Defend and Betray

chapter 10
Monk listened to Lovat-Smith questioning Charles Hargrave with a mounting anxiety. Haigrave was creating an excellent impression with the jury; he could see their grave, attentive faces. He not only had their respect but their belief. Whatever he said about the Carlyons they would accept.

There was nothing Rathbone could do yet, and Monk's intelligence knew it; nevertheless he fretted at the helplessness and the anger rose in him, clenching his hands and hardening the muscles of his body.

Lovat-Smith stood in front of the witness box, not elegantly (it was not in him), but with a vitality that held attention more effectively, and his voice was fine, resonant and individual, an actor's instrument.

"Dr. Hargrave, you have known the Carlyon family for many years, and indeed been their medical adviser for most of that time, is that not so?"

"It is."

"You must be in a position to have observed their characters, their relationships with one another."

Rathbone stiffened, but did not yet interrupt.

Lovat-Smith smiled, glanced at Rathbone, then back up at Hargrave.

"Please be careful to answer only from your own observation," he warned. "Nothing that you were told by someone else, unless it is to account for their own behavior; and please do not give us your personal judgment, only the grounds upon which you base it."

"I understand," Hargrave acknowledged with the bleakest of smiles. "I have given evidence before, Mr. Lovat-Smith. What is it you wish to know?"

With extreme care as to the rules of evidence, all morning and well into the afternoon Lovat-Smith drew from Hargrave a picture of Thaddeus Carlyon as honorable and upright, a military hero, a fine leader to his men, an example to that youth which looked to courage, discipline and honor as their goals. He had been an excellent husband who had never ill-used his wife with physical violence or cruelty, nor made excessive demands of her in the marriage bed, but on the other hand had given her three fine children, to whom he had been a father of devotion beyond the normal. His son adored him, and rightly so, since he had spent much time with the boy and taken great care in the determination of his future. There was no evidence whatsoever that he had ever been unfaithful to his wife, nor drunk to excess, gambled, kept her short of money, insulted her, slighted her in public, or in any other way treated her less than extremely well.

Had he ever exhibited any signs whatever of mental or emotional instabUity?

None at all; the idea would be laughable, were it not so offensive.

What about the accused, who was also his patient?

That, tragically, was different. She had, in the last year or so, become agitated without apparent cause, been subject to deep moods of melancholy, had fits of weeping for which she would give no reason, had absented herself from her home without telling anyone where she was going, and had quarreled violently with her husband.

The jury were looking at Alexandra, but with embarrassment now, as if she were someone it was vulgar to observe, like someone naked, or caught in an intimate act.

"And how do you know this, Dr. Hargrave?" Lovat-Smith enquired.

Still Rathbone sat silently.

"Of course I did not hear the quarrels," Hargrave said, biting his lip. "But the weeping and the melancholy I saw, and the absences were apparent to everyone. I called more than once and found unexplainably that she was not there. I am afraid the agitation, for which she would never give me a reason, was painfully obvious each time she saw me in consultation. She was so disturbed as to be hysterical - I use the word intentionally. But she never gave me any reason, only wild hints and accusations."

"Of what?" Lovat-Smith frowned. His voice rose dramatically with interest, as if he did not know what the answer would be, although Monk, sitting almost in the same seat as on the previous day, assumed he must. Surely he was far too skilled to have asked the question without first knowing the answer. Although it was just possible his case was so strong, and proceeding without challenge, that he might have thought he could take the risk.

The jury leaned forward a trifle; there was a tiny rustle of movement. Beside Monk on the bench Hester stiffened. The spectators near them felt no such restraints of delicacy as the jury. They stared at Alexandra quite openly, faces agog.

"Accusations of unfaithfulness on the general's part?" Lovat-Smith prompted.

The judge looked at Rathbone. Lovat-Smith was leading the witness. Rathbone said nothing. The judge's face tightened, but he did not interrupt.

"No," Hargrave said reluctantly. He drew in his breath. "At least, they were unspecific, I was not sure. I think she was merely speaking wildly, lashing out at anyone. She was hysterical; it made no sense."

"I see. Thank you." Lovat-Smith inclined his head. "That is all, Doctor. Please remain where you are, in case my learned friend wishes to question you."

"Oh indeed, I do." Rathbone rose to his feet, his voice purring, his movements tigerlike. "You spoke most frankly about the Carlyon family, and I accept that you have told us all you know, trivial as that is." He looked up at Hargrave in the high, pulpitlike witness stand. "Am I correct, Dr. Hargrave, in supposing that your friendship with them dates back some fifteen or sixteen years?"

"Yes, you are." Hargrave was puzzled; he had already said this to Lovat-Smith.

"In fact as a friendship with the family, rather than General Carlyon, it ceased some fourteen years ago, and you have seen little of them since then?"

"I - suppose so." Hargrave was reluctant, but not disturbed; his sandy face held no disquiet. It seemed a minor point.

"So in fact you cannot speak with any authority on the character of, for example, Mrs. Felicia Carlyon? Or Colonel Carlyon?"

Hargrave shrugged. It was an oddly graceful gesture. "If you like. It hardly seems to matter; they are not on trial."

Rathbone smiled, showing all his teeth.

"But you mentioned your friendship with General Carlyon?"

"Yes. I was his physician, as well as that of his wife and family."

"Indeed, I am coming to mat. You say that Mrs. Carlyon, the accused, began to exhibit signs of extreme distress-indeed you used the word hysteria!"

"Yes - I regret to say she did," Hargrave agreed.

"What did she do, precisely, Doctor?"

Hargrave looked uncomfortable. He glanced at the judge, who met his eyes without response.

"The question disturbs you?" Rathbone remarked.

"It seems unnecessarily - exposing - of a patient's vulnerability," Hargrave replied, but his eyes remained on Rathbone; Alexandra herself might have been absent for all the awareness he showed of her.

"You may leave Mrs. Carlyon's interest in my hands," Rathbone assured him. "I am here to represent her. Please answer my question. Describe her behavior. Did she scream?" He leaned back a little to stare up at Hargrave, his eyes very wide. "Did she faint, take a fit?" He spread his hands wide. "Throw herself about, have hallucinations? In what way was she hysterical?"

Hargrave sighed impatiently. "You exhibit a layman's idea of hysteria, if you pardon my saying so. Hysteria is a state of mind where control is lost, not necessarily a matter of uncontrolled physical behavior."

"How did you know her mind was out of control, Dr. Hargrave?" Rathbone was very polite. Watching him, Monk longed for him to be thoroughly rude, to tear Hargrave to pieces in front of the jury. But his better sense knew it would forfeit their sympathy, which in the end was what would win or lose them the case - and Alexandra's life.

Hargrave thought for a moment before beginning.

"She could not keep still," he said at length. "She kept moving from one position to another, at times unable even to remain seated. Her whole body shook and when she picked up something, I forget what, it,slipped through her fingers. Her voice was trembling and she fumbled her words. She wept uncontrollably."

"But no deliriums, hallucinations, fainting, screaming?" Rathbone pressed.

"No. I have told you not." Hargrave was impatient and he glanced at the jury, knowing he had their sympathy.

"Tell us, Dr. Hargrave, how would this behavior differ from that of someone who had just received a severe shock and was extremely distressed, even agonized, by her experience?"

Hargrave thought for several seconds.

"I cannot think that it would," he said at last. "Except that she did not speak of any shock, or discovery."

