The Sins of the Wolf

Chapter 9

Hester felt uniquely alien as she stood in the cage in the cells waiting to be drawn up through the extraordinary trapdoor affair which would bring her into the courtroom without the necessity of passing through the crowd. The day was bitterly cold and here below the courtroom there was no heat at all. She shivered uncontrollably, and told herself with a flash of mockery that it had nothing to do with fear.

But when the rime came and she was winched up into me packed court, even the warmth of the two coal fires and the expectant crowd of people crammed together to fill every space did not reach inside her and stop the shaking or ease the locked muscles.

She did not search their faces to see Monk, or Callandra, or Henry Rathbone. It was too painful. It reminded her of all she valued and might so very soon have to leave. And that was looking more and more likely with every witness who spoke. She had seen Argyll’s tiny victories-and was not deceived. They were not enough to light hope in anyone but a fool. They kept the battle alive, futile as it was so far. They prevented surrender-but not defeat.

The first witness of the day was Connal Murdoch. The last time she had seen him had been in the railway station in London. He had been stunned with the news of Mary’s death, confused by it, and anxious for his wife and her state both of health and of mind. Now he looked quite different. The frantic, slightly disheveled air was totally gone. He was neatly dressed in plain black, well cut but unimaginative. It was expensive without being elegant, probably because the man himself had no conception of grace, only of what was fitting.

But she could not deny the intelligence in his face with its hooded eyes, nervous mouth and slightly receding hair.

“Mr. Murdoch,” Gilfeather began with an amiable air. “Allow me to take you through the events of that tragic day, as you are aware of them. You and your wife were expecting to meet Mrs. Farraline on the overnight train from Edinburgh?”

Murdoch looked grim and nodded slightly as he replied.

“Was it Mrs. Farraline herself who wrote to you of her visit?”

“Yes.” Murdoch looked a trifle surprised, although presumably Gilfeather had taken him through the questions before the session began.

“Was there any indication in her letters that she was anxious or concerned for her safety?”

“Of course not.”

“No mention of a family difficulty, a quarrel of any sort, any kind of ill feeling whatsoever?”

“None at all!” Murdoch’s voice was growing sharper. The idea was repellent to him and the fact that Gilfeather had raised it clearly displeased him.

“So you had no sense of foreboding as you traveled to the station to meet her, no thought whatever that there could be anything wrong?”

“No sir, I have said not.”

“What was the first intimation you received that all was not well?”

There was a stir in the room. Interest was awoken at last.

In spite of herself Hester looked at Oonagh and saw her pale face with its lovely hair. She was sitting next to Alastair again, their shoulders almost touching. For a moment Hester felt sorry for her. Absurdly she remembered quite clearly opening the letter from Charles which told her of her own mother’s death. She had been standing in the sharp sunlight on the quayside at Scutari. The mail boat had come in while she had a few hours off duty, and she and another nurse had walked down to the shore. Many of the men were already embarking on the homeward journey. The war was all but over. The heat had gone out of the battle. It was the time when the cost could so clearly be seen, the wounded and the dead counted, the victory shabby and the whole fiasco pointless. One day the heroism would be remembered, but then it had all seemed only a matter of pain.

England had been a dream of such strangely mixed values: all the calm of old culture, a land at peace, quiet lanes and rich fields with trees bending low, people going quietly about their undoubting business. And at the same time old buildings of ineffable grace housing men whose bland, entrenched stupidity had sent untold young men to their deaths with a complacency that was still without the guilt she felt it should have had.

She had torn the letter open eagerly, and then stood with the black words dazzling on the white paper, reading them over and over as if each time there were some hope they might change and say something different. She had grown cold in the wind without realizing it.

Was that how Oonagh Mclvor had felt when the letter had come telling her that Mary was dead?

From her face now it was impossible to tell. All her concentration seemed to be on supporting Alastair, who looked ashen pale. They were the two eldest. Had they been peculiarly close to Mary? She remembered Mary saying how they had comforted each other in childhood.

Connal Murdoch was relating how the news had been broken to him first, and how he had then told his wife. He was a good witness, full of quiet dignity and understated emotion. His voice quivered only occasionally, and no one could have told whether it was grief or anger, or any other powerful emotion.

Hester looked for Kenneth Farraline but could not see him. Had he embezzled from the company? And when his mother found out, murdered her? Weak men had done such things before, especially if they were besottedly in love, and then, afraid of the consequences of a rash action, done something even more panic-stricken in trying to conceal it.

Would Oonagh conceal it for him?

Hester stared at her strange powerful face and could not even guess.

Connal Murdoch was talking about meeting Hester in the stationmaster’s office. It was an extraordinary thing to stand and hear it recounted through someone else’s eyes and be unable to speak to correct lies and mistakes.

