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“What?” she demanded. “Isn’t that good? I never went into her bedroom. And all the time except when I was in the library, or resting, I was with other people.”
“At least one of whom, my dear, must be lying. Someone placed the pin in your case, and it ca
She leaned forward urgently. “But it ought to be possible to show that I had no chance to take it from the bedroom, which will be where she kept her jewel case. I am almost certain it was not in the dressing room. To begin with, there was nothing for it to rest on.” Her voice rose in excitement as she recalled the details of the room. She leaned closer towards him. “There were three wardrobes along one wall, a window in the second, a tallboy with drawers on the third, and also a dressing table with a stool in front of it, and three mirrors. I remember the brushes and combs and the crystal jars for pins and hair combings. There was no jewel case on it It would have blocked the mirrors. And there was nothing on the tallboy, and it was too high to be reached.”
“And the farther wall?” He smiled wryly.
“Oh… the door, of course. And another chair. And there was a sort of daybed.”
“But no jewel case?”
“No. I am certain of it” She felt triumphant It was such a small piece of memory and reason, but it was the first. “It has to mean something.”
“It means your recollection is very clear, not a great deal more.”
“But it has to,” she said urgently. “If the case was not there, then I could not have taken anything from it”
“But, Hester, there is only your word that the case was not there,” he said very softly, his mouth pinched with concern and sadness.
“The maid-” she began, then stopped.
“Precisely,” he agreed. “The two people who would know that are the maid, who may well have been the one to place the pin in your luggage… and Mary herself, who is beyond our reach. Who else? The eldest daughter, Oonagh Mclvor? What will she say?” There were both anger and pain in his face, though he was attempting to be as formal as his profession demanded.
She stared at him wordlessly.
He reached one hand across the table as if to touch her, then changed his mind and withdrew it.
“Hester, we ca
“But… but if someone in her house is a thief, surely she would wish to know that?” she protested.
“Not necessarily, particularly if it is not a maid, but one of her family.”
“But why? Why just one brooch? And why put it in my case?”
His face tightened, as if he were suddenly colder, and the anxiety in his eyes deepened.
“I don’t know, but the only alternative I can see is to suppose that you did take it, and that is not tolerable.”
The enormity of what he had said became hideously plain to her. How could she expect anyone to believe she had not seized the chance, suddenly offered, and taken the brooch… then when Mary was found dead, suddenly become frightened and tried to return it? She met Rathbone’s eyes and knew he was thinking precisely the same thing.
Did he really believe her, in his heart? Or was he only behaving as if he did because it was his professional obligation to do so? She felt as if reality were slipping away from her and nightmare closing in, isolation and helplessness, endless confusion where nothing made sense, one moment’s sanity was the next moment’s chaos.
“I didn’t take it,” she said suddenly, her voice loud in the silence. “I never saw it before I found it in my bag. I gave it straight to Callandra. What else could I have done?”
His hands closed over hers, surprisingly warm when she was so cold.
“I know you didn’t take it,” he said firmly. “And I shall prove it. But it will not be easy. You will have to resign yourself to a battle.”
She said nothing, struggling to keep the panic under control.
“Would you like me to inform your brother and sister-”
“No! No-please don’t tell Charles.” Her voice was sharp, and unconsciously she had jerked forward. “You mustn’t tell Charles-or Imogen.” She took a deep breath. Her hands were shaking. “It will be hard enough for him if he has to know, but if we can fight it first…”
He was frowning at her. “Don’t you think he would wish to know? Surely he would wish to Offer you some support, some comfort?”
“Of course he would wish it,” she agreed with a fierce mixture of anger, pity and defensiveness. “But he wouldn’t know what to believe. He would want to think I was i
She wanted to explain to Rathbone about her father’s suicide when he was ruined by a cheat, and their mother’s death shortly afterwards, and the shock it had been for Charles. He had been the only one of the three children to be in England at the time, James having died recently in the Crimea, and Hester being still out there nursing. The full weight of the disgrace and the financial ruin had fallen on Charles, and then the grief afterwards.
Of course Rathbone knew something of it, because he had defended the man charged in the resulting murder case. But if he had not known the full extent of her father’s disgrace, she was not willing to tell him now, or to expose and relive her father’s vulnerability. She found herself sitting silently, risking his thinking her sullen.
Rathbone smiled very slightly, a small expression of resignation, and a kind of bitter humor.
“I think you are judging him ill,” he said calmly. “But it is not of great importance now. Perhaps later on we can discuss it again.” He rose to his feet.
“What are you going to do?” She stood up also, too quickly, knocking herself against the table and scraping the chair legs loudly on the floor. She lost her balance clumsily and only regained it by holding on to the table. “What happens next?”
He was close to her, so close she could smell the faint odor of the wool of his coat and feel the warmth of his skin. She longed for the comfort of being held with a depth that made the blood rush up to her face in shame. She straightened and took a step backwards.
“They will keep you here,” he answered, wincing. “I shall go and seek Monk and send him to leant more of the Farralines and what really happened.”
“To Edinburgh?” she said with surprise.
“Of course. I doubt there is anything more we can discover in London.”
“Oh.”
He moved to the door and knocked. “Wardress!” He turned back to see her. “Keep heart,” he said gently. “There is an answer, and we shall find it.”
She forced herself to smile. She knew he was speaking only to comfort her, but even so the words themselves had some power. She clung to them, willing herself to believe.
“Of course. Thank you…”
They were prevented from saying anything further by the clang of the keys in the lock and the wardress’s appearing, grim-faced and implacable.
Before calling upon Monk, which Rathbone viewed with very mixed thoughts, he returned to his offices in Vere Street. He had learned little of practical value from his interview with Hester, and he felt more emotionally drained than he had foreseen. Visiting clients accused of crime was always trying. Naturally they were frightened, shocked by arrest. Even when they were guilty, capture and charge took them by surprise. When they were i