Rejection Runs Deep (The Canleigh Series, book 1: A chilling psychological family drama) by Carole Williams (uplifting novels TXT) 📕

with chewing gum; and then there were the women, staring intently at her, wriggling excitedly in their seats as they waited for proceedings to commence.  Delia could imagine them, sitting with their knitting beside the guillotine in revolutionary France, watching aristocrats having their heads chopped off.  Five members of the press were there, notebooks and pencils at the ready.  Delia smiled wryly.  She was going to be in all the papers again tonight and hoped they would print a half decent photograph of her.   But out of the packed audience, there was no-one she knew.  Naturally, none of her family would want to be there and anyway her father and Ruth, with the sprog, were still at Blairness and Vicky was in London.  Barrie was in Oxford, waiting at the Randolph, and would whisk her away if she was acquitted, which she hoped to goodness she would be.  The alternative didn’t bear thinking about.

She had wondered if Elizabeth and George, Rocky’s adoptive parents, would make an appearance but there was no-one in the public gallery who looked remotely like the people who had whisked him out of the country all those years ago.

The judge, on entering the courtroom, looked old, austere and serious and she could just imagine him happily placing a black cloth on his head and pronouncing that she was to be hanged by the neck until she was dead.  She shuddered, thanking God under her breath that the death penalty had been abolished.  The jury, once they were sworn in, were a mixed bunch but Delia was pleased to see the women outnumbered the men so they might listen more sympathetically and could, just could, believe that she really had shot Rocky in self-defence.  Crossing her fingers, she wished she had managed to force some breakfast down.  Her stomach was rumbling loudly which was most embarrassing.

Although her freedom depended on what occurred, Delia found it difficult to concentrate on proceedings after she had stood to declare her plea of not guilty.  The room was too warm, she disliked having her hair pinned up, felt uncomfortable in a suit and her shoes pinched and being stared at by so many people for hours on end was not her idea of a relaxing morning.  She would prefer to be anywhere in the world rather than here.  No, that wasn’t strictly true.  She wouldn’t want to be back on that Caribbean island where she had found Parfitt.  She wondered what had happened to him.  Had he used her money to get back home or drank it away?  She would probably never know.

She tried to concentrate on proceedings.  Someone was reading out the results of the post-mortems on Richard and Rocky … or Peter Percival as he was now called.  She had to keep reminding herself who he was.  After such a long time of thinking of him as Rocky, it was as if they were talking about another person.  The two police officers who had been first on the scene gave their statements, reading from their pocket books.  As there were very few witnesses to what had occurred, the only people who were called to give evidence were the two male medical students who had helped her when she had fled Richard’s flat.  They had nothing of any great significance to say … and then it was her turn.

“Lady Delia Canleigh.  You are called to the stand.”  The words sent a shiver of apprehension through her whole body as Cubitt-Jones smiled at her and nodded that she move to the witness stand.  The atmosphere in the room became charged and it seemed as if everyone, even the judge, leant forward eagerly in their seats so they could clearly hear every word uttered.  The jury studied her intently, waiting for her to slip up.

“Stay calm,” Cubitt-Jones had told her more than once during their meetings before the trial.  “Direct your answers, slowly and clearly, to the jury, not to me … and for goodness sake, don’t show any signs of hostility to the prosecuting counsel or the judge.  That will do you absolutely no favours at all.”

Delia stared hard at the prosecuting team, headed by that awful Craddick man, who very possibly could utterly destroy her.  He rose from his chair and sauntered towards Delia, a grim smile on his face as he approached.  He reminded Delia of a fox with his long-pointed nose and his patchy reddish-brown hair and freckles.  Clutching his notes in his hand, he turned to her abruptly, increasing the volume of his voice so that everyone in the courtroom could hear him.

“I am very interested to learn, Lady Delia Canleigh, as to whether or not you have ever worn a navy duffle coat.”

CHAPTER 32 LONDON - MARCH 1974

Vicky replaced the receiver of the telephone on the antique mahogany desk in her office at the club and walked to the cocktail cabinet.  She poured a generous amount of vodka into a crystal glass.  Normally a dash of lemonade would be added but today she wanted it strong and undiluted.   With the glass in her hand, she walked towards the window, staring blindly out at the car park.  She badly needed a cigarette but had smoked her last one twenty minutes ago and didn’t want to venture out of the office and bump into any of the staff in order to buy another packet.  Anyway, it was a hateful habit, only recently taken up thanks to all the pressure she was under.  Vicky didn’t even like the taste of it, or the ghastly smell left on her clothes and in her hair.  She would do her best not to have another.

It was a miserable March day, with the rain outside hitting Alex’s brand-new black Jaguar and her little green MG with frightening force.  According to the weather forecast it was supposed to brighten up and even turn out warm but at this moment in time there was