“Oh certainly,” he was saying. “She appeared very pale, but quite composed. Of course we had no idea then that she herself was responsible for Mother-in-law’s death.”

Argyll rose to his feet.

“Yes, yes, Mr. Argyll,” the judge said impatiently. He turned to the witness stand. “Mr. Murdoch, whatever your own convictions, we in the court presume a person is innocent until the jury has returned a verdict of guilty. You will please remember that in your replies.”

Murdoch looked taken aback.

Argyll was obviously aching to put the criticism in his own words, far more decisively than the judge, and he was not to be permitted. Behind him Oliver Rathbone was sitting rigidly, motionless except for the fingers of his left hand, drumming on a sheaf of notes.

Hester looked at the rest of the Farralines. One of them had killed Mary. It was absurd that she should stand here fighting for her life, and be able to stare at their faces one after another, and not know which one it was, even now.

Did they know, all of them-or only the one who had done it?

Old Hector was not there. Did that mean he was drunk as usual, or that Argyll intended to call him? He had not told her.

Sometimes it was better to have someone else plan toe defense and conduct the battle. And there were other tunes she felt so agonizingly helpless she would have given anything at all to be able to stand up and tell them herself, question people, force the truth out of them. And even while the thought raced through her mind, she knew it would be totally futile.

Gilfeather concluded his questions and sat down with a smile. He looked comfortable, well satisfied with his position, and so he should. The jury was sitting in solemn and disapproving silence, their faces closed, their minds already set. Not one of them looked towards the dock.

Argyll rose to his feet, but there was little he could say and nothing at all to contest.

Behind him Oliver Rathbone was fuming with impatience. The longer this evidence took, the more firmly entrenched in the jurors’ minds was Hester’s guilt. Men were reluctant to change a decision once made. Gilfeather knew (hat as well as he did. Clever swine.

The judge’s face also was narrow and hard. His words might be full of legally correct indecision, but one had only to see him to know what his own verdict was.

Argyll sat down again almost immediately, and Rathbone breathed a sigh of relief.

The next person to be called was Griselda Murdoch. It was a piece of emotional manipulation. She had recently given birth and she looked pale and very tired, as if she had traveled only with difficulty for so tragic an event. The sympathy from the crowd was palpable in the air. The hatred for Hester increased with a bound till it hung thick like a bad smell in a closed space.

For Rathbone it was a nightmare. He did not know whether he would have attempted to tear her apart rather than allow the sympathy to build, or whether it would only make matters immeasurably worse. He was almost glad it was not his decision to make.

And yet to sit there helplessly was almost beyond bearing. He looked at Argyll, and could not read his face. He was staring through furrowed brows at Griselda Murdoch, but he could have been merely listening to her with concentration, or he could have been planning how to trap her, discredit her, attack her character, her veracity, or any other aspect of the effect she would have upon the jury.

“Mrs. Murdoch,” Gilfeather said softly, as if he were addressing an invalid or a child. “We are deeply sensible of your courage in coming to testify in this tragic matter, and of the cost it must have been for you to travel this distance in your present state of health.”

There was a murmur of sympathy around the room and someone spoke his approval aloud.

The judge ignored this.

“I will not trouble you to relive your emotions at the railway station, Mrs. Murdoch,” Gilfeather continued. “It would distress you for no purpose, and that is the furthest thing from my intention. If you would be so kind as to tell us what transpired after you returned to your home, with your husband, knowing that your mother had died. Do not hurry, and choose your words exactly as you please.”

“Thank you, you are most kind,” she said shakily.

Monk, staring at her, thought how unlike her sisters she was. She had not the courage of either of them, nor the passion of character. She might well be far easier for a man to live with, less demanding, less testing of patience or forbearance, but dear heaven she would also be infinitely less interesting. She was uncertain, timid, and there was a streak of self-pity in her that Oonagh would have found intolerable.

Or was it all an act, an outer garment designed to appeal to the court? Did she know who had killed her mother? Was it even conceivable, in a wild moment of insanity, that they had all conspired together to murder Mary Farraline?

No, that was absurd. His wits were wandering.

She was telling Gilfeather how she had unpacked Mary’s cases and found her clothes and the list of items, and in so doing had failed to find the gray pearl pin.

“I see.” Gilfeather nodded sagely. “And you expected to find it?”

“Certainly. The note said that it should be there.”

“And what did you do, Mrs. Murdoch?”

“I spoke to my husband. I told him it was missing and asked his advice,” she replied.

“And what did he advise you should do?”

“Well, of course the first thing we did was to search thoroughly again, through everything. But it was quite definitely not there.”

“Quite. We now know that Miss Latterly had it with her. This is not in dispute. What then?”

“Well-Connal, Mr. Murdoch, was most concerned that it had been stolen, and he…” She gulped and took several seconds to regain her composure. The court waited in respectful silence.

