Black Gloves

Chapter 5

Present, bedroom.

The torrential rain that had warred with London over the past 32 hours was beginning to tire, although the dark clouds that blanketed the skies still hovered threateningly. Rainwater had collected in small pools within the neglected cavities in the ground, filled the pond in the centre of the garden so much so that it had overflowed. From my window, I could see a little fish flopping from side to side upon the tiles; determine to roll back into the water, determined to cling on to life. I turned my back. Hanging on the back of the door was my court clothes; a conservative cream shift dress, a dark blue fitted blazer and a small black handbag. The black, suede courts that were to go with it were neatly stored away in its box beneath my bed. In fact, everything in my room was neatly stacked or stored away. There is a place for everything. Not so much as an eyeliner pencil will ever be seen lying around carelessly in my room. I stroked the soft, supple material of the shift admiringly. It was a nice dress, I had to admit, it had the perfect amount of subtle elegance. And with the trial only three days away, Fitzhugh made sure every detail of my appearance was perfect.

“What you wear is of extreme importance.” he had said. “Clothes are the first thing the jury observe when they first set eyes on you. It is, without a shadow of a doubt, the most significant factor in a first impression. For example, a man is on trial for, say, ABH. But he glides in with a quietly expensive suit, polished leather shoes, a tasteful watch. Now this doesn’t seem like a man who fits the description of a violent thug. So the jury unconsciously look for other reasons because the human brain will always search for the rational explanation. Equally, a woman accuses a man of rape. However, if shewears her skirt so much as an inch above the knee, well. She can kiss that case goodbye.”

Fitzhugh had his wife first obtain an all black suit for me. When it had arrived he had ordered me upstairs to try it on whilst he, Mrs. Fitzhugh and Russell waited downstairs. It had fitted me perfectly but when I had resurfaced, I found Fitzhugh staring at me, a small crease appearing on his forehead as he frowned.

“What’s the matter?” I had asked. “Too plain?”

He shook his head slightly before saying quietly, “Too striking.”

“And what is wrong with that?” said his wife bemusedly. “Should she not make an impression?”

“Not this impression.”

I smiled to myself. It was the first smile I had cracked in days.

“Honestly Mr. Fitzhugh, from the way you were speaking, you would have thought I’d staggered into the room in six inch heels and stockings.”

“You just look very capable, that’s all.” He commented.

I didn’t have to ask what he had meant. Innocent people are not meant to be striking.

So we settled on the dress that was humbly hanging on the door. I sat down slowly on my bed, my fingers absent-mindedly tugging the necklace around my neck.  The trial begun in three days. You could almost smell the nation’s anticipation, as though this were nothing more than a warped reality television show. Have they forgotten a schoolgirl has been murdered? I snorted contemptuously. Of course they haven’t, it’s the very thing that is fuelling their morbid enthusiasm. I sat immobile on my bed for some time, until the quiet opening of the front door and outbreak of low voices roused me from my stupor. Almost feline-like, I crept to the landing to listen in on the conversation between Russell and Mr. Fitzhugh.

“... Of course I went to all the obvious places.” Fitzhugh said in undertone. “The library, local shops, her school – that was the most unhelpful place of the lot. She is a complete social pariah. She did not fraternise with anybody, although that is both blessing and curse.”

“How so?”

“Blessing because nobody can repeat anything she’s said which may be incriminating. Curse because there is nobody on her side.”

“Apart from us.”

“Yes.”

They were silent for a moment.

“I refuse to believe Iva killed Cassandra in cold blood, with motiveless malignity. There has to be something else, there has to be. Isn’t there some way to, to...”

“To prove Iva was not the murderer? Her DNA is in every nook and cranny of that house. Science is against us, Russell.”

“Science can be mistaken.”

“Indeed. However, I think it best to tackle this from a different angle.”

“And what angle might that be?”

“That Cassandra Morrell did not befriend Iva by chance.”

“What?”

“That she... Knew her beforehand somehow. That there is some other link apart from friends. What was it that Iva said? Girls like us should stick together? What a terribly strange thing to say. Iva seemed to think so.”

A slight pause.

“Please do not tell me that that is the defence you attempt to use to fight on my daughter’s behalf? A fictitious connection which you cannot even describe, let alone prove?”

“None of this makes sense! None of it! So I have to look at all my brushes to paint the picture. And once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth!”

“Henry, I do not pay you to quote Sherlock Holmes, I pay you to help procure my daughter’s freedom.”

“And that is what I am doing. But I am faced with perhaps, the biggest quandary of my legal career and a client who will not let me into her head. So forgive me for having to speculate.”

“By all means, speculate away! But remember, speculation will only lead to a flimsy, transparent defence and a failed trial.”

“With all due respect, do not tell me how to do my job.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you were doing it properly!”

They voices had transformed to a hiss in the effort of restraining themselves from shouting at one another.

“So what do you propose was Iva’s motive?”

“Sorry?”

“Why do you think your daughter killed her best friend?”

Russell spluttered indignantly. “How the bloody hell should I know?”

“Exactly.”

“Maybe s-she’s not. Completely right in, ah...”

“I don’t believe this...”

“Believe what?”

“That you’re ready to believe that your daughter is mad simply because it is the easiest reason to accept!”  

A second silence elapsed between them.

“Look at her, Russell.” Said Fitzhugh softly. “Look how she behaves, how she interacts with us. She is witty, funny even. Incredibly aware and extraordinarily intelligent. She may be incredibly distrustful of people, unsociable, rude, a deviant in her own right, but she is as sane as you and I.”

“Then why, Henry? Why would she... What could possibly have driven her to do such a thing?”

I heard the creak of the front door opening.

“That is what I intend to find out.” Said Fitzhugh as he departed, leaving Russell standing alone with his thoughts in the gathering darkness.