journeys of her youth, the people, the laughter, the scenes, the things she had loved. She told him how she had been reluctant to end the evening, how only Oonagh’s warning about Mary’s lateness had made her at last insist. In a low quiet voice, only just above tears, she recited opening the chest, finding one vial gone, and giving the second vial to Mary before closing the chest again and making her comfortable, and then going to sleep herself.
In the same voice, with only the barest hesitation, she told him of waking in the morning, and finding Mary dead.
At that point he stopped her.
“Are you quite sure you made no error in giving Mrs. Farraline her medicine, Miss Latterly?”
“Quite sure. I gave her the contents of one vial. She was a very intelligent woman, Mr. Argyll, and not shortsighted or absentminded. If I had done anything amiss she would certainly have known, and refused to take it.”
“This glass you used, Miss Latterly, was it provided for you?”
“Yes sir. It was part of the fitments of the medicine chest, along with the vials.”
“I see. Designed to hold the contents of one vial, or more?”
“One vial, sir; that was its purpose.”
“Quite so. You would have had to fill it twice to administer more?”
“Yes sir.”
There was no need to add anything further. He could see from the jurors’ faces that they had taken the point.
“And the gray pearl brooch,” he continued. “Did you see it at any time prior to your finding it in your baggage when you had arrived at the home of Lady Callandra Daviot?”
“No sir.” She nearly added that Mary had mentioned it, and then just in time refrained. The thought of how close she had come to such an error sent the blood rushing burn-ingly up her face. Dear heaven, she must look as if she were lying! “No sir. Mrs. Farraline’s baggage was in the goods van, along with my own. I had no occasion to see any of her things once I had left the dressing room at Ainslie Place. And even then, I only saw the topmost gowns as they were laid out.”
“Thank you, Miss Latterly. Please remain where you are. My learned friend will no doubt wish to question you also.”
“Indeed I will.” Gilfeather rose to his feet with alacrity. But before he could begin, the judge adjourned the court for luncheon, and it was afternoon before he could launch his attack. And attack it was. He advanced towards the witness stand with flying hair an aureole around his head. He was a large man, shambling like a newly awoken bear, but his eyes were bright and gleaming with the light of battle.
Hester faced him with her heart beating so violently her body shook and her breath caught in her throat so she feared she might choke when she was forced to speak.
“Miss Latterly,” he began smoothly. “The defense has painted a picture of you as a virtuous, heroic and self- sacrificing woman. Because of the circumstances which bring you here, you must give me leave to doubt the total accuracy of that.” He pulled a small face. “People of the sort depicted by my learned friend do not suddenly stoop to murder, especially the murder of an old lady in their trust, and for the gain of a few pearls set in a pin. Would you agree?
“In fact,” he went on, looking at her with concentration, “I presume the burden of his argument to be that it is inconceivable that a person should change her nature so utterly, therefore you could not be guilty. Is that not so?”
“I did not prepare the defense, sir, so I cannot speak for Mr. Argyll,” she said levelly. “But I imagine you are correct.”
“Do you agree with the hypothesis, Miss Latterly?” His voice was sharp, demanding an answer.
“Yes sir, I do, although at times we may misjudge people, or fail to read them aright. If it were not so, we should never be taken by surprise.”
There was a ripple of amusement around the room. One or two men nodded in appreciation.
Rathbone held his breath in an agony of apprehension.
“A very sophisticated argument, Miss Latterly,” Gilfeather conceded.
She had seen Rathbone’s face, and knew why he had stared at her with such pleading. She must make amends.
“No sir,” she said humbly. “It is merely common sense. I think any woman would have told you the same.”
“That is as may be, ma’am,” Gilfeather said. “However, you will appreciate why I shall endeavor to disprove their high estimation of you.”
She waited in silence for him to do so.
He nodded, pulling a very slight face. “Why did you go to the Crimea, Miss Latterly? Was it like Miss Nightingale, in answer to a call to serve God?” He invested no sarcasm or condescension in the question, his voice and his expression were innocent, but there was a waiting in the room, a readiness for disbelief.
“No sir.” She kept her voice low and her tone as gentle as lay within her power. “I intended to serve my fellow men in a way best suited to such skills as I possessed, and I believed it would be a fine and daring thing to do. I have but one life, and I had rather do something purposeful with it than at the end look back and regret all the chances I had missed, and what I might have made of myself.”
“So you are a woman to take risks?” Gilfeather said with a smile he could not hide.
“Physical ones, sir, not moral ones. I think to stay at home, safe and idle, would have been a moral risk, and one I was not prepared for.”
“You draw a fine argument, madam.”
“I am fighting for my life, sir. Would you expect anyone to do less?”
“No madam. Since you ask, I expect you to use every art and argument, every subtlety and persuasion that your mind can devise or your desperation conceive.”
She looked at him with loathing. All Rathbone’s warnings rang in her head as clearly as if he were saying them now, and her emotion overrode them all. She was going to lose anyway. She would not do it without honesty and what dignity was possible.
“You make it sound, sir, as if we were two animals battling for mastery of each other, not rational human beings seeking to find the truth and serve our best understanding of justice. Do you wish to know who killed Mrs. Farraline, Mr. Gilfeather, or do you merely wish to hang someone, and I will do?”
For a moment Gilfeather was startled. He had been fought with before, but not in these terms.
There was a gasp and a sigh of suspended breath. A journalist broke his pencil. One of the jurors choked.
“Oh God!” Rathbone said inaudibly.
The judge reached for his gavel, and mistook the distance. His fingers closed on nothing.
In the gallery Monk smiled, and his stomach knotted inside him with grief.
“Only the right person will do, Miss Latterly,” Gilfearher said angrily, his hair standing on end. “But all the evidence says that that is you. If it is not, pray tell me who is it?”
“I do not know, sir, or I should already have told you,” Hester answered him.
Argyll rose to his feet at last.
“My lord, if my learned friend has questions for Miss Latterly, he should put them to her. If not-although she seems well able to defend herself-this baiting is unseemly, and not the purpose of this court.”
The judge looked at him sourly, then turned to Gilfeather.
“Mr. Gilfeather, please come to the point, sir. What is it you wish to ask?”
Gilfeather glared first at Argyll, then at the judge. Finally he turned to Hester.
“Miss Nightingale has painted you as a ministering angel, tending the sick regardless of your own sufferings.” This time he could not entirely keep the sarcasm from his tone. “She would have us envision you passing gently between the hospital beds wiping a fevered brow, bandaging a wound; or else braving the battlefield to perform operations yourself by the light of a flickering torch.” His voice grew louder. “But in truth, madam, was it not a rough life, most of it spent with soldiers and camp followers, women of low degree and even lower morals?”
Vivid memories surged back into her mind.
“Many camp followers are soldiers’ wives, sir, and their humble birth equals that of their husbands,” she said angrily. “They work and wash for them, and care for them when they are sick. Someone must do these things. And if the men are good enough to die for us in our bloody battles, then they are worthy of our support when we are
