by Anne Perry
“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 supply?”
“Yes sir. Mrs. McIvor 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 Mm. “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 churn 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.