Rathbone opened his eyes wide, as if mildly surprised. "She did not even hint that she had learned her husband had betrayed her with another woman?"

He leaned a little forward over the rail of the witness box. "No - no, she did not. I think I have already said, Mr. Rathbone, that she could have made no such dramatic discovery, because it was not so. This affair, if you wish to call it that, was all in her imagination."

"Or yours, Doctor," Rathbone said, his voice suddenly gritted between his teeth.

Hargrave flushed, but with embarrassment and anger rather than guilt. His eyes remained fixed on Rathbone and there was no evasion in them.

"I answered your question, Mr. Rathbone," he said bitterly. "You are putting words into my mouth. I did not say there was an affair, indeed I said there was not!"

"Just so," Rathbone agreed, turning back to the body of the court again. "There was no affair, and Mrs. Carlyon at no time mentioned it to you, or suggested that it was the cause of her extreme distress."

"That is . . ." Hargrave hesitated, as if he would add something, then found no words and remained silent.

"But she was extremely distressed by something, you are positive about that?"

"Of course."

"Thank you. When did this occur, your first observation of her state of mind?"

"I have not a precise date, but it was in July of last year."

"Approximately nine months before the general's death?"

"That is right." Hargrave smiled. It was a trivial calculation.

"And you have no idea of any event at this time which could have precipitated it?"

"No idea at all."

"You were General Carlyon's physician?"

"I have already said so."

"Indeed. And you have recounted the few occasions on which you were called to treat him professionally. He seems to have been a man in excellent health, and those injuries he sustained in action were quite naturally treated by the army surgeons in the field."

"You are stating the obvious," Hargrave said with tight lips.

"Perhaps it is obvious to you why you did not mention the one wound that you did treat, but it escapes me," Rathbone said with the smallest of smiles.

For the first time Hargrave was visibly discomfited. He opened his mouth, said nothing, and closed it again. His hands on the rail were white at the knuckles.

There was silence in the courtroom.

Rathbone walked across the floor a pace or two and turned back.

There was a sudden lifting of interest throughout the court. The jury shifted on their benches almost imperceptibly.

Hargrave's face tightened, but he could not avoid an answer, and he knew it.

"It was a domestic accident, and all rather foolish," he said, lifting his shoulder a little as if to dismiss it, and at the same time explain its omission. "He was cleaning an ornamental dagger and it slipped and cut him in the upper leg."

"You observed this happen?" Rathbone asked casually.

"Ah - no. I was called to the house because the wound was bleeding quite badly, and naturally I asked him what had happened. He told me."

"Then it is hearsay?" Rathbone raised his eyebrows. "Not satisfactory, Doctor. It may have been the truth - equally it may not."

Lovat-Smith came to his feet.

"Is any of this relevant, my lord? I can understand my learned friend's desire to distract the jury's minds from Dr. Hargrave's evidence, indeed to try and discredit him in some way, but this is wasting the court's time and serving no purpose at all."

The judge looked at Rathbone.

"Mr. Rathbone, do you have some object in view? If not, I shall have to order you to move on."

"Oh yes, my lord," Rathbone said with more confidence than Monk thought he could feel. "I believe the injury may be of crucial importance to the case."

Lovat-Smith swung around with an expressive gesture, raising his hands palm upwards.

Someone in the courtroom tittered with laughter, and it was instantly suppressed.

Hargrave sighed.

"Please describe the injury, Doctor," Rathbone continued.

"It was a deep gash to the thigh, in the front and slightly to the inside, precisely where a knife might have slipped from one's hand while cleaning it."

"Deep? An inch? Two inches? And how long, Doctor?"

"About an inch and a half at its deepest, and some five inches long," Hargrave replied with wry, obvious weariness.

"Quite a serious injury. And pointing in which direction?" Rathbone asked with elaborate innocence.

Hargrave stood silent, his face pale.

In the dock Alexandra leaned a fraction forward for the first time, as if at last something had been said which she had not expected.

"Please answer the question, Dr. Hargrave," the judge instructed.

"Ah - er - it was . . . upwards," Hargrave said awkwardly.

"Upwards?" Rathbone blinked and even from behind his elegant shoulders expressed incredulity, as if he could not have heard correctly."You mean - from the knee up towards the groin, Dr. Hargrave?"

"Yes," Hargrave said almost inaudibly.

"I beg your pardon? Would you please repeat that so the jury can hear you?"

"Yes," Hargrave said grimly.

The jury was puzzled. Two leaned forward. One shifted in his seat, another frowned in deep concentration. They did not know what relevance it could possibly have, but they knew duress when they saw it, and felt Hargrave's reluctance and the sudden change in tension.

Even the crowd was silent.

A lesser man than Lovat-Smith would have interrupted again, but he knew it would only betray his own uncertainty.

"Tell us, Dr. Hargrave," Rathbone went on quietly,"how a man cleaning a knife could have it slip from his hand so as to stab himself upwards, from knee to groin?" He turned on the spot, very slowly. "In fact, perhaps you would oblige us by snowing us exactly what motion you had in mind when you - er - believed this account of his? I presume you know why a military man of his experience, a general indeed, should be clumsy enough to clean a knife so incompetently? I would have expected better from the rank and file." He frowned. "In fact, ordinary man as I am, I have no ornamental knives, but I do not clean my own silver, or my own boots."

"I have no idea why he cleaned it," Hargrave replied, leaning forward over the rail of the witness box, his hands gripping the edge."But since it was he who had the accident with it, I was quite ready to believe him. Perhaps it was because he did not normally clean it that he was clumsy."

He had made a mistake, and he knew it immediately. He should not have tried to justify it.

"You cannot know it was he who had the accident, if indeed it was an accident," Rathbone said with excessive politeness. "Surely what you mean is that it was he who had the wound?"

"If you wish," Hargrave replied tersely."It seems a quibble tome."

"And the manner in which he was holding it to sustain such a wound as you describe so clearly for us?" Rathbone raised his hand as if gripping a knife, and bent his body experimentally into various contortions to slip and gash himself upwards. It was perfectly impossible, and the court began to titter with nervous laughter. Rathbone looked up enquiringly at Hargrave.

"All right!" Hargrave snapped."It cannot have happened as he said. What are you suggesting? That Alexandra tried to stab him? Surely you are supposed to be here defending her, not making doubly sure she is hanged!"

The judge leaned forward, his face angry, his voice sharp.

"Dr. Hargrave, your remarks are out of order, and grossly prejudicial. You will withdraw them immediately."

"Of course. I'm sorry. But I think it is Mr. Rathbone you should caution. He is incompetent in his defense of Mrs. Carlyon."

"I doubt it. I have known Mr. Rathbone for many years, but if he should prove to be so, then the accused may appeal on that ground." He looked towards Rathbone."Please continue."

"Thank you, my lord." Rathbone bowed very slightly. "No, Dr. Hargrave, I was not suggesting that Mrs. Carlyon stabbed her husband, I was pointing out that he must have lied to you as to the cause of this wound, and that it seemed undeniable that someone stabbed him. I shall make my suggestions as to who, and why, at a later time."

There was another rustle of interest, and the first shadow of doubt across the faces of the jury. It was the only time they had been given any cause to question the case as Lovat-Smith had presented it. It was a very small shadow, no more than a flicker, but it was there.

Hargrave turned to step down.

"Just one more thing, Dr. Hargrave," Rathbone said quickly."What was General Carlyon wearing when you were called to tend this most unpleasant wound?"

