The Sins of the Wolf

Chapter 10

The defense began the following morning. The crowd which filled the gallery was in an unusual mood, shifting and whispering in a strange mixture of apathy and then sudden interest, its tenor changing every few moments. Some believed it was all over, and the defense was merely a legal nicety in order that there could be no appeal against unfair process of law. Others were half expecting a battle of wits, however futile. The former were admirers of Gil-feather, the latter of James Argyll. Almost everyone was partisan; those who had no interest in either combatant were sure of the outcome and had not bothered to attend at all.

Rathbone was so on edge he had kept clearing his throat and it now ached. He had not slept until it was nearly time to get up, then he had been deeply in nightmare and waking had been difficult. The previous evening he had gone first to spend time with his father, then, realizing how short his temper, he had not wished to inflict it on anyone else, particularly Henry. He had spent from half past eight until nearly midnight alone, going over and over the case in his mind, rehearsing every scrap of evidence they knew, and when that proved fruitless, repeating as well as he could remember all the testimony Gilfeather had presented. It was not conclusive, of course it was not. Hester was not guilty! But she could have killed Mary Farraline, and in the absence of anything to suggest someone else had, suggest it powerfully, believably, any jury would convict her.

Argyll might be the best lawyer in Scotland, but it would take more than skill now, and as he sat in the crowded, tingling courtroom he dared not look up at the dock at Hester. She might see the despair in his face, and he could at least spare her that.

Nor did he look for Monk’s smooth, dark head in the gallery. He half hoped he would not be there. Possibly he had thought of something to pursue, some further idea. Had he asked the apothecaries if anyone else had purchased digitalis? Yes, he must have. It was elementary. Monk was not a man to rest on pure defense. He would attack; it was his nature. Dear heaven, it was the essence of the man.

Neither did Rathbone look for his father; he avoided the gallery altogether. It was not only emotional cowardice-or, to give it a kinder name, self-preservation-it was tactical sense. At this point feelings were redundant, a clear mind was needed, a sharp brain and logical thought.

The judge looked cold and complacent. It was not a difficult case from his view. He had no doubt of conviction. Sentencing a woman to hang would be unpleasant, but he had done it before, and would no doubt do it again. Then he would go home to his family and a good dinner. Tomorrow there would be a new case.

And the public would applaud him. Emotion was running high. There were people whom Society had set high in its estimation, had given a certain honor, attributed to them emotions nobler than the ordinary man. They included the religious and medical worlds. They had been set above others in esteem, and more was required of them in return. When they fell, they fell farther. Condemnation was accompanied by disillusion and all its discomfort to the beliefs. It was bitter, born of pain, anger and self-pity, because something precious had been attacked. The offense was not only against Mary Farraline. If one could not trust a nurse, the whole world was not what one had taken for granted. All safety was threatened. For that, the punishment was terrible.

He saw it in the faces of the jurors also. Judgment was touched with fear. And few men forgave one who frightened them.

The court came to order. James Argyll rose to his feet. There was total silence. Not a soul whispered or moved.

“May it please my lord, gentlemen of the jury,” he began. “So far you have heard much factual evidence as to how Mary Farraline met her death, and much indication as to how it may well have happened. You have heard a little of what manner of woman she was. The defense would be the last to wish to quibble with what has been said of her. Indeed, we would have added more. She was charming, intelligent, courteous, honorable; possessed of those rare qualities, both generosity and humor. While we do not contend that she was perfect-which of us mortals is-we know of no ill in her and have nothing to say of her but praise. Her family is not alone in mourning her.”

The judge sighed audibly, but no one in the gallery moved their eyes from Argyll. One or two of the jury frowned, uncertain what he was leading to.

Argyll regarded them seriously.

“However, we have heard very little of the character of the accused, Miss Hester Latterly. We have heard from the Farraline family that she met all the requirements for the brief task she was to undertake for them, but that is all. They saw her as an employee, for less than a day. Hardly time to get to know a person.”

The judge leaned forward as if to speak, then changed his mind. He looked to Gilfeather, but Gilfeather was quite serene, his flyaway hair on end, his smile amiable and totally unconcerned.

“I propose to call two witnesses to that end,” Argyll continued. “Just in case you feel one to be inadequate, possibly biased. To begin with I shall call Dr. Alan Moncrieff.”

There was a stirring of interest as the usher repeated the name, then a distinct rustle as heads craned to look when the door opened and a tall, lean man with an unusually handsome aquiline face walked across the open space between the gallery and the witness-box and climbed up the steps. He was sworn in and faced Argyll expectantly.

“Dr. Moncrieff, is the prisoner, Miss Hester Latterly, known to you?’

“Yes sir, I know her quite well.” In spite of his Scottish name, his voice was beautifully modulated, and very English.

Rathbone swore under his breath. Could Argyll not have found a man who sounded more like a native, less alien? Moncrieff might have been born and bred in Edinburgh, but he did not sound like it He should have checked it himself. He should have said something. Now it was too late.

“Would you tell the court in what circumstances you knew her, sir?” Argyll requested.

“I served in the Army Medical Corps during the late war in the Crimea,” Moncrieff replied.

“With what regiment, sir?” Argyll asked innocently, his eyes wide.

“The Scots Greys, sir,” Moncrieff said with an almost imperceptible lift of his chin and straightening of his shoulders.

There was a second’s silence, and then an indrawing of breath by the half dozen or so who knew their military history. The Scots Greys, the Inniskilling Dragoons and the Dragoon Guards, a mere eight hundred men in all, had marshaled on the field of disaster at Balaclava and held a Russian charge of three thousand cavalry, and in eight blood-soaked minutes the Russians had broken and fled back the way they had come.

One man in the jury blew his nose fiercely and another was not ashamed to wipe his eyes.

Someone in the gallery called out “God save the Queen!” and then fell silent.

Argyll kept a perfect gravity, as if he had heard nothing. “An odd choice for an Englishman?” he observed.

Gilfeather sat like stone.

“I am sure you have no intention of being offensive, sir,”

Moncrieff said quietly. “But I was born in Stirling and studied medicine in Aberdeen and Edinburgh. I have spent some time in England, as well as abroad. You may blame my accent upon my mother.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Argyll said grimly. “It was a hasty conclusion, upon appearances-or rather, upon sound.” He did not add anything about the foolishness of such prejudgments. It would have been clumsy. The jury had taken the point as it was.

There was a murmur of approval around the gallery.

The judge scowled.

Rathbone smiled, in spite of himself.

“Please proceed, Mr. Argyll,” the judge said with exaggerated weariness. “Wherever the good doctor was born, or studied, is neither here nor there. I assume you are not going to say that he knew Miss Latterly in either place? No, I thought not. Do get on with it!”

Argyll was not in the slightest disturbed. He smiled at the judge and turned back to Moncrieff.

“And you encountered Miss Latterly while you were in the Crimea, Doctor?”

“Yes sir, on many occasions.”

“In the pursuit of your mutual profession?”

The judge leaned forward, a sharp frown between his brows making his face look even longer and narrower.

“Sir, this court requires that you be precise. You are misleading the jury. Dr. Moncrieff and Miss Latterly do not have a mutual profession, as you well know; and if you do not, then let me inform you. Dr. Moncrieff is a physician, a practitioner of the art of medicine. Miss Latterly is a nurse, a servant to such doctors in their care of the sick, to roll bandages, make beds, fetch and carry. She does not diagnose disease, she does not prescribe medicines, she does not perform operations of even the slightest nature. She does as she is told, no more. Do I make myself clear?” He turned to the jury. “Gentlemen?”

At least half the jurors nodded sagely.

“Doctor,” Argyll said smoothly, addressing Moncrieff. “I do not wish you to presume upon jurisprudence. Please confine yourself to medicine as your skill, and Miss Latterly as your observation.”

There was a titter around the room, hastily suppressed. One man in the gallery guffawed, and someone squeaked with alarm.

The judge was scarlet-faced, but events had overtaken him. He searched for words, and found none.

“Of course not, sir,” Moncrieff said quickly. “I know nothing about it, beyond what is open to every layman.”

“Did you work with Miss Latterly, sir?”

“Frequently.”

“What was your opinion of her professional ability?”

Gilfeather rose to his feet. “We are not doubting her professional ability, my lord. The prosecution is not charging she made any error in judgment as to procedure. We are quite sure all her acts were precisely what she intended them to be, and with full understanding of the consequences… at least medically speaking.”

There was another nervous giggle somewhere, instantly stifled.

