Chương 16: Noblesse Oblige

"Witness, you are the captain of the Spellweaving Club, yes? What kinds of activities do you do there?" Clara started with a softball to get the viscount to start talking; he seemed like the type to love the sound of his own voice. Reginald examined his nails as if he hadn't heard her. The silence stretched for several uncomfortable seconds. Clara glanced at the bishop, who looked confused, then back at the viscount.

"Witness, did you hear my question?"

"I heard something," Reginald said, his gaze still fixed on his cuticles.

"Though I could have sworn it was the draft coming through the windows. This city hall really ought to invest in better insulation." Clara's eye twitched.

"The defense has asked you a question, Viscount," the bishop offered helpfully.

"Has it? I'm afraid I didn't notice. I was under the impression that when one such as myself is addressed, the proper title ought to be used." Reginald finally looked up, but not at Clara—at the bishop.

"Your Excellency, surely it is not too much to expect a modicum of decorum, even from the help." Ugh. So this is how it's going to be. From the corner of her eye, Clara saw Warren lean back in his chair, watching the exchange with undisguised amusement.

"My sincerest apologies, Viscount Vainglory." Clara lowered her head just enough to satisfy propriety and not a hair more.

"I meant no disrespect. Now, would you be so kind as to share with the court the kinds of activities the Spellweaving Club engages in?" Reginald tilted his chin, apparently weighing whether the apology met his exacting standards. Then he gave a magnanimous wave of his hand.

"The Spellweaving Club is Claves Academy's most prestigious extracurricular society. We practice advanced spellcraft, conduct experimental research into new magic theorems, and prepare exhibitions for the academy's yearly gala. Membership is highly selective, naturally." Clara nodded.

"That sounds quite demanding. Would it not follow, then, that the position of supervisor instructor of that club is also prestigious?"

"Quite so. Professor Morris is the most renowned researcher of his generation, and he's developed several original spe—" He stopped himself, and his proud grin turned into a frown.

"That is to say, while Professor Morris has talents that make him suited for that coveted position, it does not change his proclivity for disasters."

"I understand, Viscount. Thank you for the clarification." Clara paced slowly, letting Reginald bask in being the center of attention.

"Now, if we could return to the morning you discovered the victim's condition. You said you passed by his door and noticed it was ajar."

"That is what I said, yes. I do hope you do not intend to have me repeat my entire testimony. I could ask my servants to bring over one of my parrots, if you like?" Clara held back a frown. It's like I'm talking to a Victorian-era frat bro.

"I shall endeavor not to waste your valuable time, Viscount." It took all her effort not to let her irritation show.

"It was Monday, which is a school day, correct?"

"Yes. Your grasp of the academic calendar is commendable." She stopped pacing and turned to face him fully.

"Viscount, what were you doing when you were passing outside his room?"

"Objection! The viscount's personal affairs are not the business of this court," said Warren.

"I am not asking about his personal affairs. I am asking about the discovery of the victim's condition. This information is necessary for us to have a complete picture of what happened—after all, we are here to seek the truth, are we not? It is simply a matter of thoroughness."

"Hmm." The bishop stroked his beard and, surprisingly, he finally caught the piece of cheese that had been stuck in it.

"Viscount, please answer the question."

"As you've said, it was a school day. So what else would I be doing besides heading to class?" There was some irritation in his tone now.

"In that case, perhaps the viscount could help me with something I find rather puzzling," said Clara.

"As Lady Iris's personal maid, I know well that Claves's dormitory buildings are segregated by both gender and class. Is the third floor of the commoners' dormitory a regular stop along a noble's way to class?" The murmurs from the spectators were instant. Reginald's eyes narrowed, and, for the first time, he met her gaze. Then he glanced at Warren, as if expecting an intervention, but the prosecutor merely watched, his expression unreadable. The viscount straightened his cravat and answered.

"If you must know, as captain of the Spellweaving Club, I sometimes take it upon myself to do the courteous thing and check on a fellow member. The seasonal exhibition is coming up, and I wanted to make sure his project was on track." He examined his nails again.

"It is called noblesse oblige. I wouldn't expect you to be familiar with the concept."

"That's very considerate of you, Viscount. How many other members have you visited in this manner?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's a simple question. Out of all the members of the Spellweaving Club, how many have you blessed with these courteous early morning calls? Or is there some reason Forrest is special?"

"Forrest is—I mean," Reginald stammered.

"I had heard rumors Forrest was going through a difficult time, so I simply paid him a friendly visit as a concerned member of the club."

"Friendly?" It wasn't Clara who spoke. Iris had risen from her seat, her arms crossed and her eyebrows arched.