"I beg your pardon?" Hargrave looked incredulous.

"What was General Carlyon wearing?" Rathbone repeated. "In what was he dressed?"

"I have no idea. For God's sake! What does it matter?"

"Please answer my question," Rathbone insisted. "Surely you noticed, when you had to cut it away to reach the wound?"

Hargrave made as if to speak, then stopped, his face pale.

"Yes?" Rathbone said very softly.

"He wasn't." Hargrave seemed to regather himself. "It had already been removed. He had on simply his underwear."

"I see. No - no blood-soaked trousers?" Rathbone shrugged eloquently."Someone had already at least partially treated him? Were these garments lying close to hand?"

"No - I don't think so. I didn't notice."

Rathbone frowned, a look of suddenly renewed interest crossing his face.

"Where did this - accident - take place, Dr. Hargrave?"

Hargrave hesitated. "I - I'm not sure."

Lovat-Smith rose from his seat and the judge looked at him and shook his head fractionally.

"If you are about to object that it is irrelevant, Mr. Lovat-Smith, I will save you the trouble. It is not. I myself wish to know the answer to this. Dr. Hargrave? You must have some idea. He cannot have moved far with a wound such as you describe. Where did you see him when you attended it?"

Hargrave was pale, his face drawn.

"In the home of Mr. and Mrs. Furnival, my lord."

There was a rustle of excitement around the room, a letting out of breath. At least half the jurors turned to look up at Alexandra, but her face registered only complete incomprehension.

"Did you say in the house of Mr. and Mrs. Furnival, Dr. Rathbone?" the judge said with undisguised surprise.

"Yes, my lord," Hargrave replied unhappily.

"Mr. Rathbone," the judge instructed, "please continue."

"Yes, my lord." Rathbone looked anything but shaken; indeed he appeared quite calm. He turned back to Hargrave. "So the general was cleaning this ornamental knife in the Furnivals' house?"

"I believe so. I was told he was showing it to young Valentine Furnival. It was something of a curio. I daresay he was demonstrating its use - or something of the sort..."

There was a nervous titter around the room. Rathbone's race registered a wild and fleeting humor, but he forbore from making the obvious remark. Indeed he turned to something utterly different, which took them all by surprise.

"Tell me, Dr. Hargrave, what was the general wearing when he left to go back to his own house?"

"The clothes in which he came, of course."

Rathbone's eyebrows shot up, and too late Hargrave realized his error.

"Indeed?" Rathbone said with amazement. "Including those torn and bloodstained trousers?"

Hargrave said nothing.

"Shall I recall Mrs. Sabella Pole, who remembers the incident quite clearly?"

"No - no." Hargrave was thoroughly annoyed, his lips in a thin line, his face pale and set. "The trousers were quite intact - and not stained. I cannot explain it, and did not seek to. It is not my affair. I simply treated the wound."

"Indeed," Rathbone agreed with a small, unreadable smile. "Thank you, Dr. Hargrave. I have no further questions for you."

The next witness was Evan, for the police. His testimony was exactly what most would have foreseen and presented no interest for Monk. He watched Evan's sensitive, unhappy face as he recounted being called to the Furnivals' house, seeing the body and drawing the inevitable conclusions, then the questioning of all the people concerned. It obviously pained him.

Monk found his attention wandering. Rathbone could not provide a defense out of what he had, no matter how brilliant his cross-examination. It would be ridiculous to hope he could trick or force from any one of the Carlyons the admission that they knew the general was abusing his son. He had seen them outside in the hallway, sitting upright, dressed in black, faces set in quiet, dignified grief, totally unified. Even Edith Sobell was with them and now and again looked with concern at her father. But Felicia was in the courtroom, since she had not been subpoenaed to give evidence, and therefore was permitted inside the court. She was very pale behind her veil, and rigid as a plastic figure.

It was imperative they had to find out who else was involved in the pederasty, apart from the general and his father. Cassian had said "others," not merely his grandfather. Who? Who had access to the boy in a place sufficiently private? That was important; it had to be utterly private. One would hardly undertake such an activity where there was the slightest risk of interruption.

The interrogations went on and Monk was almost unaware of them.

Family again? Peverell Erskine? Was that what Damaris had discovered that night which had driven her nearly frantic with distress, so much so that she had been unable to control herself? After seeing Valentine Furnival she had come downstairs in a state bordering on hysteria. Why? Had she learned that her husband was sodomizing his nephew? But what could possibly have taken place up there that would tell her such a thing? Peverell himself had remained downstairs. Everyone had sworn to that. So she could not have seen anything. And Cassian was not even in the Furnivals' house.

But she had seen or heard something. Surely it could not be a coincidence that it had been the night of the murder? But what? What had she discovered?

Fenton Pole had been present. Was he the other one who abused Cassian, and in some way the cause of Sabella's hatred?

Or was it Maxim Furnival? Was the relationship between the general and Maxim not only one of mutual business interest but the indulgence of a mutual vice as well? Was that the reason for his frequent visits to the Furnival house, and nothing to do with Louisa? That would be a nice irony. No wonder Alexandra found a bitter and terrible humor in it.

But she had not known there was anyone else. She had thought that in killing the general she had ended it, freed Cassian from the abuse. She knew of no one else, not even the old colonel.

Evan was still testifying, this time answering Rathbone, but the questions were superfluous, only clarifying points already made, that Evan had found nothing to prove the jealousy Alexandra had denied, and he found it hard to believe in himself.

Monk's thoughts wandered away again. That wound on the General's leg. Surely it had been Cassian who had inflicted that? From what Hester had said of her interview with the boy, and her observation of him, he was ambivalent about the abuse, uncertain whether it was right or wrong, afraid to lose his mother's love, secretive, flattered, frightened, but not entirely hating it. There was a frisson of excitement in him even when he mentioned it, the thrill of inclusion in the adult world, knowing something that others did not.

Had he ever been taken to the Furnivals' house? They should have asked about that. It was an omission.

"Did the general ever take Cassian to the Furnivals' house?" he whispered to Hester next to him.

"Not that I know of," she replied. "Why?"

' "The other pederast," he replied almost under his breath. "We have to know who it is."

"Maxim Furnival?" she said in amazement, raising her voice without realizing it.

"Be quiet," someone said angrily.

"Why not?" he answered, leaning forward so he could whisper. "It's got to be someone who saw the boy regularly, and privately - and where Alexandra didn't know about it."

"Maxim?" she repeated, frowning at him.

"Why not? It's someone. Who stabbed the general? Does Rathbone know, or is he just hoping we'll find out before he's finished?"

"Just hoping," she said unhappily.

"Ssh!" a man hissed behind them, tapping Monk on the shoulder with his forefinger.

The reprimand infuriated Monk, but he could think of no satisfactory rejoinder. His face blazed with temper, but he said nothing.

"Valentine," Hester said suddenly.

"Be quiet!" The man in front swung around, his face pinched with anger. "If you don't want to listen, then go outside!"

Monk disregarded him. Of course - Valentine. He was only a few years older than Cassian. He would be an ideal victim first. And everyone had said how fond he had been of the general, or at least how fond the general had been of him. He had visited the boy regularly. Perhaps Valentine, terrified, confused, revolted by the general and by himself, had finally fought back.

How to be certain? And how to prove it?

He turned to look at Hester, and saw the same thoughts reflected in her eyes.

Her lips formed the words It is worth trying. Then her eyes darkened with anxiety. "But be careful," she whispered urgently. "If you're clumsy you could ruin it forever."

