Free The Trial of Elizabeth Cree by Peter Ackroyd

disperse as they talked, and Marx roused himself from the fireside. “How late it is now,” he said, going over to the window once more. “Even the fog has decided to retire.” They parted with a handshake, and saluted one another, in German, for the last time upon this earth. Marx buttoned up his topcoat as he walked out into the street and looked in vain for a cab; he was passed by one or two inhabitants of the neighborhood, who later remembered the small foreign-looking gentleman with the untrimmed beard.

SIXTEEN
    MR. LISTER : Now, Elizabeth. May I call you Elizabeth?
    ELIZABETH CREE : I know you are defending me, sir.
    MR. LISTER : Tell me, Elizabeth, what possible reason could you have for murdering your own husband?
    ELIZABETH CREE : None, sir. He was a good husband to me.
    MR. LISTER : Did he ever beat you, or strike you in any way?
    ELIZABETH CREE : No, sir. He was always gentle with me.
    MR. LISTER : But you do profit financially from his death, do you not? Tell me about that.
    ELIZABETH CREE : There was no life insurance, sir, if that is what you mean. We had an income from the railway shares, which he had inherited from his father. There was also a hosiery business, which we sold.
    MR. LISTER : He was a faithful husband?
    ELIZABETH CREE : Oh, very faithful.
    MR. LISTER : I find that easy to believe when I look at you.
    ELIZABETH CREE : I’m sorry, sir? Do you wish me to say something else?
    MR. LISTER : If you would oblige me a little, Elizabeth. I would like you to tell the court how you and your husband first met.

SEVENTEEN
    I found the Washington just by the old Cremorne Gardens, as Dan Leno had told me. I could hardly have mistaken it: its walls were painted with life-size figures of actors and clowns and acrobats, and I imagined myself as one of the pictures here, sauntering along the fresco with my blue gown and yellow umbrella, singing my own especial song for which the world loved me. But what song could that be?
    “You must be giddy Godiva,” someone said behind me. “The maid who was sent to Coventry.” It was my new “uncle,” Tommy Farr, but he no longer had the flash check jacket which had so impressed me. He was wearing a lovely black topcoat, with all its fur trimmings, and a silk hat. He must have seen my look of wonder, because he tipped his hat back a fraction and winked at me. “At the Washington,” he said, “we all have to be a bit of an artiste. It’s not so free and easy. Can you read the English language, dear?”
    “Yes, sir. Like a native.” My mother had taught me to do so, with her Jeremiahs and her Jobs and her Isaiahs, and now I could read as well as anyone living; I soon grew tired of spouting her nonsense, though, and read copies of the
Woman’s World
which a neighbor passed on to me.
    Uncle had appreciated my little joke about “a native” and patted me on the shoulder. “Well, read that there, then.”
    There was a poster on the wall behind me, and so I turned to it and spoke in clear, firm voice. “At this unequaled establishment—”
    “There aren’t any capitals in your voice, dear. Put in the capitals.”
    “At this Unequaled Establishment there will appear on Monday the twenty-ninth Miss Celia ‘She Can Be Rather Sultry’ Day. Following the very successful reception of her ditty, ‘Hurrah for the Dog of the Fire Brigade,’ she will be joined for the chorus of that Renowned Confabulation with the Lion Comique himself, the White-Eyed One.”
    “I wrote all that myself,” Uncle said. “In the best possible style. I could have been another Hamlet. Or do I mean Shakespeare?” He seemed to be close to tears, and I felt quite alarmed for him. “Alas, poor Celia, I know her well.” He sighed and raised his hat. “She’s an old-timer. She shouldn’t be playing all this blue bag stuff.” His mood then changed abruptly. “Tell me, dear, what does it say at the very bottom of the bill?”
    “Tonight. A Benefit for the Friends in Need