Defend and Betray

Chapter 9

The trial of Alexandra Carlyon began on the morning of Monday, June 22. Major Tiplady had intended to be present, not out of cheap curiosity; normally he shunned such proceedings as he would have an accident had a horse bolted in the street and thrown and trampled its rider. It was a vulgar intrusion into another person's embarrassment and distress. But in this case he felt a deep and personal concern for the outcome, and he wished to demonstrate his support for Alexandra, and for the Carlyon family, or if he were honest, for Edith; not that he would have admitted it, even to himself.

When he put his foot to the ground he was well able to bear his weight on it. It seemed the leg had healed perfectly. However, when he attempted to bend it to climb the step up into a hansom, he found, to his humiliation, that it would not support him as he mounted. And he knew dismounting at the other end might well be even worse. He was both abashed and infuriated, but he was powerless to do anything about it. It obviously needed at least another week, and trying to force the issue would only make it worse.

Therefore he deputed Hester to report to him, since she was still in his employ and must do what she could for his comfort. He insisted this was crucial to it. She was to report to him everything that happened, not only the evidence that was given by each witness but their manner and bearing, and whether in her best judgment they were telling the truth or not. Also she was to observe the attitudes of everyone else who appeared for the prosecution and for the defense, and most particularly the jury. Naturally she should also mark well all other members of the family she might see. To this end she should equip herself with a large notebook and several sharp pencils.

“Yes Major,” she said obediently, hoping she would be able to fulfil so demanding an assignment adequately. He asked a great deal, but his earnestness and his concern were so genuine she did not even try to point out the difficulties involved.

“I wish to know your opinions as well as the facts,” he said for the umpteenth time. “It is a matter of feelings, you know? People are not always rational, especially in matters like this.”

“Yes, I know,” she said with magnificent understatement. “I will watch expressions and listen to tones of voice-I promise you.”

“Good.” His cheeks pinkened a trifle. “I am most obliged.” He looked down. “I am aware it is not customarily part of a nurse's duties…”

She hid a smile with great difficulty.

“And it will not be pleasant,” he added.

“It is merely a reversal of roles,” she said, allowing her smile to be seen.

“What?” He looked at her quickly, not understanding. He saw her amusement, but did not know what caused it.

“Had you been able to go, then I should have had to ask you to repeat it all to me. I have no authority to require it of you. This is far more convenient.”

“Oh-I see.” His eyes filled with perception and amusement as well. “Yes-well, you had better go, or you might be late and not obtain a satisfactory seat.”

“Yes Major. I shall be back when I am quite sure I have observed everything. Molly has your luncheon prepared, and…”

“Never mind.” He waved his hands impatiently. “Go on, woman.”

“Yes Major.”

She was early, as she had said; even so the crowds were eager and she only just got a seat from which she could see all the proceedings, and that was because Monk had saved it for her.

The courtroom was smaller than she had expected, and higher-ceilinged, mote like a theater with the public gallery far above the dock, which itself was twelve or fifteen feet above the floor where the barristers and court oflicials had their leather-padded seats at right angles to the dock.

The jury was on two benches, one behind the other, on the left of the gallery, several steps up from the floor, and with a row of windows behind them. On the farther end of the same wall was the witness box, a curious affair up several steps, placing it high above the arena, very exposed.

At the farther wall, opposite the gallery and the dock, was the red-upholstered seat on which the judge sat. To the right was a further gallery for onlookers, newsmen and other interested parties.

There was a great amount of wooden paneling around the dock and witness box, and on the walls behind the jury and above the dock to the gallery rail. It was all very imposing and as little like an ordinary room as possible, and at the present was so crowded with people one was able to move only with the greatest difficulty.

“Where have you been?” Monk demanded furiously. “You're late.”

She was torn between snapping back and gratitude to him for thinking of her. The first would be pointless and only precipitate a quarrel when she least wanted one, so she chose the latter, which surprised and amused him.

The Bill of Indictment before the Grand Jury had already been brought at an earlier date, and a true case found and Alexandra charged.

“What about the jury?” she asked him.”Have they been chosen?”

“Friday,” he answered. “Poor devils.”

“Why poor?”

“Because I wouldn't like to have to decide this case,” Monk answered. “I don't think the verdict I want to bring in is open tome.”

“No,” she agreed, more to herself than to him. “What are they like?”

“The jury? Ordinary, worried, taking themselves very seriously,” he replied, not looking at her but straight ahead at the judge's bench and the lawyers' tables below.

“All middle-aged, I suppose? And all men of course.”

“Not all middle-aged,” he contradicted. “One or two are youngish, and one very old. You have to be between twenty-one and sixty, and have a guaranteed income from rents or lands, or live in a house with not less than fifteen windows-”

“What?”

“Not less than fifteen windows,” he repeated with a sardonic smile, looking sideways at her. “And of course they are all men. That question is not worthy of you. Women are not considered capable of such decisions, forlieaven's sake. You don't make any legal decisions at all. You don't own property, you don't expect to be able to decide a man's fete before the law, do you?”

“If one is entitled to be tried before a jury «f one's peers, I expect to be able to decide a woman's fate,” she said sharply. “And rather more to the point, I expect if I come to trial to have women on the jury. How else could I be judged fairly?”

“I don't think you'd do any better with women,” he said, pulling his face into a bitter expression and looking at the fat woman in front of them.”Not that it would make the slightest difference if you did.”

She knew it was irrelevant. They must fight the case with the jury as it was. She turned around to look at others in the crowd. They seemed to be all manner of people, every age and social condition, and nearly as many women as men. The only thing they had in common was a restless excitement, a murmuring to one another, a shirring from foot to foot where they were standing, or a craning forward if they were seated, a peering around in case they were to miss something.

“Of course I really shouldn't be 'ere,” a woman said just behind Hester.”It won't do me nerves any good at all. Wickedest thing I ever 'eard of, an”er a lady too. You expec' better from them as ought ter know 'ow ter be'ave their-selves.”

“I know,” her companion agreed. “If gentry murders each other, wot can yer expec' of the lower orders? I ask yer.”

“Wonder wot she's like? Vulgar, I shouldn't wonder. Of course they'll 'ang 'er.”

“O' course. Don't be daft. Wot else could they do?”

“Right and proper thing too.”

“ 'Course it is. My 'usband don't always control 'isself, but I don't go murderin”im.”

“ 'Course you don't. No one does. What would 'appen to the world if we did?”

“Shockin'. And they're sayin' as there's mutiny in India too. People killin' an' murderin' all over the place. I tell yer, we live in terrible times. God 'isself only knows what'll be next!”

“An' that's true for sure,” her companion agreed, sagely nodding her head.

Hester longed to tell them not to be so stupid, that there had always been virtue and tragedy-and laughter, discovery and hope-but the clerk called the court to order. There was a rustle of excitement as the counsel for the prosecution came in dressed in traditional wig and black gown, followed by his junior. Wilberforce Lovat-Smith was not a large man, but he had a walk which was confident, even a trifle arrogant, and full of vitality, so that everyone was immediately aware of him. He was unusually dark of complexion and under the white horsehair wig very black hair was easily visible. Even at this distance, Hester could see with surprise as he turned that his eyes were cold gray-blue. He was certainly not a handsome man, but there was something compelling in his features: sharp nose, humorous mouth and heavy-lidded eyes which suggested sensuality. It was the face of a man who had succeeded in the past, and expected to again.

He had barely taken his place when there was another murmur of excitement as Rathbone came in, also gowned and wigged and followed by a junior. He looked unfamiliar to Hester, lately used to seeing him in ordinary clothes and informal in his manner. Now he was quite obviously thinking only of the contest ahead on which depended not only Alexandra's life but perhaps die quality of Cassian's also. Hester and Monk had done all they could; now it lay with Rathbone. He was a lone gladiator in the arena, and the crowd was hungering for blood. As he turned she saw the familiar profile with its long nose and delicate mouth so ready to change from pity to anger, and back to wry, quick humor again.

