Defend and Betray

chapter 12
Alexandra sat on the wooden bench in the small cell, her face white and almost expressionless. She was exhausted, and the marks of sleeplessness were plain around her eyes. She was for thinner than when Rathbone had first seen her and her hair had lost its sheen.

"I can't go on," she said wearily. "There isn't any point. It will only damage Cassian - terribly." She took a deep breath. He could see the rise of her breast under the thin gray muslin of her blouse. "They won't believe me. Why should, they? There's no proof, there never could be. How could you prove such a thing? People don't do it where they can be seen."

"You know," Rathbone said quietly, sitting opposite her and looking at her so intensely that in time she would have to raise her head and meet his eyes.

She smiled bitterly. "And who's going to believe me?"

"That wasn't my point," he said patiently. "If you could know, then it is possible others could also. Thaddeus himself was abused as a child."

She jerked her head up, her eyes full of pity and surprise.

"You didn't know?" He looked at her gently. "I thought not."

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "But if he was, how could he, of all people, abuse his own son?" Her incomprehension was full of confusion and pain. "Surely if - why? I don't understand."

"Neither do I," he answered frankly. "But then I have never walked that path myself. I had quite another reason for telling you, one of very much more urgent relevance." He stopped, not fully sure if she was listening to him.

"Have you?" she said dully.

"Yes. Can you imagine how he suffered? His lifelong shame, and the fear of being discovered? Even some dim sense of what he was committing upon his own child - and yet, the need was so overwhelming, so consuming it still drove him - "

"Stop it," she said furiously, jerking her head up. "I'm sorry! Of course I'm sorry! Do you think I enjoyed it?" Her voice was thick, choking with indescribable anguish. "I racked my brain for any other way. I begged him to stop, to send Cassian away to boarding school - anything at all to put him beyond reach. I offered him myself, for any practice he, wanted!" She stared at him with helpless fury. "I used to love him. Not passionately, but love just the same. He was the father of my children and I had covenanted to be loyal to him all my life. I don't think he ever loved me, not really, but he gave me all he was capable of."

She sank lower on the bench and dropped her head forward, covering her face with her hands. "Don't you think I see his body on that floor every time I lie in the dark? I dream about it - I've redone that deed in my nightmares, and woken up cold as ice, with the sweat standing out on my skin. I'm terrified God will judge me and condemn my soul forever."

She huddled a little lower into herself. "But I couldn 't let that happen to my child and do nothing - just let it go on. You don't know how he changed. The laughter went out of him - all the innocence. He became sly. He was afraid of me - of me! He didn't trust me anymore, and he started telling lies - stupid lies - and he became frightened all the time, and suspicious of people. And always there was the sort of . . . secret glee in him . . . a - a - guilty pleasure. And yet he cried at night - curled up like a baby, and crying in his sleep. I couldn't let it go on!"

Rathbone broke his own rules and reached out and took her thin shoulders in his hands and held her gently.

"Of course you couldn't! And you can't now! If the truth is not told, and this abuse is not stopped, then his grandfather - and the other man - will go on just as his father did, and it will all have been for nothing." Unconsciously his fingers tightened. "We think we know who the other man is, and believe me he will have the same chances as the general had: any day, any night, to go on exactly the same."

She began to weep softly, without sobbing, just the quiet tears of utter despair. He held her gently, leaning forward a little, his head close to hers. He could smell the faint odor of her hair, washed with prison soap, and feel the warmth of her skin.

"Thaddeus was abused as a child," he went on relentlessly, because it mattered. "His sister knew it. She saw it happen once, by his father - and she saw the reflection of the same emotion in the eyes again in Valentine Furnival. That was what drove her to distraction that evening. She will swear to it."

Alexandra said nothing, but he could feel her stiffen with surprise, and the weeping stopped. She was utterly still.

"And Miss Buchan knew about Thaddeus and his father -  and about Cassian now."

Alexandra took a shaky breath, still hiding her face.

"She won't testify," she said with a long sniff. "Shecan't. If she does they'll dismiss her - and she has nowhere to go. You mustn't ask her. She'll have to deny it, and that will only make it worse."

He smiled bleakly. "Don't worry about that. I never ask questions unless I already know the answer - or, to be more precise, unless I know what the witness will say, true or untrue."

"You can't expect her to ruin herself."

"What she chooses to do is not your decision."

"But you can't," she protested, pulling away from him and lifting her head to face him. "She'd starve."

"And what will happen to Cassian? Not to mention you."

She said nothing.

"Cassian will grow up to repeat the pattern of his father," he said ruthlessly, because it was the only thing he knew which would be more than she could bear, regardless of Miss Buchan's fete. "Will you permit that? The shame and guilt all over again - and another wretched, humiliated child, another woman suffering as you do now?"

"I can't fight you," she said so quietly he could barely hear her. She sat huddled over herself, as if the pain were deep in the center of her and somehow she could fold herself around it.

"You are not fighting me," he said urgently. "You don't need to do anything now but sit in the dock, looking as you do, and remembering, as well as your guilt, the love of your child - and why you did it. I will tell the jury your feelings, trust me!"

"Do whatever you will, Mr. Rathbone. I don't think I have strength left to make judgments anymore."

"You don't need it, my dear." He stood up at last, exhausted himself, and it was only Monday, June 29. The second week of the trial had commenced. He must begin the defense.

* * * * *

The first witness for the defense was Edith Sobell. Lovat-Smith was sitting back in his chair, legs crossed over casually, head lilted, as if he were interested only as a matter of curiosity. He had made a case that seemed unarguable, and looking around the crowded courtroom, there was not a single face which registered doubt. They were there only to watch Alexandra and the Carlyon family sitting in their row at the front, the women dressed in black and Felicia veiled, rigid and square-shouldered, Randolph unhappy but entirely composed.

Edith took the stand and stumbled once or twice when swearing the oath, her tongue clumsy in her nervousness.

And yet there was a bloom to her skin, a color that belied the situation, and she stood erect with nothing of the defen-siveness or the weight of grief which lay on her mother.

"Mrs. Sobell," Rathbone began courteously, "you are the sister of the victim of this crime, and the sister-in-law of the accused?"

"lam."

"Did you know your brother well, Mrs. Sobell?"

"Moderately. He was several years older than I, and he left home to go into the army when I was a child- But of course when he returned from service abroad and settled down I learned to know him again. He lived not far from Carlyon House, where I still live, since my husband's death."

"Would you tell me something of your brother's personality, as you observed it?"

Lovat-Smith shifted restlessly in his seat, and the crowd had already lost interest, all but a few who hoped there might be some completely new and shocking revelation. After all, this witness was for the defense.

Lovat-Smith rose to his feet.

"My lord, this appears to be quite irrelevant. We have already very fully established the nature of the dead man. He was honorable, hardworking, a military hero of considerable repute, faithful to his wife, financially prudent and generous. His only failings seem to have been that he was somewhat pompous and perhaps did not flatter or amuse his wife as much as he might." He smiled dryly, looking around so the jury could see his face. "A weakness we might all be guilty of, from time to time."

"I don't doubt it," Rathbone said acerbically. "And if Mrs. Sobell agrees with your estimation, I will be happy to save the court's time by avoiding having her repeat it. Mrs. Sobell?"

"I agree," Edith said with a look first at Rathbone, then at Lovat-Smith. "He also spent a great deal of time with his son, Cassian. He seemed to be an excellent and devoted father."

" Quite: he seemed to be an excellent and devoted father,"

he repeated herprecise words. "And yet, Mrs. Sobell, when you became aware of the tragedy of his death, and that your sister-in-law had been charged with causing it, what did you do?"

"My lord, that too is surely quite irrelevant?" Lovat-Smith protested. "I appreciate that my learned friend is somewhat desperate, but this cannot be allowed!"

The judge looked at Rathbone.

"Mr. Rathbone, I will permit you some leniency, so that you may present the best defense you can, in extremely difficult circumstances, but I will not permit you to waste the court's time. See to it that the answers you draw are to some point!"

Rathbone looked again at Edith.

"Mrs. Sobell?"

"I. . ." Edith swallowed hard and lifted her chin, looking away from where her mother and father sat upright in their row in the front of the gallery, now no longer witnesses. For an instant her eyes met Alexandra's in the dock. Then she continued speaking. "I contacted a friend of mine, a Miss Hester Latterly, and asked her help to find a good lawyer to defend Alexandra - Mrs. Carlyon."

"Indeed?" Rathbone's eyebrows shot up as if he were surprised, although surely almost everyone in the room must know he had planned this most carefully. "Why? She was charged with murdering your brother, this model man."

"At first - at first I thought she could not be guilty." Edith's voice trembled a little but she gained control again. "Then when it was proved to me beyond question that she was . . . that she had committed the act... I still thought there must be some better reason than the one she gave."

Lovat-Smith rose again.

"My lord! I hope Mr. Rathbone is not going to ask the witness to draw some conclusion? Her faith in her sister-in-law is very touching, but it is not evidence of anything except her own gentle - and, forgive me, rather gullible - nature!"

"My learned friend is leaping to conclusions, as I am afraid he is prone to do," Rathbone said with a tiny smile.

"I do not wish Mrs. Sobell to draw any conclusions at all, simply to lay a foundation for her subsequent actions, so the court will understand what she did, and why."

"Proceed, Mr, Rathbone," the judge instructed.

