The Unlucky Lottery

Those were momentous words coming from such a sloppy woman, Moreno realized that, and as she drove back home she wondered what they could mean.

The ugly snout of the truth?

Was it merely a general reflection about a family with bad internal relationships, and the feeling of hopelessness after the final catastrophe? Or was it something more than that?

Something more tangible and concrete?

As dusk was falling and she drove into Maardam over the Fourth Of November Bridge and along Zwille, she still hadn’t found an answer to these questions.

Apart from an irritating feeling that she was absolutely sure about.

There was more to this story than had yet come to light. A lot more. And hence good reason to continue with these tentative efforts to penetrate the darkness.

Even if the pearls were black and crackled.

26

The trial of Marie-Louise Leverkuhn dragged on over three long-drawn-out afternoons in the presence of dwindling audiences in the public gallery. The only person who seemed to have any doubts about her guilt – to go by the grim expression on his face – was Judge Hart, who occasionally intervened with questions that neither the prosecutor nor defence counsel seemed to have bothered about.

Nor had she, come to that.

Otherwise, it seemed that the line of truth was going to be drawn somewhere in the grey area between murder and manslaughter. In accordance with a series of points difficult to pin down, such as: reasonable doubt, temporary state of unsound mind, degree of legal competency, time for reflection in prevailing circumstances – and so on.

She found these questions pretty pointless. Instead of listening while they were being argued about, she often sat observing members of the jury. These unimpeachable men and women holding her fate in their hands – or imagining that they did so, at least. For some reason it was one of the two females who captured her interest. A dark-haired woman aged sixty-something – not much younger than she was. Slim and wiry, but with a certain stature that was noticeable mainly in the way she held her head: she hardly ever looked at the person who happened to be speaking – usually the prosecutor or the tiresome Bachmann – but seemed to be concentrating on something else. Something inside herself.

Or more elevated. I could entrust myself to a woman like that, thought Marie-Louise Leverkuhn.

The prosecution had called three witnesses in all, the defence one. She was never quite sure precisely what role the prosecutor’s henchmen were supposed to be playing: if she understood it correctly, they comprised a doctor, a pathologist and some kind of police officer. Their evidence merely confirmed what was claimed to be known already. Perhaps that was the point in fact: Judge Hart asked a few questions that could have opened up new avenues of thought, but nobody seemed to be particularly interested. Nothing was really at stake, and the ventilation in the rather chilly room left a lot to be desired – best to get it all over with as painlessly as possible, everybody seemed to be agreed on that. Nevertheless, interrogation of the witnesses for the prosecution took almost two hours.

Emmeline von Post, the defence’s so-called character witness, took up considerably less time (probably about a quarter of an hour, she didn’t check). All in all it was a rather painful episode. But nothing else could reasonably have been expected. Bachmann hadn’t told her that he intended to put Emmeline in the witness box – if he had, she would have prevented him. No doubt about that.

After Emmeline von Post had come to the stand, confirmed who she was and sworn the oath, barely half a minute passed before she burst out crying. Judge Hart adjourned proceedings while a female usher hurried up to administer a carafe of water, some paper tissues and a dose of humane sympathy.

Bachmann then managed to continue for a few minutes before she collapsed in tears again. Another pause ensued, with snuffling and more paper handkerchiefs, and when the poor woman finally seemed to be more or less composed, Bachmann took his courage in both hands and asked her the crucial question with no more beating about the bush.

‘You have known the accused almost all your life, fru von Post. Given your familiarity with her character, do you consider it credible that she would murder her husband with malice aforethought in the way that the prosecution has tried to suggest?’

Emmeline von Post – who naturally had no idea of what the prosecution had tried to suggest, as she had not had the right to be present in court until it was her turn – sobbed several times. Then she replied in a comparatively steady voice:

‘She would never hurt a fly. I can swear to that.’

Bachmann had no more questions.

Nor did Prosecutor Grootner.

Not even Judge Hart.