Behind Argyll, Rathbone swore under his breath.

“Yes?” Gilfeather encouraged.

“He said we should be wise to call in our own doctor to give another opinion as to how my mote had died.”

“I see. And so you did exactly that?”

“Yes.”

“And whom did you call, Mrs. Murdoch?”

“Dr. Ormorod, of Slingsby Street.”

“I see. Thank you.” He turned with a disarming smile to Argyll. “Your witness, sir.”

“Thank you, thank you indeed.” Argyll uncurled himself from his chair and stood up.

“Mrs. Murdoch…”

She regarded him warily, assuming that he was essentially inimical.

“Yes sir?’

“These clothes and effects of your mother’s that you unpacked… I take it that you did it yourself, rather than having your maid do it? You do have a maid, I imagine?”

“Of course I do!”

“But on this occasion, possibly because of the uniquely tragic circumstances, you chose to unpack them yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

There was a rustle of disapproval around the room. One of the jurors coughed sharply. The judge frowned, seeming on the edge of speech, then at the last moment restrained himself.

“Wh-why?” Griselda looked nonplussed. “I don’t understand.”

“Yes, Mrs. Murdoch,” Argyll repeated, standing grim and motionless, every eye fixed on him. “Why did you unpack your mother’s belongings?”

“I–I did not wish the maid to,” Griselda said chokingly. “She-she was…” She stopped, knowing that the sympathy of the court would finish it for her.

“No, madam, you have misunderstood me,” Argyll said carefully. “I do not mean why did you not have the maid do it. The answer to that, I am sure, we all understand perfectly, and would probably have felt the same in your position. I mean, why did you unpack them at all? Why did you not simply leave them packed, ready to return them to Edinburgh? It was tragically obvious she would no longer need them in London.”

“Oh.” She let out her breath in a sigh, her face very pale except for the faint splash of pink burning in her cheeks.

“One wonders why you unpacked them with such care when it was now quite irrelevant I would not have done so in your position. I would have left them packed, ready to return.” Argyll’s voice dropped to a low rumble, and yet every word was hideously clear. “Unless, of course, I was looking for something myself?”

Griselda said nothing, but her discomfort was now only too apparent.

Argyll relaxed a little, leaning forward.

“Was the diamond brooch on this list of contents, Mrs. Murdoch?”

“Diamond brooch? No. No, there was no diamond brooch.”

“You are sure?”

“Yes, of… of course I am sure. Just the gray pearl and the topaz and the amethyst necklace. Only the gray pearl one was missing.”

“Do you still have that list, Mrs. Murdoch?”

“No… no. No I don’t I… I don’t know what happened to it.” She swallowed. “What does it matter? You know Miss Latterly had the brooch. The police found it in her belongings.”

“No, Mrs. Murdoch,” Argyll corrected. “That is not true. The police found it in the home of Lady Callandra Daviot, where Miss Latterly had discovered it and had already taken it to her hostess in order to have it returned to Edinburgh. She had reported the matter to her solicitor and obtained his advice.”

Griselda looked confused-and considerably shaken.

“I don’t know about that. I only know it was missing from my mother’s effects and Miss Latterly had it. I don’t know what else you want me to say.”

“I don’t want you to say anything, madam. You have answered my questions admirably and with great frankness.” There was only a thread of sarcasm in his voice, but the doubt had been raised. It was enough. Now everyone wondered exactly why Griselda Murdoch had gone through her mother’s possessions, and many thought they knew the answer. It was not a flattering one. It was the first rift in family solidarity, the first suggestion that there could be greed or distrust.

Argyll sat down with an air of satisfaction.

Behind him, Rathbone felt as if the first salvo of return shot had at last been fired. It had hit the mark, but the wound was trivial, and Gilfeather knew that as well as they did. Only the crowd had seen blood and the air was tingling sharp again with the sudden scent of battle.

The final witness of the day was Mary Farraline’s lady’s maid, a quiet, sad woman dressed in unrelieved black, devoid of even the simplest piece of mourning jewelry.

Gilfeather was very polite with her.

“Miss McDermot, did you pack the clothes of your late mistress for her trip to London?”

“Yes sir, I did.”

“Did you have a list of all that you put in the cases, for the maid at the other end, whom Mrs. Murdoch would sup-ply?”

“Yes sir. Mrs. Mclvor wrote it out for me to work from.”

“Yes, I understand. Was there a diamond brooch included?”

“No sir, there was not.”

“You are quite sure?”

“Yes sir, I’d swear to it.”

“Quite so. But there was a gray pearl brooch of unusual design?”

“Yes sir, there was.”

Gilfeather hesitated.

Rathbone stiffened. Was he about to ask if everything she had packed had been returned with Mary’s luggage? It would clear Griselda of the slur.