“It's going to begin,” someone whispered behind her. “That's the defense. It's Rathbone-I wonder what he's going to say?”

“Nothing 'e can say,” came the reply from a man somewhere to her left. “Don't know why 'e bothers. They should 'ang 'er, save the government the money.”

“Save us, more like.”

“Ssh!”

“Sshyerself!”

Monk swung around, his voice vicious.”If you don't want a trial you should vacate the seat and allow someone who does to sit in it. There are plenty of slaughterhouses in London if all you want is blood.”

There was a gasp of fury.

“ 'Ow dare you speak to my wife like that?” the man demanded.

“I was speaking to you, sir,” Monk retorted. “I expect you to be responsible for your own opinions.”

“Hold your tongue,” someone else said furiously. “Or we'll all be thrown out! The judge is coming.”

And indeed he was, splendid in robes touched with scarlet, white wig only slightly fuller than those of the lawyers. He was a tallish man with a broad brow and fine strong nose, short jaw and good mouth, but he was far younger than Hester had expected, and for no reason that she understood, her heart sank. In some way she had imagined a fatherly man might have more compassion, a grandfatherly man even more again. She found herself sitting forward on the edge of the hard bench, her hands clenched, her shoulders tight.

There was a rising wave of excitement, then a sudden silence as the prisoner was brought in, a craning forward and turning of heads on the benches behind the lawyers, of all except one woman dressed entirely in black, and veiled. Beneath the gallery in the dock the prisoner had been brought in.

Even the jury, seemingly against their will, found their eyes moving towards her.

Hester cursed the arrangement which made it impossible to see the dock from the gallery.

“We should have got seats down there,” she said to Monk, nodding her head towards the few benches behind the lawyers' seats.

“We?” he said acidly. “If it weren't for me you'd be standing outside.”

“I know-and l\a grateful. All the same, we should still try to get a seat down there.”

“Then come an hour earlier next time.”

“I will. But it doesn't help now.”

“What do you want to do?” he whispered sarcastically. “Lose these seats and go out and try to get in downstairs?”

“Yes,” she hissed back. “Of course I do. Come on!”

“Don't be ridiculous. You'll end up with nothing.”

“You can do as you please. I'm going.”

The woman in front swung around. “Be quiet,” she said furiously.

“Mind your own business, madam,” Monk said, freezing calm, then grasped Hester by the elbow and propelled her out past the row of protesting onlookers. Up the aisle and outside in the hallway he maintained silence. They went down the stairs, and at the door of the lower court he let go of her.

“All right,” he said with a scathing stare. “Now what do you propose to do?”

She gulped, glared back at him, then swung around and marched to the doors.

A bailiff appeared and barred the way. “I'm sorry. You can't go in there, miss. It's all full up. You should 'a come earlier. You'll 'ave ter read about it in the papers.”

“That will not be satisfactory,” she said with all the dignity she could muster. “We are involved in the case, retained by Mr. Rathbone, counsel for the defense. This is Mr. Monk,” she inclined her head slightly. “He is working with Mr. Rathbone, and Mr. Rathbone may need to consult with him during the course of the evidence. I am with him.”

The bailiff looked over her head at Monk. “Is that true, sir?”

“Certainly it is,” Monk said without a flicker, producing a card from his vest pocket.

“Then you'd better go in,” the bailiff agreed cautiously. “But next time, get in 'ere a bit sooner, will you.”

“Of course. We apologize,” Monk said tactfully. “A little late business, you understand.”

And without arguing the point any further, he pushed Hester inside and allowed the bailiff to close the doors.

The court looked different from this level, the judge's seat higher and more imposing, the witness box oddly more vulnerable, and the dock very enclosed, like a wide cage with wooden walls, very high up.

“Sit down,” Monk said sharply.

Hester obeyed, perching on the end of the nearest bench and forcing the present occupants to move up uncomfortably close to each other. Monk was obliged to stand, until someone graciously changed places to the next row and gave him space.

For the first time, with something of a start, Hester saw the haggard face of Alexandra Carlyon, who was permitted to sit because the proceedings were expected to take several days. It was not the face she had envisioned at all; it was far too immediate and individual, even pale and exhausted as it was. There was too much capacity for intelligence and pain in it; she was acutely aware that they were dealing with the agonies and desires of a unique person, not merely a tragic set of circumstances.

She looked away again, feeling intrusive to be caught staring. She already knew more of her much too intimate suffering than anyone had a right to.

The proceedings began almost straightaway. The charge had already been made and answered. The opening speeches were brief. Lovat-Smith said the facts of the case were only too apparent, and he would prove step by step how the accused had deliberately, out of unfounded jealousy, murdered her husband, General Thaddeus Carlyon, and attempted to pass off her crime as an accident.

Rathbone said simply that he would answer with such a story that would shed a new and terrible light on all they knew, a light in which no answer would be as they now thought, and to look carefully into both their hearts and their consciences before they returned a verdict.

Lovat-Smith called his first witness, Louisa Mary Furnival. There was a rustle of excitement, and then as she appeared a swift indrawing of breath and whisper of fabric against fabric as people craned forward to see her. And indeed she presented a spectacle worth their effort. She was dressed in the darkest purple touched with amethyst, dignified, subdued in actual tones, and yet so fashionably and flamboyantly cut with a tiny waist and gorgeous sleeves. Her bonnet was perched so rakishly on her wide brushed dark hair as to be absolutely dashing. Her expression should have been demure, that of an elegant woman mourning the shocking death of a friend, and yet there was so much vitality in her, such awareness of her own beauty and magnetism, that no one thought of such an emotion for more man the first superficial instant.

She crossed the space of floor in front of the lawyers and climbed the flight of steps up into the witness box, negotiating her skirts through the narrow rails with considerable skill, then turned to face Lovat-Smith.

She swore as to her name and residence in a low, husky voice, looking down at him with shining eyes.

“Mrs. Furnival”-he moved forward towards her, hands in his pockets under his gown-”will you tell the court what you can recall of the events of that dreadful evening when General Carlyon met his death? Begin with the arrival of your guests, if you please.”

Louisa looked perfectly composed. If the occasion intimidated her in any way, there was not the slightest sign of it in her face or her bearing. Even her hands on the witness box railing were quite relaxed.

“The first to arrive were Mr. and Mrs. Erskine,” she started! “The next were General Carlyon and Alexandra.” She did not glance at the dock as she said it.

Lovat-Smith was talking to Louisa.

Alexandra might not have been present for any emotional impact Louisa showed.

“At that time, Mrs. Furnival,” Lovat-Smith was saying, “what was the attitude between General and Mrs. Carlyon? Did you notice?”

“The general seemed as usual,” Louisa replied levelly. “I thought Alexandra very tense, and I was aware that the evening might become difficult.” She allowed the ghost of a smile to cross her face. “As hostess, I was concerned that the party should be a success.”

There was a ripple of laughter around the court, dying away again immediately.

Hester glanced up at Alexandra, but her face was expressionless.

“Who arrived next?” Lovat-Smith asked.

“Sabella Pole and her husband, Fenton Pole. She was immediately rude to her father, the general.” Louisa's face shadowed very slightly but she forbore from more than the vaguest of implied criticism. She knew it was ugly and above all she would avoid that.”Of course she has not been well,” she added. “So one forgave her readily. It was an embarrassment, no more.”

“You did not fear it indicated any dangerous ill will?” Lovat-Smith asked with apparent concern.

“Not at all.” Louisa dismissed it with a gesture.

“Who else arrived at this dinner of yours?”

“Dr. Charles Hargrave and Mrs. Hargrove; they were the last.”

“And no one else called that evening?”

“No one.”

“Can you tell us something of the course of events, Mrs. Furnival?”

She shrugged very delicately and half smiled.

Hester watched the jury. They were fascinated with her and Hester had no doubt she knew it.