“Proceed to what is relevant, Mr. Argyll,” the judge directed. “The court is waiting to hear Dr. Moncrieff’s testimony as to the character of the prisoner. Relevant or not, it is her right to have it heard.”

“My lord, I believe that competence to perform one’s duties, and to place the care of others before one’s own safety, while in great personal danger, is a profound part of a person’s character,” Argyll said with a smile.

There was a long, tense silence. No one in the gallery moved.

In spite of himself Rathbone’s eyes flickered up to Hester. She was staring at Argyll, her face white, the shadow of hope struggling in her eyes.

He felt an overwhelming sense of despair, so total for a moment he could hardly catch his breath. It was as if someone had knocked the air out of his lungs.

Perhaps it was as well Argyll was conducting the case. He cared too much to be in command of himself.

The jury was waiting, all fifteen faces turned towards the judge. This time their emotion was with Argyll, and it was plain to see.

The judge was tight-lipped with anger, but he knew the law.

“Proceed,” he said curtly.

“Thank you, my lord.” Argyll inclined his head and turned back to Moncrieff. “Dr. Moncrieff, I ask you again, what is your opinion of Miss Latterly’s professional ability, in all circumstances with which you are acquainted and competent to form a judgment?”

“Excellent, sir,” Moncrieff answered without hesitation. “She showed remarkable courage on the battlefield when there were enemy skirmishers about, working with the wounded when her own life was in danger. She worked very long hours indeed, often all day and half the night, ignoring her own exhaustion or hunger and cold.” A shadow of amusement crossed Moncrieff’s handsome face. “And she had exceptional initiative. I have on occasions thought it is unfortunate it is impossible to train women to practice medicine. More man one nurse, in cases when there was no surgeon, has performed successful operations to remove musket balls or pieces of shell, and even amputated limbs badly shattered on the field. Miss Latterly was one such.”

Argyll’s face registered the appropriate surprise.

“Are you saying, sir, that she was a surgeon… in the Crimea?”

“In extremis, yes sir. Surgery requires a steady hand, a good eye, a knowledge of anatomy, and a cool nerve. All of these qualities may be possessed by a woman as much as by a man.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” someone shouted from the gallery.

“Good God, sir!” one of the jurors exploded, then blushed scarlet.

“That is an extraordinary opinion, sir,” Argyll said very distinctly.

“War is an extraordinary occupation, thank God,” Moncrieff replied. “Were it commonplace, I fear the human race would very soon wipe itself out. But appalling as it is, it does on occasion show us qualities we would not otherwise know we possessed. Both men and women rise to heights of gallantry, and of skill, that the calm, more ordered days of peace would never inspire.

“You called me to testify as to what I know of Miss Latterly’s character, sir. I can in honesty say no other than I found her brave, honest, dedicated to her calling, and compassionate without sentimentality.

“On the negative side, so you will not believe me biased, she was opinionated, at times hasty to judge others whom she believed to be incompetent…” He smiled ruefully. “In which I regret she had much cause. And at times her sense of humor was less than discreet. She could be dictatorial and arbitrary, and when she was tired, short-tempered.

“But no one I ever knew saw a single act of personal greed or vindictiveness in her, whatever the circumstances. Nor had she personal vanity. Good heavens, man, look at her!” He waved one arm towards the dock, leaning over the railing of the witness-box. Every head in the courtroom turned at his word. “Does she look to you like a woman who would commit murder to gain a piece of personal adornment?”

Even Rathbone turned, staring at Hester, gaunt, ashen-faced, her hair screwed back, dressed in blue-gray as plain as a uniform.

Argyll smiled. “No sir, she does not. I confess, it seems you are right; a little personal vanity might be more becoming. It is a falling short, I think.”

There was a ripple around the room. In the gallery one woman put her hand on her husband’s arm. Henry Rathbone smiled wanly. Monk gritted his teeth.

“Thank you, Dr. Moncrieff,” Argyll said quickly. “That is all I mean to ask you.”

Gilfeather rose slowly, almost ponderously, to his feet.

Moncrieff faced him steadily. He was not naive enough to think the next few minutes would be easy. He was aware that he had altered, if not the tide of the battle, at least the pitch and the heat of it. In Argyll he had been facing a friend; Gilfeather was the enemy.

“Dr. Moncrieff,” he began softly. “I expect few of us here can imagine the horror and privation you and other workers in the medical field must have faced during the war. It must have been truly terrible. You spoke of hunger, cold, exhaustion and fear. Is that true, no dark exaggeration?”

“None,” Moncrieff said guardedly. “You are correct, sir. It is an experience that cannot be adequately imagined.”

“It must place the most extraordinary strain upon those called upon to endure it?”

“Yes sir.”

“I accept that you could not share it with me, for example, other than in the most superficial and unsatisfactory way.”

“Is that a question, sir?”

“No, unless you disagree with me?”

“No, I agree. One can communicate only those experiences for which there is some common language or understanding. One cannot describe sunset to a man who has not sight.”

“Precisely. That must leave you with a certain loneliness. Dr. Moncrieff.”

Moncrieff said nothing.

“And a closeness to those with whom you have shared such fearful and profound times.”

Moncrieff could not deny it, even though to judge from his face he could perceive where Gilfeather was leading him.

The jurors leaned forward, listening intently.

“Of course,” he conceded.

“And very naturally a certain impatience with the bland-ness and uncomprehension, perhaps even uselessness, of certain of the women who have no idea whatever of anything more dangerous or demanding than household management?”

“These are your words, sir, not mine.”

“But accurate, sir? Come, you are on oath. Do you not ache to share the past you speak of with such passion now?”

Moncrieff’s expression did not flicker.

“I have no need to, sir. It is beyond sharing by me, or anyone else, except in words that are spoken by the shabby and believed by the ignorant.” He leaned forward, his hands gripping the rail. “But neither do I insult the women who remained at home caring for homes and children. We all have our own challenges, and our virtues. It is too easy to compare, and I think a profitless exercise. As women who manage the domestic economy do not understand the women who went to the Crimea, so, perhaps, those who went away do not know, or pretend to know, the hardships of those who stayed at home.”

“Very well, sir. Your courtesy does you credit,” Gilfeather said between his teeth, the smile vanished from his face. “But nevertheless a closeness must exist, a relief to share what must still cause you deep emotion?”

“Of course.”

“Tell me, sir, did Miss Latterly always appear as dowdy as she does here today? She is a young woman, and not of displeasing form or feature. This must have been an extraordinary ordeal for her. She has been confined first in Newgate Prison in London, and now here in Edinburgh. She is on trial for her life. We cannot judge fairly her charms from the way in which we see her now.”

“That is true,” Moncrieff agreed carefully.

“Did you like her, Doctor?”

“There is little time for friendship, Mr. Gilfeather. Your question admirably illustrates your assumption that those who were not there cannot comprehend what it was like. I admired her and found her excellent to work with, as I have already said.”

“Come, sir!” Gilfeather said grimly, his voice suddenly raised and harsh. “Do not be disingenuous with me! Do you expect us to believe that in two years you were so dedicated to your duty day and night that the natural man never emerged in you?” He spread his hands wide, his face smiling. “You never once, during lulls in battle, times when the summer sunshine shone in the fields, when there was time for picnics… oh yes, we are not totally ignorant of what happened out there! There were war correspondents, you know… even photographs! Do you expect us to believe, sir, that all that time you never saw Miss Latterly as a young and not unpleasing woman?”

Moncrieff smiled.

“No sir, I do not ask you to. I had not even thought of the matter, but since you raise it, she is not at all unlike my wife, who has many of the same qualities of courage and honesty.”

“But who was not a nurse in the Crimea, and thus able to share your emotions, sir!”

Moncrieff smiled.

“You are mistaken, sir. She was most certainly in the Crimea, and most able to understand as much of my feelings as another person could.”

Gilfeather was defeated, and he knew it.

“Thank you, Doctor. That is all I have to ask you. Unless my learned friend has anything to add, you may go.”

“No, thank you,” Argyll declined generously. “Thank you, Dr. Moncrieff.”

The court adjourned early for lunch, newspaper correspondents racing out to send messengers flying with the latest word, jostling each other, even knocking people over in their excitement. The judge had retired in considerable ill humor.

A hundred things were on the edge of Rathbone’s tongue to say to Argyll. In the end he said none of them; each seemed too obvious when it came to the point, unnecessary, merely betraying his own fears.

He had not thought himself hungry, and yet in the dining room of the inn he ate luncheon without even being aware of it. He looked down and found his plate empty.

At last he could contain himself no longer.