But he declined. Perhaps he too was uncertain if she might have taken something. It would only have to be the slightest memento, and its loss would seem theft to this straining crowd, eager for drama and guilt of any sort.

Rathbone leaned back in his chair and, for the first time, smiled. Gilfeather had made a mistake. He was vulnerable after all.

“Miss McDermot,” Gilfeather resumed. “Did you meet Miss Latterly that day when she came to the house in Ainslie Place in order to escort Mrs. Farraline to London?”

“Certainly, sir. I showed her Mrs. Farraline’s medicine chest so she would know what to do.”

There was a sharp snap of attention in the court again. Three jurors who had relaxed suddenly sat upright. Someone in the gallery gave a little squeak and was instantly criticized.

“You showed her the medicine chest, Miss McDermot?”

“Aye, I did. I couldn’t know she was going to poison the poor soul!” There was anguish in her voice and her face looked on the brink of tears.

“Of course not. Miss McDermot,” Gilfeather said soothingly. “No one blames you for your quite innocent part in this. It was your duty to show her. You presumed her a good nurse who quite obviously had need to know her patient’s requirements and how to meet them. But the court has to be sure of precisely what happened. You did show her the medicine chest, and the vials in it, and you told her what they contained, and how and when to administer the dose?”

“Aye-I did.”

“Thank you. That is all, Miss McDermot.”

She made as if to leave, turning in the box to fumble her way down again.

Argyll rose to his feet.

“No… Miss McDermot. A few minutes of your time, if you please!”

She gasped, blushed scarlet, and turned back to face him, chin high, eyes terrified.

He smiled at her, and it only made it worse. She looked about to faint away.

“Miss McDermot,” he began softly, his voice like the growl of a sleeping bear. “Did you show Miss Latterly your mistress’s jewels?”

“Of course not! I’m not…” She stared at him wildly.

“Not a foolish woman,” he finished for her. “No, I had not thought you were. I imagine you would not dream of showing your mistress’s jewels to a relative stranger, or indeed to anyone. On the contrary, you would be most discreet about them, would you not?”

Gilfeather half rose. “My lord…”

“Yes, Mr. Gilfeather,” the judge said sharply. “I know what you are going to say. Mr. Argyll, you are leading the witness. Ask questions if you please, do not assume answers.”

“I apologize, my lord,” Argyll said with outward humility. “Now, Miss McDermot, please enlighten the court as to the duties of a good lady’s maid. What would your mistress have said had you shown her jewels, or any other of her valuable possessions, to anyone outside the family? Did she give you instructions on this matter?”

“No sir. It wouldn’t be necessary. No servant would do such a thing and expect to keep her position.”

“So you are quite certain you did not show the pearl brooch, or any other piece, to Miss Latterly?”

“Aye, I’m absolutely positive I did not The mistress kept her jewelry in a case in her bedroom, not in the dressing room, sir. And I didn’t have a key to it.”

“Quite so. Thank you. I had not doubted you, Miss McDermot. I imagine the Farralines can afford to have the best servants in Edinburgh, and would not keep anyone who disregarded so basic a rule.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now, this medicine cabinet. Please think very carefully, Miss McDermot How many vials does this cabinet hold?”

‘Twelve sir,” she said, staring at him warily.

“And each one is a separate and complete dose.”

“Aye sir, it is.”

“How are they laid out, Miss McDermot?”

“In two rows of six.”

“Side by side, one above the other, in two trays? Please describe it for us,” he instructed.

“One above the other, in the same tray… like… like two halves of a book… not like drawers,” she replied. Something of her anxiety seemed to lessen.

“I see. A very precise description. Do you have new vials each time the medicine is prescribed?”

“Oh no. That would be most wasteful. They are glass, with a stopper in. It is quite airtight.”

“I commend your thrift. So the apothecary refills the vials when the medicine is obtained?”

“Yes sir.”

“Especially for traveling?”

“Yes.”

“What about when Mrs. Farraline is at home?”

“It still comes from the apothecary separately, sir. It has to be very exact, or it could be”-she swallowed hard- “fatal, sir. But we have to add the liquid to make it palatable-at least…”

“I see, yes, that is quite clear. And this was a new supply, a full dozen vials for Mrs. Farraline to travel with?”

“Aye sir. If she were gone more than six days then it would be simple enough to get an apothecary in London to provide more.”

“A very practical arrangement. She took the prescription with her, of course?”

“Aye, sir.”

“So there was no anxiety if she ran out?”

“N-no…”

Gilfeather stirred restlessly in his seat. He was impatient, and had his adversary been a lesser man, he would have dismissed the line of questioning as time-wasting.

“Mr. Argyll,” the judge said irritably, “have you some purpose in mind? If you have, it is more than time you arrived at it.”