"Thank you, my lord. Mrs. Sobell, have you spent much time with your nephew, Cassian Carlyon, since his father's death?"

"Yes of course. He is staying in our house."

"How has he taken his father's death?"

"Irrelevant!" Lovat-Smith interrupted again. "How can a child's grief possibly be pertinent to the accused's guilt or innocence? We cannot turn a blind eye to murder because if we hanged the guilty person then a child would be robbed of both his parents - tragic as that is. And we all pity him ..."

"He does not need your pity, Mr. Lovat-Smith," Rathbone said irritably. "He needs you to hold your tongue and let me proceed with uncovering the truth."

"Mr. Rathbone," the judge said tartly. "We sympathize with your predicament, and your frustration, but your language is discourteous, and I will not allow it. Nevertheless, Mr. Lovat-Smith, it is good counsel, and you will please observe it until you have an objection of substance. If you interrupt as often as this, we shall not reach a verdict before Michaelmas."

Lovat-Smith sat down with a broad smile.

Rathbone bowed, then turned back to Edith.

"I think you are now permitted to continue, Mrs. Sobell. If you please. What was your observation of Cassian's manner?"

Edith frowned in concentration.

"It was very hard to understand," she replied, thinking carefully. "He grieved for his father, but it seemed to be very - very adult. He did not cry, and at times he seemed very composed, almost relieved."

Lovat-Smith rose to his feet, and the judge waved him to sit down again. Rathbone turned to Edith.

"Mrs. Sobell, will you please explain that curious word relieved. Try not to give us any conclusions you may have come to in your own mind, simply your observations of fact. Not what he seemed, but what he said, or did. Do you understand the difference?"

"Yes, my lord. I'm sorry." Again her nervousness betrayed itself in clenched hands on the witness box rail, and a catch in her voice. "I saw him alone on several occasions, through a window, or from a doorway when he did not know I was there. He was quite at ease, sitting smiling. I asked him if he was happy by himself, thinking he might be lonely, but he told me he liked it. Sometimes he went to my rather -  his grandfather - "

"Colonel Carlyon?" Rathbone interrupted.

"Yes. Then other times he seemed to go out of his way to avoid him. He was afraid of my mother." As if involuntarily, she glanced at Felicia, then back to Rathbone again. "He said so. And he was very upset about his own mother. He told me she did not love him - that his father had told him so."

In the dock Alexandra closed her eyes and seemed to sway as if in physical pain. A gasp escaped her in spite of all her effort at self-control.

"Hearsay," Lovat-Smith said loudly, rising to his feet. "Mylord. . ."

"That is not permitted," the judge apologized to Edith. "I think we have gathered from your testimony that the child was in a state of considerable confusion. Is that what you wished to establish, Mr. Rathbone?"

"More than that, my lord: the nature of his confusion. And that he developed close, and ambivalent, relationships with other people."

Lovat-Smith let out a loud moan and raised his hands in the air.

"Then you had better proceed and do so, Mr. Rathbone," the judge said with a tight smile. "If you can. Although you have not shown us yet why this has any relevance to the case, and I advise that you do that within a very short time."

"I promise you that it will become apparent in later testimony, my lord," Rathbone said, his voice still calculatedly light. But he abandoned the course for the present, knowing he had left it imprinted on the jury's minds, and that was all that mattered. He could build on it later. He turned back to Edith.

"Mrs. Sobell, did you recently observe a very heated quarrel between Miss Buchan, an elderly member of your household staff, and your cook, Mrs. Emery?"

A ghost of amusement crossed Edith's face, curving her mouth momentarily.

"I have observed several, more than I can count," she conceded. "Cook and Miss Buchan have been enemies for years."

"Quite so. But the quarrel I am referring to happened within the last three weeks, on the back stairs of Carlyon House. you were called to assist."

"That's right. Cassian came to fetch me because he was afraid. Cook had a knife. I'm sure she did not intend to do anything with it but make an exhibition, but he didn't know that."

"What was the quarrel about, Mrs. Sobell?"

Lovat-Smith groaned audibly.

Rathbone ignored it.

"About?" Edith looked slightly puzzled. He had not told her he was going to pursue this. He wanted her obvious un-awareness to be seen by the jury. This case depended upon emotions as much as upon facts.

"Yes. What was the subject of the difference?"

Lovat-Smith groaned even more loudly. "Really, my lord," he protested.

Rathbone resumed facing the judge. "My learned friend seems to be in some distress," he said unctuously.

There was a loud titter of amusement, nervous, like a ripple of wind through a field before thunder.

"The case," Lovat-Smith said loudly. "Get on with the case, man!"

"Then bear your agony a little less vocally, old chap," Rathbone replied equally loudly, "and allow me to." He swung around. "Mrs. Sobell - to remind you, the question was, would you please tell the court the subject of the quarrel between the governess, Miss Buchan, and the cook?"

"Yes - yes, if you wish, although I cannot see - "

"We none of us can," Lovat-Smith interrupted again.

"Mr. Lovat-Smith," the judge said sharply. "Mrs. Sobell, answer the question. If it proves irrelevant I will control Mr. Rathbone's wanderings."

"Yes, my lord. Cook accused Miss Buchan of being incompetent to care for Cassian. She said Miss Buchan was . . . there was a great deal of personal abuse, my lord. I would rather not repeat it."

Rathbone thought of permitting her to do so. A jury liked to be amused, but they would lose respect for Miss Buchan, which might be what would win or lose the case. A little laughter now would be too dearly bought.

"Please spare us," he said aloud. "The subject of the difference will be sufficient - the fact that there was abuse may indicate the depth of their feelings." Again Edith smiled hurriedly, and then continued. "Cook said that Miss Buchan was following him around everywhere and confusing him by telling him his mother loved him, and was not a wicked woman." She swallowed hard, her eyes troubled. That she did not understand what he wanted was painfully obvious. The jury were utterly silent, their faces staring at her. Suddenly the drama was back again, the concentration total. The crowd did not whisper or move. Even Alexandra herself seemed momentarily forgotten.

"And the cook?" Rathbone prompted. "Cook said Alexandra should be hanged." Edith seemed to find the word difficult. "And of course she was wicked. Cassian had to know it and come to terms with it." "And Miss Buchan's reply?"

"That Cook didn't know anything about it, she was an ignorant woman and should stay in the kitchen where she belonged."

"Did you know to what Miss Buchan referred?" Rathbone asked, his voice low and clear, without any theatrics.

"No."

"Was a Miss Hester Latterly present at this exchange?"

"Yes."

"When you had parted the two protagonists, did Miss Latterly go upstairs with Miss Buchan?"

"Yes."

"And afterwards leave in some haste, and without explanation to you as to why?"

"Yes, but we did not quarrel," Edith said quickly. "She seemed to have something most urgent to do."

"Indeed I know it, Mrs. Sobell. She came immediately to see me. Thank you. That is all. Please remain there, in case my learned friend has something to ask you."

There was a rustle and a sigh around the court. A dozen people nudged each other. The expected revelation had not come... not yet.

Lovat-Smith rose and sauntered over to Edith, hands in his pockets.

"Mrs. Sobell, tell me honestly, much as you may sympathize with your sister-in-law, has any of what you have said the slightest bearing on the tragedy of your brother's death?"

She hesitated, glancing at Rathbone.

"No, Mrs. Sobell," Lovat-Smith cautioned sharply. "Answer for yourself, please! Can you tell me any relation between what you have said about your nephew's very natural confusion and distress over his father's murder, and his momer's confession and arrest, and this diverting but totally irrelevant quarrel between two of your domestics?" He waved his hands airily, dismissing it, "And the cause at trial: namely whether Alexandra Carlyon is guilty or not guilty of murdering her husband, your brother? I remind you, in case after all this taradiddle you, like the rest of us, are close to forgetting."

He had gone too far. He had trivialized the tragedy.

"I don't know, Mr. Lovat-Smith," she said with a sudden return of composure, her voice now grim and with a hard edge. "As you have just said, we are here to discover the truth, not to assess it beforehand. I don't know why Alexandra did what she did, and I wish to know. It has to matter."

"Indeed." Lovat-Smith gave in gracefully. He had sufficient instinct to recognize an error and cease it immediately. "It does not alter facts, but of course it matters, Mrs. Sobell. I have no further questions. Thank you."

"Mr. Rathbone?" the judge asked.

"I have no further questions, thank you, my lord."

"Thank you, Mrs. Sobell, you may go."

Rathbone stood in the center of the very small open space in front of the witness box.

"I call Miss Catriona Buchan."

Miss Buchan came to the witness box looking very pale, her face even more gaunt than before, her thin back stiff and her eyes straight forward, as if she were a French aristocrat passing through the old women knitting at the foot of the guillotine. She mounted the stairs unaided, holding her skirts in from the sides, and at the top turned and faced the court. She swore to tell the truth, and regarded Rathbone as though he were an executioner.

Rathbone found himself admiring her as much as anyone he had ever faced across that small space of floor.

"Miss Buchan, I realize what this is going to cost you, and I am not unmindful of your sacrifice, nevertheless I hope you understand that in the cause of justice I have no alternative?"

"Of course I do," she agreed with a crisp voice. The strain in it did not cause her to falter, only to sound a little more clipped than usual, a little higher in pitch, as if her throat were tight. "I would not answer did I not understand that!"