It was on the tip of his tongue to retaliate, then the reality of its importance overtook all vanity and irritation.

"I will." He promised so softly it was barely audible even to her. "I'll be 'round about. I'll try to get proof first." And he stood up, much to the fury of the person on his other side, and wriggled past the whole row, stepping on toes, banging knees and nearly losing his footing as he found his way out. The first thing was to learn what was physically possible. If Fenton Pole had never been alone with Cassian or Valentine, then he was not worth pursuing as a suspect. Servants would know, particularly footmen; footmen knew where their masters went in the family carriage, and they usually knew who visited the house. If Pole had been careful enough to travel to some other place to meet there, and go by hansom, then it would be a far harder task to trace him, and perhaps pointless.

He must begin with the obvious. He hailed a cab and gave the driver the address of Fenton and Sabella Pole's house.

All the remainder of the afternoon he questioned the servants. At first they were somewhat reluctant to answer him, feeling that in the absence of knowledge, silence was the wisest and safest course. But one maid in particular had come with Sabella on her marriage, and her loyalties were to Alexandra, because that was where her mistress's loyalties were. She was more than willing to answer anything Monk wished to know, and she was quite capable of discovering from the footman, groom and parlormaid every detail he needed.

Certainly Mr. Pole had known the general before he met Miss Sabella. It was the general who had introduced them, that she knew herself; she had been there at the time. Yes, they had got along very well with each other, better than with Mrs. Carlyon, unfortunately. The reason? She had no idea, except that poor Miss Sabella had not wished to marry, but to go into the Church. There was nothing anyone could say against Mr. Pole. He was always a gentleman.

Did he know Mr. and Mrs. Furnival well?

Not very, the acquaintance seemed to be recent.

Did Mr. Pole often visit the general at his home?

No, hardly ever. The general came here.

Did he often bring young Master Cassian?

She had never known it to happen. When Master Cassian came it was with his mother, to visit Miss Sabella during the daytime, when Mr. Pole was out.

Monk thanked her and excused himself. It seemed Fenton Pole was not a suspect, on the grounds of physical impossibility. The opportunity was simply not there.

He walked in the clear evening back to Great Titchfield Street, passing open carriages as people took the air, fashionably dressed in bonnets with ribbons and gowns trimmed with flowers; couples out strolling arm in arm, gossiping, flirting; a man walking his dog. He arrived a few moments after Hester returned from the court. She looked tired and anxious, and Major Tiplady, sitting up on an ordinary chair now, appeared concerned for her.

"Come in, come in, Mr. Monk," he said quickly. "I fear the news is not encouraging, but please be seated and we shall hear it together. Molly will bring us a cup of tea. And perhaps you would like supper? Poor Hester looks in need of some refreshment. Please - be seated!" He waved his arm in invitation, but his eyes were still on Hester's face.

Monk sat down, primarily to encourage Hester to speak, but he accepted the invitation to supper.

"Excuse me." Tiplady rose to his feet and limped to the door. "I shall see about it with Molly and Cook."

"What is it?" Monk demanded. "What has happened?"

"Very little," Hester said wearily. "Only what we expected. Evan recounted how Alexandra had confessed."

"We knew that would come," Monk pointed out, angry that she was so discouraged. He needed her to have hope, because he too was afraid. It was a ridiculous task they had set themselves, and they had no right to have given Alexandra hope. There was none, none at all of any sense.

"Of course," she said a little sharply, betraying her own fragile emotions. "But you asked me what had happened."

He looked at her and met her eyes. There was a moment of complete understanding, all the pity, the outrage, all the delicate shades of fear and self-doubt for their own part in it. They said nothing, because words were unnecessary, and too clumsy an instrument anyway.

"I started to look at physical possibilities," he said after a moment or two."I don't think Fenton Pole can be the other abuser. There doesn't seem to have been enough opportunity for him to be alone with either Cassian or Valentine."

"So where are you going next?"

"The Furnivals', I think."

"To Louisa?" she said with a flash of bitter amusement.

"Tb the servants." He understood precisely what she meant, with all its undertones. "Of course she would protect Maxim, but since it hasn't been mentioned yet, she won't have any idea that we are looking for abuse of children. She'll be thinking of herself, and the old charge about the general."

Hester said nothing.

"Then I'll go to the Carlyons'."

"The Carlyons'?" Now she was surprised. "You'll not find anything there, but even if you did, what good would it do? They'll all lie to protect him, and we know about him anyway! It's the other person we need to find - with proof."

"Not the colonel - Peverell Erskine."

She was stunned, her face filled with amazement and disbelief. "Peverell! Oh no! You can't think it was him!"

"Why not? Because we like him?" He was hurting himself as well as her and they both understood it. "Do you think it has to be someone who looks like a monster? There was no violence used, no hate or greed - just a man who has never grown up enough to find an appropriate closeness with an adult woman, a man who only feels safe with a child who won't judge him or demand a commitment or the ability to give, who won't see the flaws in his character or the clumsiness or inadequacy of his acts."

"You sound as if you want me to feel sorry for him," she said with tight, hard disgust, but he did not know whether that disgust was at him, at the abuses, or only at the situation - or even if it was so hard because underneath it was the wrench of real pity.

"I don't care what you feel," he lied back. "Only what you think. Just because Peverell Erskine is an agreeable man and his wife loves him doesn't mean he can't have weaknesses that destroy him - and others."

"I don't believe it of Peverell," she said stubbornly, but she gave no reason.

"That's just stupid," he snapped at her, aware of the anger inside himself to which he chose to give no name. "You're hardly much use if you are working on that level of intelligence."

"I said I don't believe it," she retorted equally violently. "I didn't say I wouldn't investigate the possibility."

"Oh yes?" He raised his eyebrows sarcastically."How?"

"Through Damaris, of course," she said with stinging contempt. "She discovered something that night - something that upset her beyond bearing. Had you forgotten that? Or did you just think I had?"

Monk stared at her, and was about to make an equally acid reply when the door opened again and Major Tiplady returned, immediately followed by the maid with a tray of tea, announcing that supper would be ready in a little over half an hour. It was the perfect opportunity to change his tone altogether, and be suddenly charming, to enquire after Major Tiplady's recovery, appreciate the tea, and even to speak courteously to Hester. They talked of other things: the news from India, the ugly rumors of opium war in China, the Persian War, and unrest in the government at home. All the subjects were distressing, but they were far away, and he found the brief half hour most agreeable, a relief from responsibility and the urgent present.

* * * * *

The following day Lovat-Smith called further witnesses as to the unblemished character of the general, his fine nature and heroic military record. Once again Hester went to court to watch and listen on Major Tiplady's behalf, and Monk went first to the house of Callandra Daviot, where he learned from her, to his chagrin, that she had been unable to find anything beyond the merest whisper to indicate that General Carlyon had ever formed any relationships that were anything but the most proper and correct. However, she did have extensive lists of names of all youths who had served with his regiment, both in England and in India, and she produced it with an apology.

"Don't worry," he said with sudden gentleness. "This may be all we need."

She looked at him with something close to a squint, disbelief plain in her face.

He scanned down the list rapidly to see if the name of the Furnivals' bootboy was there. It was on the second page, Robert Andrews, honorable discharge, owing to wounds received in action. He looked up, smiling at her.

"Well?" she demanded.

"Maybe," he answered. "I'm going to find out."