"Lady Iris," the bishop started, "this is rather—""Your Excellency, forgive me, but I would hate for the viscount's character to be misunderstood through an excess of generosity." A small pause.

"I have had the privilege of studying alongside Viscount Vainglory for two years now. His standards have always been remarkably consistent." Her gaze shifted to Reginald.

"Do you remember, Viscount, when you refused your assigned group for last year's economics project because it had two commoners? Of course, one could hardly fault you for being vigilant to proper class distinctions." Murmurs began to stir again.

"Oh, and who could forget about the most charming phrase you coined to refer to the commoners' dormitory—what was it again? —' the kennel'." Iris sighed exaggeratedly.

"I suppose those are the things one must do to assert oneself when their ambitions exceed their rather minor title of peerage, but they do not lend themselves to making friends among the rabble." If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. Reginald's face went red as the noise from the gallery rose from a murmur to outraged chatter.

"Order! I will have order!" the bishop shouted. Did he not have the ability to use the Pope's silencing spell?

"Behave yourselves! The Goddess is watching." When the crowd calmed down, Reginald retorted to Iris.

"You have grossly mischaracterized my—""Have I?" Iris tilted her head.

"Are we to believe the honorable Viscount Vainglory, who has hardly ever deigned to share so much as a pleasant 'good morning' with a student of lower birth, crossed campus at break of dawn to visit a commoner's dormitory room out of friendliness? And such a distance, too; it's nearly a half-hour's walk between Haverford Hall and Whitmore Hall." The silence that followed was punctuated only by the bishop shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Clara smiled at Iris. I knew she had potential.

The viscount sighed and took a pocket watch out of his jacket.

"Oh, how unfortunate." He raised his chin again, and his proud tone returned in full swing.

"I believe that is all the time I had for today. I must excuse myself now. It was a pleasure, Lord Warren. Do give my best to your father." He glared at Iris.

"Lady Iris."

"What?!" asked Clara with indignation.

"I'm not done with my questions."

"So? Last I checked, I am not the accused here—I'm merely a witness, cooperating out of my own free will. Which, I'm afraid, you have all but exhausted."

"But—""Counsel Casewell," Warren interrupted. His gaze was serious, and she saw none of the usual slyness.

"The witness is a viscount, one who has volunteered his time for the sake of this court. It would be unwise to push further, lest you make a fool of yourself." Clara's instincts were telling her there was more to Reginald's story and that she should keep up the pressure. On the other hand, as a lawyer, she'd learned the importance of waiting for the right time to strike, until she had all the facts she needed. And her goal for now was only to buy time so that Iris could find out the information they were missing.

Yet there was one last thing she needed to do before he left.

"Viscount Vainglory, I do apologize for putting you on the spot. I thank you for your cooperation." She curtsied deeply this time.

"If you'll permit me, I only have one final, minor question for you. Unrelated to the dormitory business, of course." He furrowed his brow, then nodded.

"Very well. I will consider answering it. But it shall be the last time I humor you." She looked at his lapel again, which still glistened just as much as when she'd first seen him. Then she stepped closer to him, reached into her pocket and presented him with an object.

"Would this happen to be one of your brooches? I stumbled upon it at Claves, and just now I noticed its similarity to the one you are wearing today. It seems it would suit someone such as yourself." Iris's eyes widened, and Professor Morris gasped.

"Hmm." Reginald took the brooch from her hand.

"This is indeed an excellent diamond, quite possibly from the Vainglory mines. You have stumbled upon something special." He returned it to her, then shrugged.

"But who's to say whether it's one of mine? It could be, but I deal with so many gems that I cannot really tell which is which. You may keep it, as far as I'm concerned." He turned to the bishop.

"Your Excellency, with that, I shall take my leave. I wish you good fortune."

"Thank you for your cooperation, Viscount Vainglory." Reginald turned his back on them and strode out of the room.

"Well, that was quite eventful," said the bishop.

"I would quite like to hear the prosecution's thoughts, Lord Warren."

"Your Excellency, I'll be brief, before we end up making you late for dinner, as well." There was a polite chuckle from the bishop.

"The defense has spent a considerable amount of time questioning why the viscount happened to be near the victim's room. It was, I'll admit, an entertaining diversion. But a diversion is all it was." He stepped out from behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back.

"Whatever the viscount's reasons for being at Whitmore Hall that morning—whether friendship, noblesse oblige, or a sudden appreciation for the architecture—none of it changes the facts of this case." Warren pointed at the professor.