"Indeed. Do you remember quarreling with the cook at Carlyon House some three weeks ago?"

"I do. She is a good enough cook, but a stupid woman."

"In what way stupid, Miss Buchan?"

"She imagines all ills can be treated with good regular meals and that if you only eat right everything else will sort itself out."

"A shortsighted view. What did you quarrel about on that occasion, Miss Buchan?"

Her chin lifted a little higher.

"Master Cassian. She said I was confusing the child by telling him his mother was not a wicked woman, and that she still loved him."

In the dock Alexandra was so still it seemed she could not even be breathing. Her eyes never left Miss Buchan's face and she barely blinked.

"Is that all?" Rathbone asked.

Miss Buchan took a deep breath, her thin chest rising and felling. "No - she also said I followed the boy around too much, not leaving him alone."

"Did you follow the boy around, Miss Buchan?"

She hesitated only a moment. "Yes."

"Why?" He kept his voice level, as if the question were not especially important.

"To do what I could to prevent him being abused anymore."

"Abused? Was someone mistreating him? In what way?"

"I believe the word is sodomy, Mr. Rathbone," she said with only the slightest tremor.

There was a gasp in the court as hundreds of throats drew in breath.

Alexandra covered her face with her hands.

The jury froze in their seats, eyes wide, faces aghast.

In the front row of the gallery Randolph Carlyon sat immobile as stone. Felicia's veiled head jerked up and her knuckles were white on the rail in front of her. Edith, now sitting beside mem, looked as if she had been struck.

Even the judge stiffened and turned to look up at Alexandra. Lovat-Smith stared at Rathbone, his face slack with amazement.

Rathbone waited several seconds before he spoke.

"Someone in the house was sodomizing the child?" He said it very quietly, but the peculiar quality of his voice and his exquisite diction made every word audible even at the very back of the gallery.

"Yes," Miss Buchan answered, looking at no one but him.

"How do you know that, Miss Buchan? Did you see it happen?"

"I did not see it this time - but I have in the past, when Thaddeus Carlyon himself was a child," she said. "And I knew the signs. I knew the look in a child's face, the sly pleasure, the fear mixed with exultancy, the flirting and the shame, the self-possession one minute, then the terror of losing his mother's love if she knew, the hatred of having to keep it a secret, and the pride of having a secret - and then crying in the night, and not being able to tell anyone why -  and the total and overwhelming loneliness ..."

Alexandra had lifted her face. She looked ashen, her body rigid with anguish.

The jury sat immobile, eyes horrified, skin suddenly pale.

The judge looked at Lovat-Smith, but forpnce he did not exercise his right to object to the vividness of her evidence, unsupported by any provable fact. His dark face looked blurred with shock.

"Miss Buchan," Rathbone continued softly. "You seem to have a vivid appreciation of what it is like. How is that?"

"Because I saw it in Thaddeus - General Carlyon - when he was a child. His father abused him."

There was such a gasp of horror around the room, a clamor of voices in amazement and protest, that she was obliged to stop.

In the gallery newspaper runners tripped over legs and caught their feet in onlookers' skirts as they scrambled to get out and seize a hansom to report the incredible news.

"Order!" the judge commanded, banging his gavel violently on his bench. "Order! Or I shall clear the court!"

Very slowly the room subsided. The jury had all turned to look at Randolph. Now again they faced Miss Buchan.

"That is a desperately serious thing to charge, Miss Buchan," Rathbone said quietly. "You must be very certain that what you say is true?"

"Of course I am." She answered him with the first and only trace of bitterness in her voice. "I have served the Carlyon family since I was twenty-four, when I came to look after Master Thaddeus. That is over forty years. There is nowhere else I can go now - and they will hardly give me a roof over my head in my old age after this. Does anyone imagine I do it lightly?"

Rathbone glanced for only a second at the jury's faces, and saw there the conflict of horror, disgust, anger, pity, and confusion that he had expected. She was a woman caught between betraying her employers, with its irreparable consequences to her, or betraying her conscience, and a child who had no one else to speak for him. The jurors were of a servant-keeping class, or they would not be jurors. Yet few of them were of position sufficient to have governesses. They were torn in loyalties, social ambition, and tearing pity.

"I know that, Miss Buchan," Rathbone said with a ghost of a smile. "I want to be sure that the court appreciates it also. Please continue. You were aware of the sodomy committed by Colonel Randolph Carlyon upon his son, Thaddeus. You saw the same signs of abuse in young Cassian Carlyon, and you were afraid for him. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"And did you know who had been abusing him? Please be careful to be precise, Miss Buchan. I do mean know, supposition or deduction will not do."

"I am aware of that, sir," she said stiffly. "No, I did not know. But since he normally lived at his own home, not in Carlyon House, I supposed that it was his father, Thaddeus, perpetuating on his son what he himself endured as a child. And I assumed that that was what Alexandra Carlyon discovered, and why she did what she did. No one told me so."

"And that abuse ceased after the general's death? Then why did you think it necessary to protect him still?"

"I saw the relationship between him and his grandfather, the looks, the touching, the shame and the excitement. It was exactly the same as before - in the past. I was afraid it was happening again."

There was utter silence hi the room. One could almost hear the creak of corsets as women breathed.

"I see," Rathbone said quietly. "So you did your best to protect the boy. Why did you not tell someone? That would seem to be a far more effective solution."

A smile of derision crossed her face and vanished.

"And who would believe me?" For an instant her eyes moved up to the gallery and the motionless forms of Felicia and Randolph, then she looked back at Rathbone. "I'm a domestic servant, accusing a famous and respected gentleman of one of the most vile of crimes. I would be thrown out, and then I wouldn't be able to do anything at all."

"What about Mrs. Felicia Carlyon, the boy's grandmother?" he pressed, but his voice was gentle. "Wouldn't she have to have some idea? Could you not have told her?"

"You are naive, Mr. Rathbone," she said wearily. "If she had no idea, she would be furious, and throw me out instantly - and see to it I starved. She couldn't afford to have me find employment ever again, in case I repeated the charge to her social equals, even to friends. And if she knew herself - then she had decided not to expose it and ruin the family with the shame of it. She'd not allow me to. If she had to live with that, then she'd do everything in her power to keep what she had paid such a price to preserve."

"I see." Rathbone glanced at the jury, many of them craning up at the gallery, faces dark with disgust, then at Lovat-Smith, now sitting upright and silent, deep in concentration. "So you stayed in Carlyon House," Rathbone continued, "saying nothing, but doing what you could for the child. I think we may all understand your position - and admire you for having the courage to come forward now. Thank you, Miss Buchan."

Lovat-Smith rose to his feet, looking profoundly unhappy.

"Miss Buchan, I regret this," he said with such sincerity it was palpable. "But I must press you a little more harshly than my learned friend has. The accusation you make is abominable. It cannot be allowed to stand without challenge. It will ruin the lives of an entire family." He inclined his head towards the gallery, where now there was the occasional murmur of anger. "A family known and admired in this city, a family which has dedicated itself to the service of the Queen and her subjects, not only here but in the farthest parts of the Empire as well."

Miss Buchan said nothing, but faced him, her thin body erect, hands folded. She looked fragile, and suddenly very old. Rathbone ached to be able to protect her, but he was impotent to do anything now, as he had known he would be, and she knew it too.

"Miss Buchan," Lovat-Smith went on, still courteously. "I assume you know what sodomy is, and you do not use the term loosely?"

She blushed, but did not evade his look.

"Yes sir, I know what it is. I will describe it for you, if you force me."

He shook his head. "No - I do not force you, Miss Buchan. How do you know this unspeakable act was committed on General Carlyon when he was a child? And I do mean knowledge, Miss Buchan, not supposition, no matter how well reasoned, in your opinion." He looked up at her, waiting.

"I am a servant, Mr. Lovat-Smith," she replied with dignity. "We have a peculiar position - not quite people, not quite furniture. We are often party to extraordinary scenes because we are ignored in the house, as if we had not eyes or brains. People do not mind us knowing things, seeing things they would be mortified to have their friends see."

One of the jurors looked startled, suddenly thoughtful.

"One day I had occasion to return to the nursery unexpectedly, " Miss Buchan resumed. "Colonel Carlyon had neglected to lock the door, and I saw him in the act with his son. He did not know I saw. I was transfixed with horror -  although I should not have been. I knew there was something very seriously wrong, but I did not understand what - until then. I stood there for several seconds, but I left as soundlessly as I had come. My knowledge is very real, sir."

"You witnessed this gross act, and yet you did nothing?" Lovat-Smith's voice rose in disbelief. "I find that hard to credit, Miss Buchan. Was not your first duty clearly towards your charge, the child, Thaddeus Carlyon?"

She did not flinch.

"I have already told you, there was nothing I could do."

"Not tell his mother?" He waved an arm up towards the gallery where Felicia sat like stone. "Would she not have been horrified? Would she not have protected her child? You seem, by implication, to be expecting us to believe that Alexandra Carlyon," he indicated her with another expansive gesture, "a generation later, was so violently distressed by the same fact that she murdered her husband rather than allow it to continue! And yet you say that Mrs. Felicia Carlyon would have done nothing!"

Miss Buchan did not speak.

"You hesitate," Lovat-Smith challenged, his voice rising. "Why, Miss Buchan? Are you suddenly not so certain of answers? Not so easy?"

