very short time.”
“I promise you that it will become apparent in later testimony, my lord,” Rathbone said, his voice still calculatedly light. But he abandoned the course for the present, knowing he had left it imprinted on the jury's minds, and that was all that mattered. He could build on it later. He turned back to Edith.
“Mrs. Sobell, did you recently observe a very heated quarrel between Miss Buchan, an elderly member of your household staff, and your cook, Mrs. Emery?”
A ghost of amusement crossed Edith's face, curving her mouth momentarily.
“I have observed several, more than I can count,” she conceded. “Cook and Miss Buchan have been enemies for years.”
“Quite so. But the quarrel I am referring to happened within the last three weeks, on the back stairs of Carlyon House. you were called to assist.”
“That's right. Cassian came to fetch me because he was afraid. Cook had a knife. I'm sure she did not intend to do anything with it but make an exhibition, but he didn't know that.”
“What was the quarrel about, Mrs. Sobell?”
Lovat-Smith groaned audibly.
Rathbone ignored it.
“About?” Edith looked slightly puzzled. He had not told her he was going to pursue this. He wanted her obvious un-awareness to be seen by the jury. This case depended upon emotions as much as upon facts.
“Yes. What was the subject of the difference?”
Lovat-Smith groaned even more loudly. “Really, my lord,” he protested.
Rathbone resumed facing the judge. “My learned friend seems to be in some distress,” he said unctuously.
There was a loud titter of amusement, nervous, like a ripple of wind through a field before thunder.
“The case,” Lovat-Smith said loudly. “Get on with the case, man!”
“Then bear your agony a little less vocally, old chap,” Rathbone replied equally loudly, “and allow me to.” He swung around. “Mrs. Sobell-to remind you, the question was, would you please tell the court the subject of the quarrel between the governess, Miss Buchan, and the cook?”
“Yes-yes, if you wish, although I cannot see-”
“We none of us can,” Lovat-Smith interrupted again.
“Mr. Lovat-Smith,” the judge said sharply. “Mrs. Sobell, answer the question. If it proves irrelevant I will control Mr. Rathbone's wanderings.”
“Yes, my lord. Cook accused Miss Buchan of being incompetent to care for Cassian. She said Miss Buchan was… there was a great deal of personal abuse, my lord. I would rather not repeat it.”
Rathbone thought of permitting her to do so. A jury liked to be amused, but they would lose respect for Miss Buchan, which might be what would win or lose the case. A little laughter now would be too dearly bought.
“Please spare us,” he said aloud. “The subject of the difference will be sufficient-the fact that there was abuse may indicate the depth of their feelings.” Again Edith smiled hurriedly, and then continued. “Cook said that Miss Buchan was following him around everywhere and confusing him by telling him his mother loved him, and was not a wicked woman.” She swallowed hard, her eyes troubled. That she did not understand what he wanted was painfully obvious. The jury were utterly silent, their faces staring at her. Suddenly the drama was back again, the concentration total. The crowd did not whisper or move. Even Alexandra herself seemed momentarily forgotten.
“And the cook?” Rathbone prompted. “Cook said Alexandra should be hanged.” Edith seemed to find the word difficult. “And of course she was wicked. Cassian had to know it and come to terms with it.” “And Miss Buchan's reply?”
“That Cook didn't know anything about it, she was an ignorant woman and should stay in the kitchen where she belonged.”
“Did you know to what Miss Buchan referred?” Rathbone asked, his voice low and clear, without any theatrics.
“No.”
“Was a Miss Hester Latterly present at this exchange?”
“Yes.”
“When you had parted the two protagonists, did Miss Latterly go upstairs with Miss Buchan?”
“Yes.”
“And afterwards leave in some haste, and without explanation to you as to why?”
“Yes, but we did not quarrel,” Edith said quickly. “She seemed to have something most urgent to do.”
“Indeed I know it, Mrs. Sobell. She came immediately to see me. Thank you. That is all. Please remain there, in case my learned friend has something to ask you.”
There was a rustle and a sigh around the court. A dozen people nudged each other. The expected revelation had not come… not yet.
Lovat-Smith rose and sauntered over to Edith, hands in his pockets.
“Mrs. Sobell, tell me honestly, much as you may sympathize with your sister-in-law, has any of what you have said the slightest bearing on the tragedy of your brother's death?”
She hesitated, glancing at Rathbone.
“No, Mrs. Sobell,” Lovat-Smith cautioned sharply. “Answer for yourself, please! Can you tell me any relation between what you have said about your nephew's very natural confusion and distress over his father's murder, and his momer's confession and arrest, and this diverting but totally irrelevant quarrel between two of your domestics?” He waved his hands airily, dismissing it, “And the cause at trial: namely whether Alexandra Carlyon is guilty or not guilty of murdering her husband, your brother? I remind you, in case after all this taradiddle you, like the rest of us, are close to forgetting.”
He had gone too far. He had trivialized the tragedy.
“I don't know, Mr. Lovat-Smith,” she said with a sudden return of composure, her voice now grim and with a hard edge. “As you have just said, we are here to discover the truth, not to assess it beforehand. I don't know why Alexandra did what she did, and I wish to know. It has to matter.”
“Indeed.” Lovat-Smith gave in gracefully. He had sufficient instinct to recognize an error and cease it immediately. “It does not alter facts, but of course it matters, Mrs. Sobell. I have no further questions. Thank you.”
“Mr. Rathbone?” the judge asked.
“I have no further questions, thank you, my lord.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Sobell, you may go.”
Rathbone stood in the center of the very small open space in front of the witness box.
“I call Miss Catriona Buchan.”
Miss Buchan came to the witness box looking very pale, her face even more gaunt than before, her thin back stiff and her eyes straight forward, as if she were a French aristocrat passing through the old women knitting at the foot of the guillotine. She mounted the stairs unaided, holding her skirts in from the sides, and at the top turned and faced the court. She swore to tell the truth, and regarded Rathbone as though he were an executioner.
Rathbone found himself admiring her as much as anyone he had ever faced across that small space of floor.
“Miss Buchan, I realize what this is going to cost you, and I am not unmindful of your sacrifice, nevertheless I hope you understand that in the cause of justice I have no alternative?”
“Of course I do,” she agreed with a crisp voice. The strain in it did not cause her to falter, only to sound a little more clipped than usual, a little higher in pitch, as if her throat were tight. “I would not answer did I not understand that!”
“Indeed. Do you remember quarreling with the cook at Carlyon House some three weeks ago?”
“I do. She is a good enough cook, but a stupid woman.”
“In what way stupid, Miss Buchan?”
“She imagines all ills can be treated with good regular meals and that if you only eat right everything else will sort itself out.”
“A shortsighted view. What did you quarrel about on that occasion, Miss Buchan?”