“Yes, my lord,” Argyll said smoothly. He turned back to the witness stand. “Miss McDermot, would it have mattered had you been a little hasty in your care for Mrs. Farraline and, instead of sending her off with a full complement of vials, used one to give her her morning dose on the day she traveled, rather than make one up. I simply ask if it would have mattered, not if you did so.”

She stared at him as if she had suddenly seen a snake.

“Miss McDermot?”

“You must answer,” the judge informed her.

She swallowed. “N-no. No sir, it would not really have mattered.”

“It would not have placed her in any danger?”

“No sir. None at all.”

“I see.” He smiled at her as if he were totally satisfied with the answer. “Thank you, Miss McDermot. That is all.”

Gilfeather rose rapidly. There was a stir of excitement around the room like a ripple of wind through a cornfield. Gilfeather opened his mouth.

Miss McDermot stared at him.

Gilfeather looked at Argyll.

Argyll’s smile did not change in the slightest.

Rathbone sat with his hands clenched so hard his nails scarred his palms. Would Gilfeather dare to ask if she had used the first vial? If she admitted it, his case was damaged, severely damaged. Rathbone held his breath.

Gilfeather did not dare. She might have used it She might not have the nerve to deny it on oath. He sat down again.

There was a sigh of breath around the room, a rustle of fabric as everyone relaxed, disappointed. One juror swore under his breath, mouthing the words.

Miss McDermot had to be assisted at the bottom of the steps when she stumbled in sheer unbearable relief.

Argyll’s lips still curved in the same smile.

Rathbone offered up a prayer of thanks.

Gilfeather’s next witness was the doctor whom Connal Murdoch had called, a rotund man with black hair and a fine black mustache.

“Dr. Ormorod,” he began smoothly, as soon as the doctor’s credentials had been thoroughly established, “you were called by Mr. Connal Murdoch to attend the deceased, Mrs. Mary Farraline, is that correct?”

“Yes sir, it is. At half past ten in the morning of October the seventh, of this year of our Lord,” the doctor replied.

“Did you respond immediately?”

“No sir. I was in attendance upon a child who was seriously ill with whooping cough. I had been informed that Mrs. Farraline was deceased. I saw no urgency.”

There was a nervous giggle in the gallery. One of the jurors, a large man with a mane of white hair, scowled at the offender.

“Was any reason given why you should be sent for, Dr. Ormorod?” Gilfeather asked. “It was a somewhat unusual request, was it not?”

“Not really, sir. I imagined at the time that my main duty would be to attend Mrs. Murdoch. The shock of bereavement can in itself be a cause for medical concern.”

“Yes… I see. And what did you find when you reached Mrs. Murdoch’s residence?”

“Mrs. Murdoch, poor soul, in a state of considerable distress, which was most natural, but the cause of it was not entirely what I had expected.” The doctor became increasingly sensible that he was the focus of all attention. He straightened up even farther and raised his chin, measuring his words like an actor delivering a great monologue. “She was, of course, deeply grieved by her mother’s passing, but she was also most troubled by the possible manner of it. She feared, sir, that in view of the missing jewels, it may not have been entirely of natural causes.”

“That is what she said to you?” Gilfeather demanded.

“Indeed sir, it is.”

“And what did you do, Dr. Ormorod?”

“Well, at first, I confess, I did not entirely believe her.” He pulled a face and glanced at the jury. One or two of them obviously sympathized with him. There were nodding heads. At least two thirds were middle-aged to elderly gentlemen of high repute, and were used to the vagaries of women, especially young women in a delicate condition.

“But what did you do, sir?” Gilfeather insisted.

Ormorod returned his attention to the matter. “I conducted an examination, sir, in some considerable detail.” Again he waited, for dramatic effect.

Gilfeather kept his composure.

Rathbone swore under his breath.

Argyll sighed silently, but his expression was easily readable.

Ormorod’s face tightened. This was not the reaction he had intended.

“It took me a long time,” he said tightly. “And I was obliged to conduct a full postmortem examination, most particularly the contents of the stomach of the deceased. But I concluded that there was no doubt whatsoever that Mrs. Farraline had met her death as a result of having been given a massive overdose of her usual medicine, a distillation of digitalis.”

“How massive a dose, sir? Can you say?”

“At least twice what any responsible practitioner would prescribe for her,” Ormorod answered.

“And you have no doubt of that?” Gilfeather persisted.

“None whatsoever. But you do not need to rest on my opinion alone, sir. The police surgeon will have told you the same.”

“Yes sir. We have the result of that to be read into evidence,” Gilfeather assured him. “And it confirms precisely what you say.”

Ormorod smiled and nodded.

“Did you form any opinion as to how it had been administered?”

“By mouth, sir.”

“Was any force used?”