Miss Buchan was strong. She had already risked, and no doubt lost, everything. She had no stake left, nothing else could be taken from her but her self-esteem.

"You are too facile, young man," she said with all the ineffable authority of a good governess. "Women may be as immeasurably different from each other as men. Their loyalties and values may be different also, as may be the times and circumstances in which they live. What can a woman do, in such a position? Who will believe her, if she accused a publicly loved man of such a crime?" She did not once betray that she even knew Felicia was there in the room with them, much less that she cared what Felicia thought or felt. "People do not wish to believe it of their heroes, and both Randolph and Thaddeus Carlyon were heroes, in their own ways. Society would have crucified her as a wicked woman if they did not believe her, as a venally indiscreet one if they did. She would know that, and she chose to preserve what she had. Miss Alexandra chose to save her child, or to try to. It remains to be seen whether or not she has sacrificed herself in vain."

Lovat-Smith opened his mouth to argue, attack her again, and then looked at the jury and decided better of it.

"You are a remarkable woman, Miss Buchan," he said with a minute bow. "It remains to be seen whether any further facts bear out your extraordinary vision of events, but no doubt you believe you speak the truth. I have nothing further to ask you."

Rathbone declined to reexamine. He knew better than to gild the lily.

The court rose for the luncheon adjournment in an uproar.

* * * * *

The first witness of the afternoon was Damaris Erskine. She too looked pale, with dark circles under her eyes as if she had wept herself into exhaustion but had found little sleep. All the time her eyes kept straying to Peverell. He was sitting very upright in his seat next to Felicia and Randolph in the front of the gallery, but as apart from them in spirit as if they were in different rooms. He ignored them totally and stared without movement at Damaris, his eyes puckered in concern, his lips undecided on a smile, as if he feared it might be taken for levity rather than encouragement.

Monk sat two rows behind Hester, in the body of the court behind the lawyers. He did not wish to sit beside her. His emotions were too raw from his confrontation with Her-mione. He wanted a long time alone, but circumstances made that impossible; however, there was a certain alonencss in the crowd of a courtroom, and in centering his mind and all his feelings he could on the tragedy being played out in front of him.

Rathbone began very gently, with the softly cautious voice Monk knew he adopted when he was about to deliver a mortal blow and loathed doing it, but had weighed all the facts, and the decision was irrevocable.

"Mrs. Erskine, you were present at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Furnival on the night your brother was killed, and you have already told us of the order of events as you recall them."

"Yes," she said almost inaudibly.

"But I think you have omitted what most undoubtedly was for you the most devastating part of the evening, that is until Dr. Hargrave said that your brother had not died by accident, but been murdered."

Lovat-Smith leaned forward, frowning, but he did not interrupt.

"Several people have testified," Rathbone went on, "that when you came down the stairs from seeing young Valentine Furnival, you were in a state of distress bordering on hysteria. Would you please tell us what happened up there to cause this change in you?"

Damaris studiously avoided looking towards Felicia and Randolph, nor did she look at Alexandra, sitting pale-faced and rigid in the dock. She took one or two moments to steel herself, and Rathbone waited without prompting her.

"I recognized - Valentine ..." she said at last, her voice husky.

"Recognized him?" Rathbone repeated the word. "What a curious expression, Mrs. Erskine. Was there ever any doubt in your mind as to who he was? I accept that you did not see him often, indeed had not seen him for some years while he was away at boarding school, since you infrequently visited the house. But surely there was only one boy present?"

She swallowed convulsively and shot him a look of pleading so profound there was a murmur of anger around the room and Felicia jerked forward, then sat up again as Randolph's hand closed over her arm.

Almost imperceptibly Peverell nodded.

Damaris raised her chin.

"He is not the Furnivals' natural child: he is adopted. Before my marriage fourteen years ago, I had a child. Now that he is - is of nearly adult height - a young man, not a boy, he. . ." For a moment more she had to fight to keep control.

Opposite her in the gallery, Chaiies Hargrave leaned forward a little, his face tense, sandy brows drawn down. Beside him, Sarah Hargrave looked puzzled and a flicker of anxiety touched her face.

"He resembles his father," Damaris said huskily. "So much, I knew he was my son. You see, at the time the only person I could trust to help me was my brother, Thaddeus. He took me away from London, and he saw to the child's being adopted. Suddenly, when I saw Valentine, it all made sense. I knew what Thaddeus had done with my child."

"Were you angry with your brother, Mrs. Erskine? Did you resent it that he had given your son to the Furnivals to raise?"

"No! No - not at all. They had . . ."She shook her head, the tears running down her cheeks, and her voice cracking at last.

The judge leaned forward earnestly, his face full of concern.

Lovat-Smith rose, all the brilliant confidence drained away from him, only horror left.

"I hope my learned friend is not going to try to cloud the issue and cause this poor woman quite pointless distress?" He turned from Rathbone to Damaris. "The physical facts of the case place it beyond question that only Alexandra Carlyon had the opportunity to murder the general. Whatever Mrs. Erskine's motive, if indeed there were any, she did not commit the act." He turned around so that half his appeal was to the crowd. "Surely this exposure of a private grief is cruelly unnecessary?"

"I would not do it if it were," Rathbone said between his teeth, his eyes blazing. He swiveled around on his heel, presenting his back to Lovat-Smith. "Mrs. Erskine, you have just said you did not resent your brother's having given your son to the Furnivals. And yet when you came downstairs you were in a state of distress almost beyond your ability to control, and quite suddenly you exhibited a rage towards Maxim Furnival which was close to murderous in nature! You seem to be contradicting yourself!"

"I - I - saw ..." Damaris closed her eyes so tightly it screwed up her face.

Peverell half rose in his seat.

Edith held both her hands to her face, knuckles clenched.

Alexandra was frozen.

Monk glanced up at the gallery and saw Maxim Furnival sitting rigid, his dark face puckered in puzzlement and ever-increasing apprehension. Beside him, Louisa was quite plainly furious.

Monk looked along at Hester, and saw the intense concentration in her as she turned sideways, her eyes fixed on Damaris and her expression one of such wrenching pity that it jolted him at once with its familiarity and its strangeness. He tried to picture Hermione, and found the memory blurred. He found it hard to remember her eyes at all, and when he did, they were bland and bright, without capability of pain.

Rathbone moved a step closer to Damaris.

"I regret this profoundly, Mrs. Erskine, but too much depends upon it for me to allow any compassion for you to override my duty to Mrs. Carlyon - and to Cassian."

Damaris raised her head. "I understand. I knew that my brother Thaddeus was abused as a child. Like Buckie - Miss Buchan - I saw it once, by accident. I never forgot the look in his eyes, the way he behaved. I saw the same look in Valentine's face, and I knew he was abused too. I supposed at that time that it was his father - his adopted father - Maxim Furnival, who was doing it."

There was a gasp around the room and a rustle like leaves in the wind.

"Oh God! No!" Maxim shot to his feet, his face shock-white, his voice half strangled in his throat.

Louisa sat like stone.

Maxim swung around, staring at her, but she continued to look as if she had been transfixed.

"You have my utmost sympathy, Mr. Furnival," the judge said over the rising level of horror and anger from the crowd. "But you must refrain from interruption, nevertheless. But I would suggest to you that you consider obtaining legal counsel to deal with whatever may occur here. Now please sit down, or I shall be obliged to have the bailiff remove you."

Slowly, looking bemused and beaten, Maxim sat down again, turning helplessly to Louisa, who still sat immobile, as though too horrified to respond.

Up in the gallery Charles Hargrave grasped the rail as if he would break it with his hands.

Rathbone returned his attention to Damaris.

"You spoke in the past tense, Mrs. Erskine. You thought at the time it was Maxim Furnival. Has something happened to change your view?"

"Yes." A faint echo of the old flair returned, and the ghost of a smile touched her mouth and vanished. "My sister-in-law murdered my brother. And I believe it was because she discovered that he was abusing her son - and I believe mine also - although I have no reason to think she knew of that."

Lovat-Smith looked up at Alexandra, then rose to his feet as though reluctantly.

"That is a conclusion of the witness, my lord, and not a fact."

"That is true, Mr. Rathbone," the judge said gravely. "The jury will ignore that last statement of Mrs. Erskine's. It was her belief, and no more. She may conceivably have been mistaken; you cannot assume it is fact. And Mr. Rathbone, you deliberately led your witness into making that observation. You know better."

"I apologize, my lord."

"Proceed, Mr. Rathbone, and keep it relevant."

Rathbone inclined his head in acknowledgment, then with curious grace turned back to Damaris.

"Mrs. Erskine, do you know who abused Valentine Furnival?"

"No."

"You did not ask him?"

"No! No, of course not!"

"Did you speak of it to your brother? "

"No! No I didn't. I didn't speak of it to anyone."

"Not to your mother - or your father?"

"No - not to anyone."

"Were you aware that your nephew, Cassian Carlyon, was being abused?"

She flushed with shame and her voice was low and tight in her throat. "No. I should have been, but I thought it was just his grief at losing his father - and fear that his mother was responsible and he would lose her too." She looked up once at Alexandra with anguish. "I didn't spend as much time with him as I should have. I am ashamed of that. He seemed to prefer to be alone with his grandfather, or with my husband. I thought - I thought that was because it was his mother who killed his father, and he felt women ..." She trailed off unhappily.

