Episode 135
Sasha.
The girl said to have lost her parents in a carriage accident at the mere age of eight and survived alone. Had it not even been two months since her eighth birthday? According to what Lady Rosalyn had once muttered while drunk before the young girl, that was so.
They said she had gone missing one day after barely having been saved. And that, too, from the mansion of the grandmother who cherished her so dearly.
It was bizarre to hear, to say the least. Where on earth could that child have gone? And why would she have run away? At that time, the mansion had far more servants than it did now, and its master had been in the prime of her vigor as well, so it must have been an environment where none could grow lax in their duties. Was it possible for a mere eight-year-old child to vanish without a trace from such a mansion?
Not unless someone had deliberately helped her.
Or unless someone had deliberately abducted her.
……Or, perhaps the disappearance was nothing but a delusion born from the old lady’s mental illness, and the child, unable to overcome the shock of losing her parents, had simply wasted away and died.
She—once Marie, or Sophia, or Anna, after being disowned three times—had sincerely wished in her young heart that Sasha would never return alive. Because the memories of having wandered the streets rather than an orphanage or someone’s house had left a powerful mark on her mind in the worst way, she had not wanted to be cast out again.
Impersonating another person was a more difficult task than one imagined. Perfectly mimicking the real person’s behavior, habits, and manner of speech—all of it without the slightest deviation—was in truth impossible, so it was inevitable that signs of inconsistency would show somewhere.
If the young girl showed even the slightest difference from the real Sasha, Rosalyn would often shriek and jab a finger at her on the spot. Yet even if she mastered it perfectly, it was not as if she liked it. When she had truly completed the dance Sasha had been learning and performed it as though the genuinely missing granddaughter had returned alive, the old lady had not been pleased; rather, she had glared at her with bloodshot eyes. Fortunately, it had not ended in a slap as before. However, muttering that she did not wish to see ‘that thing’ for the time being, she had simply left.
……So, to which tune exactly had she been expected to dance?
Though it was not as though she had no pleasant memories during her time there, to her, Dilton Manor and the dowager had always remained such memories. Even so, the only reason she had gritted her teeth and endured was because she had not wanted to end up on the streets, and even after gaining her freedom, the reason she had stubbornly continued the impersonation was because she had not wanted her suffering to come to nothing.
Since every day had been spent holding her breath and watching Rosalyn’s moods solely for survival, she had expected that if the real girl ever returned, she would be treated even more mercilessly. She would be fortunate to be sent away peacefully. Perhaps they might even cut out her tongue to ensure she could not reveal what had happened inside. With such frightening imaginings, even as she grew a little older, she had wished—prayed—that the real one would not return.
“I do not know the whereabouts of the real one. I was confined there the entire time. I was only permitted to go out when accompanying her to church or to attend plays she enjoyed. Ah, during sweltering summers, we would also stay at one of her villas for about a month. Of course, with her. And after she fell ill, I took turns with a nurse caring for her continuously…….”
It was late in the evening. Given the circumstances, Mr. Benson the lawyer had been staying at Dilton Manor for two days straight. They had to stand together in the magistrate’s court come morning.
Though it was not a formal trial, Mr. Benson was preparing his arguments meticulously. He was already looking several moves ahead. He said that the magistrate, who might have connections to the ducal family or might have taken bribes, could attempt to handle Sasha’s case summarily.
Therefore, they had to prepare all the more fiercely. Sasha sat across from Mr. Benson, speaking calmly before she stopped. As always, revealing this worthless life history to others was something she could hardly get used to. She suspected she never would, not for her entire life.
“Ah, there was some freedom after she fell ill, come to think of it. I had to go to church once a week, the same church I used to attend with her every weekend. I would worship alone there, then summarize the sermon of the day and deliver it to her. During that time, I also read the newspaper quite a lot. About half a year before she passed, she had reached the point where she could no longer read, so I had to read everything to her, including newspapers and letters.”
When he had first taken on Sasha’s case, Mr. Benson had looked at her with something resembling sympathy if not pity; now, he was busy taking down her words with a face that showed no emotion whatsoever. Sasha found this more comfortable instead.
“Mrs. Pincher. I understand that you endured quite harshly at such a young age. Since it was a charade of impersonation forced upon you by that difficult woman’s demands, one could argue it was not intentional deceit but an inevitable choice for survival. However, what puzzles me is why the Dowager, who treated you so callously despite being your impersonation partner, left you such an enormous inheritance. Granted, various conditions were attached.”
It was not a particularly unfamiliar question. Sasha had reacted similarly when she first heard of the conditional inheritance from Lawyer Turner.