“We spent some time in the withdrawing room,” Louisa said casually. “We talked of this and that, as we will on such occasions. I cannot recall what we said, only that Mrs. Carlyon picked a quarrel with the general, which he did all he could to avoid, but she seemed determined to bring the matter to an open dispute.”

“Do you know what it was about?”

“No, it seemed to be very nebulous, just a longstanding ill feeling, so far as I could judge. Of course I did not overhear it all…” She left it hanging delicately, not to rule out the possibility of a raging jealousy.

“And at dinner, Mrs. Furnival,” Lovat-Smith prompted. “Was the ill feeling between General and Mrs. Carlyon still apparent?”

“Yes, I am afraid it was. Of course at that time I had no idea it was anything serious…” For an instant she looked contrite, abashed at her own blindness. There was a murmur of sympathy around the courtroom. People turned to look at the dock. One of the jurors nodded sagely.

“And after dinner?” Lovat-Smith asked.

“The ladies withdrew and left the men to take port and cigars,” Louisa continued. “In the withdrawing room we simply spoke of trivial things again, a little gossip, and a few opinions of fashion and so on. Then when the men rejoined us I took General Carlyon upstairs to visit my son, who admired him greatly, and to whom he had been a good friend.” A spasm of pain passed over her immaculate features and again there was a buzz of sympathy and anger around the room.

Hester looked at Alexandra in the dock, and saw hurt and puzzlement in her face.

The judge lifted his eyes and stared over the heads of the counsel to the body of the court. The sound subsided.

“Continue, Mr. Lovat-Smith,” he ordered.

Lovat-Smith turned to Louisa. “Did this occasion any response that you observed, Mrs. Furnival?”

Louisa looked downwards modestly, as if embarrassed to admit it now.

“Yes. I am afraid Mrs. Carlyon was extremely angry. I thought at the time it was just a fit of pique. Of course I realize now that it was immeasurably deeper than that.”

Oliver Rathbone rose to his feet.

“I object, my lord. The witness-”

“Sustained,” the judge interrupted him. “Mrs. Furnival, we wish to know only what you observed at the time, not what later events may have led you to conclude, correctly or incorrectly. It is for the jury to interpret, not for you. At this time you felt it to be a fit of pique-that is all.”

Louisa's face tightened with annoyance, but she would not argue with him.

“My lord,” Lovat-Smith acknowledged the rebuke. He turned back to Louisa. “Mrs. Furnival, you took General Carlyon upstairs to visit with your son, whose age is thirteen, is that correct? Good. When did you come downstairs again?”

“When my husband came up to tell me that Alexandra-Mrs. Carlyon-was extremely upset and the party was becoming very tense and rather unpleasant. He wished me to return to try to improve the atmosphere. Naturally I did so.”

“Leaving General Carlyon still upstairs with your son?”

“Yes.”

“And what happened next?”

“Mrs. Carlyon went upstairs.”

“What was her manner, Mrs. Furnival, from your own observation?” He glanced at the judge, who made no comment.

“She was white-faced,” Louisa replied. Still she ignored Alexandra as if the dock had been empty and she were speaking of someone absent.”She appeared to be in a rage greater than any I have ever seen before, or since. There was nothing I could do to stop her, but I still imagined that it was some private quarrel and would be settled when they got home.”

Lovat-Smith smiled. “We assume you did not believe it would lead to violence, Mrs. Furnival, or you would naturally have taken steps to prevent it. But did you still have no idea as to its cause? You did not, for example, think it was jealousy over some imagined relationship between the general and yourself?”

She smiled, a fleeting, enigmatic expression. For the first time she glanced at Alexandra, but so quickly their eyes barely met. “A trifle, perhaps,” she said gravely. “But not serious. Our relationship was purely one of friendship-quite platonic-as it had been for years. I thought she knew that, as did everyone else.” Her smile widened. “Had it been more, my husband would hardly have been the friend to the general he was. I did not think she was… obsessive about it. A little envious, maybe-friendship can be very precious. Especially if you feel you do not have it.”

“Exactly so.” He smiled at her. “And then?” he asked, moving a little to one side and putting his hands deeper into his pockets.

Louisa took up the thread. “Then Mrs. Carlyon came downstairs, alone.”

“Had her manner changed?”

“I was not aware of it…” She looked as if she were wailing for him to lead her, but as” he remained silent, she continued unasked. “Then my husband went out into the hall.” She stopped for dramatic effect. “That is the front hall, not the back one, which we had been using to go up to my son's room-and he came back within a moment, looking very shaken, and told us that General Carlyon had had an accident and was seriously hurt.”

“Seriously hurt,” Lovat-Smith interrupted. “Not dead?”

“I think he was too shocked to have looked at him closely,” she answered, a faint, sad smile touching her mouth. “I imagine he wanted Charles to come as soon as possible. That is what I would have done.”

“Of course. And Dr. Hargrave went?”

“Yes-after a few moments he was back to say that Thad-deus was dead and we should call the police-because it was an accident that needed explaining, not because any of us suspected murder then.”

“Naturally,” Lovat-Smith agreed. “Thank you, Mrs. Furnival. Would you please remain there, in case my learned friend has any questions to ask you.” He bowed very slightly and turned to Rathbone.

Rathbone rose, acknowledged him with a nod, and moved forward towards the witness box. His manner was cautious, but there was no deference in it and he looked up at Louisa very directly.

“Thank you for a most clear description of the events of that tragic evening, Mrs. Furnival,” he began, his voice smooth and beautifully modulated. As soon as she smiled he continued gravely. “But I think perhaps you have omitted one or two events which may turn out to be relevant. We can hardly overlook anything, can we?” He smiled back at her, but there was no lightness in the gesture, and it died instantly, leaving no trace in his eyes. “Did anyone else go up to see your son, Valentine?”

“I…” She stopped, as if uncertain.

“Mrs. Erskine, for example?”

Lovat-Smith stirred, half rose as if to interrupt, then changed his mind.

“I believe so,” Louisa conceded, her expression making it plain she thought it irrelevant.

“And how was her manner when she came down?” Rathbone said softly.

Louisa hesitated. “She seemed… upset.”

“Just upset?” Rathbone sounded surprised. “Not distressed, unable to keep her mind on a conversation, distracted by some inner pain?”

“Well…” Louisa lifted her shoulder delicately. “She was in a very strange mood, yes. I thought perhaps she was not entirely well.”

“Did she give any explanation for the sudden change from her usual manner to such a distracted, offensive, near-frenzied mood?”

Lovat-Smith rose to his feet.

“Objection, my lord! The witness did not say Mrs. Erskine was offensive or near frenzied, only that she was distressed and unable to command her attention to the conversation.”

The judge looked at Rathbone. “Mr. Lovat-Smith is correct. What is your point, Mr. Rathbone? I confess, I fail to see it.”

“It will emerge later, my lord,” Rathbone said, and Hester had a strong feeling he was bluffing, hoping that by the time Damaris was called, they would have learned precisely what it was that she had discovered. Surely it must have to do with the general.

“Very well. Proceed,” thejudge directed.

“Did you find the cause of Mrs. Erskine's distress, Mrs. Furnival?” Rathbone resumed.

“No.”

“Nor of Mrs. Carlyon's distress either? Is it an assumption that it had to do with you, and your relationship with the general?”

Louisa frowned.

“Is that not so, Mrs. Furnival? Did Mrs. Carlyon ever say anything either to you, or in your hearing, to suggest that she was distressed because of a jealousy of you and your friendship with her husband? Please be exact.”

Louisa drew in her breath deeply, her face shadowed, but still she did not glance towards the dock or the motionless woman in it.

“No.”

Rathbone smiled, showing his teeth.

“Indeed, you have testified that she had nothing of which to be jealous. Your friendship with the general was perfectly proper, and a sensible woman might conceivably have regarded it as enviable that you could have such a comfortable regard, perhaps, but not cause for distress, let alone a passionate jealousy or hatred. Indeed there seems no reason for it at all. Is that not so?”

“Yes.” It was not a flattering description, and certainly not glamorous, or the image Hester had seen Louisa project. Hester smiled to herself and glanced at Monk, but Monk had not caught the inflection. He was watching the jury.