"Monk!"

"Yes." He looked at her with a sudden awareness of how much she had done for him. "I think this may be the Furnivals' bootboy," he explained with a lift of hope in his voice. "The one who dropped all the laundry when he came face-to-face with the general on the night of the murder. I 'm going to the Furnivals' house now to find out. Thank you."

"Ah," she said with a touch of satisfaction creeping into her expression at last. "Ah - well. . . good."

He thanked her again and bade her good-bye with a graceful kiss to the air, then hurried out to find a hansom to take him back to the Furnivals' house.

He reached it at a quarter to ten, in time to see Maxim leave, presumably to go into the City. He waited almost an hour and a half, and was rewarded by seeing Louisa, glamorous and quite unmistakable in a richly flowered bonnet and skirts so wide it took very great skill for her to negotiate the carriage doors.

As soon as she was well out of sight, Monk went to the back door and knocked. It was opened by the bootboy, looking expectant. His expression changed utterly when he saw Monk; apparently he had been anticipating someone else.

"Yes?" he said with a not unfriendly frown. He was a smart lad and stood very straight, but there was a watchfulness in his eyes, a knowledge of hurt.

"I was here before, speaking to Mrs. Furnival," Monk began carefully, but already he felt a kind of excitement. "And she was kind enough to help me in enquiring into the tragedy of General Carlyon's death."

The boy's expression darkened, an almost imperceptible tightening of the skin around his eyes and mouth, a narrowing of the lips.

"If you want Mrs. Furnival, you should 'ave gone to the front door," he said warily.

"I don't, this time." Monk smiled at him. "There are just a few details about other people who have called at the house in the past, and perhaps Master Valentine could help me. But I need to speak with one of your footmen, perhaps John."

"Well you'd better come in," the bootboy said cautiously. "An' I'll ask Mr. Diggins, 'e's the butler. I can't let you do thatmeself."

"Of course not." Monk followed him in graciously.

"Wot's your name, then?" the boy asked.

"Monk - William Monk. What is yours?"

"Who, me?" The boy was startled.

"Yes - what is your name?" Monk made it casual.

"Robert Andrews, sir. You wait 'ere, an' I'll see Mr. Diggins for yer." And the boy straightened his shoulders again and walked out very uprightly, as if he were a soldier on parade. Monk was left in the scullery, pulse racing, thoughts teeming in his mind, longing to question the boy and knowing how infinitely delicate it was, and that a word or a look that was clumsy might make him keep silence forever.

"What is it this time, Mr. Monk?" the butler asked when he returned a few minutes later. "I'm sure we've all told you all we know about that night. Now we'd just like to forget it and get on with our work. I'll not 'ave you upsetting all our maids again!"

"I don't need to see the maids," Monk said placatingly. "Just a footman would be quite sufficient, and possibly the bootboy. It is only about who called here frequently."

"Robert said something about Master Valentine." The butler looked at Monk closely. "I can't let you see him, not without the master's or the mistress's permission, and they're both out at the present."

"I understand." Monk chose not to fight when he knew he could not win. That would have to wait for another time. "I daresay you know everything that goes on in the house anyway. If you can spare the time?"

The butler considered for a moment. He was not immune to flattery, if it were disguised well enough, and he certainly liked what was his due.

"What is it you wish to know, in particular, Mr. Monk?" He turned and led the way towards his own sitting room, where they could be private, in case the matter should be in any way delicate. And regardless of that, it created the right impression in front of the other staff. It did not do to stand around discussing presumably private business in full view of everyone.

"How often did General Carlyon come here to visit, either Mrs. Furnival or Master Valentine?"

"Well, Mr. Monk, he used to come more often in the past, before he had his accident, sir. After that he came a lot less."

"Accident?"

"Yes sir - when he injured his leg, sir."

' "That would be when he was hurt with the knife. Cleaning the knife, and it slipped and gashed him in the thigh," Monk said as levelly as he could.

"Yes sir."

"Where did that happen? In what room?"

"I'm afraid I don't know, sir. Somewhere upstairs, I believe. Possibly in the schoolroom. There is an ornamental knife up there. At least there was. I haven't seen it since then. May I ask why you need to know, sir?"

"No reason in particular - just that it was a nasty thing to happen. Did anyone else visit Master Valentine regularly? Mr. Pole, for example?"

"No sir, never that I know of." The first question remained in the butler's face.

"Or Mr. Erskine?"

"No sir, not as far as I know of. What would that have to do with the general's death, Mr. Monk?"

"I'm not sure," Monk said candidly. "I think it's possible that someone may have . . . exerted certain . . . pressures on Master Valentine."

"Pressures, sir?"

"I don't want to say anything more until I know for certain. It could malign someone quite without foundation."

"I understand, sir." The butler nodded sagely.

"Did Master Valentine visit the Carlyon house, to your knowledge?"

"Not so far as I am aware, sir. I do not believe that either Mr. or Mrs. Furnival is acquainted with Colonel and Mrs. Carlyon, and their acquaintance with Mr. and Mrs. Erskine is not close."

"I see. Thank you." Monk was not sure whether he was relieved or disappointed. He did not want it to be Peverell Erskine. But he needed to find out who it was, and time was getting desperately short. Perhaps it was Maxim after all -  the most obvious, when one thought about it. He was here all the time. Another father abusing his son. He found his stomach clenching and his teeth ached with the tightness of his jaw. It was the first time he had felt even the briefest moment of pity for Louisa.

"Is there anything else, sir?" the butler said helpfully.

"I don't think so." What was there to ask that could be addressed to this man and yield an answer leading to the identity of whoever had so used Valentine? But however slender the chance of hearing any admission of a secret so desperately painful, and he loathed the idea of forcing the boy or tricking him, still he must at least attempt to learn something. "Have you any idea what made your bootboy behave so badly the night the general was killed?" he asked, watching the man's face. "He looked like a smart and responsible sort of lad, not given to indiscipline."

"No sir, I don't, and that's a fact." Diggins shook his head. Monk could see no evasion or embarrassment in him. "He's been a very good boy, has young Robert," he went on. "Always on time, diligent, respectful, quick to learn. Nothing to explain except that one episode. You had it right there, sir, he's a fine lad. Used to be in the army, you know -  a drummer boy. Got wounded somewhere out in India. Honorable discharge from the service. Come 'ere very highly recommended. Can't think what got into him. Not like him at all. Training to be a footman, 'e is, and very likely make a good one. Although 'e's been a bit odd since that night. But then so 'ave we all - can't 'old that against 'im."

"You don't think he saw something to do with the murder, do you?" Monk asked as casually as he could.

Diggins shook his head. "I can't think what that might be, sir, that he wouldn't have repeated it, like it would be his duty to. Anyway, it was long before the murder. It was early in the evening, before they even went in to dinner. Nothing untoward had happened then."

"Was it before Mrs. Erskine went upstairs?"

"Now that I wouldn't know, sir. I only know young Robert came out of the kitchen and was on his way up the back stairs on an errand for Mrs. Braithwaite, she's the housekeeper, when he crossed the passage and near bumped into General Carlyon, and stood there like a creature paralyzed and let all the linens he'd fetched fall in a heap on the floor, and turned on his heel and went back into the kitchen like the devil was after him. All the linens had to be sorted out and some o' them ironed again. The laundress wasn't best pleased, I can tell you." He shrugged. "And he wouldn't say a word to anyone, just went white and very quiet. Perhaps he was took ill, or something. Young people can be veiy odd."

