The next morning, the full contingent of Peter’s legal defense team gathered at the mansion. Walter Markinson and Conner Banks were there, of course. The other two chief counselors had flown in as well, Saul Abramson from Chicago and Arthur Robbins from Boston.

Vincent Slater took his usual place at the dining table. The Barrs had set out the usual coffee and pastries and bottles of water on the sideboard. Everything was the same, except that Peter was not sitting at the head of the table. I took his place instead.

If the atmosphere had been heavy the previous week, today it was positively grim. Conner Banks opened the discussion. “Kay, if there’s any comfort in all of this for you, the police report from the other night indicated that Peter was disoriented and dazed, that he had a blank expression in his eyes, and was unresponsive to their orders to move after they cuffed him. When they were in the squad car he started to ask them what happened and why was he there. He even said, ‘I’m not allowed to leave my property, I don’t want to get in trouble.’ They tested for drugs and there were none in his system, so at least I don’t believe they think he was putting on an act.”

“He wasn’t.”

“We’ve got to get his complete medical background,” Markinson said. “Does he have a history of sleepwalking?”

Before I could answer, Vincent Slater said, “Yes, he does.”

I could see beads of sweat on Slater’s forehead and upper lip. “Horses sweat; men perspire; ladies glow.”-Maggie would recite that old chestnut to me during my teenage years if I ever came in after a game of tennis and said something about sweating. To remember it at this moment made me think that I was the one who was in some kind of fugue state.

“What do you know about Peter’s sleepwalking?” Markinson was asking Slater.

“As you are aware, I’ve been working for the Carrington family since the day after I graduated from college. Peter’s mother died when he was twelve. At the time I was twenty-four and Mr. Carrington senior appointed me as a kind of big brother to Peter. Rather than have him chauffeured back and forth to prep school, I would drive him and help him get settled. That sort of thing. When there were school breaks, his father would often be away, and if Peter wasn’t invited to visit a friend, I would take him skiing or sailing.”

I listened, my heart sick, to the story about the boy who had to have someone appointed to keep him occupied during the times when most kids came home to their families. I wondered whether Slater had enjoyed that job, or merely used it to ingratiate himself with Peter’s father and then, eventually, with Peter.

“This is something I would never have discussed, except in the hope of helping Peter now,” Vincent said. “I witnessed at least three episodes of sleepwalking.”

“How old was Peter then?” Banks shot the question at him.

“He was thirteen the first time. It was here, at the house. He had gone to bed, and I was watching television in the room that I now use as an office. I heard a noise and went out to investigate. Peter was in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a glass of milk and some cookies in front of him. His father had warned me that he’d had a few episodes of sleepwalking, and I guessed immediately that I was witnessing one of those episodes. Peter drank the milk, ate the cookies, put the plate and glass in the sink, and left the kitchen. He passed inches away from me and never saw me. I followed him upstairs and watched him get back into bed.”

“Was there ever an episode during which he exhibited violence?” Conner Banks demanded.

“When Peter was sixteen, he and I were in Snowbird, skiing during a school break. We had a two-bedroom suite in the lodge. We’d skied all day and went to bed around ten o’clock. About an hour later, I heard him moving around and looked into his room. He was fully dressed in ski clothes. I realized I shouldn’t wake him up, so I followed him to make sure he’d be okay. He went downstairs. There were still people at the bar, but he ignored them and went outside. I had thrown on a heavy jacket over my pajamas, so I followed him out-in bare feet. His skis were locked outside, but he had the key and unlocked them.”

“He unlocked his skis when he was asleep?” Markinson asked, his tone incredulous.

“Yes. Then he started to walk toward the lift. I couldn’t let him go. I was sure the lift was secured, but, on the other hand, I didn’t know what he might do. Remember, I was in my bare feet. I ran behind him and called his name.”

I was afraid to hear what Vincent was going to tell us.

“Peter spun around and, much as he attacked the cop last night, he attacked me. I managed to jump aside, but the tip of his ski caught me on the forehead over the eye.” Slater pointed to his left eyebrow. “This scar is proof of what happened that night.”

“Were there any other episodes of Peter sleepwalking after that?” This time the question came from Arthur Robbins, the defense attorney from Boston.

“None that I’m aware of. I’m only talking about this because maybe in some way it might show a pattern that would be helpful to Peter’s defense.”

“Was he treated by a doctor after that alarming incident at the ski resort?” Conner Banks asked.

“Yes, by an elderly doctor at Englewood Hospital. That was twenty-five or -six years ago, so I doubt he’s still alive, but maybe his medical records are stored somewhere.

“From what I understand, boys are more likely to be sleepwalkers than girls, and I gather that it often starts in adolescence,” Markinson said. “However, I’m not sure that making the prosecutor aware of Peter having experienced a violent sleepwalking incident twenty-six years ago would necessarily help him in any way.”

“There was another incident last week” I told them. “It was right after Peter got home from the first arraignment.” I explained how he had taken a nap, and when I went to check on him, I found him standing up with a suitcase open and partially packed on the bed.

I did not tell them about Peter’s sleepwalking incident the night we came back from our honeymoon. I could not put into words the fact that his arm had been in the pool as though he was pushing or pulling an object. I reasoned that these lawyers were being paid handsomely to defend my husband, but also that my information might make them actually believe that he had been responsible for Grace’s death.

I was afraid that, even as they worked to acquit him, in their minds they would be thinking, Guilty, as charged.

The lawyers are staying for lunch,” Jane Barr told her husband when he returned from the errands she had sent him to complete. “Wouldn’t you think three straight hours would be enough? Mrs. Carrington looks absolutely terrible. I swear that girl is getting sick.”

“It’s been a lot of strain on her,” Gary Barr agreed as he hung his coat in the closet by the kitchen door.

“I made chicken soup,” Jane said unnecessarily. The aroma of simmering chicken and onions and celery was permeating the kitchen. “I’ll bake some biscuits and have a salad and cheese. None of them are vegetarians.”

Gary Barr knew his wife. For the last two weeks, since Susan Althorp’s remains had been found, Jane had been unraveling. He watched as she went over to the sink and began washing lettuce. He came up behind her. “Do you feel okay?” he asked timidly.

Jane swung around, her face contorted with guilt and rage. “There never was a finer human being in the world than Peter Carrington, and he’s in jail right now because-”

“Don’t say it, Jane,” Gary Barr ordered, his own face mottled with anger. “Don’t say it, and don’t think it. Because it isn’t true. I swear on my immortal soul that it isn’t true. You believed me twenty-two years ago. You’d better keep believing me now, or else we both may be living under the same roof as Peter Carrington again, and I don’t mean on this estate.”