“Miss Nightingale this afternoon,” he said aloud.

Argyll looked up, his fork still in his hand.

“Aye,” he agreed. “A formidable woman from what I have seen of her-which is little enough, just a few brief words this morning. I confess, I am not sure how much to lead her and how much I should simply point her in the right direction and let her destroy Gilfeather, if he is rash enough to attack her.”

“You must have her say something he will have to attack,” Rathbone said urgently, laying down his knife and fork. “He is too experienced to say anything to her unless you force him to. He will not leave her on the stand a moment longer than she has to be, unless you have her say something he cannot leave uncontested.”

“Yes…” Argyll said thoughtfully, abandoning what little was left of his meal. “I think you are right But what? She is not a material witness to anything here in Edinburgh. She has presumably never heard of the Farralines. She knows nothing of what happened. All she can testify is that Hester Latterly was a skilled and diligent nurse. Her sole value to us is her own reputation-the esteem in which she is held. Gilfeather will certainly not challenge that.”

Rathbone thought wildly, his brain in a whirl. Florence Nightingale was not a woman to be manipulated into anything, not by Argyll, and not by Gilfeather. What possible thing was there she could say that was pertinent to the case and which Gilfeatfier would have to challenge? Hester’s courage was not in doubt, nor her capability as a nurse.

Then the beginning of an idea formed in his mind, just a shadow. Slowly, feeling for its shape, he explained it to Argyll, fumbling for words, then, as he saw Argyll’s eyes brighten, gathering confidence.

By the time the court commenced its afternoon session, he was sitting behind Argyll, in precisely the same position as before, but feeling a spark of excitement, something which might even be mistaken for hope. But still he did not look at the gallery, and only once, for a moment, at Hester.

“Call Florence Nightingale,” the usher’s voice boomed out, and there were gasps of indrawn breath around the room. A woman in the gallery screamed and stifled the sound with her hand clasped over her face.

The judge banged his gavel. “I will have order in the court! Another outburst like that and I shall have the place cleared. Is that understood? This is a court of law, not a place of entertainment. Mr. Argyll, I hope this witness is relevant to the case, and not merely a piece of exhibitionism and an attempt to win some kind of public sympathy. If it is, I assure you it will fail. Miss Latterly is on trial here, and Miss Nightingale’s reputation is irrelevant!”

Argyll bowed gravely and said nothing.

Every eye was turned towards the doorway, necks were craned and bodies twisted to see as a slender, upright figure came in, crossed the floor without looking to right or left, and climbed the steps to the witness-box. She was not imposing. She was really quite ordinary looking, with brownish hair, straight and severely swept from her face, very level brows and regular features. The whole cast of her countenance was too determined to be pretty, and without the inner light and serenity which fires beauty. It was not an easy face; it was even a little frightening.

She swore as to her name and place of residence in a firm and clear voice, and stood waiting for Argyll to begin.

“Thank you for traveling this considerable distance and leaving your own most important work to testify in this case, Miss Nightingale,” he said gravely.

“Justice is also important, sir,” she replied, staring very directly at him. “And in this instance, also a matter of life”-she hesitated-”and death.”

“Quite so.”

Rathbone had warned him passionately about the danger of patronizing her, or seeming in the slightest way to condescend to her, or state the obvious. Please heaven he remembered!

“We are all aware that you have no knowledge of the facts of this case, ma’am,” Argyll proceeded. “But the prisoner, Hester Latterly, has been well known to you in the past, has she not? And you feel able to speak of her character?”

“I have known Hester Latterly since the summer of 1854,” Florence replied. “And I am willing to answer any questions as to her character that you care to put to me.”

“Thank you.” Argyll adopted a relaxed posture, his head a little to one side. “Miss Nightingale, there has been some speculation as to why a young lady of gentle birth and good education should choose an occupation such as nursing, which previously has been carried out largely by women of low degree and, frankly, of pretty rough habits.”

Behind Argyll, Rathbone sat forward on the edge of his seat, his body aching with tension. The courtroom was silent Every juror was watching Florence as if she had been the only living person there.

“Indeed, prior to your noble and pioneering work,” Argyll continued, “it was the sort of task to occupy those women who were not able to find a respectable domestic position. For example, if I may ask you, why did you yourself undertake such an arduous and dangerous task? Were your family agreeable to your doing such a work?”

“Mr. Argyll!” the judge said angrily, jerking forward in sudden movement.

“No sir, they were not,” Florence replied, ignoring the judge. “They put up considerable argument against it, and it took me many years, and a great deal of pleading, before they succumbed. As to the reason why I persisted against their will, there is a higher duty even than that to family, and a higher obedience.” Her face was lit with a simple, blinding conviction, and even the judge’s protest died unspoken. Every man and woman in the room, juror or spectator, was listening to her. Had the judge spoken he would have been ignored, and that he would not invite. It would have been intolerable.

Argyll waited expectantly, black eyes wide.

“I believe that is what God has called me to do, sir,” she answered him. “And I shall devote my life to that end.” She gave a little shiver of impatience. “Indeed, I wrong myself and am cowardly to express it so. I know He has called me. I believe that others have the same desire to serve their fellow men, and the conviction that nursing the sick is the finest way in which they can do it There can be no higher calling, and none more urgently needed at such times than the relief of suffering, and where possible the preservation of life and restoration to health of men who have fought for their country. Can you doubt it, sir?”

“No, madam, I cannot, and I do not,” Argyll said candidly.

Gilfeather stirred in his seat as if to make some interruption, but knew his time was not yet, and restrained himself with some difficulty.

With a supreme effort of self-control, Rathbone also remained motionless.

“And Hester Latterly served in the hospital at Scutari?” Argyll asked, his face expressionless except for a mild interest. Whatever emotions of triumph or expectancy boiled inside him, there was nothing in his features to betray them.

“Yes, she was one of the best nurses there.”

“In what way, ma’am?”

“Dedication-and skill. There were too few surgeons and too many patients.” Her voice was calm and controlled, but there was an intensity and feeling in it which commanded the attention of everyone in the room. “Often a nurse had to act as she thought he would have done, or a man’s life would be lost which she could have saved.”

There was a gasp somewhere in the gallery, a hissing of anger at such suggested arrogance.

The judge’s face registered his acknowledgment of it.

Florence took no more notice than if it had been a fly on the windowpane.

“Hester had both the courage and the knowledge to do so,” she went on. “There are many men alive in England now who would be buried in the Crimea were she a lesser woman.”

Argyll waited several seconds to allow the full impact of what she had said to sink into the minds of the jury. Their faces were filled with battling emotions: awe of Florence, which was almost a religious reverence; and memories of their own of war and the losses of war, brothers and sons buried in the carnage, or perhaps saved by the efforts of such women. Mixed with those feelings were outrage at the challenge to centuries of masculine leadership, previously unquestioned rights. The confusion was painful, the doubts and the fears profound.

“Thank you,” Argyll acknowledged at last. “And did you also find her personally honest, both truthful and careful of the rights and possessions of others?”

“Absolutely and without exception,” Florence replied.

Argyll hesitated.

The tension was unbearable. Rathbone sat hardly daring to draw breath. The decision Argyll made now might be the difference between winning and losing, between life and the hangman’s noose. Only he and Argyll knew the weight of what hung in that moment. If he succeeded in maneuvering Gilfeather into attacking Florence she would retaliate with a passion and emotional force that would sweep away all the quibbles and arguments he could raise. On the other hand, if he had the wisdom to retreat, and dismiss her, her value to Hester would be lost.

Was it enough? Had he goaded Gilfeather sufficiently, masked the hook by the bait?

Very slowly Argyll smiled at Florence Nightingale, thanking her again for having come, and resumed his seat.

Rathbone sat with his heart pounding. The room seemed to sway around him. Seconds stretched into eternity.

With a scrape of chair legs, Gilfeather stood up.

“You are one of the most deeply loved and highly respected women in the nation, madam, and I do not wish to seem to detract from that in any way,” he said carefully. “However, the cause of justice is higher than any individual, and there are questions I must ask you.”

“Of course,” she agreed, facing him squarely.

“Miss Nightingale, you say that Miss Latterly is an excellent nurse-indeed, that she has displayed skills equal to those of many field surgeons when faced with cases of emergency?”

“That is true.”

“And that she is diligent, honest and brave?”

“She is.” There was no hesitation in her voice, no shred of uncertainty.

