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“I know.”
“Yes…” He swallowed. “Of course you do.”
“Don’t worry. I shall behave myself meekly,” she assured him. “And he also warned me what to expect the other witnesses to say, and that the crowd will be hostile.” She gave a shaky sigh. “I should have expected that, but it is a very unpleasant thought that they have already judged me guilty.”
“We will change their minds,” he said fiercely. “They have not heard your evidence yet; they have only heard the prosecutor’s view of things.”
“I-”
But she got no further. There was a brisk knock on the door and it swung open to allow the warder in.
“Sorry, sir, but you’ll have to be on your way. Got to take the prisoner up.”
There was no time for anything further. Rathbone glanced at Hester once, forced a smile to his lips, then obeyed the orders and withdrew.
The High Court of Justiciary in Edinburgh was not like the Old Bailey, and Monk was reminded again with an ugly jolt that they were in a different land. Although united by many common bonds and governed by one queen and one parliament, the law of the land was different, the history and the heritage were different, and until very recently in a long national memory, they had been as often enemies as friends. The borders were drenched with the blood of both sides, and the Auld Alliance was not with England but with France, England’s foe down the centuries.
The titles were different, the clothes marginally so, and there were not twelve men to the jury, but fifteen. Only the majestic implacability of the law was unchanged. The jury had been empaneled, the prisoner charged and the proceedings commenced.
The prosecution was conducted by a huge, rambling man with a soft voice and flyaway gray hair. His face was benign and the lights shone on the bald crown of his head. Monk knew from deep instinct that his affability and gentle air of disorganization were a total sham. Behind the smile was a brain whetted to scalpel sharpness.
On the other bench, equally courteous but utterly different in attitude, was James Argyll. He looked grizzled and dangerous, like an old bear, his black eyes and sharp brows accentuating his air of intense concentration and the fact that he feared nothing and was deceived by no one.
How much was it a personal battle, with Hester’s life to win or lose as the prize? These two must have met many times before. They must know each other as one can know only an adversary tested and tried to the limit. One can never know a friend in quite that way.
Monk looked at Hester in the dock. She was very white, her eyes focused far away, as if she were in a daze. Perhaps she was. This was reality so intense it was like no other, and therefore would seem unreal. Each sense would at times be so keen she would remember every grain of wood in the dock railing and yet not hear what was said. Or hear even an intake of breath from the clerk before her, or the wardress behind, or the crackle of the fires in the two grates at each side of the room, and yet not see the people in the gallery even if they moved or jostled each other the better to see.
The judge was seated above them, an elderly man with a narrow, clever face and crooked teeth, a long nose and fine hair. He must have been handsome in his youth. Now his character was too deeply marked and his erratic temper stamped his features.
The first witness for the prosecution was Alastair Farraline. There was a hush in the court and then a slow letting out of breath as his name was called. Everyone knew he was the Procurator Fiscal, a title to elicit both fear and respect in the law. A woman in the gallery gave a little scream of sheer pent-up emotion as he climbed to the witness-box, and the judge glared at her.
“Control yourself, madam, or I shall have you removed,” he warned grimly.
She clapped both hands over her mouth.
“Proceed,” the judge commanded.
Gilfeather thanked him and turned to Alastair with a smile.
“First of all, Mr. Farraline, may I extend to you the court’s sympathy on the loss of your mother. A lady we all held in the highest esteem.”
Alastair, pale and very upright, the light shining on his hair, tried to smile back, and failed.
“Thank you,” he said simply.
Monk glanced at Hester, but she was immobile and staring at Alastair.
Immediately behind Argyll, Oliver Rathbone was so rigid that even from across the room Monk could see the fabric of his coat stretched across his shoulders.
“Now, Mr. Farraline,” Gilfeather continued. “When your mother pla
“Yes.”
“Why, sir? Why not one of her own servants? You have a sufficiency of servants, do you not?”
“Of course.” Alastair looked puzzled and unhappy. “Mother’s lady’s maid had never traveled, and did not wish to. We were afraid her own nervousness would make her unsuitable as a companion, and possibly inefficient, especially at dealing with any difficulty or inconvenience which might arise.”
“Naturally,” Gilfeather agreed, nodding sagely. “You wished someone competent to take care in any contingency, therefore a woman who had traveled before.”
“And a nurse,” Alastair added. “Just in case the…” He swallowed. He looked wretched. “In case the tension of the journey should make Mother unwell.”
The judge’s mouth tightened. There was a rustle in the gallery.
Oliver Rathbone winced. Argyll sat expressionless.
“So you advertised for someone suitable?” Gilfeather prompted.
“Yes. We had two or three replies, but Miss Latterly seemed to us to be the best qualified and most suitable.”
“She gave you references, of course?”
“Of course. She seemed excellent.”
“Did you at any time have cause to doubt the wisdom of your choice prior to your seeing her off in Edinburgh station for the journey to London?”
“No. She seemed a perfectly acceptable young woman,” Alastair answered. Never once did he glance at Hester, but kept his eyes studiously away from her.
Gilfeather asked him a few more questions, all fairly trivial. Monk’s attention wandered. He looked for Oonagh’s fair head and did not find her, but Eilish was easy to see, and Deirdra. He w»s surprised to see Deirdra looking straight back at him with pity, and something like conspiracy, in her eyes.
Or perhaps it was only the lamplight reflecting.
Gilfeather sat down amid a stir of excitement from the gallery. James Argyll stood up.
“Mr. Farraline…”
Alastair looked at him with a fixed, polite expression of dislike.
“Mr. Farraline.” Argyll did not smile at him. “Why did you choose someone from London rather than Edinburgh? Have we no acceptable nurses in Scotland?”
Alastair’s face tightened noticeably.
“I imagine so, sir. None of them answered our advertisement. We wished for the best we could find. A woman who had served with Florence Nightingale seemed to us above reproach.”
There was a murmur around the crowd and mixed emotions, patriotic approval of Florence Nightingale and all she stood for in their minds, anger that her reputation should be besmirched, even vicariously, surprise, doubt and anticipation.
“You really considered such qualification necessary for so simple a task as administering a prepared dose to an intelligent and far from incapacitated lady?” Argyll said curiously. “Members of the jury may wonder why a local woman of sound reputation would not have served at least as well, and far less expensively in railway fares than sending for a stranger from London.”
This time the rustle was agreement.
Monk shifted impatiently. It was a point so minor as to be worthless, too subtle for the jury even to understand, much less recall when the time came.
“We wanted someone accustomed to travel,” Alastair repeated doggedly, his face pink, although it was impossible to tell what emotion lay behind the flushed cheeks and unhappy eyes. It could have been no more than grief, and certain embarrassment at being required to stand so publicly for everyone to stare at with such morbid interest. He was used only to honor, respect, even awe. Now his private affairs, his family and its emotions, were displayed and he was helpless to defend himself.