man is in love with a woman and when his desire has consumed him beyond his control. He has at last devised a way to gain her trust-and God knows what else!”
“Mr. Fyffe…” Argyll began, but he did not seriously attempt to stop him.
“But I recognize what I should have guessed before now,” Quinlan went on, staring at Argyll and ignoring the rest of the court “It is amazing how blind one can be until one’s attention is forced to that which is painful.”
At last Gilfeather rose to his feet.
“My lord, this is all most regrettable, and I am sure the. court feels for Mr. Fyffe’s shock and dismay, but it is entirely irrelevant as to who murdered Mary Farraline. My learned friend is only wasting time and attempting to divert the jury’s attention from the issue.”
“I agree,” the judge said, and closed his mouth in a thin hard line.
But before he could add any further ruling, Quinlan turned to him, his eyes blazing.
“It is not irrelevant, my lord. Baird Mclvor’s behavior is very relevant indeed.”
Gilfeather made as if to protest again.
Argyll gestured with his hands, intentionally ineffectual.
Rathbone said a prayer under his breath, his hands clenched, his body aching with the strain. He dared not look at Hester. He had forgotten Monk as if he had never existed.
In the box Quinlan stood upright, his face white, two sharp furrows at the bridge of his nose.
“The family solicitor asked me to go through certain of Mrs. Farraline’s papers, relating to her estate-”
“Yes, sir?” the judge interrupted.
“I frequently handled her financial affairs,” Quinlan replied. “My brother-in-law Alastair is too busy with his own commitments.”
“I see. Proceed.”
“I have discovered something which has shocked and appalled me,” Quinlan said. “And also explained many circumstances previously beyond my understanding.” He swallowed hard. He had the attention of every person in the room, and he knew it.
Gilfeather frowned, but made no attempt to interrupt.
“And this discovery, Mr. Fyffe?” Argyll asked.
“My mother-in-law owned a property, a family inheritance, in the far north, a croft-a smallholding, to be precise-in Ross-shire. It is not of great worth, only twenty-five acres or so and a house, but quite sufficient to provide one or two people with an adequate living.”
“I do not find that shocking or appalling, Mr. Fyffe,” the judge said critically. “Pray explain yourself, sir.”
Quinlan glanced at him, then once again faced the court.
“The property has been leased out for at least six years, through the agency of Baird Mclvor, but no money from it, whatsoever, has ever reached Mrs. Farraline’s accounts.”
There was a gasp from the court. Someone cried out. One of the jurors jerked forward. Another searched for Baird Mclvor in the gallery. One bit his lip and looked up at Hester.
“Are you sure of this, Mr. Fyffe?” Argyll asked, struggling to keep the rising excitement out of his voice. “I assume you have documented proof, or you would not make such a charge?”
“Of course I have,” Quinlan answered him. “The papers are all there for anyone to see. Baird handled the matter for her, and even he would not deny it. He could not. Whatever rents mere were is a mystery. The property is worth several pounds a year. Nothing whatever reached her account. For her, it was as if it never existed.”
“Did you tax him with it, Mr. Fyffe?”
“Of course I did! He said it was a private agreement between himself and Mother-in-law, and not my concern.”
“And that explanation does not satisfy you?”
Quinlan looked incredulous. “Would it you, sir?”
“No,” Argyll agreed. “No, it would not. It sounds highly irregular, to put the kindest possible interpretation upon it.”
Quinlan pulled a face of contempt.
“And the circumstances it explained?” Argyll went on. “You spoke of a circumstance that you had previously not understood.”
“His relationship with Mrs. Farraline,” Quinlan replied, his eyes hard and brilliant. “Shortly before the time he obtained the right to act for her in the matter of the croft, he appeared very depressed. He was sunk in gloom and short temper, spending many hours alone, and in a frame of mind approaching despair.”
Not a person in the court moved or let out a whisper.
“Then quite suddenly his mood changed,” Quinlan continued. “After many talks with Mrs. Farraline. It is plain now that he convinced her to give him this charge on her behalf, and he used it to clear himself of whatever trouble it was that plagued him.”
Gilfeather rose to his feet.
The judge nodded to him, and turned to Quinlan.
“Mr. Fyffe, that is a conclusion which may or may not be accurate. However, you may not draw it, only present to the jury what actual evidence you possess.”
“Documents, my lord,” he replied. “The ownership deeds of the croft, Mrs. Farraline’s written permission that Mr. Mclvor may act for her to receive rents, and the fact that he never paid any money to her, for that or any other reason. Is that not proof?”
“It would be adequate for most people,” the judge conceded. “But it is not my privilege, but the jury’s, to make of it what they will.”
“That is not all,” Quinlan continued, his face set like a man staring at death. “I believed, like everyone else, that it was the nurse, Miss Latterly, who murdered Mother-in-law in order to conceal the fact that she had stolen a gray pearl pin. But now I find it increasingly harder to maintain that conviction. She seems to be a woman of remarkable courage and virtue, which of course I did not know earlier.” He took a mighty breath. “And I did not connect the sight of my brother-in-law, Baird Mclvor, in the laundry room, on the lady’s maid’s day off, fiddling with jars and vials of liquid, pouring one from another.”
There was a violent moment in the court. Baird shot to his feet, his face ashen. Oonagh tried to restrain him, clinging on to his arm. Alastair let out a cry of amazement.
Eilish sat white-knuckled, frozen.
“I had no idea what he was doing at the time, and no interest,” Quinlan went on in a clear, relentless voice. “Now I fear I may have witnessed something very terrible, and my failure to grasp its meaning has cost Miss Latterly the most dreadful experience imaginable, to be charged with the murder of her patient and tried for her life.”
Argyll looked flushed, almost stunned.
“I see,” he said with a choking voice. “Thank you, Mr. Fyffe. That must have been very difficult for you to reveal, prejudicing your own family as it does. The court appreciates your honesty.” If there was sarcasm in his mind, it barely touched his lips.
Quinlan said nothing.
Gilfeather rose immediately to cross-examine. He attacked Quinlan, his accuracy, his motives, his honesty, but he failed in all. Quinlan was quiet, firm and unshakable; if anything, his confidence grew. Gilfeather quickly realized his position was only damaged by pursuing it, and with only one bitter, angry movement, he resumed his seat.
Rathbone could barely contain himself. He wished to tell Argyll a hundred things about his summing up, what to say, above all what to avoid. It was simple. To play on emotion, the love of courage and honor, not to overplay the reference to Miss Nightingale, but he had no opportunity, and on reflection, perhaps that was best Argyll knew it all.
It was masterful; all the emotion was there, but concealed, latent rather than overt. He led them by their own passions, not his. When he sat down there was no sound in the room except the squeak as the judge sat forward and ordered the jury to retire and consider its verdict.
Then began the longest and the briefest time conceivable, between the moment when the die is cast and that when it falls.
It was one desperate, unbearable hour.
They filed back, their faces pale. They looked at no oae, not at Argyll or Gilfeather, and what brought