He smiled. “Then, madam, how is it that she is obliged to earn her living, not in some senior position in a hospital, using these remarkable qualities, but traveling on an overnight train from Edinburgh to London, administering a simple dose of medicine to an elderly lady whose health is no worse than that of most persons of her age? Surely that could have been done quite adequately by a perfectly ordinary lady’s maid?” There was challenge and triumph even in the angle of his body where he stood, the lift of his shoulders.

Rathbone clenched his hands, digging his nails into his palms with unbearable tension. Would she retaliate as he had hoped, as he had counted?

In front of him Argyll sat rigid, only a tiny muscle flicking at the side of his temple.

Florence’s face hardened as she looked at Gilfeather with dislike.

Please-please-Rathbone prayed in his head.

“Because she is an outspoken woman, with more courage than tact, thank God,” Florence said sharply. “She does not care for hospital life, having to obey the orders of those who are on occasion less knowledgeable than herself but are too arrogant to be told by someone they consider inferior. Perhaps it is a fault, but it is an honest one.”

The jury smiled.

Somewhere in the gallery a man cheered, and then instantly fell silent.

“And an impetuous one,” Gilfeather added, taking a step forward. “Even, perhaps, a self-indulgent one, would you not say, Miss Nightingale?”

“I would not.”

“Oh I would! Sometimes self-indulgent, and unquestionably arrogant. It is the weakness, the fault, of a woman who considers herself above others, believes her own opinions count more than those of men trained and qualified in their profession, a profession perhaps she aspires to, but for which she has no training but practice, in extraordinary circumstances-”

“Mr. Gilfeather,” she cut across him imperiously, her eyes blazing, her body quivering with the fierceness of her emotion. “You are either intending to provoke me to anger, sir, or you are more naive than a man in your position has a right to be! Have you the faintest idea of the ‘extraordinary circumstances’ to which you refer so glibly? You are well dressed, sir. You look in the best of health. How often do you go without your dinner? Do you even know what it is like to be so hungry you would be glad to boil the bones of a rat?”

There were gasps around the room. A woman in the gallery slid forward in her seat. The judge winced.

“Madam-” Gilfeather protested, but she barely heard him.

“You have your sight, sir, and your limbs. Have you seen a man with his legs shot away? Do you know how quickly one must act to stop him hemorrhaging to death? Could you find the arteries in all that blood and save him? Would your nerve hold you, and your stomach?”

“Madam-” Gilfeather tried again.

“I am sure you are master of your profession,” she swept on, not leaning forward over the railing as another might have, but standing stiff and straight, head high. “But how often do you work all day and all night for days on end? Or do you return home to a nice soft bed-one that is warm enough, and in which you may lie safely until the morning? Have you lain on a canvas sheet on the earth, too cold to sleep, listening to the groans of those in agony, and hearing in your memory the rattle of the dying, and knowing tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow there will always be more, and all you can do will only ease it a little, a very little!”

There was utter silence in the court.

The judge waved his hands at Gilfeather.

Gilfeather shrugged.

“And when you are ill, sir, vomiting and with a flux you cannot control, is there someone to hold a bowl for you, wash you clean, bring you a little fresh water, change your sheets? I hope you are suitably grateful, sir-because, dear God, there are so many for whom there is not, because there are too few of us willing to do it, or with the heart and the stomach for it! Yes, Hester Latterly is an extraordinary woman, molded by circumstances beyond most people to imagine. Yes, she is headstrong, at times arrogant, capable of making decisions that would quail many a heart less brave, less passionate, less moved by intolerable pity.” She barely took a breath. “And before you ask me, I can believe she would kill to save her own life, or that of a patient in her charge. I would prefer not to think she would kill out of revenge, no matter how gross or intolerable the wrong, but I would not swear to it on oath.” Now at last she did lean forward, facing Gilfeather with a burning eye. “But I would take my oath before God, she would not poison a patient for gain of a paltry piece of jewelry and then give it back unasked. If you believe that, sir, you are a lesser judge of mankind than you have a right to be and hold the calling you do.”

Gilfeather opened his mouth, then closed it again. He was well beaten and he knew it. He had provoked a force of nature, and the storm had broken over him.

“I have no more questions,” he said grimly. “Thank you, Miss Nightingale.”

Rathbone had been staring at her.

“Go and help her,” he hissed at Argyll.

“What?”

“Assist her!” Rathbone said fiercely. “Look at her, man!”

“But, she’s…” Argyll began.

“Strong! No she’s not! Get on with it!”

The sheer fury of Rathbone’s voice impelled him to his feet. He plunged forward just as Florence reached the bottom of the steps and all but collapsed.

In the gallery people craned forward anxiously. One man rose as if to leave his place.

“Allow me, madam,” Argyll said, grasping Florence’s arm and holding her up. “I feel you have exhausted yourself on our behalf.”

“It is nothing,” she said, but she clung to him all the same, allowing him to take a remarkable amount of her weight. “Merely a little breathlessness. Perhaps I am not as well as I had imagined.”

Quite slowly he escorted her, without asking the court’s permission, as far as the doors out, every man and woman in the room watching him with bated breath, and then amid a sigh of approval and respect, he returned to his place.

“Thank you, my lord,” he said solemnly to the judge. “The defense next calls the prisoner, Miss Hester Latterly.”

“It is growing late,” the judge said sharply, his face creased with ill-suppressed rage. “The court will adjourn for today. You may call your witness tomorrow, Mr. Argyll.” And he slammed down the gavel as if he would break the shaft of it in his hand.

Hester climbed the steps of the witness-box and turned to face the court. She had slept little, and the few moments she had had were fraught with nightmares, and now that the moment had come, it seemed unreal. She could feel the railing beneath her hands, the wood of it smoothed by a thousand other clenched fingers and white knuckles; the judge with his narrow face and deep-set eyes seemed the figment of yet another nightmare. Her senses were filled with an incomprehensible roaring sound, without form or meaning. Was it people in the gallery talking to each other, or only the blood thundering through her veins, cutting her off from the sights and sounds plain to everyone else?

In spite of all the promises to herself, her eyes searched the gallery for Monk’s hard, smooth face, and she found instead Henry Rathbone. He was looking at her, and although from that distance she could not see him clearly, in her mind’s eye his clear blue eyes had never been plainer, and the gentleness and the hurt for her brought a rush of emotion beyond her control. She knew him ridiculously little. She had had just a few moments with Oliver in his house on Primrose Hill, a quiet evening supper (overcooked because they were late), the summer evening in the garden, the starlit sky above the apple trees, the scent of honeysuckle on the lawn. It was all so familiar, so sweet, the pain of it almost intolerable. She wished she had not seen him, and yet she could not tear her eyes away.

“Miss Latterly!”

Argyll’s voice jerked her back to the present and to the proceedings that had at last begun.

“Yes… sir?” This was her chance to speak for herself, the only chance she would be given between now and the verdict. She must be right. She could not afford a mistake of any sort, not a word, a look, a gesture that could be interpreted wrongly. She might live, or die, upon such tiny things.

“Miss Latterly, why did you respond to Mr. Farraline’s advertisement for someone to accompany his mother from Edinburgh to London? It was a post of short duration, and far beneath your skill. Did it pay extraordinarily well? Or were you so greatly in need of funds that anything at all was welcome?”

“No sir, I accepted it because I thought it would be interesting, and agreeable. I had never been to Scotland before, and all I had heard of it was in its praise.” She forced a wan smile at memory. “I had nursed many men from Scottish regiments, and formed a unique respect for them.”

She felt the ripple of emotion through the room, but she was not sure if she understood it or not. There was no time to think about it now. She must concentrate on Argyll.

“I see,” he said smoothly. “And the remuneration, was it good?”

“It was generous, considering the lightness of the task,” she said honestly. “But it was perhaps balanced by the fact that in order to accept it, one would have to forgo other, possibly longer, engagements. It was not undue.”

“Indeed. But you were not in grave need, were you?”

“No. I had just completed a very satisfactory case with a patient who was well enough no longer to require nursing, and I had another post to go to a short time afterwards. It was ideal to take up the time between.”

“We have only your word for that, Miss Latterly.”

“It would be simple enough to check on it, sir. My patient-”

He held up his hands and she stopped.

“Yes, I have done so.” He turned to the judge. “There is a disposition for Miss Latterly’s past patient, my lord, and another from the lady who was expecting her, and who of course has now had to employ someone else. I suggest that they be read into the evidence.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” the judge conceded. “Proceed, if you please.”

“Had you ever heard of the Farraline family, before the post?”

“No sir.”

“Did they receive you courteously?”

“Yes sir.”