“And this friendship between yourself and the general had existed for many years, some thirteen or fourteen years, in fact?”

“Yes.”

“With the full knowledge and consent of your husband?”

“Of course.”

“And of Mrs. Carlyon?”

“Yes.”

“Did she at any time at all approach you on the matter, or let you know that she was displeased about it?”

“No.” Louisa raised her eyebrows. “This came without any warning at all.”

“What came, Mrs. Furnival?”

“Why the…the murder, of course.” She looked a little disconcerted, not entirely sure whether he was very simple or very clever.

He smiled blandly, a slight curling of the lips. “Then on what evidence do you suppose that jealousy of you was the cause?”

She breathed in slowly, giving herself time, and her expression hardened.

“I-I did not think it, until she herself claimed it to be so. But I have experienced unreasonable jealousies before, and it was not hard to believe. Why should she lie about it? It is not a quality one would wish to claim-it is hardly attractive.”

“A profound question, Mrs. Furnival, which in time I will answer. Thank you.” He half turned away. “That is all I have to ask you. Please remain there, in case niy learned friend has any questions to redirect to you.”

Lovat-Smith rose, smiling, a small, satisfied gesture.

“No thank you, I think Mrs. Furnival by her very appearance makes the motive of jealousy more than understandable.”

Louisa flushed, but it was quite obviously with pleasure, even a vindication. She shot a hard glance at Rathbone as she very carefully came down the steps, negotiating the hoops of her wide skirts with a swaggering grace, and walked across the small space of the floor.

There was a rustle of movement in the crowd and a few clearly audible shouts of admiration and approval. Louisa sailed out with her head high and an increasing satisfaction in her face.

Hester found her muscles clenching and a totally unreasonable anger boiling up inside her. It was completely unfair. Louisa could not know the truth, and in all likelihood she believed that Alexandra had murdered the general out of exactly the sudden and violent jealousy she envisioned. But Hester's anger remained exactly the same.

She looked up at the dock and saw Alexandra's pale face. She could see no hatred in it, no easy contempt. There was nothing there but tiredness and fear.

The next witness to be called was Maxim Furnival. He took the stand very gravely, his face pale. He was stronger than Hester had remembered, with more gravity and power to his features, more honest emotion. He had not testified yet, but she found herself disposed towards him. She glanced up at Alexandra again, and saw a momentary breaking of her self-control, a sudden softening, as if memories, and perhaps a sweetness, came through with bitter contrast. Then it was gone again, and the present reasserted itself.

Maxim was sworn in, and Lovat-Smith rose to address him.

“Of course you were also at this unfortunate dinner party, Mr. Furnival?”

Maxim looked wretched; he had none of Louisa's panache or flair for appearing before an audience. His bearing, the look in his face, suggested his mind was filled with memory, of the tragedy, an awareness of the murder that still lay upon them. He had looked at Alexandra once, painfully, without evasion and without anger or blame. Whatever he thought of her, or believed, it was not harsh.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Naturally,” Lovat-Smith agreed. “Will you please tell us what you remember of that evening, from the time your first guests arrived.”

In a quiet voice, but without hesitation, Maxim recounted exactly the same events as Louisa had, only his choice of words was different, laden with his knowledge of what had later occurred. Lovat-Smith did not interrupt him until he came to the point where Alexandra returned from upstairs, alone.

“What was her manner, Mr. Furnival? You did not mention it, and yet your wife said that it was worthy of remark.” He glanced at Rathbone; he had forestalled objection, and Rathbone smiled back.

“I did not notice,” Maxim replied, and it was so obviously a lie there was a little gasp from the crowd and the judge glanced at him a second time in surprise.

“Try your memory a little harder, Mr. Furnival,” Lovat-Smith said gravely. “I think you will find it comes to you.” Deliberately he kept his back to Rathbone.

Maxim frowned. “She had not been herself all evening.” He met Lovat-Smith's eyes directly. “I was concerned for her, but not more so when she came down than earlier.”

Lovat-Smith seemed on the edge of asking yet again, but heard Rathbone rise from his seat to object and changed his mind.

“What happened next?” he said instead.

“I went to the front hall, I forget what for now, and I saw Thaddeus lying on the floor with the suit of armor in pieces all around him-and the halberd in his chest.” He hesitated only to compose himself, and Lovat-Smith did not prompt him. “It was quite obvious he had been very seriously hurt, far too seriously for me to do anything useful to help him, so I went back to the withdrawing room to get Charles Hargrove-the doctor…”

“Yes, naturally. Was Mrs. Carlyon there?”

“Yes.”

“How did she take the news that her husband had had a serious, possibly even fatal accident, Mr. Furnival?”

“She was very shocked, very pale indeed and I think a trifle faint, what do you imagine? It is a fearful thing to have to tell any woman.”

Lovat-Smith smiled and looked down at the floor, pushing his hands into his pockets again.

Hester looked at the jury. She could see from the puckered brows, the careful mouths, that their minds were crowded with all manner of questions, sharper and more serious for being unspoken. She had the first intimation of Lovat-Smith's skill.

“Of course,” Lovat-Smith said at last. “Fearful indeed. And I expect you were deeply distressed on her behalf.” He turned and looked up at Maxim suddenly. “Tell me, Mr. Furnival, did you at any time suspect that your wife was having an affair with General Carlyon?”

Maxim's face was pale, and he stiffened as if the question were distasteful, but not unexpected.

“No, I did not. If I said I trusted my wife, you would no doubt find that of no value, but I had known General Carlyon for many years, and I knew that he was not a man to enter into such a relationship. He had been a friend to both of us for some fifteen years. Had I at any time suspected there to be anything improper I should not have allowed it to continue. That surely you can believe?”

“Of course, Mr. Furnival. Would it be true then to say that you would find Mrs. Carlyon's jealousy in that area to be unfounded, not an understandable passion rooted in a cause that anyone might sympathize with?”

Maxim looked unhappy, his eyes downcast, avoiding Lovat-Smith.

“I find it hard to believe she truly thought there was an affair,” he said very quietly. “I cannot explain it.”

“Your wife is a very beautiful woman, sir; jealousy is not always a rational emotion. Unreasonable suspicion can-”

Rathbone was on his feet.

“My lord, my honorable friend's speculations on the nature of jealousy are irrelevant to this case, and may prejudice the jury's opinions, since they are being presented as belonging to Mrs. Carlyon in this instance.”

“Your objection is sustained,” the judge said without hesitation, then turned to Lovat-Smith. “Mr. Lovat-Smith, you know better than that. Prove your point, do not philosophize.”

“I apologize, my lord. Thank you, Mr. Furnival, that is all.”

“Mr. Rathbone?” the judge invited.

Rathbone rose to his feet and faced the witness box.

“Mr. Furnival, may I take you back to earlier in the evening; to be precise, when Mrs. Erskine went upstairs to see your son. Do you recall that?”

“Yes.” Maxim looked puzzled.

“Did she tell you, either then or later, what transpired when she was upstairs?”

Maxim frowned. “No.”

“Did anyone else-for example, your son, Valentine?”

“No.”

“Both you and Mrs. Furnival have testified that when Mrs. Erskine came down again she was extremely distressed, so much so that she was unable to behave normally for the rest of the evening. Is that correct?”

“Yes.” Maxim looked embarrassed. Hester guessed not for himself but for Damaris. It was indelicate to refer to someone's emotional behavior in public, particularly a woman, and a friend. Gentlemen did not speak of such things.

Rathbone flashed him a brief smile.

“Thank you. Now back to the vexing question of whether Mrs. Furnival and General Carlyon were having any nature of relationship which was improper. You have sworn that at no time during the fifteen years or so of their friendship did you have any cause to believe it was not perfectly open and seemly, and all that either you as Mrs. Furnival's husband, or the accused as the general's wife, would have agreed to- as indeed you did agree. Do I understand you correctly, sir?”