"Understandable," Rathbone said quietly. "But if you had spent time with him, you might have seen whether he too was abused - "

"Objection," Lovat-Smith said quickly. "All this speech of abuse is only conjecture: We do not know that it is anything beyond the sick imaginings of a spinster servant and a young girl in puberty, who both may have misunderstood things they saw, and whose fevered and ignorant minds leaped to hideous conclusions - quite erroneously."

The judge sighed. "Mr. Lovat-Smith's objection is literally correct, Mr. Rathbone." His heavy tone made it more than obvious he did not share the prosecutor's view for an instant. "Please be more careful in your use of words. You are quite capable of conducting your examination of Mrs. Erskine without such error."

Rathbone inclined his head in acceptance, and turned back to Damaris.

"Did your husband, Peverell Erskine, spend much time with Cassian after he came to stay at Carlyon House?"

"Yes - yes, he did." Her face was very white and her voice little more than a whisper.

"Thank you, Mrs. Erskine. I have no more questions for you, but please remain there. Mr. Lovat-Smith may have something to ask you."

Damaris turned to Lovat-Smith.

"Thank you," Lovat-Smith acknowledged. "Did you murder your brother, Mrs. Erskine?"

There was a ripple of shock around the room. The judge frowned sharply. A juror coughed. Someone in the gallery stood up.

Damaris was startled. "No - of course I didn't!"

"Did your sister-in-law mention this alleged fearful abuse to you, at any time, either before or after the death of your brother?"

"No."

"Have you any reason to suppose that such a thing had ever entered her mind; other, of course, than the suggestion made to you by my learned friend, Mr. Rathbone?"

"Yes - Hester Latterly knew of it."

Lovat-Smith was taken by surprise.

There was a rustle and murmur of amazement around the court. Felicia Carlyon leaned forward over the gallery railing to stare down at where Hester was sitting upright, white-faced. Even Alexandra turned.

"I beg your pardon?" Lovat-Smith said, collecting his wits rapidly. "And who is Hester Latterly? Is that a name that has arisen once before in this case? Is she a relative - or a servant perhaps? Oh - I recall: she is the person to whom Mrs. Sobell enquired for a lawyer for the accused. Pray tell us, how did this Miss Latterly know of this deadly secret of your family, of which not even your mother was aware?"

Damaris stared straight back at him.

"I don't know. I did not ask her."

"But you accepted it as true?" Lovat-Smith was incredulous and he allowed his whole body to express his disbelief. "Is she an expert in the field, that you take her word, unsubstantiated by any fact at all, simply a blind statement, over your own knowledge and love and loyalty to your own family? That is truly remarkable, Mrs. Erskine."

There was a low rumble of anger from the court. Someone called out "Traitor!"

"Silence!" the judge ordered, his face hard. He leaned forward towards the witness stand. "Mrs. Erskine? It does call for some explanation. Who is this Miss Latterly that you take her unexplained word for such an abominable charge?"

Damaris was very pale and she looked across at Peverell before answering, and when she spoke it was to the jury, not to Lovat-Smith or the judge.

"Miss Latterly is a good friend who wishes to find the truth of this case, and she came to me with the knowledge, which has never been disputed, that I discovered something the evening of my brother's death which distressed me almost beyond bearing. She assumed it was something else, something which would have done a great injury to another person - so I was obliged, in justice, to tell her the truth. Since she was correct in her assumption of abuse to Cassian, I did not argue with her, nor did I ask her how she knew. I was too concerned to allay her other suspicion even to think of it."

She straightened up a little more, for the first time perhaps, unconsciously looking heroic. "And as for loyalty to my family, are you suggesting I should lie here, in this place, and under oath to God, in order to protect them from the law - and the consequence of their acts towards a desperately vulnerable child? And that I should conceal truths which may help you bring justice to Alexandra?" There was a ring of challenge in her voice and her eyes were bright. Not once had she looked towards the gallery.

There was nothing for Lovat-Smith to do but retreat, and he did it gracefully.

"Of course not, Mrs. Erskine. All we required was that you should explain, and you have done so. Thank you - I have no more questions to ask you."

Rathbone half rose. "Nor I, my lord."

The judge released her. "You are excused, Mrs. Erskine."

The entire courtroom watched as she stepped down from the witness box, walked across the tiny space to the body of the court and up the steps through the seated crowd and took her place beside Peverell, who quite automatically rose to his feet to greet her.

There was a long sigh right around the room as she sat down.

Felicia deliberately ignored her. Randolph seemed beyond reaction. Edith reached a hand across and clasped hers gently.

The judge looked at the clock.

"Have you many questions for your next witness, Mr. Rathbone?"

"Yes, my lord; it is evidence on which a great deal may turn."

"Then we shall adjourn until tomorrow."

Monk left the court, pushing his way through the jostling, excited crowds, journalists racing to find the first hansoms to take them to their papers, those who had been unable to find room inside shouting questions, people standing around in huddles, everyone talking.

Then outside on the steps he was uncertain whether to search for Hester or to avoid her. He had nothing to say, and yet he would have found her company pleasing. Or perhaps he would not. She would be full of the trial, of Rathbone's brilliance. Of course that was right, he was brilliant. It was even conceivable he would win the case, whatever winning might be. She had become increasingly fond of Rathbone lately. He realized it now with some surprise. He had not even thought about it before; it was something he had seen without its touching the conscious part of his mind.

Now he was startled and angry that it hurt.

He walked down the steps into the street with a sudden burst of energy. Everywhere there were people, newsboys, costermongers, flower sellers, men with barrows of sandwiches, pies, sweets, peppermint water, and a dozen other kinds of food. People pushed and shouted, calling for cabs.

This was absurd. He liked both Hester and Rathbone - he should be happy for them.

Without realizing what he was doing he bumped into a smart man in black with an ivory-topped cane, and stepped into a hansom ahead of him. He did not even hear the man's bellow of fury.

"Grafton Street," he commanded.

Then why was there such a heaviness inside him, a sense of loss all over again?

It must be Hermione. The disillusion over her would surely hurt for a long time; that was only natural. He had thought he had found love, gentleness, sweetness -  Damn! Don't be idiotic! He did not want sweetness. It stuck in his teeth and cloyed his tongue. God in heaven! How far he must have forgotten his own nature to have imagined Hermione was his happiness. And now he was further betraying himself by becoming maudlin over it.

But by the time the cab set him down in Grafton Street some better, more honest self admitted there was a place for tenderness, the love that overlooks error, that cherishes weakness and protects it, that thinks of self last, and gives even when the thanks are slow in corning or do not come at all, for generosity of spirit, laughter without cruelty or victory. And he still had little idea where to find it - even in himself.

* * * * *

The first witness of the next day was Valentine Furnival. For all his height, and already broadening shoulders, he looked very young and his high head could not hide his fear.

The crowd buzzed with excitement as he climbed the steps of the witness stand and turned to face the court. Hester felt a lurch almost like sickness as she saw his face and recognized in it exactly what Damaris must have seen - an echo of Charles Hargrave.

Instinctively she turned her head to see if Hargrave was in the gallery again, and if he had seen the same thing, knowing now that Damaris was the boy's mother. As soon as she saw him, his skin white, his eyes shocked, almost unfocused, she knew beyond question that he understood. Beside him, Sarah Hargrave sat a little apart, facing first Valentine on the stand, then her husband next to her. She did not even try to seek Damaris Erskine.

In spite of herself, Hester was moved to pity; for Sarah it was easy, but for Hargrave it twisted and hurt, because it was touched with anger.

The judge began by questioning Valentine for a few moments about his understanding of the oath, then turned to Rathbone and told him to commence.

"Did you know General Thaddeus Carlyon, Valentine?" he asked quite conversationally, as if they had been alone in some withdrawing room, not in the polished wood of a courtroom with hundreds of people listening, craning to catch every word and every inflexion.

Valentine swallowed on a dry throat.

"Yes."

"Did you know him well?"

A slight hesitation. "Yes."

"For a long time? Do you know how long?"

"Yes, since I was about six: seven years or more."

"So you must have known him when he sustained the knife injury to his thigh? Which happened in your home."

Not one person in the entire court moved or spoke. The silence was total.

"Yes."

Rathbone took a step closer to him.

"How did it happen, Valentine? Or perhaps I should say, why?"

Valentine stared at him, mute, his face so pale it occurred to Monk, watching him, that he might feint.

In the gallery Damaris leaned over the rail, her eyes desperate. Peverell put his hand over hers.

"If you tell the truth," Rathbone said gently,"there is no need to be afraid. The court will protect you."

The judge drew a breath, as if about to protest, then apparently changed his mind.

Lovat-Smith said nothing.

The jury were motionless to a man.

"I stabbed him," Valentine said almost in a whisper.

In the second row from the front Maxim Furnival covered his face with his hands. Beside him Louisa bit her nails. Alexandra put her hands over her mouth as if to stifle a cry.

"You must have had a very profound reason for such an act," Rathbone prompted. "It was a deep wound. He could have bled to death, if it had severed an artery."

"I - " Valentine gasped.

Rathbone had miscalculated. He had frightened him too much. He saw it immediately.

"But of course you did not," he said quickly. "It was merely embarrassing - and I'm sure painful."

Valentine looked wretched.

