she became so confused he must have realized he was alienating the entire courtroom by pressing her over something for which no one else could see a purpose.
O'Hare rose, smiling and smooth, to call the ladies' maid Mary to testify that the bloodstained peignoir was indeed Oc-tavia's. She looked very pale, her usually rich olive complexion without a shred of its blushing cheeks, her voice uncharacteristically subdued. But she swore it was her mistress's. She had seen her wear it often enough, and ironed its satin and smoothed out its lace.
Rathbone did not bother her. There was nothing to contend.
Next O'Hare called the butler. Phillips looked positively cadaverous as he stepped into the witness box. His balding head shone in the light through his thin hair, his eyebrows appeared more ferocious than ever, but his expression was one of dignified wretchedness, a soldier on parade before an unruly mob and robbed of the weapons to defend himself.
O'Hare was far too practiced to insult him by discourtesy or condescension. After establishing Phillips' position and his considerable credentials, he asked him about his seniority over the other servants in the house. This also established, for the jury and the crowd, he proceeded to draw him a highly unfavorable picture of Percival as a man, without ever impugning his abilities as a servant. Never once did he force Phillips into appearing malicious or negligent in his own duty. It was a masterly performance. There was almost nothing Rathbone could do except ask Phillips if he had had the slightest idea that this objectionable and arrogant young man had raised his eyes as far as his master's daughter. To which Phillips replied
with a horrified denial. But then no one would have expected him to admit such a thought-not now.
The only other servant O'Hare called was Rose.
She was dressed most becomingly. Black suited her, with her fair complexion and almost luminous blue eyes. The situation impressed her, but she was not overwhelmed, and her voice was steady and strong, crowded with emotion. With very little prompting she told O'Hare, who was oozing solicitude, how Percival had at first been friendly towards her, openly admiring but perfectly proper in his manner. Then gradually he had given her to believe his affections were engaged, and finally had made it quite plain that he desired to marry her.
All this she recounted with a modest manner and gentle tone. Then her chin hardened and she stood very rigid in the box; her voice darkened, thickening with emotion, and she told O'Hare, never looking at the jury or the spectators, how PercivaFs attentions had ceased and he had more and more frequently mentioned Miss Octavia, and how she had complimented him, sent for him for the most trivial duties as if she desired his company, how she had dressed more alluringly recently, and often remarked on his own dignity and appearance.
'Was this perhaps to make you jealous, Miss Watkins?' O'Hare asked innocently.
She remembered her decorum, lowered her eyes and answered meekly, the venom disappearing from her and injury returning.
'Jealous, sir? How could I be jealous of a lady like Miss Octavia?' she said demurely. 'She was beautiful. She had all the manner and the learning, all the lovely gowns. What was there I could do against that?'
She hesitated a moment, and then went on. 'And she would never have married him, that would be stupid even to think of it. If I were going to be jealous it would be of another maid like myself, someone who could have given him real love, and a home, and maybe a family in time.' She looked down at her small, strong hands, and then up again suddenly.”No sir, she flattered him, and his head was turned. I thought that sort of thing only happened to parlormaids and the like, who got used by masters with no morals. I never thought of a footman being so daft. Or a lady-well…' She lowered her eyes.
'Are you saying that that is what you believe happened, Miss Watkins?' O'Hare asked.
Her eyes flew wide open again. 'Oh no sir. I don't suppose for a moment Miss Octavia ever did anything like that! I think Percival was a vain and silly man who imagined it might. And then when he realized what a fool he'd made of himself- well-his conceit couldn't take it and he lost his temper.'
'Did he have a temper, Miss Watkins?'
'Oh yes sir-I'm afraid so.'
The last witness to be called regarding Percival's character, and its flaws, was Fenella Sandeman. She swept into the courtroom in a glory of black taffeta and lace, a large bonnet set well back, framing her face with its unnatural pallor, jet-black hair and rosy lips. At the distance from which most of the public saw her she was a startling and most effective sight, exuding glamour and the drama of grief-and extreme femininity sore pressed by dire circumstances.
To Hester, when a man was being tried for his life, it was at once pathetic and grotesque.
O'Hare rose and was almost exaggeratedly polite to her, as though she had been fragile and in need of all his tenderness.
'Mrs. Sandeman, I believe you are a widow, living in the house of your brother, Sir Basil Moidore?'
'I am,' she conceded, hovering for a moment on the edge of an air of suffering bravely, and opting instead for a gallant kind of gaiety, a dazzling smile and a lift of her pointed chin.
'You have been there for'-he hesitated as if recalling with difficulty what to ask-'something like twelve years?'
'I have,' she agreed.
'Then you will doubtless know the members of the household fairly well, having seen them in all their moods, their happiness and their misfortune, for a considerable time,' he concluded. 'You must have formed many opinions, based upon your observations.'
“Indeed-one cannot help it.' She gazed at him and a wry, slight smile hovered about her lips. There was a huskiness in her voice. Hester wanted to slide down in her seat and become invisible, but she was beside Beatrice, who was not to be called to testify, so there was nothing she could do but endure it. She looked sideways at Beatrice's face, but her veil was so heavy Hester could see nothing of her expression.
'Women are very sensitive to people,' Fenella went on. 'We have to be; people are our lives-'
'Exactly so.' O'Hare smiled back at her. 'In your own establishment you employed servants, before your husband… passed on?'
'Of course.'
“So you are quite accustomed to judging their character and their worth,' O'Hare concluded with a sidelong glance at Rathbone. 'What did you observe of Percival Garrod, Mrs. Sandeman? What is your estimate of him?' He held up his pale hand as if to forestall any objection Rathbone might have. 'Based, of course, upon what you saw of him during your time in Queen Anne Street?'
She lowered her eyes and a greater hush settled over the room.
'He was very competent at his work, Mr. O'Hare, but he was an arrogant man, and greedy. He liked his fine things in dress and food,' she said softly but very clearly. 'He had ideas and aspirations far beyond his station, and there was something of an anger in him that he should be limited to that walk of life in which God had seen fit to place him. He played with the affections of the poor girl Rose Watkins, and then when he imagined he could-' She looked up at him with a devastating stare and her voice grew even huskier. 'I really don't know how to phrase this delicately. I would be so much obliged if you would assist me.'
Beside Hester, Beatrice drew in her breath sharply, and in her lap her hands clenched in their kid gloves.
O'Hare came to Fenella's defense. 'Are you wishing to say, ma'am, that he entertained amorous ideas about a member of the family, perhaps?'
'Yes,' she said with exaggerated demureness. 'That is unfortunately exactly what I-I am obliged to say. More than once I caught him speaking boldly about my niece Octavia, and I saw an expression on his face which a woman cannot misunderstand.'
'I see. How distressing for you.'
'Indeed,' she assented.
'What did you do about it, ma'am?'
'Do?' She stared at him, blinking. 'Why my dear Mr.
O'Hare, there was nothing I could do. If Octavia herself did not object, what was there I could say to her, or to anyone?'
'And she did not object?' O'Hare's voice rose in amazement, and for an instant he glared around the crowd, then swung back to her. 'Are you quite sure, Mrs. Sandeman?'
'Oh quite, Mr. O'Hare. I regret very deeply having to say this, and in such a very public place.' Her voice had a slight catch in it now, and Beatrice was so tense Hester was afraid she was going to cry out. 'But poor Octavia