Several of the jurors were looking sideways up at Alexandra, their faces curious.

“Yes, you do. At no time did I have any cause whatsoever to believe it was anything but a perfectly proper friendship,” Maxim said stiffly, his eyes on Rathbone, his brows drawn down in concentration.

Hester glanced at the jury and saw one or two of them nodding. They believed him; his honesty was transparent, as was his discomfort.

“Did you suppose Mrs. Carlyon to feel the same?”

“Yes! Yes I did!” Maxim's face became animated for the first time since the subject had been raised. “I-I still find it hard-”

“Indeed,” Rathbone cut him off. “Did she ever say anything in your hearing, or do anything at all, to indicate that she thought otherwise? Please-please be quite specific. I do not wish for speculation or interpretation in the light of later events. Did she ever express anger or jealousy of Mrs. Furnival with regard to her husband and their relationship?”

“No-never,” Maxim said without hesitation. “Nothing at all.” He had avoided looking across at Alexandra, as if afraid the jury might misinterpret his motives or doubt his honesty, but now he could not stop his eyes from flickering for a moment towards her.

“You are quite certain?” Rathbone insisted.

“Quite.”

The judge frowned, looking closely at Rathbone. He leaned forward as if to say something, men changed his mind.

Lovat-Smith frowned also.

“Thank you, Mr. Furnival.” Rathbone smiled at him. “You have been very frank, and it is much appreciated. It is distasteful to all of us to have to ask such questions and open up to public speculation what should remain private, but the force of circumstances leaves us no alternative. Now unless Mr. Lovat-Smith has some further questions for you, you may leave the stand.”

“No-thank you,” Lovat-Smith replied, half rising to his feet. “None at all.”

Maxim left, going down the steps slowly, and the next witness was called, Sabella Carlyon Pole. There was a ripple of expectation around the court, murmurs of excitement, rustles of fabric against fabric as people shifted position, craned forward in the gallery, jostling each other.

“That's the daughter,” someone said to Hester's left. “Mad, so they say. 'Ated her father.”

“I 'ate my father,” came the reply. “That don't make me mad!”

“Sssh,” someone else hissed angrily.

Sabella came into the court and walked across the floor, head high, back stiff, and took the stand. She was very pale, but her face was set in an expression of defiance, and she looked straight at her mother in the dock and forced herself to smile.

For the first time since the trial had begun, Alexandra looked as if her composure would break. Her mouth quivered, the steady gaze softened, she blinked several times. Hester could not bear to watch her; she looked away, and felt a coward, and yet had she not turned, she would have felt intrusive. She did not know which was worse.

Sabella swore to her name and place of residence, and to her relationship with the accused.

“I realize this must be painful for you, Mrs. Pole,” Lovat-Smith began courteously. “I wish it were possible for me to spare you it, but I regret it is not. However I will try to be brief. Do you recall the evening of the dinner party at which your father met his death?”

“Of course! It is not the sort of thing one forgets.”

“Naturally.” Lovat-Smith was a trifle taken aback. He had been expecting a woman a little tearful, even afraid of him, or at the very least awed by the situation. “I understand that as soon as you arrived you had a disagreement with your rather, is that correct?”

“Yes, perfectly.”

“What was that about, Mrs. Pole?”

“He was patronizing about my views that there was going to be trouble in the army in India. As it turns out, I was correct.”

There was a murmur of sympathy around the room, and another sharper one of irritation that she should presume to disagree with a military hero, a man, and her father-and someone who was dead and could not answer for himself; still worse, that the appalling news coming in on the India and China mail ships should prove her right.

“Is that all?” Lovat-Smith raised his eyebrows.

“Yes. It was a few sharp words, no more.”

“Did your mother quarrel with him that evening?”

Hester looked sideways at the dock. Alexandra's face was tense, filled with anxiety, but Hester believed it was fear for Sabella, not for herself.

“I don't know. Not in my hearing,” Sabella answered levelly.

“Have you ever heard your parents quarrel?”

“Of course.”

“On what subject, in the last six months, let us say?”

“Particularly, over whether my brother Cassian should be sent away to boarding school or remain at home and have a tutor. He is eight years old.”

“Your parents disagreed?”

“Yes.”

“Passionately?” Lovat-Smith looked curious and surprised.

“Yes,” she said tartly. “Apparently they felt passionately about it.”

“Your mother wished him to remain at home with her, and your father wished him to begin his training for adulthood?”

“Not at all. It was Father who wanted him at home. Mama wanted him to go away to school.”

Several jurors looked startled, and more than one turned to look at Alexandra.

“Indeed!” Lovat-Smith also sounded surprised, but uninterested in such details, although he had asked for them. “What else?”

“I don't know. I have my own home, Mr. Lovat-Smith. I visited my parents very infrequently. I did not have a close relationship with my father, as I am sure you know. My mother visited me in my home often. My father did not.”

“I see. But you were aware that the relationship between your parents was strained, and on the evening of the unfortunate dinner party, particularly so?”

Sabella hesitated, and in so doing betrayed her partiality. Hester saw the jury's faces harden, as if something inside had closed; from now on they would interpret a difference in her answers. One man turned curiously and looked at Alexandra, then away again, as if caught peeping. It too was a betraying gesture.

“Mrs. Pole?” Lovat-Smith prompted her.

“Yes, of course I was aware of it. Everyone was.”

“And die cause? Think carefully: knowing your mother, as close to you as she was, did she say anything which allowed you to understand the cause of her anger?”

Rathbone half rose to his feet, then as the judge glanced at him, changed his mind and sank back again. The jury saw it and their faces lit with expectancy.

Sabella spoke very quietly. “When people are unhappy with each other, there is not necessarily a specific cause for each disagreement. My father was very arbitrary at times, very dictatorial. The only subject of quarrel I know of was over Cassian and his schooling.”

“Surely you are not suggesting your mother murdered your father because of his choice of education for his son, Mrs. Pole?” Lovat-Smith's voice, charming and distinctive, was filled with incredulity only just short of the offensive.

In the dock Alexandra moved forward impulsively, and the wardress beside her moved also, as if it were even conceivable she should leap over the edge. The gallery could not see it, but the jurors started in their seats.

Sabella said nothing. Her soft oval face hardened and she stared at him, not knowing what to say and reluctant to commit an error.

“Thankyou, Mrs. Pole. We quite understand.” Lovat-Smith smiled and sat down again, leaving the floor to Rathbone.

Sabella looked at Rathbone guardedly, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wary and miserable.

Rathbone smiled at her. “Mrs. Pole, have you known Mrs. Furnival for some time, several years in fact?”

“Yes.”

“Did you believe that she was having an affair with your father?”

There was a gasp of indrawn breath around the courtroom. At last someone was getting to the crux of the situation. Excitement rippled through them.

“No,” Sabella said hotly. Then she looked at Rathbone's expression and repeated it with more composure. “No, I did not. I never saw or heard anything to make me think so.”

“Did your mother ever say anything to you to indicate that she thought so, or that the relationship gave her any anxiety or distress of any sort?”

“No-no, I cannot recall that she ever mentioned it at all.”

“Never?” Rathbone said with surprise. “And yet you were very close, were you not?”

For the first time Sabella quite openly looked up towards the dock.

“Yes, we were-we are close.”

“And she never mentioned the subject?”

“No.”

“Thank you.” He turned back to Lovat-Smith with a smile.

Lovat-Smith rose.

“Mrs. Pole, did you kill your father?”

The judge held up his hand to prevent Sabella from replying, and looked at Rathbone, inviting him to object. It was an improper question, since it had not been part of the examination in chief, and also she should be warned of the possibility of incriminating herself.

Rathbone shrugged.

The judge sighed and lowered his hand, frowning at Lovat-Smith.

“You do not need to answer that question unless you wish to,” he said to Sabella.

“No, Ididnot,” Sabella said huskily, her voice little more than a whisper.

“Thank you.” Lovat-Smith inclined his head; it was all he had required.