"Why did you do it, Valentine?" Rathbone said very gently. "You must have had a compelling reason - something that justified striking out in such a way."

Valentine was on the edge of tears and it took him some moments to regain his composure.

Monk ached for him, remembering his own youth, the desperate dignity of thirteen, the manhood which was so close, and yet so far away.

"Mrs. Carlyon's life may depend upon what you say," Rathbone urged.

For once neither Lovat-Smith nor the judge reproved him for such a breach.

"I couldn't bear it any longer," Valentine replied in a husky voice, so low the jury had to strain to hear him. "I begged him, but he wouldn't stop!"

"So in desperation you defended yourself?" Rathbone asked. His clear, precise voice carried in the silence, even though it was as low as if they were alone in a small room.

"Yes."

"Stop doing what?"

Valentine said nothing. His face was suddenly painfully hot as the blood rushed up, suffusing his skin.

"If it hurts too much to say, may I say it for you?" Rathbone asked him. "Was the general sodomizing you?"

Valentine nodded very slightly, just a bare inch or two movement of the head.

Maxim Furnival let out a stifled cry.

The judge turned to Valentine.

"You must speak, so that there can be no error in our understanding," he said with great gentleness. "Simply yes or no will do. Is Mr. Rathbone correct?"

"Yes sir." It was a whisper.

"I see. Thank you. I assure you, there will be no action taken against you for the injury to General Carlyon. It was self-defense and no crime in any sense. A person is allowed to defend their lives, or their virtue, with no fault attached whatever. You have the sympathy of all present here. We are outraged on your behalf."

"How old were you when this began?" Rathbone went on, after a brief glance at the judge, and a nod from him.

"Six - I think," Valentine answered. There was a long sigh around the room, and an electric shiver of rage. Damaris sobbed and Peverell held her. There was a swelling rumble of fury around the gallery and a juror groaned.

Rathbone was silent for a moment; it seemed he was too appalled to continue immediately.

"Six years old," Rathbone repeated, in case anyone had foiled to hear. "And did it continue after you stabbed the general?"

"No - no, he stopped."

"And at that time his own son would be ... how old?"

"Cassian?" Valentine swayed and caught hold of the railing. He was ashen.

"About six?" Rathbone asked, his voice hoarse.

Valentine nodded.

This time no one asked him to speak. Even the judge was white-faced.

Rathbone turned away and walked a pace or two, his hands hi his pockets, before swinging around and looking up at Valentine again.

"Tell me, Valentine, why did you not appeal to your parents over this appalling abuse? Why did you not tell your mother? Surely that is the most natural thing for a small child to do when he is hurt and frightened? Why did you not do that in the beginning, instead of suffering all those years?"

Valentine looked down, his eyes full of misery.

"Could your mother not have helped you?" Rathbone persisted. "After all, the general was not your father. It would have cost them his friendship, but what was that worth, compared with you, her son? She could have forbidden him the house. Surely your father would have horsewhipped a man for such a thing?"

Valentine looked up at the judge, his eyes brimming with tears.

"You must answer," the judge said gravely. "Did your father abuse you also?"

"No!" There was no mistaking the amazement and the honesty in his voice and his startled face. "No! Never!"

The judge took a deep breath and leaned back a little, the shadow of a smile over his mouth.

"Then why did you not tell him, appeal to him to protect you? Or to your mother. Surely she would have protected you."

The tears brimmed over and ran down Valentine's cheeks unchecked.

"She knew." He choked and struggled for breath. "She told me not to tell anyone, especially Papa. She said it would . . . embarrass him - and cost him his position."

There was a roar of rage around the room and a cry of "Hang her!"

The judge called for order, banging his gavel, and it was several minutes before he could continue. "His position?" He frowned at Rathbone, uncomprehending. "What position?"

"He earns a great deal of money from army contracts," Valentine explained.

"Supplied by General Carlyon?"

"Yes sir."

"That is what your mother said? Be very sure you speak accurately, Valentine."

"Yes - she told me."

"And you are quite sure that your mother knew exactly what the general was doing to you? You did not fail to tell her the truth?"

"No! I did tell her!" He gulped, but his tears were beyond his control anymore.

The anger in the room was now so ugly it was palpable in the air.

Maxim Furnival sat upright, his face like a dead man's. Beside him, Louisa was motionless, her eyes stone-hard and hot, her mouth a thin line of hate.

"Bailiff," the judge said in a low voice. "You will take Louisa Furnival in charge. Appropriate dispositions will be made to care for Valentine in the future. For the moment perhaps it would be best he remain to comfort his father."

Obediently a large bailiff appeared, buttons gleaming, and forced his way through the rows to where Louisa still sat, face blazing white. With no ceremony, no graciousness at all, he half pulled her to her feet and took her, stumbling and catching her skirts, back along the row and up the passageway out of the court.

Maxim started to his feet, then realized the futility of doing anything at all. It was an empty gesture anyway. His whole body registered his horror of her and the destruction of everything he had thought he possessed. His only concern was for Valentine.

The judge sighed. "Mr. Rathbone, have you anything further you feel it imperative you ask this witness?"

"No, my lord."

"Mr. Lovat-Smith?"

"No, my lord."

"Thank you. Valentine, the court thanks you for your honesty and your courage, and regrets having to subject you to this ordeal. You are free to go back to your father, and be of whatever comfort to each other you may."

Silently Valentine stepped down amid rustles and murmurs of compassion, and made his way to the stricken figure of Maxim.

"Mr. Rathbone, have you further witnesses to call?" the judge asked.

"Yes, my lord. I can call the boottooy at the Furnival house, who was at one point a drummer in the Indian army. He will explain why he dropped his linen and fled when coming face-to-face with General Carlyon in the Furnival house on the evening of the murder. . . if you believe it is necessary? But I would prefer not to - I imagine the court will understand."

" We do, Mr. Rathbone," the judge assured him. "Do not call him. We may safely draw the conclusion that he was startled and distressed. Is that sufficient for your purpose?"

"Yes, thank you, my lord."

"Mr. Lovat-Smith, have you objection to that? Do you wish the boy called so that you may draw from him a precise explanation, other than that which will naturally occur to the jury?"

"No, my lord," Lovat-Smith said immediately. "If the defense will stipulate that the boy in question can be proved to have served with General Thaddeus Carlyon?"

"Mr. Rathbone?"

"Yes, my lord. The boy's military record has been traced, and he did serve in the same immediate unit with General Carlyon."

"Then you have no need to call him, and subject him to what must be acutely painful. Proceed with your next witness."

"I crave the court's permission to call Cassian Carlyon. He is eight years old, my lord, and I believe he is of considerable intelligence and aware of the difference between truth and falsehood."

Alexandra shot to her feet. "No," she cried out. "No -  you can't!"

The judge looked at her with grim pity.

"Sit down, Mrs. Carlyon. As the accused you are entitled to be present, as long as you conduct yourself appropriately. But if you interrupt the proceedings I will have to order your removal. I should regret that; please do not make it necessary."

Gradually she sank back again, her body shaking. On either side of her two gray-dressed wardresses took her arms, but to assist, not to restrain.

"Call him, Mr. Rathbone. I will decide whether he is competent to testify, and the jury will put upon his testimony what value they deem appropriate."

An official of the court escorted Cassian as far as the edge of the room, but he crossed the small open space alone. He was about four feet tall, very frail and thin, his fair hair neatly brushed, his face white. He climbed up to the witness box and peered over the railing at Rathbone, then at the judge.

There was a low mutter and sigh of breath around the court. Several of the jurors turned to look where Alexandra sat in the dock, as if transfixed.

"What is your name?" the judge asked Cassian quietly.

"Cassian James Thaddeus Randolph Carlyon, sir."

"Do you know why we are here, Cassian?"

"Yes sir, to hang my mother."

Alexandra bit her knuckles and the tears ran down her cheeks.

A juror gasped.

In the crowd a woman sobbed aloud.

The judge caught his breath and paled.

"No, Cassian, we are not! We are here to discover what happened the night your father died, and why it happened -  and then to do what the law requires of us to deal justly with it."

"Are you?" Cassian looked surprised. "Grandma said you were going to hang my mother, because she is wicked. My father was a very good man, and she killed him."

The judge's face tightened. "Well just for now you must forget what your grandmother says, or anyone else, and tell us only what you know for yourself to be true. Do you understand the difference between truth and lies, Cassian?"

"Yes of course I do. Lying is saying what is not true, and it is a dishonorable thing to do. Gentlemen don't lie, and officers never do."

"Even to protect someone they love?"

"No sir. It is an officer's duty to tell the truth, or remain silent, if it is the enemy who asks."

"Who told you that?"

"My rather, sir."

"He was perfectly correct. Now when you have taken the oath and promised to God that you will tell us the truth, I wish you either to speak exactly what you know to be true, or to remain silent. Will you do that?"

"Yes sir."

"Very well, Mr. Rathbone, you may swear your witness."

It was duly done, and Rathbone began his questions, standing close to the witness box and looking up.

"Cassian, you were very close to your father, were you not?"

"Yes sir," he answered with complete composure.

"Is it true that about two years ago he began to show his love for you hi a new and different way, a very private way?"

Cassian blinked. He looked only at Rathbone. Never once had he looked up, either at his mother in the dock opposite, or at his grandparents in the gallery above.