Gradually, in precise detail, he led her through her day at the Farraline house, not mentioning any other members of the family except as they affected her movements. He asked about the dressing room when the lady’s maid was packing, had her describe everything she could recall, including the medicine chest, the vials she had been shown, and the exact instructions. The effort to remember kept her mind too occupied for fear to creep into her voice. It stayed submerged like a great wave, forever rolling, its great power never breaking and overwhelming her.

Then he moved on to the journey on the train. Stum-blingly, filled with sadness, her eyes focused on him, ignoring the rest of the room, she told him how she and Mary had talked, how she had recalled some of the journeys of her youth, the people, the laughter, the scenes, the things she had loved. She told him how she had been reluctant to end the evening, how only Oonagh’s warning about Mary’s lateness had made her at last insist. In a low quiet voice, only just above tears, she recited opening the chest, finding one vial gone, and giving the second vial to Mary before closing the chest again and making her comfortable, and then going to sleep herself.

In the same voice, with only the barest hesitation, she told him of waking in the morning, and finding Mary dead.

At that point he stopped her.

“Are you quite sure you made no error in giving Mrs. Farraline her medicine, Miss Latterly?”

“Quite sure. I gave her the contents of one vial. She was a very intelligent woman, Mr. Argyll, and not shortsighted or absentminded. If I had done anything amiss she would certainly have known, and refused to take it.”

“This glass you used, Miss Latterly, was it provided for you?”

“Yes sir. It was part of the fitments of the medicine chest, along with the vials.”

“I see. Designed to hold the contents of one vial, or more?”

“One vial, sir; that was its purpose.”

“Quite so. You would have had to fill it twice to administer more?”

“Yes sir.”

There was no need to add anything further. He could see from the jurors’ faces that they had taken the point.

“And the gray pearl brooch,” he continued. “Did you see it at any time prior to your finding it in your baggage when you had arrived at the home of Lady Callandra Daviot?”

“No sir.” She nearly added that Mary had mentioned it, and then just in time refrained. The thought of how close she had come to such an error sent the blood rushing burn-ingly up her face. Dear heaven, she must look as if she were lying! “No sir. Mrs. Farraline’s baggage was in the goods van, along with my own. I had no occasion to see any of her things once I had left the dressing room at Ainslie Place. And even then, I only saw the topmost gowns as they were laid out.”

“Thank you, Miss Latterly. Please remain where you are. My learned friend will no doubt wish to question you also.”

“Indeed I will.” Gilfeather rose to his feet with alacrity. But before he could begin, the judge adjourned the court for luncheon, and it was afternoon before he could launch his attack. And attack it was. He advanced towards the witness stand with flying hair an aureole around his head. He was a large man, shambling like a newly awoken bear, but his eyes were bright and gleaming with the light of battle.

Hester faced him with her heart beating so violently her body shook and her breath caught in her throat so she feared she might choke when she was forced to speak.

“Miss Latterly,” he began smoothly. “The defense has painted a picture of you as a virtuous, heroic and self-sacrificing woman. Because of the circumstances which bring you here, you must give me leave to doubt the total accuracy of that.” He pulled a small face. “People of the sort depicted by my learned friend do not suddenly stoop to murder, especially the murder of an old lady in their trust, and for the gain of a few pearls set in a pin. Would you agree?

“In fact,” he went on, looking at her with concentration, “I presume the burden of his argument to be that it is inconceivable that a person should change her nature so utterly, therefore you could not be guilty. Is that not so?”

“I did not prepare the defense, sir, so I cannot speak for Mr. Argyll,” she said levelly. “But I imagine you are correct.”

“Do you agree with the hypothesis, Miss Latterly?” His voice was sharp, demanding an answer.

“Yes sir, I do, although at times we may misjudge people, or fail to read them aright. If it were not so, we should never be taken by surprise.”

There was a ripple of amusement around the room. One or two men nodded in appreciation.

Rathbone held his breath in an agony of apprehension.

“A very sophisticated argument, Miss Latterly,” Gilfeather conceded.

She had seen Rathbone’s face, and knew why he had stared at her with such pleading. She must make amends.

“No sir,” she said humbly. “It is merely common sense. I think any woman would have told you the same.”

“That is as may be, ma’am,” Gilfeather said. “However, you will appreciate why I shall endeavor to disprove their high estimation of you.”

She waited in silence for him to do so.

He nodded, pulling a very slight face. “Why did you go to the Crimea, Miss Latterly? Was it like Miss Nightingale, in answer to a call to serve God?” He invested no sarcasm or condescension in the question, his voice and his expression were innocent, but there was a waiting in the room, a readiness for disbelief.

“No sir.” She kept her voice low and her tone as gentle as lay within her power. “I intended to serve my fellow men in a way best suited to such skills as I possessed, and I believed it would be a fine and daring thing to do. I have but one life, and I had rather do something purposeful with it than at the end look back and regret all the chances I had missed, and what I might have made of myself.”

“So you are a woman to take risks?” Gilfeather said with a smile he could not hide.

“Physical ones, sir, not moral ones. I think to stay at home, safe and idle, would have been a moral risk, and one I was not prepared for.”

“You draw a fine argument, madam.”

“I am fighting for my life, sir. Would you expect anyone to do less?”

“No madam. Since you ask, I expect you to use every art and argument, every subtlety and persuasion that your mind can devise or your desperation conceive.”

She looked at him with loathing. All Rathbone’s warnings rang in her head as clearly as if he were saying them now, and her emotion overrode them all. She was going to lose anyway. She would not do it without honesty and what dignity was possible.

“You make it sound, sir, as if we were two animals battling for mastery of each other, not rational human beings seeking to find the truth and serve our best understanding of justice. Do you wish to know who killed Mrs. Farraline, Mr. Gilfeather, or do you merely wish to hang someone, and I will do?”

For a moment Gilfeather was startled. He had been fought with before, but not in these terms.

There was a gasp and a sigh of suspended breath. A journalist broke his pencil. One of the jurors choked.

“Oh God!” Rathbone said inaudibly.

The judge reached for his gavel, and mistook the distance. His fingers closed on nothing.

In the gallery Monk smiled, and his stomach knotted inside him with grief.

“Only the right person will do, Miss Latterly,” Gilfearher said angrily, his hair standing on end. “But all the evidence says that that is you. If it is not, pray tell me who is it?”

“I do not know, sir, or I should already have told you,” Hester answered him.

Argyll rose to his feet at last.

“My lord, if my learned friend has questions for Miss Latterly, he should put them to her. If not-although she seems well able to defend herself-this baiting is unseemly, and not the purpose of this court.”

The judge looked at him sourly, then turned to Gilfeather.

“Mr. Gilfeather, please come to the point, sir. What is it you wish to ask?”

Gilfeather glared first at Argyll, then at the judge. Finally he turned to Hester.

“Miss Nightingale has painted you as a ministering angel, tending the sick regardless of your own sufferings.” This time he could not entirely keep the sarcasm from his tone. “She would have us envision you passing gently between the hospital beds wiping a fevered brow, bandaging a wound; or else braving the battlefield to perform operations yourself by the light of a flickering torch.” His voice grew louder. “But in truth, madam, was it not a rough life, most of it spent with soldiers and camp followers, women of low degree and even lower morals?”

Vivid memories surged back into her mind.

“Many camp followers are soldiers’ wives, sir, and their humble birth equals that of their husbands,” she said angrily. “They work and wash for them, and care for them when they are sick. Someone must do these things. And if the men are good enough to die for us in our bloody battles, then they are worthy of our support when we are safe in our own houses at home. And if you are suggesting that Miss Nightingale, or any of her nurses, were army whores, then-”

There was a roar of anger from the gallery. One man rose to his feet and shook his fist at Gilfeather.

The judge banged his gavel furiously and was totally ignored.

Rathbone sank his head in his hands and slid farther down in his chair.

Argyll swiveled around and said something to him, his expression incredulous and accusing.

Henry Rathbone closed his eyes and offered up a silent prayer.

Gilfeather abandoned that line of attack altogether and tried another.

“How many men have you seen die, Miss Latterly?” he shouted above the general clamor.

“Silence!” the judge said furiously. “I will have order in court! Silence! Or I shall have the gallery cleared!”

The noise subsided almost immediately. No one wished to be removed.

“How many men, Miss Latterly?” Gilfeather repeated when the uproar had finally abated.

“You must answer,” the judge warned even before she had had time to speak.

“I don’t know. I never thought to count. Each one was a person, not a number.”

“But a great many?” Gilfeather persisted.

“Yes, I am afraid so.”

“So you are accustomed to death; it does not frighten you, or appall you, as it might most people?”