The judge leaned forward. “You may go, Mrs. Pole,” he said gently. “There is nothing further.”

“Oh,” she said, as if a little lost and wishing to find something more to say, something to help. Reluctantly she came down, assisted for the last two steps by the clerk of the court, and disappeared into the crowd, the light catching for a moment on her pale hair before she was gone.

There was an adjournment for luncheon. Monk and Hester found a man with a sandwich cart, purchased a sandwich each and ate them in great haste before returning to find their seats again.

As soon as the court reassembled and came to order the next witness was summoned.

“Fenton Pole!” the bailiff said loudly. “Calling Fenton Pole!”

Fenton Pole climbed up the stairs to the stand, his face set, his jaw hard in lines of utter disapproval. He answered Lovat-Smith tersely but very much as though he believed his mother-in-law to be guilty, but insane. Never even for an instant did he turn his head and look up at her. Twice Lovat-Smith had to stop him from expressing his view in so many words, as if it excused the family from any connection. After all madness was like a disease, a tragedy which might strike anyone, therefore they were not accountable. His resentment of the whole matter was apparent.

There were murmurs of sympathy from the crowd, even one quite audible word of agreement; but looking at the jury again Hester could see at least one man's face cloud over and a certain disapproval touch him. He seemed to take his duty very seriously, and had probably been told much about not judging the case before all the evidence was in. And for all he sought impartiality, he did not admire disloyalty. He shot Fenton Pole a look of deep dislike. For an instant Hester felt unreasonablycomforted.lt was silly, and her wiser self knew it, and yet it was a straw in the wind, a sign that at least one man had not yet condemned Alexandra outright.

Rathbone asked Fenton Pole very little, only if he had any precise and incontrovertible evidence that his fether-in-law was having an affair with Louisa Furnival.

Pole's face darkened with contempt for such vulgarity, and with offense that the matter should have been raised at all.

“Certainly not,” he said vigorously. “General Carlyon was not an immoral man. To suppose that he indulged in such adulterous behavior is quite unbalanced, not rational at all, and without any foundation in feet.”

“Quite so,” Rathbone agreed. “And have you any cause, Mr. Pole, to suppose that your mother-in-law, Mrs. Carlyon, believed him to be so deceiving her, and betraying his vows?”

Pole's lips tightened.

. “I would have thought our presence here today was tragically sufficient proof of that.”

“Oh no, Mr. Pole, not at all,” Rathbone replied with a harsh sibilance to his voice. “It is proof only that General Carlyon is dead, by violence, and that the ponce have some cause, rightly or wrongly, to bring a case against Mrs. Carlyon.”

There was a rustle of movement in the jury. Someone sat up a trifle straighter.

Fenton Pole looked confused. He did not argue, although the rebuttal was plain in his face.

“You have not answered my question, Mr. Pole,” Rathbone pressed him. “Did you see or hear anything to prove to you that Mrs. Carlyon believed there to be anything improper in the relationship between Mrs. Furnival and the general?”

“Ah-well… said like that, I suppose not. I don't know what you have in mind.”

“Nothing, Mr. Pole. And it would be quite improper for me to suggest anything to you, as I am sure his lordship would inform you.”

Fenton Pole did not even glance at the judge.

He was excused.

Lovat-Smith called the footman, John Barton. He was overawed by me occasion, and his fair face was flushed hot with embarrassment. He stuttered as he took the oath and gave his name, occupation and residence. Lovat-Smith was extremely gentle with him and never once condescended or treated him with less courtesy than he had Fenton Pole or Maxim Furnival. To the most absolute silence from the court and the rapt attention of the jury, he elicited from him the whole story of the clearing away after the dinner party, the carrying of the coal buckets up the front stairs, the observation of the suit of armor still standing on its plinth, who was in the withdrawing room, his meeting with the maid, and the final inevitable conclusion that only either Sabella or Alexandra could possibly have killed Thaddeus Carlyon.

There was a slow letting out of a sigh around the courtroom, like the first chill air of a coming storm.

Rathbone rose amid a crackling silence. Not a juryman moved.

“I have no questions to ask this witness, my lord.”

There was a gasp of amazement. Jurors swiveled around to look at one another in disbelief.

The judge leaned forward. “Are you sure, Mr. Rathbone? This witness's evidence is very serious for your client.”

“I am quite sure, thank you, my lord.”

The judge frowned. “Very well.” He turned to John. “You are excused.”

Lovat-Smith called the upstairs maid with the red hair, and sealed beyond doubt the incontestable fact that it could only have been Alexandra who pushed the general over the stairs, and then followed him down and plunged the halberd into his body.

“I don't know why this has to go on,” a man said behind Monk. “Wasteo'time.”

“Waste o' money,” his companion agreed. “Should just call it done, 'ang 'er now. Nothing anyone can say to that.”

Monk swung around, his face tight, hard, eyes blazing.

“Because Englishmen don't hang people without giving them a chance to explain,” he said between his teeth. “It's a quaint custom, but we give everyone a hearing, whatever we think of them. If that doesn't suit you, then you'd better go somewhere else, because there's no place for you here!”

“ 'Ere! 'Oo are you callin' foreign? I'm as English as you are! An' I pay me taxes, but not for the likes of 'er to play fast an' loose wi' the law. I believe in the law, I do. Can't 'ave women going 'round murderin' their 'usbands every time they get a fit o' jealousy. No one in England'd be safe!”

“You don't believe in the law,” Monk accused bitterly. “You believe in the rope, and mob rule, you just said so.”

“I never did. You lyin' bastard!”

“You said forget the trial, overthrow the courts, hang her now, without waiting for a verdict.” Monk glared at him. “You want to do away with judge and jury and be both yourself.”

“I never said that!”

Monk gave him a look of total disgust, and turned to Hester, as they rose on adjournment, taking her a trifle roughly by the elbow, and steering her out through the noisy, shoving crowd.

There was nothing to say. It was what they could have expected: a crowd who knew no more than the newspapers had led them to believe; a judge who was fair, impartial and unable to help; a prosecuting counsel who was skilled and would be duped or misled by no one. The evidence proved that Alexandra had murdered her husband. That should not depress them or make them the least discouraged. It was not in question.

Monk was pushing his way through the people who jostled and talked, swirling around like dead leaves in an eddy of wind, infuriating him because he had purpose and was trying to force his way out as if somehow haste could help them to escape what was in their minds.

They were out in Old Bailey and turning onto Ludgate Hill when at last he spoke.

“I hope to God he knows what he is doing.”

“That is a stupid thing to say,” she replied angrily, because she was frightened herself, and stung for Rathbone. “He's doing his best-what we all agreed on. And anyway, what alternative is there? There isn't any other plan. She did do it. It would be pointless to try to deny it. There's nothing else to say, except the reason why.”

“No,” he agreed grimly. “No, there isn't. Damn, but it's cold. June shouldn't be this cold.”

She managed to smile. “Shouldn't it? It frequently is.”

He glared at her wordlessly.

“It'll get better.” She shrugged and pulled her cloak higher. “Thank you for saving me a seat. I'll be here tomorrow. “

She parted from him and set off into the chill air. She took a hansom, in spite of the expense, to Callandra Daviot's house.

“What has happened?” Callandra asked immediately, rising from her chair, her face anxious as she regarded Hester, seeing her tiredness, the droop of her shoulders and the fear in her eyes. “Come sit down-tell me.”

Hester sat obediently. “Only what we expected, I suppose. But they all seem so very rational and set in their ideas. They know she did it-Lovat-Smith has proved that already. I just feel as if no matter what we say, they'll never believe he was anything but a fine man, a soldier and a hero. How can we prove he sodomized his own son?” Deliberately she used the hardest word she could find, and was perversely annoyed when Callandra did not flinch. “They'll only hate her the more fiercely that we could say such a thing about such a fine man.” She spoke with heavy sarcasm. “They'll hang her higher for the insult.”

“Find the others,” Callandra said levelly, her gray eyes sad and hard. “The alternative is giving up. Are you prepared to do that?”