"The viscount's testimony established, from firsthand and repeated observation, that the accused is an unreliable spellcaster. Not only that, but he is the only spellcaster at Claves with a permit to practice memory magic. A permit, I will remind the court, he was irresponsibly persuaded by a student, towards whom he had a duty of care, to violate." Warren lowered his hand and turned to the bishop.

"The defense would have us believe that the professor's spell was not the cause. But if not the accused, then who? Some phantom culprit who appeared in the night to inflict a Memory Void on a student who, by sheer coincidence, had just been subjected to illegal memory magic by someone known for catastrophic misfires?" He paused.

"The simplest explanation is the only plausible one: the professor's spell went wrong, and a young man has paid the price." There was no mockery in his expression now. Only confidence.

"The prosecution believes that is more than sufficient for a conviction on both charges, Your Excellency." The bishop turned to Clara.

"And what does the defense say to that, Miss Casewell?" Clara stood. She could feel the bishop leaning towards a verdict, pulled by the momentum of Warren's argument.

"Your Excellency, Prosecutor Righton talked of plausibility. Argued that there's only one reasonable explanation, and therefore it must be the correct one." She reached into her pocket and held up the diamond brooch, turning it so it caught the afternoon light filtering through the windows.

"You may have heard me asking the viscount about whether this brooch is his, to which he replied it 'could be'. There is a reason I did that: this brooch was found under Professor Morris's desk on Monday, moments after his arrest. And the professor has confirmed it does not belong to him, nor to any of its visitors. This brooch proves someone unknown was in that office, Your Excellency." She did not say the quiet part out loud.

'It could have been Reginald. He's already lied before'. But she let the bishop process that implication while she set the brooch on the edge of his desk. Then, she pulled out the leather notebook and opened it to the damaged spine.

"The question that follows is: what could an intruder want in the professor's office? And for that, I present his research notebook. As you can see, several pages have been torn out. The professor has confirmed that the missing pages contained his preparatory notes for the very spell he cast on Forrest." The bishop's eyes widened. She let the silence hang for a beat, then continued.

"We have an unknown visitor in the professor's office, and we have missing notes on how to perform memory magic. Taken together, these suggest that someone other than Professor Morris could have the knowledge necessary to cause the Memory Void. Someone who, unlike the professor, would have no permit, no training, and no concern for the victim's wellbeing."

"Objection." Warren sounded bored.

"Counsel is constructing a conspiracy out of a lost button and some misplaced papers. Any number of visitors could have dropped it at any time, and the pages could have fallen out on their own, or the professor simply misplaced them." He gestured dismissively.

"There is no chain of custody, no way to verify when these items were found or whether they've been tampered with. As far as we know, this brooch could have been bought this very morning." Clara had been waiting for that. It was exactly the objection any modern lawyer would make. But this wasn't a modern trial. She didn't bother to hide her smile.

"The prosecution raises a fair concern about the reliability of physical evidence. Fortunately, this court has a tool uniquely suited to resolving such concerns." Clara placed her hand over her chest, and Warren frowned.

"The Blessing of Truth. I was the one who found this brooch. If you interrogate me, you will hear that I found it under the professor's desk, immediately after his arrest. If you interrogate the professor, you will not only hear that he has never seen this brooch on any of his visitors, but that he did not rip off or misplace the pages." She turned to the bishop.

"Your Excellency, I am not asking you to acquit the professor today. I know the possibility of another culprit is still entirely circumstantial. But so is the professor's guilt—even if the professor's spell could have misfired, from what the viscount told us, previous misfires always manifested immediately. We cannot be sure of what happened.

And if we convict the professor today, and later it is discovered that someone else harmed Forrest Lorne, we will have made a grave mistake in the eyes of the Goddess, and justice will have failed not only the professor, but the victim himself." She took a breath.

"Therefore, I request more time for the defense to consider the possibility of this 'true culprit'. Surely the truth is worth the wait." The bishop glanced at the prosecution, but no objection came. After taking a moment to consider it, he nodded.

"Very well. While Lord Warren makes a compelling case, I must admit the defense's theory is not completely without merit, and it warrants consideration. We will reconvene on Saturday. The professor is to be held in custody until then." Clara let go of the tension in her shoulder. She had done what she needed to do, and they now had three full days to investigate. Court on Saturday would be a bit odd, but then again, the concept of a business day was very different in this world.

To be fair, I suppose that a few hundred years ago the notion of 'working hours' would have been very different, even back home. She walked back to the professor, who now held a thin smile on his face. Iris, for her part, had the confident grin of someone who'd expected this outcome all along.

"And with that, this court is adjourned!" It doesn't really hit the same without the gavel.