“There was nothing to suggest it, no sir. I would think it was taken quite voluntarily. I imagine the deceased lady had no idea whatever that it would do her harm.”

“But you have no doubt that it was indeed the cause of her death?”

“No doubt whatsoever.”

“Thank you, Dr. Ormorod. I have no further questions for you.”

Argyll thanked Gilfeather and faced Dr. Ormorod.

“Sir, your evidence has been admirably clear and to the point. I have only one question to ask you. It is this. I assume you examined the medicine chest from which the deceased’s dose had been taken? Yes. Naturally you did. How many vials were there in it, sir… both full and empty?”

Ormorod thought for a moment, furrowing his brow.

“There were ten full vials, sir, and two empty.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Yes… yes, I am positive.”

“Would you describe their appearance, sir?”

“Appearance?” Ormorod clearly did not see any purpose to the question.

“Yes, Doctor; what did they look like?”

Ormorod held up his hand, finger and thumb apart. “About two, two and a half inches long, three quarters of an inch in diameter, sir. Very unremarkable, very ordinary medical vials.”

“Of glass?”

“I have said so.”

“Clear glass?”

“No sir, dark blue colored glass, as is customary when a substance is poisonous, or can be if taken ill-advisedly.”

“Easy to see if a vial is full or empty?”

At last Ormorod understood. “No sir. Half full, perhaps; but completely full or quite empty would appear exactly the same, no line of liquid to observe.”

“Thank you, Doctor. We may presume one of them was used by Miss Latterly on the previous evening, the other we may never know… unless Miss McDermot should choose to tell us.”

“Mr. Argyll!” the judge said angrily. “You may presume what you please, but you will not do it aloud in my court. Here we will have evidence only. And Miss McDermot has said nothing about the subject.”

“Yes, my lord,” Argyll said unrepentantly. The damage was done, and they all knew it.

Ormorod said nothing.

Argyll thanked him and excused him. He left somewhat reluctantly. He had enjoyed his moment in the limelight.

On the third day Gilfeather called Mary Farraline’s own doctor to describe her illness, its nature and duration, and to swear that there was no reason why she should not have lived several more years of happy and fulfilled life. There were all the appropriate murmurs of sympathy. He described the medicine he had prescribed for her, and the dosage.

Argyll said nothing.

The apothecary who had prepared the medicine was called, and described his professional services in detail.

Again Argyll said nothing, except to ascertain that the medicine could have been distilled to become more concentrated, and thus twice as powerful, while still in the same volume of liquid, and that it did not need a nurse’s medical knowledge or skills to do so. It was all totally predictable.

Hester sat in the dock watching and listening. Half of her wished that it could be over. It was like a ritual dance, only in words, everyone taking a carefully rehearsed and foreordained part. It had a nightmarish quality, because she could only observe. She could take no part in it, although it was her life they were deciding. She was the only one who could not go home at the end of it, and would certainly not do it all again next week, or next month, but over a different matter, and with different players walking on and off.

She wanted the suspense to stop, the judgment to be made.

But when it was, then perhaps it would be all over. There would be condemnation. No more hope, however slight, however little she set her heart on it. She thought now that she had resigned herself. But had she really? When it came to the moment that it was no longer a matter of imagination that the judge put on the black cap and pronounced the sentence of death, would she still really keep her back straight, her knees locked and supporting her weight?

Or would the room spin around her and her stomach chum and rise in sickness? Perhaps after all she needed a little longer to prepare herself.

The next witness was Callandra Daviot. Somehow word had been whispered around until almost everyone in the gallery knew that she was Hester’s friend, and they were therefore hostile to her. A battle of wits was expected. It was almost as if there were a scent of blood in the air. People craned forward to see her stiff, broad-hipped figure walk across the floor of the courtroom and climb the steps to the witness stand.

Watching her, Monk had an almost sickening lurch of familiarity. It was as if she were not only a woman he had known in the last year and a half, and who had helped him financially, a woman whose courage and intellect he admired, but as if she were a part of his own emotional life. She was not beautiful; even in her youth she had been charming at best Her nose was too long, her mouth too individual, her hair was too curly and tended to frizz and fly away at odd and uncomplimentary angles. No pins had yet been devised which would make it sit fashionably. Her figure was broad at the hip and a trifle too rounded at the shoulders.

And yet the whole had a dignity and honesty about it that superceded the elegance of other Society women, a reality where artifice ruled. He ached to be able to help her, impossible as that was, and was disgusted with his own sentimentality.

He sat in his seat with his body rigid, all his muscles locked, telling himself he was a fool, that he did not care overmuch, that his whole life would continue much the same in all that mattered, regardless of what happened there. And he did not feel one iota better for any of it.