“No, of course not. But I'm trying to think, if we are realistic, we should be prepared to be beaten.”

Callandra stared at her, waiting, refusing to speak.

Hester met her look silently, then gradually began to think.

“The general's father abused him.” She was fumbling towards something, a thread to begin pulling. “I don't suppose he started doing it himself suddenly, do you?”

“I have no idea-but sense would suggest not.”

“There must be something to find in the past, if only we knew where to look,” she went on, trying to make herself believe. “WeVe got to find die others; the other people who do this abysmal thing. But where? It's no use saying the old colonel did-we'll never prove that. He'll deny it, so will everyone else, and the general is dead.”

She leaned back slowly. “Anyway, what would be the use? Even if we proved someone else did, that would not prove it of the general, or that Alexandra knew. I don't know where to begin. And time is so short.” She stared at Callandra miserably. “Oliver has to start the defense in a couple of days, at the outside. Lovat-Smith is proving his case to the hilt. We haven't said a single thing worth anything yet-only that there was no evidence Alexandra was jealous.”

“Not the others who abuse,” Callandra said quietly.' “The other victims. We must search the military records again.”

“There's no time,” Hester said desperately. “It would take months. And there might be nothing anyway.”

“If he did that in the army, there will be something to find.” Callandra's voice had no uncertainty in it, no quaver of doubt. “You stay at the trial. I'll search for some slip he's made, some drummer boy or cadet who's been hurt enough for it to show.”

“Do you think…?” Hester felt a quick leap of hope, foolish, quite unreasonable.

“Calm down, order your mind,” Callandra commanded. “Tell me again everything that we know about the whole affair!”

Hester obeyed.

When the court was adjourned Oliver Rathbone was on his way out when Lovat-Smith caught up with him, his dark face sharp with curiosity. There was no avoiding him, and Rathbone was only half certain he wanted to. He had a need to speak with him, as one is sometimes compelled to probe a wound to see just how deep or how painful it is.

“What in the devil's name made you take this one?” Lovat-Smith demanded, his eyes meeting Rathbone's, brilliant with intelligence. There was a light in the back of them which might have been a wry kind of pity, or any of a dozen other things, all equally uncomfortable.”What are you playing at? You don't even seem to be trying. There are no miracles in this, you know. She did it!”

Somehow the goad lifted Rathbone's spirits; it gave him something to fight against. He looked back at Lovat-Smith, a man he respected, and if he were to know him better, might even like. They had much in common.

“I know she did,” he said with a dry, close little smile. “Have I worried you, Wilberforce?”

Lovat-Smith smiled with answering tightness, his eyes bright. “Concerned me, Oliver, concerned me. I should not like to see you lose your touch. Your skill hitherto has been one of the ornaments of our profession. It would be… disconcerting”-he chose the word deliberately-”to have you crumble to pieces. What certitude then would there be for any of us?”

“How kind of you,” Rathbone murmured sarcastically. “But easy victories pall after a while. If one always wins, perhaps one is attempting only what is well within one's capabilities-and there lies a kind of death, don't you think? That which does not grow may well be showing the first signs of atrophy.”

They were passed by two lawyers, heads close together. They both turned to look at Rathbone, curiosity in their faces, before they resumed their conversation.

“All probably true,” Lovat-Smith conceded, his eyes never leaving Rathbone's, a smile curling his mouth. “But though it is fine philosophy, it has nothing to do with the Carlyon case. Are you going to try for diminished responsibility? You “ve left it rather late-the judge will not take kindly to your not having said so at the beginning. You should have pleaded guilty but insane. I would have been prepared to consider meeting you somewhere on that.”

“Do you think she's insane?” Rathbone enquired with raised eyebrows, disbelief in his voice.

Lovat-Smith pulled a face. “She didn't seem so. But in view of your masterly proof that no one thought mere was an affair between Mrs. Furnival and the general, not even Mrs. Carlyon herself, by all accounts, what else is there? Isn't that what you are leading to: her assumption was groundless, and mad?”

Rathbone's smile broadened into a grin. “Come along, Wilberforce. You know better than that! You'll hear my defense when the rest of the court does.”

Lovat-Smith shook his head, a furrow between his black eyebrows.

Rathbone gave him a tiny mock salute with more bravado than he felt, and took his leave. Lovat-Smith stood on the spot on the great courtroom steps, deep in thought, seemingly unaware of the coming and going around him, the crush of people, the chatter of voices.

Instead of going home, which perhaps he ought to have done, Rathbone took a hansom and went out to Primrose Hill to take supper with his father. He found Henry Rathbone standing hi the garden looking at the young moon pale in the sky above the orchard trees, and half listening to the birdsong as the late starlings swirled across the sky and here and there a thrush or a chaffinch gave a warning cry.

For several moments they both stood in silence, letting the peace of the evening smooth out the smallest of the frets and wrinkles of the day. The bigger things, the pains and disappointments, took a firmer shape, less angry. Temper drained away.

“Well?” Henry Rathbone said eventually, half turning to look at Oliver.

“I suppose as well as could be expected,” Oliver replied. “Lovat-Smith thinks I have lost my grip in taking the case at all. He may be right. In the cold light of the courtroom it seems a pretty wild attempt. Sometimes I even wonder if I believe in it myself. The public image of General Thaddeus Carlyon is impeccable, and the private one almost as good.” He remembered vividly his father's anger and dismay, his imagination of pain, when he had told him of the abuse. He did not look at him now.

“Who testified today?” Henry asked quietly.

“The Furnivals. Lord, I loathe Louisa Furnival!” he said with sudden vehemence. “She is the total antithesis of everything I find attractive in a woman. Devious, manipulative, cocksure of herself, humorless, materialistic and completely unemotional. But I cannot fault her in the witness box.” His face tightened. “And how I wanted to. I would take the greatest possible pleasure in tearing her to shreds!”

“How is Hester Latterly?”

“What?”

“How is Hester?” Henry repeated.

“What made you ask that?” Oliver screwed up his face.

“The opposite of everything you find attractive in a woman,” Henry replied with a quiet smile.

Oliver blushed, a thing he did not do often. “I didn't see her,” he said, feeling ridiculously evasive although it was the absolute truth.

Henry said nothing further, and perversely Oliver felt worse than if he had pursued the matter and allowed him to argue.

Beyond the orchard wall another cloud of starlings rose chattering into the pale sky and circled around, dark specks against the last flush of the sun. The honeysuckle was coming into bloom and the perfume of it was so strong the breeze carried it across the lawn to where they were standing. Oliver felt a rush of emotion, a sweetness, a longing to hold the beauty and keep it, which was impossible and always would be, a loneliness because he ached to share it, and pity, confusion and piercing hope all at once. He remained silent because silence was the only space large enough to hold it without crushing or bruising the heart of it.

The following morning he went to see Alexandra before court began. He did not know what he could say to her, but to leave her alone would be inexcusable. She was in the police cell, and as soon as she heard his step she swung around, her eyes wide, her face drained of all color. He could feel the fear in her touching him like a palpable thing.

“They hate me,” she said simply, her voice betraying the tears so close to the surface. “They have already made up their minds. They aren't even listening. I heard one woman call out 'Hang her!' “ She struggled to keep her control and almost failed. She blinked hard. “If women feel like that, what hope is there forme with the jury, who are all men?”

“More hope,” he said very gently, and was amazed at the certainty in his own voice. Without thinking he took her hands in his, at first quite unresisting, like those of someone too ill to respond. “More hope,” he said again with even greater assurance. “The woman you heard was frightened because you threaten her own status if you are allowed to go free and Society accepts you. Her only value in her own eyes is the certainty of her unquestionable purity. She has nothing else marketable, no talent, no beauty, no wealth or social position, but she has her impeccable virtue. Therefore virtue must keep its unassailable value. She does not understand virtue as a positive thing-generosity, patience, courage, kindness-only as the freedom from taint. That is so much easier to cope with.”

