S ir Edward handed Evelyn an envelope - unsealed, in fact. She took the object and stared at it curiously.
"An unsealed letter?" Evelyn asked, still examining the envelope. "From whom? There's no name, no return address."
"I was hoping you could tell me."
"There's nothing to tell."
"Well, then, if you would be so kind as to read it," Sir Edward insisted. "We can discuss it in due course."
"As you wish."
Evelyn opened the envelope and read the contents, trying to absorb their meaning. Her first instinct was to identify the author, perhaps hoping it would explain why Sir Edward had given her the letter in the first place. But the more she read, the more puzzled she became:
They're dead. My son, my daughter. All dead. Gone forever. How could I have let this happen? What did I do to deserve this fate? I bribed the guards for paper - something to write on, anything. One of them gave me his pen, I think, as a token gesture. He barked at me. "Go on! Do it! Make your case!" A challenge, a dare. Mocking me, urging me to write it all down - my thoughts, my feelings, my hopes, the horrors my eyes have witnessed. In their laughter, I sensed a challenge. The guards wanted me to tell their story. My story. The story of what happened. How it came to this. They say you never forget your loved ones, or those who wronged them. But you do. Still, you try to remember their faces, their looks, their names - but you can't. They slip away, silently, from your thoughts. You remember some, but beyond that, they're gone. Out of sight, out of mind. They are wrong, dead wrong. It's as if they never existed. But they did exist. And now they're just memories - dull, aching memories in the back of your mind. Yes, that's all they are. Memories. We place them there, but we forget about time. There aren't enough hours in the day to make up for lost time. Time dictates our lives. Time heals all wounds, but it leaves behind the scars. We live in chunks of time - short and long, tight in spots. In the old days, how did they measure time? With clocks, watches, sundials, and more - but there was never enough time. Time rules all things. Bottles of time, all bottled up and tucked away somewhere. Time's up. Time's down. How many times? Ten times? There's plenty of time. Take your time. There's no time like the present. My God, is it time?"I don't understand. What does this mean?" Evelyn asked, staring blankly at Sir Edward. "Who wrote this?"
"I haven't a clue," he replied. "Like you, I am at a loss regarding the authorship."
"We're on the same page about this, aren't we? The same boat, I mean."
"Hopefully not a sinking one. Do you have any thoughts on its meaning?"
"None at all," Evelyn said, re-reading the letter more to glean new information than to identify its source. "It could be fiction, or it could be fact. Otherwise, I'm speechless, Sir Edward."
"As I am. Take a look at the writing," he added. "The penmanship, you see, is most refined. For one so troubled and put upon, the handwriting is exquisite, unperturbed by the sentiments expressed. In my experience, this seems to be the work of someone with a guilty conscience - and a somewhat morbid sense of humor. Likely a man, though possibly a woman. Most likely a person in confinement - a prisoner against their will."
"You mean a lifer?" Evelyn interjected.
"Probably. No doubt serving a life sentence for a heinous crime. Somewhere, far away and out of reach."
"Out of sight, out of mind?"
"Exactly."
Evelyn searched her solicitor's eyes for clues as to his thinking. Glancing closely again at the letter and its peculiar wording, she felt an oddly familiar sensation of déjà vu - but how could that be? Better to keep this to herself, Evelyn acknowledged. For now.
"Is this what you've been spending your time on? This letter?"
"Not necessarily. I wanted to bring it to your attention," Sir Edward responded.
"Has your research into my case caused you to speculate about time?"
"Time is of the essence, dear Evelyn. This letter proves it."
"And how did you come by it? Did someone give this to you? Did one of your assistants find it? And if so, where?"
Sir Edward smiled broadly.
"Your guess is as good as mine. I found it on my desk yesterday morning. Of course, I asked my assistants if they knew anything about it, but none of them seemed to recall it. I suspect that someone from outside left the letter behind, though I have no proof. This is all prior to reading it, you see. The night cleaners swore they saw nothing unusual. Then again, how would they know? Letters, bills, affidavits, claims - the everyday ins and outs of a bustling law office. Nothing unusual or amiss. Certainly nothing you, as a defendant, nor I, as your solicitor, would find out of place."
"It didn't get there on its own. Somebody must have placed it there, but who?"
"As 'somebody' once said, 'A riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma' is still a riddle."
"You're paraphrasing, of course."
"Of course."
"The perfect crime, Sir Edward?" Evelyn asked, skeptically.
"There is no 'perfect crime.' Only imperfect ones, committed by imperfect beings."
"Perfect or imperfect, the criminal mind is capable of anything," Evelyn added, raising her gaze to meet Sir Edward's now sullen one.
"Which brings me to your situation."
A t the same time Sir Edward Bromley was discussing the letter's contents with his client, Dr. Evelyn M. Forster, a cross-examination was underway at the Central Criminal Court Building in London - better known as the Old Bailey. Sir Hubert Humboldt Dunfree, London's finest barrister and soon to lead her defense team, was wrapping up an earlier court case.
Directly across from him sat Sir William Bolton, the lead prosecutor, waiting impatiently for Sir Hubert to resume his interrogation of a key witness. Overseeing the proceedings was Lord Chief Justice Lady Charlotte R. Chilton, an even-handed but notoriously short-tempered criminal magistrate.
"Proceed, Sir Hubert," barked the Lord Chief Justice.
"Thank you, Your Honor." Sir Hubert turned to the witness, Mr. Mortimer H. Sievers, the caretaker and groundskeeper for the Motley Mansion at St. George's Hill Estates, Surrey. "Mr. Sievers, do you swear?"
Mr. Sievers looked up, baffled by the question. "Do I...what, sir?" he repeated, glancing at Sir William for guidance.
"Objection. The witness has been sworn in," shouted Sir William.
"Sustained!"
"Your Honor, may I rephrase?" asked Sir Hubert.
"Proceed."
"Thank you, My Lady. Ahem, Mr. Sievers, are you in the habit of swearing? By that, I mean, do you use swear words?"
"Swear words, sir?"
"Yes, swear words. For instance, do you take the Lord's name in vain?"
"Objection! Relevance, Your Honor!" Sir William interrupted.
"Sustained. Sir Hubert?" The Lord Chief Justice furrowed her brow at the barrister.
"It speaks to the accused's state of mind, My Lady, and to the evidence at hand."
"What evidence? Your Honor, Sir Hubert has been wasting the court's time for weeks with these needless distractions and spurious delay tactics. When will he produce something of substance?"
"We've only just begun!" Sir Hubert sang, his dry baritone echoing the lyrics of an old Carpenters song.
"Your Honor, please! This is highly irregular!" protested Sir William.
"Agreed. Decorum, Sir Hubert. Decorum!"
"Begging Your Ladyship's pardon," Sir Hubert replied, most obsequiously. "I shall refrain from further diversions. May we approach?"
"Very well," muttered the Lord Chief Justice under her breath.
The two lawyers began bickering in an attempt to make their cases. As first Sir Hubert, then Sir William, tried to persuade Lord Chief Justice Lady Chilton to their respective viewpoints, two of Sir Hubert's colleagues, seated directly behind the combatants, observed their banter with bemusement.
"Humpty Dunfree's on a roll," whispered one.
"What next?" whispered the other.
"I'm waiting for that great fall," came the response.
"Lord help us all! What a show! Sir Hubert thinks he's Rumpole of the Bailey! "
"Ah, yes.... Um, wait. Who's Rumpole?"
"The John Mortimer character. You know. That jolly, rotund fellow?"
"Oh, uh-huh, right.... who's John Mortimer?"
"Never mind!"
(To be continued....)
Copyright © 2024 by Josmar F. Lopes