“All people who care for the sick become accustomed to death, sir. But one never ceases to grieve.”

“You are argumentative, madam! You lack the gentleness of manner and the delicacy, the humility, which is the chief ornament of your sex.”

“Perhaps,” she responded. “But you are trying to make people believe that I hold life cheaply, that I have somehow become inured to the death of others, and it is not true. I did not kill Mrs. Farraline, or anybody else. I am far more grieved by her loss than you are.”

“I do not believe you, madam. You have shown the court your mettle. You have no fear, no sense of decorum, no humility whatsoever. They are well able to judge you for a woman who will take from life what she wishes and defy anyone to prevent her. Poor Mary Farraline never had a chance once you had determined upon your course.”

Hester stared at him.

“That is all!” Gilfeather said impatiently, flicking his hand to dismiss her. “There is little edifying to the jury in listening to me ask question after question, and you standing there denying it. We may assume it as read. Do you wish to reexamine your witness, Mr Argyll?”

Argyll thanked him with more than a touch of sarcasm, and turned to Hester.

“Was Mrs. Farraline a pathetic little old lady, easily browbeaten, timid?”

“Not in the least,” Hester said with some relief. “She was quite the opposite: intelligent, articulate and very much in command. She had had a most interesting life, traveled a great deal and known some quite remarkable people and events.” She summoned the ghost of a smile. “She told me about dancing the night away at the great ball the night before the Battle of Waterloo. I found her brave, and wise, and funny… and… and I admired her.”

“Thank you, Miss Latterly. Yes, that is the opinion of her which I had formed myself. I imagine she also found you to be most worthy of her admiration. That is all I have to ask you. You may return to the dock for the time being.”

The judge adjourned the court. Newspaper reporters knocked each other over in their efforts to be first out of the door. The gallery erupted in noise, and the wardresses on both sides of Hester closed in on her and demanded that the cage be let down into the bowels of the building so that she might safely be locked up again before riot broke loose.

Monk walked the streets. Rathbone and Argyll sat up till long after midnight. Callandra sat with Henry Rathbone, and they talked of everything else they could imagine. And all of their thoughts were of nothing but Hester and what the morrow would bring.

Argyll rose to his feet.

“I call Hector Farraline to the stand.”

There was amazement in the gallery. Alastair rose to protest and was pulled back into his seat. It was useless, and Oonagh at least understood that. Alastair looked on in an agony of embarrassment.

Hector appeared and walked very slowly, his feet uncertain, his eyes wandering. He crossed the floor to the foot of the stairs up to the box.

“Do you need assistance, Mr. Farraline?” the judge inquired.

“Assistance?” Hector said with a frown. “What for?”

“To mount the steps, sir. Are you well?”

“Quite well, sir. And you?”

“Then take your place, sir, to be sworn in.” The judge looked at Argyll with acute disfavor. “I presume this is necessary, sir?”

“It is,” Argyll assured him.

“Very well, get on with it!”

Hector climbed the steps, was sworn in, and waited for Argyll to begin.

Gilfeather was watching intently.

“Major Farraline,” Argyll said courteously. “Were you in the house when Miss Latterly first arrived?”

“What? Oh… yes. Of course I was. I live there.”

“Did you see her arrive?”

Gilfeather rose. “My lord, Miss Latterly’s arrival is not in dispute. Surely this is irrelevant, and wasting the court’s time.”

The judge looked at Argyll, his eyebrows raised.

“I am coming to the point, my lord, if my learned friend will permit me,” Argyll replied.

“Then be a little more rapid, if you please,” the judge ordered.

“My lord. Major Farraline, did you see Miss Latterly moving about the house on that day?”

Hector looked confused. “Moving about? What do you mean… going up and down stairs, that sort of thing?”

Gilfeather rose again. “My lord, this witness is obviously not… not well! He is not competent to tell us anything of value. Of course Miss Latterly moved about the house. She could hardly have remained and not been seen the entire day. My learned friend is wasting time.”

“It is you who are wasting time,” Argyll countered. “I could get to my point a great deal faster if I were not constantly interrupted.”

“Get to it now, sir,” the judge commanded. “Before I also lose my patience. I am inclined to agree that Major Farraline is not in sufficient command of himself to offer anything of use.”

Argyll gritted his teeth.

Rathbone was leaning forward again, his hands clenched.

“Major Farraline,” Argyll resumed. “Did you meet with Miss Latterly alone, in the hallway, on that day, and have some conversation with her about the Farraline family business and its wealth?”

“What?”

“Oh really!” Gilfeather exploded.

“Yes,” Hector said with a moment of clarity. “Yes. On the stairs, as I recall. Spoke to her for several moments. Nice girl. Liked her. Pity.”

“Did you tell her that there had been money embezzled from the company books?”

Hector stared at him as if he had been bitten.

“No-no, of course not.” Then his eyes wandered away from Argyll and across to the gallery. He found Oonagh, and looked at her imploringly. She was pale-faced, her eyes wide.

“Major Farraline,” Argyll said firmly.

“My lord, this is inexcusable,” Gilfeather protested.

Argyll ignored him.

“Major Farraline, you are an officer of one of Her Majesty’s most renowned and battle-honored regiments. Remember yourself, sir! You are under oath! Did you not tell Miss Latterly that someone had been embezzling from the Farraline printing company?”

“This is monstrous,” Gilfeather cried, waving his arms furiously. “And completely irrelevant. Miss Latterly is on trial for the murder of Mary Farraline. This can have nothing to do with the case at issue.”

Alastair made as if to rise to his feet, then subsided again, his expression anguished.

“No I didn’t,” Hector said with another sudden rush of clarity. “I can remember it now. That was Mr. Monk I told. He went off to find Mclvor about it, but he didn’t learn anything. Poor fool. I could have told him that. That’s all covered up now.”

There was a moment’s utter silence.

Rathbone sank onto the table in devastated relief.

Argyll’s dark face split into a grin.

The judge looked furious.

Monk punched his clenched fist into his open palm again and again till the flesh was bruised.

“Thank you, Major Farraline,” Argyll said quietly. “I am sure that you are right. It must have been Mr. Monk, and not Miss Latterly. That is my error, and I apologize.”

“Is that all?” Hector said curiously.

“Yes, thank you.”

Gilfeather swung around in a complete circle, staring at the gallery, the jurors, then at Hector.

Hector gave a discreet hiccup.

“Major Farraline, how many glasses of whiskey have you drunk this morning?” Gilfeather asked.

“I have no idea,” Hector said politely. “I don’t think I used a glass. Have one of those flasks, you know. Why?”

“No matter, sir. That is all, thank you.”

Hector began to fumble his way down the steps.

“Oh…” Gilfeather said quickly.

Hector stopped three steps from the bottom, clinging on to the rail.

“Do you keep the company books, Major Farraline?”

“Me? No, of course not. Young Kenneth does.”

“Have you seen them lately, Major? Say, within the last two weeks?”

“No. Don’t think so.”

“Can you read company accounts, sir?”

“Never tried. Not interested.”

“Quite so. Do you need assistance down the steps, sir?”

“No I don’t, sir. Make my own way.” And with that he missed his footing and slid the last three steps, landing inelegantly at the bottom. He straightened himself and walked unaided and quite steadily back to the gallery and was given a seat.

“My lord”-Argyll turned to the judge-”in view of Major Farraline’s evidence, I would like to call Kenneth Farraline.”

Gilfeather was on his feet. He hesitated, a protest on his lips.

The judge sighed. “Do you object, Mr. Gilfeather? It seems there is some question of embezzlement, real or imagined.”

Argyll smiled. If Gilfeather gained the impression he was perfectly happy to be denied Kenneth, and leave doubt in the jury’s minds, or a question of appeal, so much the better.

“No objection, my lord,” Gilfeather conceded. “It would be advisable to clear up all doubts.” He shot a tight smile at Argyll.

Argyll inclined his head in thanks.

Kenneth Farraline was called and took the stand looking acutely unhappy. He could feel the brooding, almost violent tension in the court, and he saw Argyll advance on him like a bear closing in for the kill.

“Mr. Farraline, your uncle, Major Hector Farraline, has told us that you keep the company books. Is that correct?”

“Irrelevant, my lord,” Gilfeather objected.

The judge hesitated.

“My lord, if there is embezzlement from the company books, and the head of that family has been murdered, it can hardly be irrelevant,” Argyll reasoned. “It provides an excellent motive, unconnected with Miss Latterly.”

The judge conceded the point, but with displeasure.

