could see him clearly. I saw the widow’s peak, even the faint outline of the scar.

He was smiling up at me, mockingly.

I could not move. I just stood there, limp with horror.

The man put his hat on his head and slowly sauntered out of sight.

I was shivering; my limbs were shaking. What had I seen? Was it a ghost? That was my first thought. He had come back to haunt me.

For a few moments, I stood there staring down at the deserted street. Then I went back to bed.

I was still trembling. Then another and more terrible thought occurred to me. Was the man I had condemned
not
my father’s murderer? That man was still here. I had seen him this night,
after
the other had been hanged.

Oh, God help me, I thought. I have condemned an innocent man.

But the man I had seen in court
was
the man I had seen in the street on those two occasions. But if that were so, how could he have been down there on this night?

He had meant me to see him. He had thrown pebbles at my window.

Had he been real or was he a phantom come back to haunt me?

P
EDREK WAS WAITING AT
the station with the carriage when we arrived. The journey had seemed long and all through it I had been trying to forget what I had seen on the previous night. There were moments when I almost convinced myself that I had imagined the whole thing.

I was certainly in an unusual state. I had been terribly shocked. It was just possible that I had suffered from some hallucination. That was the happiest conclusion to which I could come, although I hated to think of myself being so mentally disturbed.

I wanted to tell Rebecca. I felt sure she would have some explanation. Indeed, I had had to restrain myself during that night from going along to her bedroom to tell her all about it.

As we sped across the country past green fields and wooded hills, through villages and the outskirts of towns, I began to get a sense of normality, and the more I thought of what I had seen last night, the more reasonable it seemed to believe that I had imagined the whole thing.