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Antonia, her mind still spinning with agony, cried, ‘He’s not a weakling! He’s a cripple! For the love of God, that’s his wheelchair lying on the ground! He hasn’t been able to walk since he was eight years old!’

Tears were pouring down her face, but Don seemed unaware of it. He began to pull her from the room. His face was flushed
and his eyes were brilliant with madness. Antonia fought him off furiously, kicking him and trying to claw his face with her nails.

Through the blazing hatred and the bitter anger that were almost overwhelming her, she was aware of falling back against the piano–Richard’s piano–and then of being pushed onto the ground. Don’s hands were tearing at her jacket, and pushing beneath the thin sweater she was wearing under it. He was breathing excitedly, and lying half on top of her–his breath smelt of whisky and Antonia felt the hot hardness of his excitement against her legs. Sick revulsion swept over her.

She thought he said, ‘Whatever he was, Antonia, he’s dead now–he can’t come between us.’

‘You stupid besotted child!’ shouted Antonia. ‘Richard was never between us! He couldn’t have been! He was my brother!’

In the police interviews and then later at her trial, Antonia said, with complete honesty, that she had simply snatched up the nearest weapon to hand. Don had been trying to rape her, and she had been terrified. He had killed her brother, and she had been afraid he was going to kill her as well.

The prosecution made much of this. ‘But you’ve just said, Dr Weston, that you thought Don Robards was going to rape you. In the same breath you’re saying he was trying to kill you. Which was it?’

Antonia said coldly, ‘When you’re pinned down by a murderer, you’re not in any condition to form precise conclusions. He was behaving violently, and as well as that his intentions were obviously sexual—’

‘You’re sure of that, are you?’

‘Oh, for pity’s sake, he had an erection like a gate post and his hands were inside my sweater!’ said Antonia angrily, and was aware of the entire press bench frantically scribbling in their notebooks.

‘So you stabbed him.’

‘I grabbed the knife which was lying on the floor, but it might just as well have been the brass doorstop. I simply hit out with whatever came to hand.’

‘And the thing that came to hand was the knife.’

‘Yes. I can’t even remember if I recognized it as a knife at that stage. But I can remember that the blade went straight in,’ said Antonia tersely, not wanting any of them to see how sick it still made her to remember the feel of the knife puncturing Don’s body, and to hear the harsh rasping of breath rushing from his lungs and the sudden warm wet gush of blood…But what none of them knew and what Antonia dare not let any of them guess, was that she had hated Don so deeply and so overwhelmingly for killing Richard, that for a short time she had not cared that he was dead. But this was so shameful a knowledge, she had resolutely ignored it.

‘My client was acting solely in her own defence,’ said Antonia’s counsel, leaping to his feet at this point. ‘And let’s remember that the charge against her is manslaughter, not murder.’

‘The knife,’ said the prosecution, steam-rollering on, ‘entered Don Robards’ body through the left side and pierced his heart instantly and exactly. The jury should ask themselves whether this was a calculated action–an action committed by someone with medical knowledge.’

‘Dr Weston is a psychiatrist, not a surgeon. While the jury are asking themselves your questions, they might do well to keep that fact in mind.’

‘But she would have more knowledge of anatomy than a layman.’

‘She was distraught at finding her brother dead, and frightened half to death by finding in her home the man who had been stalking her–and no, that isn’t too strong a word,’ said Antonia’s defence, anticipating the next interruption but with one eye on the judge who looked about to intervene. ‘What Dr Weston did was not calculated or deliberate. She was certainly in no frame of mind to judge where and how to penetrate a man’s heart with a kitchen knife.’

‘Mr Frazer, you will have your chance to argue your client’s case presently,’ said the judge. ‘For the moment, we will proceed with the prosecution.’

The arguments had gone on and on–the parrying and thrusting, the time spent debating legal points and interpretations. Antonia had tried to follow carefully, but several times she lost the thread which panicked her because if she could lose the thread how much likelier was it that the jury would lose it?

Medical evidence was called, showing that there had been some minor abrasions on Antonia’s hands. No, it could not be stated definitely that they were defence wounds, although they were consistent with a struggle. There had been nothing to suggest sexual assault or intention: no torn clothes, no bruises or lacerations to the defendant’s thighs. It had been useless for Antonia’s counsel to leap to his feet at that point, and say that the rape had not progressed to bruised thighs and torn clothes. Dr Weston had already described Don Robards’ actions and explained about his obsession, and there was no reason to disbelieve her account. As for the sexual intent, he said caustically, these days any half-intelligent female outside a nunnery was perfectly capable of knowing if a man intended sexual intercourse.