“You have not proved it yet, sir. So far it is merely a suggestion, indeed the rambhngs of a man the worse for drink. If you cannot show something more substantial, I shall disallow it next time Mr. Gilfeather objects.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Argyll turned back to Kenneth. “Mr. Farraline, was your mother aware of Major Farraline’s beliefs that the books had been tampered with?”

“I… I…” Kenneth looked wretched. He stared at Argyll with eyes unfocused, as if he longed to be looking elsewhere.

“Sir?” Argyll prompted.

“I’ve no idea,” Kenneth said abruptly. “It’s…” He swallowed. “Nonsense. Complete nonsense.” He faced Argyll with something like a challenge. “There is no money missing whatsoever.”

“And you are the bookkeeper, so you would know?”

“Precisely.”

“And you would also be in the best position to conceal it, if there were?”

“That…” Kenneth swallowed. “That is slanderous, sir, and quite unjust”

Argyll affected innocence.

“You would not be in the best position?”

“Yes… yes, of course I would. But there is nothing missing, nothing whatever.”

“And your mother was quite satisfied on that point?”

“I have said so!”

There was a murmur of disbelief around the room.

Gilfeather rose to his feet.

Argyll smiled. Kenneth was a very poor witness. He looked as if he were lying even if he were not.

“Very well, to another subject. Are you married, Mr. Farraline?”

“Irrelevant, my lord!” Gilfeather protested.

“Mr. Argyll,” the judge said wearily. “I will not tolerate any more of this meandering around. I have given you a great deal of latitude, but you have abused it.”

“It is relevant, my lord, I assure you.”

“I fail to see how.”

“Are you married, Mr. Farraline?” Argyll repeated.

“No.”

“Are you courting, sir?”

Kenneth hesitated, his face a dull red, sweat glistening on his lip. His eyes searched the gallery till they found Oonagh. He looked back at Argyll.

“No… no…”

“Have you then a mistress? One of which your family would not approve?”

Gilfeather started to rise, then realized the futility of it. Everyone in the room was waiting upon the answer. A woman moved and her stays creaked in the silence. A coal settled in one of the fires.

Kenneth gulped.

“No.”

“If I were to call Miss Adeline Barker to the stand, would she agree with you, Mr. Farraline?”

Kenneth’s face was scarlet.

“Yes… I mean, no. I… God damn it, it is none of your business. I did not kill my mother! She-” He stopped again just as suddenly.

“Yes? She knew about it?” Argyll prompted. “She did not know about it?”

“I have nothing else to say. I did not kill my mother, and the rest is none of your affair.”

“A lady of expensive tastes,” Argyll went on. “Not easy to keep her satisfied-and generous, and loyal-on a bookkeeper’s salary, even when he works for the Farraline company.”

“There is no money missing,” Kenneth said sullenly. “Count it for yourself.” There was confidence in his voice now, a ringing quality as if he knew he could not be proved wrong.

Argyll heard it too.

“I daresay there is none missing now, but was that always the case?”

The confidence was gone. Now it was defense.

“Certainly. I told you, I have taken nothing, and I was not responsible for my mother’s death. For all I knew it was Miss Latterly, for the wretched pearls.”

“So you say, sir, so you say.” Argyll smiled politely. “Thank you, Mr. Farraline, I have nothing further to ask you.”

Gilfeather shrugged. “I have nothing to ask this witness, my lord. As far as I can see he has nothing whatever to do with the case.”

Rathbone leaned forward again, grasping Argyll’s shoulder. “Call Quinlan Fyffe,” he whispered fiercely.

Argyll did not turn.

“I have nothing to ask him,” he whispered back. “I’ll only weaken my case by looking desperate.”

“Think of something,” Rathbone insisted. “Get him up there…”

“There’s no point! Even if he knows who killed her, he isn’t going to say so. He’s a clever and very self-possessed man. He isn’t going to flounder. He’s no Kenneth. Anyway, I’ve nothing to rattle him with.”

“Yes you have.” Rathbone leaned even farther forward, aware of the judge glaring at him, and the jury waiting. “Use his emotions. He’s a proud man, vain. He’s got a beautiful wife, and a brother-in-law who’s in love with her. He hates Mclvor. Use his jealousy.”

“What with?”

Rathbone’s mind raced. “The company accounts. Eilish has been systematically taking books, with Mclvor’s help, to teach her ragged school. I’ll wager Fyffe doesn’t know about that. For God’s sake, man, you’re supposed to be the best advocate in Scotland. Twist him. Use his emotions against him.”

“What about betraying Eilish?” Argyll asked. “Monk will be furious.”

‘To hell with Eilish,” Rathbone said. “And Monk too! This is Hester’s life!”

“Mr. Argyll,” the judge said loudly. “Are you concluding your case, or not?”

“No, my lord. The defense calls Quinlan Fyffe, may it please the court.”

The judge frowned. “For what purpose, Mr. Argyll? Mr. Gilfeather, are you aware of this?”

Gilfeather looked surprised, but interested, and not displeased.

The judge glanced at him.

Gilfeather lifted his shoulders slightly in the shadow of a shrug. “No, my lord, but if the court is prepared to wait for Mr. Fyffe to be sent for, I do not object. I think he will prove as useless to the defense’s case as Mr. Farraline.”

“Call Quinlan Fyffe!” the usher cried out. The words were echoed by the clerk at the door, and a messenger was duly dispatched.

In the interim the court was adjourned for luncheon.

When they returned over an hour later, Quinlan took the stand and was sworn in. He faced Argyll with outward politeness but a coldness of glance that bordered on insolence.

“Mr. Fyffe,” Argyll began carefully, measuring his words. “You are one of the principal officers in the management of the Farraline printing company, are you not?”

“Yes sir.”

“In what capacity?”

Gilfeather made as if to rise, and then changed his mind.

“Is this relevant, Mr. Argyll?” the judge said with a sigh. “If you are about to raise the matter of the company accounts, I must warn you that unless you provide real evidence that there has indeed been embezzlement, I shall not allow you to proceed.”

Argyll hesitated.

“The missing books Eilish took,” Rathbone whispered furiously behind him.

“No, my lord,” Argyll said blandly, looking at the judge with an innocent smile. “That is not the area I wish to pursue at the moment.”

The judge sighed again. “Then I don’t know what you do want. I thought that was what you called this witness for.”

“Yes my lord, but after I have laid suitable groundwork.”

“Then proceed, Mr. Argyll, proceed,” the judge said irritably.

“Thank you, my lord. Mr. Fyffe, in what capacity do you serve the Farraline company?”

“I am in control of the printing, and make all printing decisions,” Quinlan replied.

“I see. Are you aware, sir, that several of your books have been stolen over the last year or more?”

There was a sharp stir of interest in the court. Quinlan looked incredulous.

“No sir, I was not aware of it. And to tell you the truth, I am disinclined to believe it now. Such a loss would have been apparent.”

“To whom, sir?” Argyll asked. “To you?”

“No, not to me, but certainly…” He hesitated only a second or so, but a look of brilliance came into his eyes, a flash of thought ‘To Baird Mclvor. He manages that area of the company.”

“Precisely so,” Argyll agreed. “And he did not report such a loss to you?”

“No sir, he did not!”

Again Gilfeather half rose, but the judge waved him back.

“Would you be interested to know,” Argyll said carefully, “that it was your wife who took them, sir, with Mr. Mclvor’s assistance?”

There was a gasp from the gallery. Several jurors turned towards Eilish, then towards Baird.

Quinlan stood motionless, the blood rushing scarlet up his face, then receding again, leaving him ashen. He started to say something, but his voice died away.

“You did not know this,” Argyll said unnecessarily. “It would seem at a glance to make no sense, but she had a most excellent reason…”

There was a sigh of breath around the entire room, then utter silence.

Quinlan stared at Argyll.

Argyll smiled, just a slow lift of the corners of his mouth, his eyes brilliant.

“She teaches people to read,” he said distinctly. “Grown men who labor by day and come to learn from her by night how to read and write their names, to read street signs, warnings, instructions, who knows, perhaps in time even literature and the Holy Bible.”

There was a sharp rustle of movement in the gallery. Eilish sat white-faced, her eyes wide.

The judge leaned forward, frowning.

“I assume you must have some proof of this extraordinary allegation, Mr. Argyll?”

“I quibble with your word allegation, my lord.” Argyll stared up at the bench. “I do not see it as any kind of charge. I think it is a most praiseworthy thing to do.”

Quinlan leaned forward over the edge of the witness-box, his fingers gripping the rail.