"It cannot hurt him now for you to tell the truth," Rathbone said quite casually, as if it were of no particular importance. "And it is most urgent for your mother that you should be honest with us."

"Yes sir."

"Did he show his love for you in a new and very physical way, about two years ago?"

"Yes sir."

"A very private way?"

A hesitation. "Yes sir."

A sound of weeping came from the gallery. A man blasphemed with passionate anger.

"Did it hurt?" Rathbone asked very gravely.

"Only at first."

"I see. Did your mother know about this?"

"No sir."

"Why not?"

"Papa told me it was something women didn't understand, and I should never tell her." He took a deep breath and suddenly his composure dissolved.

"Why not?"

He sniffed. "He said she would stop loving me if she knew. But Buckie said she still loved me."

"Oh, Buckie is quite right," Rathbone said quickly, his own voice husky. "No woman could love her child more; I know that myself."

"Do you?" Cassian kept his eyes fixed on Rathbone, as if to prevent himself from knowing his mother was there, in case he looked at her and saw what he dreaded.

"Oh yes. I know your mother quite well. She has told me she would rather die than have you hurt. Look at her, and you will know it yourself."

Lovat-Smith started up from his seat, then changed his mind and subsided into it again.

Very slowly Cassian turned for the first time and looked at Alexandra.

A ghost of a smile forced itself across her features, but the pain in her face was fearful.

Cassian looked back at Rathbone.

"Yes sir."

"Did your rather go on doing this - this new thing, right up until just before he died?"

"Yes sir."

"Did anyone else, any other man, ever do this to you?"

There was total silence except for a low sigh from somewhere at the back of the gallery.

"We know from other people that this is so, Cassian," Rathbone said. "You have been very brave and very honest so far. Please do not lie to us now. Did anyone else do this to you?"

"Yes sir"

"Who else, Cassian?"

He glanced at the judge, then back at Rathbone.

"I can't say, sir. I was sworn to secrecy, and a gentleman doesn't betray."

"Indeed," Rathbone said with a note of temporary defeat in his voice. "Very well. We shall leave the subject for now. Thank you. Mr. Lovat-Smith?"

Lovat-Smith rose and took Rathbone's place in front of the witness stand. He spoke to Cassian candidly, quietly, man toman.

"You kept this secret from your mother, you said?"

"Yes sir."

"You never told her, not even a little bit?"

"No sir."

"Do you think she knew about it anyway?"

"No sir, I never told her. I promised not to!" He watched Lovat-Smith as he had watched Rathbone.

"I see. Was that difficult to do, keep this secret from her?"

"Yes sir - but I did."

"And she never said anything to you about it, you are quite sure?"

"No sir, never."

"Thank you. Now about this other man. Was it one, or more than one? I am not asking you to give me names, just a number. That would not betray anyone."

Hester glanced up at Peverell in the gallery, and saw guilt in his face, and a fearful pity. But was the guilt for complicity, or merely for not having known? She felt sick in case it were complicity.

Cassian thought for a moment or two before replying.

"Two, sir."

"Two others?"

"Yes sir."

"Thank you. That is all. Rathbone?"

"No more, thank you, for now. But I reserve the right to recall him, if it will help discover who these other men are."

"I will permit that," the judge said quickly. "Thank you, Cassian. For the moment you may go."

Carefully, his legs shaking, Cassian climbed down the steps, only stumbling a little once, and then walked across the floor and disappeared out of the door with the bailiff. There was a movement around the court, murmurs of outrage and compassion. Someone called out to him. The judge started forward, but it was already done, and the words had been of encouragement. It was pointless to call order or have the offender searched for.

"I call Felicia Carlyon," Rathbone said loudly.

Lovat-Smith made no objection, even though she had not been in Rathbone's original list of witnesses and hence had been hi the court all through the other testimony.

There was a rustle of response and anticipation. But the mood of the crowd had changed entirely. It was no longer pity which moved them towards her, but pending judgment.

She took the stand head high, body stiff, eyes angry and proud. The judge required that she unveil her face, and she did so with disdainful obedience. She swore the oath in a clear, ringing voice.

"Mrs. Carlyon," Rathbone began, standing in front of her, "you appear here on subpoena. You are aware of the testimony that has been given so far."

"I am. It is wicked and malicious lies. Miss Buchan is an old woman who has served in my family's house for forty years, and has become deranged in her old age. I cannot think where a spinster woman gets such vile fancies." She made a gesture of disgust. "All I can suppose is that her natural instincts for womanhood have been warped and she has turned on men, who rejected her, and this is the outcome."

"And Valentine Furnival?" Rathbone asked. "He is hardly an elderly and rejected spinster. Nor a servant, old and dependent, who dare not speak ill of an employer."

"A boy with a boy's carnal fantasies," she replied. "We all know that growing children have feverish imaginations. Presumably someone did use him as he says, for which I have the natural pity anyone would. But it is wicked and irresponsible of him to say it was my son. I daresay it was his own father, and he wishes to protect him, and so charges another man, a dead man, who cannot defend himself."

"And Cassian?" Rathbone enquired with a dangerous edge to his voice.

"Cassian," she said, full of contempt. "A harassed and frightened eight-year-old. Good God, man! The father he adored has been murdered, his mother is like to be hanged for it - you put him on the stand in court, and you expect him to be able to tell you the truth about his father's love for him. Are you half-witted, man? He will say anything you force out of him. I would not condemn a cat on mat."

"Presumably your husband is equally innocent?" Rathbone said with sarcasm.

"It is unnecessary even to say such a thing!"

"But you do say it?"

"I do."

"Mrs. Carlyon, why do you suppose Valentine Furnival stabbed your son in the upper thigh?"

"God alone knows. The boy is deranged. If his father has abused him for years, he might well be so."

"Possibly," Rathbone agreed. "It would change many people. Why was your son in the boy's bedroom without his trousers on?"

"I beg your pardon?" Her face froze.

"Do you wish me to repeat the question?"

"No. It is preposterous. If Valentine says so, then he is lying. Why is not my concern."

. "But Mrs. Carlyon, the wound the general sustained in his upper inside leg bled copiously. It was a deep wound, and yet his trousers were neither torn nor marked with blood. They cannot have been on him at the time."

She stared at him, her expression icy, her lips closed.

There was a murmur through the crowd, a movement, a whisper of anger suddenly suppressed, and then silence again.

Still she did not speak.

"Let us turn to the question of your husband, Colonel Ran-dolf Carlyon," Rathbone continued. "He was a fine soldier, was he not? A man to be proud of. And he had great ambitions for his son: he also should be a hero, if possible of even higher rank - a general, in feet. And he achieved that."

"He did." She lifted her chin and stared down at him with wide, dark blue eyes."He was loved and admired by all who knew him. He would have achieved even greater things had he not been murdered in his prime. Murdered by a jealous woman."

"Jealous of whom, her own son?"

"Don't be absurd - and vulgar," she spat.

"Yes it is vulgar, isn't it," he agreed. "But true. Your daughter Damaris knew it. She accidentally found them one day ..."

"Nonsense!"

"And recognized it again in her own son, Valentine. Is she lying also? And Miss Buchan? And Cassian? Or are they all suffering from the same frenzied and perverted delusion - each without knowing the other, and in their own private hell?"

She hesitated. It was manifestly ridiculous.

"And you did not know, Mrs. Carlyon? Your husband abused your son for all those years, presumably until you sent him as a boy cadet into the army. Was that why you sent him so young, to escape your husband's appetite?"

The atmosphere in the court was electric. The jury had expressions like a row of hangmen. Charles Hargrave looked ill. Sarah Hargrave sat next to him in body, but her heart was obviously elsewhere. Edith and Damaris sat side by side with Peverell.

Felicia's face was hard, her eyes glittering.

"Boys do go into the army young, Mr. Rathbone. Perhaps you do not know that?"

"What did your husband do then, Mrs. Carlyon? Weren't you afraid he would do what your son did, abuse the child of some friend?"

She stared at him in frozen silence.

"Or did you procure some other child for him, some boot-boy, perhaps," he went on ruthlessly, "who would be unable to retaliate - safe. Safe from scandal - and - " He stopped, staring at her. She had gone so white as to appear on the edge of collapse. She gripped the railing in front of her and her body swayed. There was a long hiss from the crowd, an ugly sound, full of hate.

Lovat-Smith rose to his feet.

Randolph Carlyon let out a cry which strangled in his throat, and his face went purple. He gasped for breath and people on either side of him moved away, horrified and without compassion. A bailiff moved forward to him and loosened his tie roughly.

Rathbone would not let the moment go by.

"That is what you did, isn't it, Mrs. Carlyon?" he pressed. "You procured another child for your husband. Perhaps a succession of children - until you judged him too old to be a danger anymore. But you didn't protect your own grandson. You allowed him to be used as well. Why, Mrs. Carlyon? Why? Was your reputation really worth all that sacrifice, so many children's terrified, shamed and pitiful lives?"

She leaned forward over the rail, hate blazing in her eyes.

"Yes! Yes, Mr. Rathbone, it was! What would you expect me to do? Betray him to public humiliation? Ruin a great career: a man who taught others bravery in the face of the enemy, who went to battle with head high, never counting the odds against him. A man who inspired others to greatness - for what? An appetite? Men have appetites, they always have had. What was I to do - tell people?" Her voice was thick with passionate contempt. She utterly ignored the snarls and hisses behind her.