The events leading up to Richard’s death had been meticulously and methodically unfolded. Antonia and Richard’s movements had been charted, and witnesses had been called to verify everything: a phone call Richard had made to a friend shortly after eight o’clock; colleagues who had seen Antonia in the hospital until half past six; the drink with Jonathan. In the hands of prosecuting counsel, the blameless glass of wine had sounded like a Bacchanalian orgy.

Jonathan Saxon described Don Robards’ treatment at the clinic, and gave his own assessment of Don’s mental frame of mind. Matters had been complicated when Don had developed an obssession with Dr Weston, said Jonathan. He had fantasized about her, and it was not putting it too strongly to say he had begun stalking Dr Weston. She had not called in the police because she had been afraid of the effect on her brother, of whom she was extremely protective, but also because she was aware of Don Robards’ own precarious mental balance.

Yes, said Jonathan, he knew Don had told Antonia he had not killed Richard–that he had found Richard’s body lying on the floor. Asked if the state of Don’s mental health might have caused some kind of blackout or mental block, Jonathan said, yes, it was possible. A fugue might have intervened or some form of hysterical amnesia–to put it simply, the conscious mind may have refused to acknowledge the fact of the murder.

He gave his evidence clearly and firmly, and of his own volition he added that Antonia Weston was a very good doctor of psychiatry, concerned and committed to the care of all her patients, and that if this tragedy prevented her from continuing to practise, it would be an appalling loss to the hospital in general and his own clinic in particular. He glared at the prosecuting counsel as he said this, and Antonia was deeply grateful to him.

A neighbour of Antonia and Richard’s, was called to explain that she had walked past their bungalow shortly before nine that night. She knew Antonia and Richard Weston slightly; they were on good-morning and good-evening terms, and Dr Weston had given her a lift into town a few times. Very nice people, very well thought-of, and it was a tragedy about Richard, such a marvellous pianist. He had been part of one or two charity events for Dr Weston’s hospital. Concerts and things. She always bought tickets. And she always slowed down going past the bungalow in case Richard was playing–he had a music room overlooking the front garden. If the windows were open, such as they might be in summer, you could sometimes hear him, and it was lovely, as good as Classic FM.

No, she had not heard him playing on that last night. It had been dark and cold, and the windows had been closed. What she had heard was the sound of raised voices–people shouting–and she had been quite surprised at that. No, she had not been able to tell if they were men’s or women’s voices, just angry voices. No, she had not stopped to listen. Well, mostly because she was hurrying home for a TV programme, but also because you did not listen to other people’s quarrels, especially if they were people
you knew. So she had gone on to her own house, and had been in good time for her programme although if she had known what was happening to Richard Weston she would never have watched it, in fact she would never watch that particular series again. Thank you very much, my lord.

The second witness was a roughish-looking young man, who was wearing a suit, but who looked as if he would be more at home in biker’s leathers. He had been in the pub on the corner, he said. Yes, it was the night the crippled bloke was killed. Yes he was sure. There was a pub quiz and he and a couple of his mates were on the home team. Nine o’clock it was due to start, so they had been keeping an eye on the time, like.

Anyway, this bloke had come in a bit after eight and ordered a large whisky–several large whiskies. No, of course he had not known it to be Don Robards then, said the witness, but the next day the Old Bill had shown a photograph round and he had identified him from the photograph. Yes, he was sure. He had noticed Robards particular, like, because he had been sat at the table they wanted for the pub quiz, and they had all wondered whether they could ask him to move. Tables took a bit of arranging for a quiz night. Robards had been a bit pissed. Not rat-arsed, but a bit pissed. All right, drunk. Anyway, a bit before nine he had gone, and they moved the table and had the quiz. The home team had won and the prize had been two bottles of wine, not that the witness was a great wine drinker, in fact he would never drink wine again because it would always remind him of the night that poor sod Richard Weston was topped.

The witness from the police forensic department confirmed that the kitchen knife that had killed both Richard and Don was part of a set of cooking knives belonging to the prisoner, normally kept in the kitchen. Not in a drawer, but on a rack just above a worktop–the jury would be familiar with such things from their own kitchens. As Richard Weston was permanently confined to a wheelchair, the kitchen was arranged so he could reach ordinary everyday implements. He had, it seemed, liked preparing
the evening meal for his sister who was at the hospital all day; it was part of the pattern of their lives.