"A drummer boy, you said?" Monk confirmed. "He'd be used to seeing some terrible things, no doubt..."

"I daresay. I never bin in the army myself, sir, but I should imagine so. But good training. Given him his obedience, and the respect for his elders. He's a good lad. He won't never do that again, I'm sure."

"No. No, 'course not." Thoughts raced through his mind as to how he could approach the boy - what he could say -  the denials, the desperate embarrassment and the boy's shame. With sickening doubt as to the wisdom of it, where his duty or his honor lay, he made up his mind. "Thank you very much, Mr. Diggins. You have been most helpful, I appreciate it."

"No-more than-my duty, Mr. Monk."

Monk found himself outside in the street a few moments later, still torn with indecision. A drummer boy who had served with Carlyon, and then come face-to-face with him in the Furnivals' house on the night of the murder, and fled in -  what? Terror, panic, shame? Or just clumsiness?

No - he had been a soldier, although then little more than a child. He would not have dropped his laundry and fled simply because he bumped into a guest.

Should Monk have pursued it? To what end? So Rathbone could get him on the stand and strip his shame bare before the court? What would it prove? Only that Carlyon was indeed an abuser of children. Could they not do that anyway, without destroying this child and making him relive the abuse in words - and in public? It was something Alexandra knew nothing of anyway, and could not have affected her actions.

It was the other abuser they needed to find, and to prove. Was it Maxim Furnival? Or Peverell Erskine? Both thoughts were repulsive to him.

He increased his pace, walking along Albany Street, and within moments was at Carlyon House. He had no excitement in the chase, only an empty, sick feeling in his stomach.

All the family were at the trial, either waiting to give evidence or in the gallery watching the proceedings. He went to the back door and asked if he might speak to Miss Buchan. It stuck in his throat to say it, but he sent a message that he was a friend of Miss Hester Latterly's and had come on an errand for her.

After only ten minutes kicking his heels in the laundry room he was finally admitted to the main house and conducted up three flights of stairs to Miss Buchan's small sitting room with its dormer windows over the roofs.

"Yes, Mr. Monk?" she said dubiously.

He looked at her with interest. She was nearer seventy than sixty, very thin, with a sharp, intelligent face, long nose, quick faded eyes, and the fine fresh complexion that goes with auburn hair, although it was now gray, almost white. She was a hot-tempered woman of great courage, and it showed in her face. He found it easy to believe she had acted as Hester had told him.

"I am a friend of Miss Latterly's," he said again, establishing himself before he launched into his difficult mission.

"So you told Agnes," she said skeptically, looking him up and down, from his polished leather boots and his long straight legs to his beautifully cut jacket and his smooth, hard-boned face with its gray eyes and sarcastic mouth. She did not try to impress him. She knew from his look, something in his bearing, that he had not had a governess himself. There was no nursery respect in him, no memories of another woman like her who had ruled his childhood.

He found himself coloring, knowing his ordinary roots were as visible to her as if he had never lost his provincial accent and his working-class manners. Ironically, his very lack of fear had betrayed him. His invulnerability had made him vulnerable. All his careful self-improvement hid nothing.

"Well?" she said impatiently. "What do you want? You haven't come this far just to stand here staring at me!"

"No." He collected himself rapidly. "No, Miss Buchan. I'm a detective. I'm trying to help Mrs. Alexandra Carlyon." He watched her face to see how she reacted.

"You're wasting your time," she said bleakly, sudden pain obliterating both her curiosity and her humor."There's nothing anyone can do for her, poor soul."

"Or for Cassian?" he asked.

Her eyes narrowed; she looked at him in silence for several seconds. He did not turn away but met her gaze squarely.

"What would you be trying to do for him?" she said at last.

"See it doesn't happen to him anymore."

She stood still, her shoulders stiff, her eyes on his.

"You can't," she said at last. "He'll remain in this house, with his grandfather. He has no one else now."

"He has his sisters."

She pursed her lips slowly, a new thought turning over in her mind.

"He could go to Sabella," he suggested tentatively.

"You'd never prove it," she said almost under her breath, her eyes wide. They both knew what she was referring to; there was no need to speak the words. The old colonel was in their vision as powerfully as if some aura of him were there, like a pungent smoke after a man and his cigar or pipe" have passed by.

"I might," he said slowly. "Can I speak to Cassian?"

"I don't know. Depends what you want to say. I'll not let you upset him - God knows the poor child has enough to bear, and worse to come."

"I won't do more than I have to," Monk pressed. "And you will be there all the time."

"I most certainly will," she said darkly. "Well, come on then, don't stand there wasting time. What has to be done had best be done quickly."

Cassian was alone in his own room. There were no school-books visible, nor any other improving kind of occupation, and Monk judged Miss Buchan had weighed the relative merits of forced effort to occupy his mind and those of allowing him to think as he wished and permit the thoughts which had to lie below the surface to come through and claim the attention they would sooner or later have to have. Monk approved her decision.

Cassian looked around from the window where he was gazing. His face was pale but he looked perfectly composed. One could only guess what emotions were tearing at him beneath. Clutched in his fingers was a small gold watch fob. Monk could just see the yellow glint as he turned his hand.

"Mr. Monk would like to talk to you for a while," Miss Buchan said in a matter-of-fact voice. "I don't know what he has to say, but it might be important for your mother, so pay him attention and tell him all the truth you know."

"Yes, Miss Buchan," the boy said obediently, his eyes on Monk, solemn but not yet frightened. Perhaps all his fear was centered in the courtroom at the Old Bailey and the secrets and the pain which would be torn apart and exposed there, and the decisions that would be made. His voice was flat and he looked at Monk warily.

Monk was not used to children, except the occasional urchin or working child his normal routine brought him into contact with. He did not know how to treat Cassian, who had so much of childhood in his protected, privileged daily life, and nothing at all in his innermost person.

"Do you know Mr. Furnival?" he asked bluntly, and felt clumsy in asking, but small conversation was not his milieu or his skill, even with adults.

"No sir," Cassian answered straightaway.

"You have never met him?" Monk was surprised.

"No sir." Cassian swallowed. "I know Mrs. Furnival."

It seemed irrelevant. "Do you." Monk acknowledged it only as a courtesy. He looked at Miss Buchan. "Do you know Mr. Furnival?"

"No I do not."

Monk turned back to Cassian. "But you know your sister Sabella's husband, Mr. Pole?" he persisted, although he doubted Fenton Pole was the man he needed.

"Yes sir." There was no change in Cassian's expression except for a slight curiosity, perhaps because the questions seemed so pointless.

Monk looked at the boy's hands, still grasping the piece of gold.

"What is that?"

Cassian's fingers closed more tightly on it and there was a faint pink color fresh in his cheeks. Very slowly he held it out for Monk to take.

Monk picked it up. The watch fob opened up to be a tiny pair of scales, such as the blind figure of Justice carries. A chill touched him inside.

"That's very handsome," he said aloud. "A present?"

Cassian swallowed and said nothing.

"From your uncle Peverell?" Monk asked as casually as he could.

For a moment no one moved or spoke, then very slowly Cassian nodded.

"When did he give it to you?" Monk turned it over as if admiring it further.

"I don't remember," Cassian replied, and Monk knew he was lying.

Monk handed it back and Cassian took it quickly, closing his hand over it again and then putting it out of sight in his pocket.