“……Perhaps it was because she wanted me to remain in that mansion and continue living as the substitute. Because the moment I became free, her lie would be exposed to the world. ……Though of course, it has now become known in an unfortunate manner.”
Sasha spoke up to that point and fell silent for a moment, her face lost in thought.
It was because of the ‘whereabouts of the real one,’ which had been tormenting her mind fiercely for several days now.
“Together with the lawyer, I would like you to look into the whereabouts of a servant named Theodore as well. He was the servant Lady Rosalyn cherished most during her lifetime, the one who took care of all the matters she wished to hide. He was also the one who came to the orphanage and adopted me. Perhaps he might know where the real one is.”
Isaac had not sent so much as a letter since leaving the mansion two days prior. Rather, that was good news. Unless something truly unavoidable and terrible had happened, he would refrain from writing for the time being.
Theodore. The only piece of information—not quite information—that Sasha could convey to the Queen through Isaac.
“……That alone is somewhat ambiguous, Mrs. Pincher. We must have justification that those not party to the matter can understand regarding the legitimacy of the inheritance.”
Through the transparent lenses, craggy wrinkles were plainly visible. Scattered among the wrinkled skin were dying purplish spots. Without realizing it, Sasha focused on them before returning to the elderly lawyer’s brown eyes.
Mr. Benson spoke.
“Did you never feel that Lady Rosalyn had truly become attached to you? Stern and cold as she may have been in life, having been close to her for far longer than her real granddaughter, some affection should have grown. Though of course, that is not always the case.”
“……Are you saying I must fabricate it if there was none?”
“There is no need to fabricate anything. Even a very simple moment—was there never a single moment when you felt she cherished or relied upon you?”
…Ridiculous as it was, the moment she heard those words, Sasha recalled the first time Rosalyn had stroked her head. When, not long after her adoption, Rosalyn had approached the sleeping girl and carefully caressed her cheek with bony, desiccated fingers. She had recalled one of the reasons that had made her presumptuously yearn to become a real granddaughter. ……And another time, when she was around fourteen and had become absorbed in a romance instead of the history book the old lady had told her to read, and was on the verge of being caught—yet the old woman had, on some whim, covered the book with the newspaper she was reading and pretended not to notice. That strange moment.
And when she had fallen so gravely ill that she hovered between life and death, those dying, thin fingers had gripped her own and refused to let go for the longest time—that ominous, yet deeply moving moment.
She had shaken her head and tried to forget it immediately at the time, yet now the memory surfaced.
It was strange enough that it surfaced at all, and what surfaced was so trivial and insignificant, perhaps a mere delusion on her part, that a hollow laugh escaped her.
It was truly strange.
……Everything was just strange.
Now, all of it was strange.
“……Mrs. Pincher?”
The title still did not feel familiar. Perhaps because she had been called Sasha nearly her entire life, the name Sasha felt most comfortable. Even that felt strange to her now.
Though the shell called Sasha had been merely a sort of refuge for survival, it had somehow come to feel comfortable, as though it were truly the right garment. That, too, was strange.
“Ah, yes. Of course……. There was. A very trivial moment, but.”
After some deliberation, Sasha finally opened her mouth.
Mr. Benson nodded as though encouraging her.
“That is fine; please take your time.”
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The courtroom of the Goldington Magistrate’s Court was filled with a cold, solemn atmosphere. Beneath the high ceiling, Sir Bradshaw sat at the bench, with the prosecutor’s seats and the defense seats divided before him. The court was rather modest in many ways; the prosecutor’s seat was empty.
“Case number 4923. The court is in session for the case of Sasha Pincher, alias Sasha Grayson.”
As it was a hastily conducted first trial, its composition was incredibly crude, a point felt even by Sasha, who had absolutely no experience in such matters. If even she could feel it, then Mr. Benson, a veteran lawyer, seemed to sense the crisis all the more keenly.
Sir Bradshaw was a middle-aged man with a stiff, cantankerous impression behind his spectacles; he looked exhausted and deeply jaded as he adjusted his glasses while watching the clerk recite the case number.
Soon, he looked at Sasha with an arrogant expression and opened his mouth.
“Defendant Sasha Pincher. You are charged with the following crimes. First, fraud for the fraudulent acquisition of a marriage license using a false identity. Second, inheritance fraud for the embezzlement of a deceased person’s estate. Third, criminal impersonation.”
Sasha stared at the magistrate’s face with an expressionless face.
“Do you understand these charges?”
Sasha replied indifferently.
“Yes, Your Worship.”