Madame Juror.

Chapter 7

I looked interestedly at the evidence when it was all brought in. There wasn't much of it, to be brutally honest, but there was enough. The envelope knife, in a sealed case, made of glass or possibly something stronger, was the centrepiece, and it was that which naturally drew most attention, but there was also the shirt which I assumed Gerard Harrison had been wearing when he was stabbed. The hole was just above the breast pocket, and there was a small claret stain around the hole. I sighed again. No, no. There still wasn't enough blood. So where was the rest of it? There were a few notes on the appearance of the body, and of the other injuries it had sustained also, but I didn't read over those, as I didn't think they were important.
There was also a plan of the house, it was a two-storey affair, and someone (I plumped for a Scotland Yard man) had put little crosses on where everyone was, or said they were, at the time of the murder. I nodded approvingly, and went back to my couch to think about blood.

All the men, Brenkley included, were still huddled in a gossiping gaggle around the evidence. I contented myself with organising my blackboard-Brenkley had asked for these to be brought up as well, and I wondered where on earth they came from. Still, I planned to make good use of it.

I sneaked another cake off the tray and sat back on my couch. These men were taking forever. It was only a knife with blood on it, for Christ's sake.

The cake was nice. It was a blueberry and white chocolate muffin, with the icing being a mixture of both as well. I wondered where the court got their cakes from.

"Miss Winter?" Abernarthy asked. I sat up suddenly, taking my feet off the coffee table and looking attentive.

"Yes?" I said innocently. I saw a few sniggers from the younger men, especially Chatt and Bright.

Abernarthy, it seemed, fought down a flow of angry words. I corrected myself. I was getting too cocky, and that never ended well. Nodding seriously and washing all sense of comedy off my face, I continued to look attentive.

"Miss Winter, in truth, we aren't sure what to tell you that hasn't already been said by the prosecution in court" Mr. Price explained. "It should be obvious, from the evidence given, that Mrs. Harrison is guilty."

"You're not really getting my point" I said patiently. "I want you to tell me what you think actually happened. The sequence of events that took place in that house on that day. And then I want you to back it up with evidence."

There was a swift, quiet discussion. I noticed Harry Bright doing a lot of the talking. Little traitor, I thought playfully. In truth, I didn't care.

"Mr. Bright tells us you're a young lady who likes her facts, and not her speculations, Miss Winter" Mr. Abernarthy commented.

"Exactly" I said, smiling. "I want the facts from you. You believe this woman is guilty, so tell me exactly what happened."

"But we don't know exactly what happened" Mr. Adelaide pointed out.

"Then how can you say she's guilty?" I replied, with a derisive laugh. There was an awkward silence, in which something miraculous happened. Patrick Chatt got up from his chair and came to sit on my side of the room.

"What are you doing, man?" Abernarthy snapped. Chatt shrugged at him.

"She's right, y'know. We don't know exactly what happened, the barristers only used the bits that suited them in the courtroom. We can't send a woman to hang without knowing exactly what happened. Or at least, I won't. I've changed my mind, for now, and I'll sit over here until you make me change it back again" he announced bravely, and I nodded approvingly at him as he sat down with me on my sofa.

"Do you need more time to discuss?" I asked the remaining nine men (Brenkley was still being the divide) kindly. I was fully intending to give them a sporting chance here.

"I think so." Mr Abernarthy shot a withering look at Mr. Adelaide and at Chatt as the nine of them shuffled back into their circle once again. Mr. Brenkley caught my eye, and mimed a round of applause. I curtsied, and we both chuckled a little.

"Do you have any idea what actually happened, Miss Winter?" Chatt whispered, from his seat next to me. My face creased into a frown, and I shook my head.

"Not yet. Haven't had enough time to think straight. Going over it again with this lot should help, though. I'm almost certain I can pick holes in anything they come up with" I replied confidently.

"Sheesh, I'm glad I'm on your side, Miss Winter" Chatt murmured.

"Actually..." I added, a little randomly.

"Actually what?" Chatt asked eagerly.

"Do you know anything about blood?" I said quizzically.

"Nope, sorry, not a medical student" Chatt replied lightly.

"Damn."

It was a full ten minutes before Mr. Abernarthy and his side launched their second attack. I had briefed Chatt to essentially leave the talking to me, and if he had a point, to twist it into a question and ask me, not them. That way, as I explained and he agreed, Abernarthy couldn't use anything Chatt said as an advantage. I had also told him to poke me every time I looked like I was about to interrupt, an action which, later on, I sorely regretted.

"Miss Winter, Mr. Chatt, you have asked us to put into context what we believe happened on the day Gerard Harrison was murdered." Abernarthy began.

"So here it is" Hamish Rider chipped in.

"Yes" Abernarthy smiled. "Here we go. Harrison is working in his study. The boy, Marcus, is upstairs, unable to move downstairs for his wheelchair, as the servants are out. Marta creeps into the study with whatever weapon she used to beat her husband with. She beats him senseless, then stabs him with the envelope knife, the nearest thing to hand, before leaving him dead on the floor. She then realises what she has done, and knows that she has to get away from the scene. So, she goes into town shopping, taking the beating weapon with her to dispose of along the way." Abernarthy folded his arms and looked proud of himself.

I sat stunned. Never in all my life had I heard anything so blantantly ridiculous. It was only now that I realized how intelligent the barristers must be, to make something which at the time sounded so clever and so accurate out of this utter trash. But it seemed Chatt had broken his promise to me, and was the first out of the two of us to speak up.

"But why would she do that?" he asked. "Like the court case said, they were a perfectly happy family."

"How am I supposed to decipher motive?" Abernarthy asked scathingly. "There was barely any talk of it in the case, anyhow, the prosecution handled it admirably."

Chatt opened his mouth, and I nudged him.

"Mr. Abernarthy is perfectly correct to say he can't decipher motive. To be honest, Mr. Chatt, we can say they're a happy family until we're blue in the face, but we will never be able to prove it" I reasoned. Abernarthy seemed stunned that I had taken his side.

"Yes, yes, of course, Chatt, don't you see that?" he chuntered. I hid a smirk.

"Now, on to my questions. I think I'll write them down up here, as frankly there's far too many to keep in your head all at once" I announced casually, crossing over to the blackboard and picking up the chalk.

This is what I wrote:

1. What's the point in stabbing someone you've already battered almost to death?

2. Why leave the body? Why not hide it?

3. Why leave the knife in the body?

4. Why hide the beating weapon but not the knife?

5. Why leave the house afterwards?

6. Why did the son hear none of this happening, and if he did, why isn't he speaking out?

I turned back towards the men and folded my arms. This should be interesting.