“It might be, if that were all it was,” he said fiercely. “But Mclvor is inexcusable. I always knew he lusted after her.” His voice was rising and growing louder. “He tried to seduce her from any kind of morality or honor. But that he should use this excuse for it-and to corrupt her honesty as well-is beyond pardon.”

There was a whisper around the room. The judge banged his gavel sharply.

Argyll cut in before there could be any direction from the bench or Gilfeather could protest.

“Are you not leaping to conclusions, Mr. Fyffe?” he asked with a lift of surprise displayed for the judge’s sake. “I did not say that Mr. Mclvor had done more than procure the books for her.”

Quinlan’s face was still white, his eyes narrowed to gleaming slits. He regarded Argyll with contempt.

“I know you did not. Do you take me for a fool, sir? I’ve watched him for years, staring at her, making excuses to be with her, the whispers, and laughter, the sudden falling into silence, the moods of temper and depression when she ignored him, the sudden elation when she did not.” Again his voice was becoming shrill. “I know when a man is in love with a woman and when his desire has consumed him beyond his control. He has at last devised a way to gain her trust-and God knows what else!”

“Mr. Fyffe…” Argyll began, but he did not seriously attempt to stop him.

“But I recognize what I should have guessed before now,” Quinlan went on, staring at Argyll and ignoring the rest of the court “It is amazing how blind one can be until one’s attention is forced to that which is painful.”

At last Gilfeather rose to his feet.

“My lord, this is all most regrettable, and I am sure the. court feels for Mr. Fyffe’s shock and dismay, but it is entirely irrelevant as to who murdered Mary Farraline. My learned friend is only wasting time and attempting to divert the jury’s attention from the issue.”

“I agree,” the judge said, and closed his mouth in a thin hard line.

But before he could add any further ruling, Quinlan turned to him, his eyes blazing.

“It is not irrelevant, my lord. Baird Mclvor’s behavior is very relevant indeed.”

Gilfeather made as if to protest again.

Argyll gestured with his hands, intentionally ineffectual.

Rathbone said a prayer under his breath, his hands clenched, his body aching with the strain. He dared not look at Hester. He had forgotten Monk as if he had never existed.

In the box Quinlan stood upright, his face white, two sharp furrows at the bridge of his nose.

“The family solicitor asked me to go through certain of Mrs. Farraline’s papers, relating to her estate-”

“Yes, sir?” the judge interrupted.

“I frequently handled her financial affairs,” Quinlan replied. “My brother-in-law Alastair is too busy with his own commitments.”

“I see. Proceed.”

“I have discovered something which has shocked and appalled me,” Quinlan said. “And also explained many circumstances previously beyond my understanding.” He swallowed hard. He had the attention of every person in the room, and he knew it.

Gilfeather frowned, but made no attempt to interrupt.

“And this discovery, Mr. Fyffe?” Argyll asked.

“My mother-in-law owned a property, a family inheritance, in the far north, a croft-a smallholding, to be precise-in Ross-shire. It is not of great worth, only twenty-five acres or so and a house, but quite sufficient to provide one or two people with an adequate living.”

“I do not find that shocking or appalling, Mr. Fyffe,” the judge said critically. “Pray explain yourself, sir.”

Quinlan glanced at him, then once again faced the court.

“The property has been leased out for at least six years, through the agency of Baird Mclvor, but no money from it, whatsoever, has ever reached Mrs. Farraline’s accounts.”

There was a gasp from the court. Someone cried out. One of the jurors jerked forward. Another searched for Baird Mclvor in the gallery. One bit his lip and looked up at Hester.

“Are you sure of this, Mr. Fyffe?” Argyll asked, struggling to keep the rising excitement out of his voice. “I assume you have documented proof, or you would not make such a charge?”

“Of course I have,” Quinlan answered him. “The papers are all there for anyone to see. Baird handled the matter for her, and even he would not deny it. He could not. Whatever rents mere were is a mystery. The property is worth several pounds a year. Nothing whatever reached her account. For her, it was as if it never existed.”

“Did you tax him with it, Mr. Fyffe?”

“Of course I did! He said it was a private agreement between himself and Mother-in-law, and not my concern.”

“And that explanation does not satisfy you?”

Quinlan looked incredulous. “Would it you, sir?”

“No,” Argyll agreed. “No, it would not. It sounds highly irregular, to put the kindest possible interpretation upon it.”

Quinlan pulled a face of contempt.

“And the circumstances it explained?” Argyll went on. “You spoke of a circumstance that you had previously not understood.”

“His relationship with Mrs. Farraline,” Quinlan replied, his eyes hard and brilliant. “Shortly before the time he obtained the right to act for her in the matter of the croft, he appeared very depressed. He was sunk in gloom and short temper, spending many hours alone, and in a frame of mind approaching despair.”

Not a person in the court moved or let out a whisper.

“Then quite suddenly his mood changed,” Quinlan continued. “After many talks with Mrs. Farraline. It is plain now that he convinced her to give him this charge on her behalf, and he used it to clear himself of whatever trouble it was that plagued him.”

Gilfeather rose to his feet.

The judge nodded to him, and turned to Quinlan.

“Mr. Fyffe, that is a conclusion which may or may not be accurate. However, you may not draw it, only present to the jury what actual evidence you possess.”

“Documents, my lord,” he replied. “The ownership deeds of the croft, Mrs. Farraline’s written permission that Mr. Mclvor may act for her to receive rents, and the fact that he never paid any money to her, for that or any other reason. Is that not proof?”

“It would be adequate for most people,” the judge conceded. “But it is not my privilege, but the jury’s, to make of it what they will.”

“That is not all,” Quinlan continued, his face set like a man staring at death. “I believed, like everyone else, that it was the nurse, Miss Latterly, who murdered Mother-in-law in order to conceal the fact that she had stolen a gray pearl pin. But now I find it increasingly harder to maintain that conviction. She seems to be a woman of remarkable courage and virtue, which of course I did not know earlier.” He took a mighty breath. “And I did not connect the sight of my brother-in-law, Baird Mclvor, in the laundry room, on the lady’s maid’s day off, fiddling with jars and vials of liquid, pouring one from another.”

There was a violent moment in the court. Baird shot to his feet, his face ashen. Oonagh tried to restrain him, clinging on to his arm. Alastair let out a cry of amazement.

Eilish sat white-knuckled, frozen.

“I had no idea what he was doing at the time, and no interest,” Quinlan went on in a clear, relentless voice. “Now I fear I may have witnessed something very terrible, and my failure to grasp its meaning has cost Miss Latterly the most dreadful experience imaginable, to be charged with the murder of her patient and tried for her life.”

Argyll looked flushed, almost stunned.

“I see,” he said with a choking voice. “Thank you, Mr. Fyffe. That must have been very difficult for you to reveal, prejudicing your own family as it does. The court appreciates your honesty.” If there was sarcasm in his mind, it barely touched his lips.

Quinlan said nothing.

Gilfeather rose immediately to cross-examine. He attacked Quinlan, his accuracy, his motives, his honesty, but he failed in all. Quinlan was quiet, firm and unshakable; if anything, his confidence grew. Gilfeather quickly realized his position was only damaged by pursuing it, and with only one bitter, angry movement, he resumed his seat.

Rathbone could barely contain himself. He wished to tell Argyll a hundred things about his summing up, what to say, above all what to avoid. It was simple. To play on emotion, the love of courage and honor, not to overplay the reference to Miss Nightingale, but he had no opportunity, and on reflection, perhaps that was best Argyll knew it all.

It was masterful; all the emotion was there, but concealed, latent rather than overt. He led them by their own passions, not his. When he sat down there was no sound in the room except the squeak as the judge sat forward and ordered the jury to retire and consider its verdict.

Then began the longest and the briefest time conceivable, between the moment when the die is cast and that when it falls.

It was one desperate, unbearable hour.

They filed back, their faces pale. They looked at no oae, not at Argyll or Gilfeather, and what brought Rathbone’s heart to his mouth, not at Hester.

“Have you reached your verdict, gentlemen?” the judge asked the foreman.

“We have, my lord,” he replied.

“Is it (he verdict of you all?”

“It is, my lord.”

“How do you find the prisoner, guilty or not guilty?”

“My lord, we find the case not proven.”

There was a thunderous silence, an emptiness ringing in the ears.

“Not proven?” the judge said with a lift of incredulity.

“Yes, my lord, not proven.”

Slowly the judge turned to Hester, his expression bitter.

“You have heard the verdict, Miss Latterly. You are not exonerated, but you are free to go.”