She smiled bleakly. “You make it sound so very reasonable, and I don't feel it is at all. I feel it as hate.” Her voice quivered.

“Of course it is hate, because it is fear, which is one of the ugliest of emotions. But later, when they have the truth, it will swing 'round like the wind, and blow just as hard from the other direction.”

“Do you think so?” There was no belief in her and no lightness in her eyes.

“Yes,” he said with more certainty than he was sure of. “Then it will be compassion and outrage-and fear lest such a thing happen to those they love, their own children. We are capable of great ugliness and stupidity,” he said gently. “But you will find many of the same people just as capable of courage and pity as well. We must tell them the truth so they can have the chance.”

She shivered and half turned away.

“We are singing in the dark, Mr. Rathbone. They aren't going to believe you, for the very reasons you talk about. Thaddeus was a hero, the sort of hero they need to believe in, because there are hundreds like him in the army, and they are what keep us safe and build our Empire.” She hunched a little farther into herself. “They protect us from the real armies outside, and from the armies of doubt inside. If you destroy the British soldier in his red coat, the men who stood against all Europe and defeated Napoleon, saved England from the French, acquired Africa, India, Canada, quarter of the world, what have you left? No one is going to do that for one woman who is a criminal anyway.”

“All you are saying is that the odds are heavy against us.” He deliberately made his voice harder, suppressing the emotion he felt. “That same redcoat would not have turned away from battle because he was not sure of winning. You haven't read his history if you can entertain that thought for a second. His finest victories have been when outnumbered and against the odds.”

“Like the charge of the Light Brigade?” she said with sudden sarcasm. “Do you know how many of them died? And for nothing at all!”

“Yes, one man in six of the entire Brigade-God knows how many were injured,” he replied flatly, aware of a dull heat in his cheeks. “I was thinking more of the 'thin red line'-which if you recall stood a single man deep, and repulsed the enemy and held its ground till the charge broke and failed.”

There was a smile on her wide mouth, and tears in her eyes, and no belief.

“Is that what you intend?”

“Certainly.”

He could see she was still frightened, he could almost taste it in the air, but she had lost the will to fight him anymore. She turned away; it was surrender, and dismissal. She needed her time alone to prepare for the fear and the embarrassment, and the helplessness of the day.

The first witness was Charles Hargrave, called by Lovat-Smith to confirm the events of the dinner party already given, but primarily to retell his finding of the body of the general, with its terrible wound.

“Mr. Furnival came back into the room and said that the general had had an accident, is that correct?” Lovat-Smith asked.

Hargrave looked very serious, his face reflecting both his professional gravity and personal distress. The jury listened to him with a respect they reserved for the more distinguished members of certain professions: medicine, the Church, and lawyers who dealt with the bequests of the dead.

“Quite correct,” Hargrave replied with a flicker of a smile across his rakish, rather elegant sandy face. “I presume he phrased it that way because he did not want to alarm people or cause more distress than necessary.”

“Why do you say that, Doctor?”

“Because as soon as I went into the hallway myself and saw the body it was perfectly apparent that he was dead. Even a person with no medical training at all must have been aware of it.”

“Could you describe his injuries-in full, please, Dr. Hargrave?”

The jury all shifted fractionally in their seats, attention and unhappiness vying in their expressions.

A shadow crossed Hargrave's face, but he was too practiced to need any explanation as to the necessity for such a thing.

“Of course,” he agreed. “At the time I found him he was lying on his back with his left arm flung out, more or less level with one shoulder, but bent at the elbow. The right arm was only a short distance from his side, the hand twelve or fourteen inches from his hip. His legs were bent, the right folded awkwardly under him, and I judged it to be broken below the knee, his left leg severely twisted. These guesses later turned out to be correct.” An expression crossed his face it was impossible to name, but it did not seem to be complacency. His eyes remained always on Lovat-Smith, never once straying upwards towards Alexandra in the dock opposite him.

“The injuries?” Lovat-Smith prompted.

“At the time all that was visible was bruising to the bead, bleeding from the scalp at the left temple where he had struck the ground. There was a certain amount of blood, but not a great deal.”

People in the gallery were craning their necks to stare up at Alexandra. There was a hiss of indrawn breath and a muttering.

“Let me understand you, Doctor.” Lovat-Smith held up his hand, strong, short-fingered and slender. “There was only one injury to the head that you could see?”

“That is correct.”

“As a medical man, what do you deduce from that?”

Hargrave lifted his wide shoulders very slightly. “That he fell straight over the banister and struck his head only once.”

Lovat-Smith touched his left temple. “Here?”

“Yes, within an inch or so.”

“And yet he was lying on his back, did you not say?”

“I did,” Hargrave said very quietly.

“Dr. Hargrave, Mr. Furnival has told us that the halberd was protruding from his chest.” Lovat-Smith paced across the floor and swung around, staring up at Hargrave on the witness box, his face creased in concentration. “How could a man fall from a balcony onto a weapon held upright in the hands of a suit of armour, piercing his chest, and land in such a way as to bruise himself on the front of his temple?”

The judge glanced at Rathbone.

Rathbone pursed his lips. He had no objections. He did not contest that Alexandra had murdered the general. This was all necessary, but beside the point of the real issue.

Lovat-Smith seemed surprised there was no interruption. Far from making it easier for him, it seemed to throw him a trifle off his stride.

“Dr. Hargrave,” he said, shifting his balance from one foot to the other.

A juror fidgeted. Another scratched his nose and frowned.

“I have no idea,” Hargrave replied. “It would seem to me as if the only explanation must be that he fell backwards, as one would naturally, and in some way twisted in the air after-” He stopped.

Lovat-Smith's black eyebrows rose curiously.

“You were saying, Doctor?” He spread his arms out. “He fell over backwards, turned in the air to allow the halberd to pierce his chest, and then somehow turned again so he could strike the floor with his temple? All without breaking the halberd or tearing it out of the wound. And then he rolled over to lie on his back with one leg folded under the other? You amaze me.”

“Of course not,” Hargrave said seriously, his temper unruffled, only a deep concern reflected in his face.

Rathbone glanced at the jury and knew they liked Hargrave, and Lovat-Smith had annoyed them. He also knew it was intentional. Hargrave was his witness, he wished him to be not only liked but profoundly believed.

“Then what are you saying, Dr. Hargrave?”

Hargrave was very serious. He looked at no one but Lovat-Smith, as if the two of them were discussing some tragedy in their gentlemen's club. There were feint mutters of approval from the crowd.

“That he must have fallen and struck his head, and then spun, the halberd been driven into his body when he was lying on the ground. Perhaps he was moved, but not necessarily. He could quite naturally have struck his head and then rolled a little to lie on his back. His head was at an odd angle-but his neck was not broken. I looked for that, and I am sure it was not so.”

“You are saying it could not have been an accident, Dr. Hargrave?”

Hargrave's face tightened. “I am.”

“How long did it take you to come to this tragic conclusion?”

“From the time I first saw the body, about-about one or two minutes, I imagine.” A ghost of a smile moved his lips. “Time is a peculiar commodity on such an occasion. It seems both to stretch out endlessly, like a road before and behind with no turning, and at the same time to crush in on you and have no size at all. To say one or two minutes is only a guess, made afterwards using intelligence. It was one of the most dreadful moments I can recall.”

“Why? Because you knew someone in that house, one of your personal friends, had murdered General Thaddeus Carlyon?”

Again the judge glanced at Rathbone, and Rathbone made no move. A frown crossed the judge's face, and still Rathbone did not object.

“Yes,” Hargrave said almost inaudibly. “I regret it, but it was inescapable. I am sorry.” For the first and only time he looked up at Alexandra.

“Just so,” Lovat-Smith agreed solemnly. “And accordingly you informed the police?”

“I did.”

“Thank you.”

Rathbone looked at the jury again. Not one of them looked at the dock. She sat there motionless, her blue eyes on Rathbone, without anger, without surprise, and without hope.

He smiled at her, and felt ridiculous.