“Lady Callandra.” Gilfeather was polite but cool. He was not naive enough to imagine he could charm her, or that the jury would think he could. He had occasionally overestimated the subtlety of a jury; never had he erred in the other direction. “How long have you known Miss Hester Latterly?”

“Since the summer of 1856,” Callandra replied.

“And the relationship has been friendly, even warm?”

“Yes.” Callandra had no alternative but to admit it. To deny it might have strengthened her embracement of Hester’s honesty, but it would have required explanation of its own as to why it was cool. She and Gilfeather both knew it and the jury watched her with growing understanding of all the nuances of both what she would say and leave unsaid.

“Were you aware that she intended to take the position with the Farraline family?”

“Yes.”

“She informed you of it?”

“Yes.”

“What did she tell you about it? Please be precise, Lady Callandra. I am sure you are aware that you are on oath.”

“Of course I am,” she said tartly. “Added to which, I have no need and no desire to be anything less.”

Gilfeather nodded but said nothing.

“Proceed,” the judge directed.

“That she would enjoy the journey and that she had not been to Scotland before, so it would be a pleasure in that respect also.”

“Are you familiar with Miss Latterly’s financial position?” Gilfeather asked, his eyebrows raised, his flyaway hair wild where he had pushed his fingers through it.

“No I am not.”

“Are you quite certain?” Gilfeather sounded surprised. “Surely as a friend, a friend with considerable means of your own, you have ascertained from time to time whether she was in need of your assistance or not?”

“No.” Callandra stared back at him, defying him to disbelieve her. “She is a woman of self-respect, and considerable ability to earn her own way. I trust that if she were in difficulty she would feel close enough to me to ask, and I should have noticed for myself. That situation has never arisen. She is not someone to whom money is important, provided she can meet her commitments. She does have a family, you know-who would be perfectly happy to offer her a permanent home, did she wish it. If you are trying to paint a picture of her as desperate to keep body and soul together, you are totally mistaken.”

“I was not,” Gilfeather assured her. “I was thinking of something far less pitiable, and understandable, Lady Callandra, simply greed. A woman without pretty things, who sees a brooch she likes, and in a moment of weakness takes it, then is obliged to conceal her crime by an infinitely worse one.”

“Balderdash!” Callandra said furiously, her face burning with anger and disgust. “Complete tommyrot. You know little of human nature, sir, if you judge her that way, and cannot see that most crimes of murder are committed either by practiced villains or else are within the family. This, I fear, is one of the latter. I am quite aware that it is your professional duty to obtain a conviction, rather than to seek the truth… which is a pity, in my view. But-”

“Madam!” The judge banged his gavel on the bench with a clap like gunfire. “The court will not endure your opinion of the Scottish legal system and what you believe to be its shortcomings. You will answer counsel’s questions simply and add nothing of your own. Mr. Gilfeather, I suggest you endeavor to keep your witness in control, hostile or not!”

“Yes, my lord,” Gilfeather said obediently, but he was not as entirely angry as perhaps he should have been. “Now, your ladyship, if we may address the matter in hand? Would you be good enough to tell the court exactly what happened when Miss Latterly called upon you on her return from Edinburgh, after Mrs. Farraline’s death. Begin with her arrival at your home, if you please.”

“She looked extremely distressed,” Callandra answered.

“It was about a quarter to eleven in the morning, as I recall.”

“But surely the train arrives in London long before that?” he interrupted.

“Long before,” she agreed. “She had been detained by Mrs. Farraline’s death, and advising the conductor, and then the stationmaster, and finally by speaking to Mr. and Mrs. Murdoch. She came straight from the station to my house, tired and deeply grieved. She had liked Mrs. Farraline, even in the short time she had known her. She was, according to Hester, a remarkably charming woman, full of humor and intelligence.”

“Indeed, so I believe,” Gilfeather said dryly, glancing at the jury and then back at Callandra. “She is already deeply missed. What did Miss Latterly tell you had happened?”

Callandra replied as accurately as she could remember, and no one else stirred or made a sound while she was speaking. She went on, at Gilfeather’s prompting, to tell how Hester had gone upstairs to wash and had returned with the gray pearl pin, and what had transpired after that. Gilfeather tried his best to keep her answers brief, to cut her off, to best rephrase his questions so that a confirmation or denial would be sufficient, but she was not to be led.

Rathbone sat still behind Argyll listening to every word, but his eyes as often as not were upon the faces of the jury. He could see their respect for Callandra, and indeed that they liked her, but they also knew that she was biased towards the prisoner.

How much would they discount for that reason?

It was impossible to tell.

He turned to watch the Farralines instead. Oonagh was still composed, her face totally calm, watching Callandra with interest and not without respect. Beside her, Alastair looked unhappy, his aquiline face drawn, as if he had slept poorly, which was hardly surprising. Did he know about the company books? Had he begun his own inquiries since his mother’s death? Had he suspected his weaker younger brother?