The knife was unquestionably the weapon that had killed Richard Weston and Don Robards. The shape and depth of the wound in each case, the angle of entry, the separate bloodstains on the blade—The details became technical and slightly over-long at this point, and Antonia, studying the jury, thought this was overdoing it. They looked intelligent enough, but this stuff about blood groups and angles of wounds was specialized knowledge.

When it came to the case for the defence, her counsel, pleading mitigating circumstances for all he was worth, made much of her distraught state at finding her brother’s body.

‘She wasn’t so distraught she couldn’t remove her own bloodied jacket and sweater before the police arrived,’ said prosecuting counsel.

‘I think,’ said the defence dryly, ‘we can accept Dr Weston’s own explanation as a genuine one.’ He flipped through a sheaf of notes, and then read, ‘“I was shaking and I felt sick. I managed to push him off me, and then I rushed to the cloakroom to be sick. It was only afterwards I realized I was soaked in Don’s blood. I couldn’t bear the smell of it or the wetness, so I took everything off and stuffed it in a plastic bin liner. Then I heard the police and the ambulance arriving, so I pulled on a tracksuit and let them in.”’ He lowered the notes and looked directly at the jury. ‘I think most people will sympathize with Dr Weston’s actions over that,’ he said, and Antonia thought the women on the jury half nodded as if in agreement.

But she had known by then that a verdict of manslaughter was inescapable–the difference between manslaughter and murder had been explained to the court at the outset–but beneath the grinding pain at Richard’s death, she had thought there might be a recommendation for clemency. Would it even result in a suspended sentence? Probation? But nagging at her conscience like an aching tooth was the memory of how she had felt when
Don died…Glad, strong, triumphant…You’re dead, you bastard, and serve you right for killing Richard. It was absurd to think she should be punished for thinking and feeling that, and it was probably verging on clinical hysteria, but she did think it and she did feel it.

Summing up, the judge said the facts of Richard Weston’s own murder seemed clear enough, and were not really in question. Don Robards had been seen in the area at the significant time, and he was known to have formed a violent passion for Dr Weston. It was reasonable to surmise that he had gone into the pub to bolster his courage with a few drinks before going along to confront her with his feelings for her.

They had the neighbour’s evidence of raised voices from the bungalow, as of two people engaged in an argument, and although they could not know the state of Don Robards’ mind that night, it was reasonable to assume he had taken Richard Weston to be Dr Weston’s lover or husband, rather than her brother, and had attacked and killed him out of blind jealousy. Dr Weston had told the court this seemed to be Don Robards’ belief in the last few minutes of his life, and there was no reason to disbelieve that. She had given a frank account of everything that had taken place, and there was no reason to doubt any of it.

And although the jury must take into account the fact that Antonia Weston had been distraught at her brother’s death, and, if they were to believe her evidence, afraid for her own safety, they must not allow themselves to be unduly swayed by any false sentiment or sympathy. Now the court would rise, and the jury were to retire to the jury room and consider their verdict.

It took the jury the best part of eight hours to reach a verdict, but in the end it was that of guilty, as everyone had known it would be. Guilty of manslaughter.

Sentence was not passed until the following day, and Antonia spent a miserable night, watching the clock crawl through the hours. She tried to convince herself that she did not care what
happened to her, but somewhere between midnight and four a.m. she knew she did care.

Caring what happened did not make any difference to the sentence. The judge told the court that the gaoling of a professional woman of considerable intelligence–a woman who had clearly been a dedicated and gifted psychiatrist–offended every sensibility, but that the facts could not be ignored. And those facts, quite simply, were that a doctor bound by the Hippocratic oath had killed a patient. There was a good deal more about the sanctity of the doctor–patient relationship and a fair amount about the judge’s own reluctance to pass a custodial sentence.

But despite his reluctance, Antonia was sentenced to eight years in gaol.

Lying wakeful in Charity Cottage, reliving the trial and the dreary years in prison, Antonia felt again the ache of loss for Richard, and a wave of anger and bitterness that he had not lived to enjoy his music and his life. He had lost so much in the car crash that had killed their parents when he was eight and Antonia was eleven: he had lost the use of his legs because his spine had been irreparably damaged, and had lived the rest of his life in a wheelchair. One of the things Antonia had always found unbearably sad was that Richard would never know the closeness and the delight of being in bed with a lover. But he had clung tenaciously to optimism and had clung even more tenaciously to his music. He had worked hard, and so had Antonia, and after a few years–after she had qualified in psychiatric medicine and Richard had left the Royal College of Music–they had been able to buy the big comfortable bungalow. They liked living there, and they liked one another’s company. Richard had acquired some pupils and was making a modest name as a music researcher. Life had not been perfect but it had been very good.