"Tell whom? Who would have believed me? Who could I go to? A woman has no rights to her children, Mr. Rathbone. And no money. We belong to our husbands. We cannot even leave their houses without their permission, and he would never have given me that. Still less would he have allowed me to take my son."

The judge banged his gavel and called for order.

Felicia's voice was shrill with rage and bitterness. "Or would you have had me murder him - like Alexandra? Is that what you approve of? Every woman who suffers a betrayal or an indignity at her husband's hands, or whose child is hurt, belittled or humiliated by his father, should murder him?"

She leaned over the rail towards him, her voice strident, her face twisted. "Believe me, there are a lot of other cruelties. My husband was gentle with his son, spent time with him, never beat him or sent him to bed without food. He gave him a fine education and started him on a great career. He had the love and respect of the world. Would you have me forfeit all that by making a wild, vile accusation no one would have believed anyway? Or end up in the dock - and on the rope's end - like her?"

"Was there nothing in between, Mrs. Carlyon?" Rathbone said very softly. "No more moderate course - nothing between condoning the abuse and murder?"

She stood silent, gray-faced and suddenly very old.

"Thank you," he said with a bleak smile, a baring of the teeth."That was my own conclusion too. Mr. Lovat-Smith?"

There was a sigh around the room, a long expelling of breath.

The jury looked exhausted.

Lovat-Smith stood up slowly, as if he were now too tired to have any purpose in continuing. He walked over to the witness box, regarding Felicia long and carefully, then lowered his eyes.

"I have nothing to ask this witness, my lord."

"You are excused, Mrs. Carlyon," the judge said coldly. He opened his mouth as if to add something, then changed his mind.

Felicia came down the steps clumsily, like an old woman, and walked away towards the doors, followed by a silent and total condemnation.

The judge looked at Rathbone.

"Have you any further evidence to call, Mr. Rathbone?"

"I would like to recall Cassian Carlyon, my lord, if you please?"

"Is it necessary, Mr. Rathbone? You have proved your point."

"Not all of it, my lord. This child was abused by his father, and his grandfather, and by one other. I believe we must know who that other man was as well."

"If you can discover that, Mr. Rathbone, please do so. But I shall prevent you the moment you cause the child unnecessary distress. Do I make myself plain?"

"Yes, my lord, quite plain."

Cassian was recalled, small and pale, but again entirely composed.

Rathbone stepped forward.

"Cassian - your grandmother has just given evidence which makes it quite clear that your grandfather also abused you in the same manner. We do not need to ask you to testify on that point. However there was one other man, and we need to know who he is."

"No sir, I cannot tell you."

"I understand your reasons." Rathbone fished in his pocket and brought out an elegant quill knife with a black-enameled handle. He held it up. "Do you have a quill knife, something like this?"

Cassian stared at it, a pink flush staining his cheeks.

Hester glanced up at the gallery and saw Peverell look puzzled, but no more.

"Remember the importance of the truth," Rathbone warned. "Do you have such a knife?"

"Yes sir," Cassian answered uncertainly.

"And perhaps a watch fob? A gold one, with the scales of justice on it?"

Cassian swallowed. "Yes sir."

Rathbone pulled out a silk handkerchief from his pocket also.

"And a silk handkerchief too?"

Cassian was very pale. "Yes sir."

"Where did you get them, Cassian?"

"I. . ."He shut his eyes, blinking hard.

"May I help you? Did your uncle Peverell Erskine give them to you?"

Peverell rose to his feet, and Damaris pulled him back so violently he lost his balance.

Cassian said nothing.

"He did - didn't he?" Rathbone insisted. "And did he make you promise not to tell anyone?"

Still Cassian said nothing, but the tears brimmed over his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.

"Cassian - is he the other man who made love to you?"

There was a gasp from the gallery.

"No!" Cassian's voice was high and desperate, shrill with pain. "No! No, he isn't. I took those things! I stole them -  because - because I wanted them."

In the dock Alexandra sobbed, and the wardress beside her held her shoulder with sudden, awkward gentleness.

"Because they are pretty?" Rathbone said with disbelief.

"No. No." Cassian's voice was still hard with anguish. "Because he was kind to me," Cassian cried. "He was the only one - who - who didn't do that to me. He was just - just my friend! I. . ." He sobbed helplessly."He was my friend."

"Oh?" Rathbone affected disbelief still, although his own voice was harsh with pain. "Then if it was not Peverell Erskine, who was it? Tell me and I will believe you!"

"Dr. Hargrave!" Cassian sobbed, crumpling up and sliding down into the box in uncontrolled weeping at last. "Dr. Hargrave! He did! He did it! I hate him! He did it! Don't let him go on! Don't let him! Uncle Pev, make them stop!"

There was a bellow of rage from the gallery. Two men seized Hargrave and held him before the bailiff could even move.

Rathbone strode over to the witness box and up the steps to help the child to his feet and put his arms around him. He half carried him out, and met Peverell Erskine down from the gallery and forcing his way past the bailiff and marching over the space in front of the lawyers' benches.

"Take him, and for God's sake look after him," Rathbone said passionately.

Peverell lifted the boy up and carried him out past the bailiffs and the crowd, Damaris at his heels. The door closed behind them to a great sigh from the crowd. Then immediately utter stillness fell again.

Rathbone turned to the judge.

"That is my case, my lord."

The clock went unregarded. No one cared what time it was, morning, luncheon or afternoon. No one was moving from their seats.

"Of course people must not take the life of another human being," Rathbone said as he rose to make his last plea, "no matter what the injury or the injustice. And yet what else was this poor woman to do? She has seen the pattern perpetuate itself in her fether-in-law, her husband - and now her son. She could not endure it. The law, society - we - have given her no alternative but to allow it to continue down the generations in neverending humiliation and suffering - or to take the law into her own hands." He spoke not only to the jury, but to the judge as well, his voice thick with the certainty of his plea.

"She pleaded with her husband to stop. She begged him -  and he disregarded her. Perhaps he could not help himself. Who knows? But you have seen how many people's lives have been ruined by this - this abomination: an appetite exercised with utter disregard for others."

He stared in front of him, looking at their pale, intent faces.

"She did not do it lightly. She agonized - she has nightmares that border on the visions of hell. She will never cease to pay within herself for her act. She fears the damnation of God for it, but she will suffer that to save her beloved child from the torment of his innocence now - and the shame and despair, the guilt and terror of an adulthood like his father's -  destroying his own life, and that of his future children - down the generations till God knows when!

"Ask yourselves, gentlemen, what would you have her do? Take the easier course, like her mother-in-law? Is that what you admire? Let it go on, and on, and on? Protect herself, and live a comfortable life, because the man also had good qualities? God almighty . . ."He stopped, controlling himself with difficulty. "Let the next generation suffer as she does? Or find the courage and make the abominable sacrifice of herself, and end it now?

"I do not envy you your appalling task, gentlemen. It is a decision no man should be asked to make. But you are - and I cannot relieve you of it. Go and make it. Make it with prayer, with pity, and with honor!

"Thank you."

Lovat-Smith came forward and addressed the jury, quiet, stating the law. His voice was subdued, wrung with pity, but the law must be upheld, or there would be anarchy. People must not seek murder as a solution, no matter what the injury.

It was left only for the judge to sum up, which he did gravely, using few words, and dismissing them to deliberate.

The jury returned a little after five in the evening, haggard, spent of all emotion, white-faced.

Hester and Monk stood side by side at the back of the crowded courtroom. Almost without being aware of it, he reached out and held her hand, and felt her fingers curl around his.

"Have you reached a verdict upon which you are agreed?" the judge asked.

"We have," the foreman replied, his voice awed.

"And is it the verdict of you all?"

"It is, my lord."

"And what is your verdict?"

He stood absolutely upright, his chin high, his eyes direct.

"We find the accused, Alexandra Carlyon, not guilty of murder, my lord - but guilty of manslaughter. And we ask, may it please you, my lord, that she serve the least sentence the law allows."

The gallery erupted in cheers and cries of jubilation. Someone cheered for Rathbone, and a woman threw roses.

In the front row Edith and Damaris hugged each other, and then as one turned to Miss Buchan beside them and flung their arms around her. For a moment she was too startled to react, then her face curved into a smile and she held them equally close.

The judge raised his eyebrows very slightly. It was a perverse verdict. She had quite plainly committed murder, in the heat of the moment, but legally murder.

But a jury cannot be denied. It was the verdict of them all, and they each one faced forward and looked at him without bunking.

"Thank you," he said very quietly indeed. "You are discharged of your duty." He turned to Alexandra.

"Alexandra Elizabeth Carlyon, a jury of your peers has found you not guilty of murder, but of manslaughter - and has appealed for mercy on your behalf. It is a perverse verdict, but one with which I have the utmost sympathy. I hereby sentence you to six months' imprisonment; and the forfeit of all your goods and properties, which the law requires. However, since the bulk of your husband's estate goes to your son, that is of little moment to you. May God have mercy on you, and may you one day find peace."

Alexandra stood in the dock, her body thin, ravaged by emotion, and the tears at last spilled over and ran in sweet, hot release down her face.

Rathbone stood with his own eyes brimming over, unable to speak.

Lovat-Smith rose and shook him by the hand.

At the back of the courtroom Monk moved a little closer to Hester.