Monk pretended to forget it, walking away from the window towards the small table where, from the ruler, block of paper, and jar of pencils, it was obvious Cassian did his schoolwork since coming to Carlyon House. He felt Miss Buchan watching him, waiting to intervene if he trespassed too far, and he also felt Cassian tense and his eyes follow him. A moment later he came over and stood at Monk's elbow, his face wary, eyes troubled.

Monk looked at the table again, at the other items. There was a pocket dictionary, a small book of mathematical tables, a French grammar and a neat folding knife. At first he thought it was for sharpening pencils, then he saw what an elegant thing it was, far too sophisticated for a child. He reached out for it, out of the corner of his eye saw Cassian tense, his hand jerk upward, as if to stop him, then freeze motionless.

Monk picked up the knife and opened it. It was fine-bladed, almost like a razor, the sort a man uses to cut a quill to repair the nib. The initials p.e. were engraved on the handle.

"Very nice," Monk said with a half smile, turning to Cassian. "Another gift from Mr. Erskine?"

"Yes - no!" Cassian stopped. "Yes." His chin tightened, his lower lip came forward, as if to defy argument.

"Very generous of him," Monk commented, feeling sick inside. "Anything else he gave you?"

"No." But his eyes swiveled for an instant to his jacket, hanging on the hook behind the door, and Monk could just see the end of a colored silk handkerchief poking out from an inside pocket.

"He must be very fond of you," he said, hating himself for the hypocrisy.

Cassian said nothing.

Monk turned back to Miss Buchan.

"Thank you," he said wearily. "There isn't a great deal more to ask."

She looked doubtful. It was plain she did not see any meaning to the questions about the gifts; it had not occurred to her to suspect Peverell Erskine. Perhaps it was just as well. He stayed a few moments longer, asking other things as they came to his mind, times and people, journeys, visitors, nothing that mattered, but it disguised the gifts and their meaning.

Then he said good-bye to the child, thanked Miss Buchan, and left Carlyon House, his knowledge giving him no pleasure. The sunlight and noise of the street seemed far away, the laughter of two women in pink-and-white frills, parasols twirling, sounding tinny in his ears, the horses' hooves loud, the hiss of carriage wheels sibilant, the cry of a peddler a feraway irritant, like the buzzing of a bluebottle fly.

* * * * *

Hester arrived home from the trial weary and with very little to tell Major Tiplady. The day's evidence had been largely what anyone might have foreseen, first Peverell Erskine saying, with something that looked vaguely like reluctance, what an excellent man Thaddeus Carlyon had been.

Rathbone had not tried to shake him, nor to question his veracity nor the accuracy of his observations.

Next Damaris Erskine had been asked about her brother, and had echoed her husband's sentiments and seconded his observations. Rathbone had not asked her anything else at all, but had reserved the right to recall her at a later time, should that prove to be in the interests of the defense.

There had been no revelations. The crowd was growing more intense in their anger towards Alexandra. The general was the kind of man they most liked to admire - heroic, upright, a man of action with no dangerous ideas or unnerving sense of humor, no opinions they would have to disapprove of or feel guilty about understanding, a good family man whose wife had most hideously turned on him for no sane reason. Such a woman should be hanged, to discourage all other women from such violence, and the sooner the better. It was murmured all through the day, and said aloud when finally the court rose for the weekend.

It was a discouraging day, and she came back to Great Titchfield Street tired and frightened by the inevitability of events, and the hatred and incomprehension in the air. By the time she had recounted it all to Major Tiplady she was close to tears. Even he could find no hope in the situation; the best he could offer was an exhortation to courage, the greatest of all courage, to continue to fight with all one has even when victory seems beyond possibility.

* * * * *

The following day a crisp wind blew from the east but the sky was sharp blue and flowers were fluttering in the wind. It was Saturday, and there was no court sitting, so there was brief respite. Hester woke with a sense not of ease but of greater tension because she would rather have continued with it now that it was begun. This was only prolonging the pain and the helplessness. It would have been a blessing were there anything more she could do, but although she had been awake, turning and twisting, thrashing it over and over in her mind, she could think of nothing. They knew the truth of what had happened to Alexandra, what she had done, and why - exactly, passionately and irrevocably why. She had not known there was another man, let alone two others, or who they were.

There was little point in trying to prove it was old Randolph Carlyon; he would never admit it, and his family would close around him like a wall of iron. To accuse him would only prejudice the crowd and the jury still more deeply against Alexandra. She would appear a wild and vicious woman with a vile mind, depraved and obsessed with perversions.

They must find the third man, with either irrefutable proof or sufficient accusations not to be denied. And that would mean the help of Cassian, Valentine Furnival, if he were also a victim, and anyone else who knew about it or suspected -  Miss Buchan, for example.

And Miss Buchan would risk everything if she made such a charge. The Carlyons would throw her out and she would be destitute. And who else would take her in, a woman too old to work, who made charges of incest and sodomy against the employers who had fed and housed her in her old age?

No, there was little comfort in a long, useless weekend. She wished she could curl over and go back to sleep, but it was broad daylight; through a chink in the curtain the sun was bright, and she must get up and see how Major Tiplady was. Not that he was unable to care for himself now, but she might as well do her duty as fully as possible to the end.

Perhaps the morning could be usefully spent in beginning to look for a new post. This one could not last beyond the confusion of the trial. She could afford a couple of weeks without a position, but not more. And it would have to be one where she lived in the house of the patient. She had given up her lodgings, since the expense of keeping a room when she did not need one was foolish, and beyond her present resources. She pushed dreams of any other sort of employment firmly out of her mind. They were fanciful, and without foundation, the maunderings of a silly woman.

After breakfast she asked Major Tiplady if he would excuse her for the day so she might go out and begin to enquire at various establishments that catered to such needs if mere were any people who required a nurse such as herself. Unfortunately midwifery was something about which she knew almost nothing, nor about the care of infant children. There was a much wider need for that type of nursing.

Reluctantly he agreed, not because he needed her help in anything, simply because he had grown used to her company and liked it. But he could see the reasoning, and accepted it.

She thanked him, and half an hour later was about to leave when the maid came in with a surprised look on her face to announce that Mrs. Sobell was at the door.

"Oh!" The major looked startled and a little pink. "To see Miss Latterly, no doubt? Please show her in, Molly! Don't leave the poor lady standing in the hall!"

"No sir. Yes sir." Molly's surprise deepened, but she did as she was bidden, and a moment later Edith came in, dressed in half-mourning of a rich shade of pink lilac. Hester thought privately she would have termed it quarter-mourning, if asked. It was actually very pretty, and the only indications it had anything to do with death were the black lace trimmings and black satin ribbons both on the shawl and on the bonnet. Nothing would change the individuality of her features, the aquiline nose that looked almost as if it had been broken, very slightly crooked, and far too flat, the heavy-lidded eyes and the soft mouth, but Edith looked remarkably gentle and feminine today, in spite of her obvious unhappiness.

The major climbed to his feet, utterly disregarding his leg, which was now almost healed but still capable of giving him pain. He stood almost to attention.

"Good morning, Mrs. Sobell. How very nice to see you. I hope you are well, in spite of. . ."He stopped, looking at her more closely. "I'm sorry, what a foolish thing to say. Of course you are distressed by all that is happening. What may we do to comfort you? Please come in and sit down; at least make yourself comfortable. No doubt you wish to speak to Miss Latterly. I shall find myself some occupation."

"No, no! Please," Edith said quickly and a little awkwardly.

