by Anne Perry
“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 McIvor.”
“Is she protecting her husband?”
“She would, I think, but why? Why would Baird McIvor 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.
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 Gilfeather, 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.