What quarrels were there in that family when the door was closed and the outside, public world could neither see nor hear?

It was not surprising that none of them looked at Hester. Did they know, or at least believe, that she was innocent?

He leaned forward and tapped Argyll on the shoulder.

Very slowly Argyll leaned backward so he could hear if Rathbone bent and whispered.

“Are you going to play on the family’s guilt?” he said under his breath. “It is very probable at least one of them knows who it is-and why.”

“Which one?”

“Alastair, I should guess. He is head of the family, and he looks wretched.”

“He won’t break as long as his sister is there to support him,” Argyll said in reply so softly Rathbone had to strain to hear him. “If I could drive a wedge between those two, I would, but I don’t know how yet, and to try it and fail would only strengthen them. I’ll only get one chance. She is a formidable woman, Oonagh Mclvor.”

“Is she protecting her husband?”

“She would, I think, but why? Why would Baird Mclvor have killed his mother-in-law?”

“I don’t know,” Rathbone confessed.

The judged glared at him and for several moments he was obliged to keep silent, until Callandra again earned the judge’s disapproval and his attention returned to her.

“Fear,” he whispered to Argyll again.

“Of whom?” Argyll asked, his face expressionless.

“Play on fear,” Rathbone replied. “Find the weakest one and put him on the box, and make the others fear he or she would give them away, either out of panic and clumsiness or to save his own skin.”

Argyll was silent for so long Rathbone thought he had not heard.

He leaned forward again and was about to repeat it when Argyll replied.

“Who is the weak one? One of the women? Eilish, with her ragged school, or Deirdra, with her flying machine?”

“No, not the women,” Rathbone said with a certainty that surprised him.

“Good,” Argyll agreed dryly, the shadow of a smile curving his lips. “Because I wouldn’t have done it.”

“How gallant.” Rathbone was bitingly sarcastic. “And damned useless.”

“Not gallant at all,” Argyll said between his teeth. “Practical. The jury will love Eilish; she is both beautiful and good. What else can you ask? And they’ll deplore Deirdra’s deceit of her husband, but they’ll secretly like her. She’s small and pretty and full of courage. The fact that she’s as mad as a hatter won’t make any difference.”

Rathbone was relieved that Argyll was not as stupid as he had feared. It mattered too much for him to be angry at his own discomfort.

“Go after Kenneth,” he replied to the earlier question. “He is the weak link-and possibly the murderer. Monk has the information about his mistress. Get old Hector, if he’s sober enough, and that will be sufficient to raise the question of the books.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rathbone,” Argyll said tightly. “I had thought of that.”

“Yes, of course,” Rathbone conceded. “I apologize,” he added as an afterthought.

“Accepted,” Argyll murmured. “I am aware of your personal involvement with the accused, or I would not.”

Rathbone felt his face burning. He had not thought of his relationship with Hester as an “involvement.”

“Your witness, Mr. Argyll,” the judge said sharply. “If you would be good enough to give us your attention, sir.”

Argyll stood up, his temper flushing in his face. He did not reply to the judge. Perhaps he did not trust himself to.

“Lady Callandra,” he said courteously. “Just to make sure we have understood you correctly, Miss Latterly brought the pin to you while you were downstairs? You did not find it in her luggage, nor did any of your servants?”

“No. She found it when she went to wash before luncheon. None of my servants would have occasion to look in her luggage, nor would she, had she not decided to stay with me during the meal.”

“Quite so. And her immediate reaction was to bring it to you.”

“Yes. She knew it was not hers, and feared something was seriously wrong.”

“In which she was tragically correct. And your advice was to seek a solicitor’s counsel in the matter, so it might be returned to Mrs. Farraline’s estate?”

“Yes. She took it to Mr. Oliver Rathbone.”

“The matter, Lady Callandra, or the pin itself?”

“The matter. She left the pin in my house. I wish now that she had thought to take it with her.”

“I doubt it would have forestalled this sorry situation, madam. The plan had been very carefully laid. She did all a sensible person could, and it availed her nothing.”

“Mr. Argyll,” the judge snapped. “I will not warn you again.”

Argyll inclined his head graciously. “Thank you, Lady Callandra. I have no more questions.”

The last witness for the prosecution was Sergeant Daly, who recounted his having been called in by Dr. Ormorod, the whole of his procedure from that time until he had arrested Hester and finally charged her with murder. He spoke levelly and carefully and with great sadness, every now and again shaking his head, his mild, clear face regarding the whole courtroom with benign interest.

Gilfeather thanked him.

Argyll declined to question him. There was nothing to say, nothing to argue with.

Gilfeather smiled. The prosecution rested its case.

The jury nodded to one another silently, already certain of their verdict.