"I should be most uncomfortable if you were to leave on my account. I have nothing in particular to say. I - I simply ..." Now she too colored very pink. "I - I simply wished to be out of the house, away from my family - and . . ."

"Of course," he said quickly. "You wished to be able to speak your mind without fear of causing offense or distress to those you love."

Her face flooded with relief, ""ifou are extraordinarily perceptive, Major Tiplady."

Now his cheeks were very red and he had no idea where to look.

"Oh please sit down," Hester interrupted, acting to stop the awkwardness, or at least to give it respite. "Edith."

"Thank you," Edith accepted, and for the first time in Hester's acquaintance with her, she arranged her skirts elegantly and sat upright on the edge of the seat, as a lady should. In spite of the grimness of the situation Hester was obliged to hide a smile.

Edith sighed. "Hester, what is happening? I have never been to a trial before, and I don't understand. Mr. Rathbone is supposed to be so brilliant, and yet from what I hear it seems he is doing nothing at all. I could do as much. So far all he has achieved is to persuade us all that Thaddeus was quite innocent of any affair, either with Louisa Furnival or anyone else. And to add that Alexandra knew it too. What possible good can that do?" Her face was screwed up with incomprehension, her eyes dark and urgent. "It makes Alexandra look even worse in a way, because it takes from her any possible reason that one could attempt to understand, if not forgive. Why? She has already confessed that she did do it, and it has been proved. He didn't challenge that. In fact if anything he reconfirmed it. Why, Hester? What is he doing?"

Hester had told Edith nothing of their appalling discoveries, and now she hesitated, wondering if she should, or if by so doing she might foil Rathbone's plans for examination in the witness box. Was it possible that in spite of the outrage she would undoubtedly feel, Edith's family loyalty would be powerful enough for her to conceal the shame of it? Might she even disbelieve it?

Hester dare not put it to the test. It was not her prerogative to decide, not her life in the balance, nor her child whose future lay in the judgment.

She sat down in the chair opposite Edith.

"I don't know," she lied, meeting her friend's eyes and hating the deceit. "At least I have only guesses, and it would be unfair to him and to you to give you those." She saw Edith's face tighten as if she had been struck, and the fear deepened in her eyes. "But I do know he has a strategy," she hurried on, leaning forward a little, only dimly aware of Major Tiplady looking anxiously from one to the other of them.

"Does he?" Edith said softly. "Please don't try to give me hope, Hester, if there really isn't any. It is not a kindness."

The major drew breath to speak, and both turned to look at him. Then he changed his mind and remained silent and unhappy,'facing Hester.

' "There is hope," Hester said firmly."But I don't know how great it is. It all depends on convincing the jury that - "

"What?" Edith said quickly.' "What can he convince them of? She did it! Even Rathbone himself has proved that! What else is there?"

Hester hesitated. She was glad Major Tiplady was there, although there was nothing he could do, but his mere presence was a kind of comfort.

Edith went on with a feint, bitter smile. "He can hardly persuade them she was justified. Thaddeus was painfully virtuous - all the things that count to other people." She frowned suddenly. "Actually we still don't know why she did do it. Is he going to say she is mad? Is that it? I don't think she is." She glanced at the major. "And they have subpoenaed me to give evidence. What shall I do?"

"Give evidence," Hester answered. "There's nothing else you can do. Just answer the questions they ask and no more. But be honest. Don't try to guess what they want. It is up to Rathbone to draw it from you. If you look as if you arc trying to help it will show and the jury won't believe you. Just don't lie - about anything he asks you."

"But what can he ask me? I don't know anything."

"I don't know what he will ask you," Hester said exas-peratedly. "He wouldn't tell me, even if I were to ask him. I have no right to know. And far better I don't. But I do know he has a strategy - and it could win. Please believe me, and don't press me to give you answers I don't have."

"I'm sorry." Edith was suddenly penitent. She rose to her feet quickly and walked over to the window, less graceful than usual because she was self-conscious. "When this trial is over I am still going to look for a position of some sort. I know Mama will be furious, but I feel suffocated there. I spend all my life doing nothing whatsoever that matters at all. I stitch embroidery no one needs, and paint pictures even I don't like much. I play the piano badly and no one listens except out of politeness. I make duty, calls on people and take them pots of conserve and give bowls of soup to the deserving poor, and feel like such a hypocrite because it does hardly any good, and we go with such an air of virtue, and come away as if we've solved all their problems, and weVe hardly touched them." Her voice caught for an instant. "I 'm thirty-three, and I'm behaving like an old woman. Hester, I'm terrified that one day I'm going to wake up and I will be old - and I'll have done nothing at all that was worth doing. I'll never have accomplished anything, served any purpose, helped anyone more man was purely convenient, never felt anything really deeply once Oswald died - been no real use at all." She kept her back to them, and stood very straight and still.

"Then you must find work of some sort to do," Hester said firmly. "Even if it is hard or dirty, paid or unpaid, even thankless - it would be better than waking up every morning to a wasted day and going to bed at night knowing you wasted it. I have heard it said that most of what we regret is not what we did but what we did not do. I think on the whole that is correct. You have your health. It would be better to wait on others than do nothing at all."

"You mean go into service?" Edith was incredulous and there was a frail, slightly hysterical giggle under the surface of her voice.

"No, nothing quite so demanding - it would really be more than your mother deserves. I meant helping some poor creature who is too ill or too mithered to help herself." She stopped. "Of course that would be unpaid, and that might not work . . ."

"It wouldn't. Mama would not permit it, so I would have to find lodgings of my own, and that requires money - which I don't have."

Major Tiplady cleared his throat.

"Are you still interested in Africa, Mrs. Sobell?"

She turned around, her eyes wide.

"Go to Africa? How could I do that? I don't know anything about it. I hardly think I should be of any use to anyone. I wish I were!"

"No, not go there." His face was bright pink now. "I--er - well, I'm not sure, of course ..."

Hester refused to help him, although with a sweet surge of pleasure she knew what he wanted to say.

He threw an agonized glance at her, and she smiled back charmingly.

Edith waited.

"Er . . ." He cleared his throat again. "I thought - I thought I might... I mean if you are serious about people's interest? I thought I might write my memoirs of Mashona-land, and I - er..."

Edith's face flooded with understanding - and delight.

"Need a scribe. Oh yes, I should be delighted. I can think of nothing I should like better! My Adventures in Mashona-land, by Major - Major Tiplady. What is your given name?"

He blushed crimson and looked everywhere but at her.

Hester knew the initial was H, but no more. He had signed his letter employing her only with that initial and his surname.

"You have to have a name," Edith insisted. "I can see it, bound in morocco or calf - nice gold lettering. It will be marvelous! I shalt count it such a privilege and enjoy every word. It will be almost as good as going there myself - and in such splendid company. What is your name, Major? How will it be styled?"

"Hercules," he said very quietly, and shot her a look of total pleading not to laugh.

"How very fine," she said gently. "My Adventures in Mashonaland, by Major Hercules Tiplady. May we begin as soon as this terrible business is over? It is the nicest thing that has happened to me in years."

"And to me," Major Tiplady said happily, his face still very pink.

Hester rose to her feet and went to the door to ask the maid to prepare luncheon for them, and so that she could give rein to her giggles where she could hurt no one - but it was laughter of relief and a sudden bright hope, at least for Edith and the major, whom she had grown to like remarkably. It was the only good thing at the moment, but it was totally good.