Defend and Betray

chapter 8
By June 15 there was a bare week to go before the trial commenced and the newspapers had again taken up the subject. There was much speculation as to what would be revealed, surprise witnesses for the defense, for the prosecution, revelations about character. Thaddeus Carlyon had been a hero, and his murder in such circumstances shocked people profoundly. There must be some explanation which would provide an answer and restore the balance of their beliefs.

Hester dined again at the Carlyon house, not because she was considered a close enough friend of the family to be welcome even at such a time, but because it was she who had recommended Oliver Rathbone, and they all now wished to know something more about him and what he was likely to do to try and defend Alexandra.

It was an uncomfortable meal. Hester had accepted although she could not tell them anything of Rathbone, except his integrity and his past success, which presumably at least Peverell already knew. But she still hoped she might learn some tiny shred of fact which would, together with other things, lead to Alexandra's true motive. Anything about the general surely ought to be useful in some fashion?

"I wish I knew more about this man Rathbone," Randolph said morosely, staring down the length of the table at no one in particular. "Who is he? Where does he come from?"

"What on earth does that matter, Papa?" Edith said, blinking at him. "He's the best there is. If anyone can help Alexandra, he will."

"Help Alexandra!" He faced her angrily, his eyes wide, his brows furrowed. "My dear girl, Alexandra murdered your brother because she had some insane idea he was amorously involved with another woman. If he had been, she should have borne it like a lady and kept her silence, but as we all know, he was not." His voice was thick with distress. ' "There is nothing in the world more unbecoming in a woman than jealousy. It has been the curse of many an otherwise more than acceptable character. That she should carry it to the extreme of murder, and against one of the finest men of his generation, is a complete tragedy."

"What we need to know," Felicia said very quietly, "is what kind of implications and suggestions he is likely to make to try and defend her." She turned to Hester. "You are familiar with the man, Miss Latterly." She caught Damaris's eye. "I beg your pardon," she said stiffly. "Familiar was an unfortunate choice of word. That was not what I intended." She blinked; her wide eyes were cold and direct. "You are sufficiently acquainted with him to have recommended him to us. To what degree can you answer for his ... his moral decency? Can you assure us that he will not attempt to slander our son's character in order to make there seem to be some justification for his wife having murdered him?"

Hester was taken aback. This was not what she had expected, but after only an instant's thought she-appreciated their view. It was not a foolish question.

"I am not answerable for his conduct in any way, Mrs. Carlyon," she replied gravely. "He is not employed by any of us here, but by Alexandra herself." She was acutely conscious of Felicia's grief. The fact that she could not like her did not lessen her awareness of its reality, or her pity for it. "But it would not be in her interest to make any charge against the general that could not be substantiated with proof," she went on. "I believe it would predispose the jury against her. But quite apart from that, had the general been the most totally wretched, inconsiderate, coarse and vile man, unless he threatened her life, or that of her child, it would be pointless to raise it, because it would be no excuse for killing him."

Felicia sat back in her chair, her face calmer.

"That is good, and I presume in the circumstances, certainly all we can hope for. If he has any sense, he will claim she is insane and throw her on the mercy of the court." She swallowed hard and her chin lifted; her eyes were wide and very blue. She looked ahead of her, at no one. "Thaddeus was a considerate man, a gentleman in every way." Her voice was harsh with emotion. "He never raised a hand against her, even when at times she sorely provoked him. And I know she did. She has been flighty, inconsiderate, and refused to understand the necessity of his leaving her when his career took him abroad in the life to which he dedicated himself for the service of his Queen and country."

"You should see some of the letters of condolence we have received," Randolph added with a sigh. "Only this morning one came from a sergeant who used to be in the Indian army with him. Just heard, poor fellow. Devastated. Said Thaddeus was the finest officer he ever served with. Spoke of his courage, his inspiration to the men." He blinked hard and his head sank a little lower. His voice became thicker, and Hester was not sure whether it was purely from grief or grief mixed with self-pity. "Said how he had kept all the men cheerful when they were pinned down by a bunch of savages, howling like demons." He was staring into the distance as if he saw not the sideboard with the elaborate Coalport china on it, but some baking plain under an Indian sun. "Almost out of ammunition, they were, and waiting to die. Said Thaddeus gave them heart, made them proud to be British and give their lives for the Queen." He sighed again.

Peverell smiled sadly. Edith pulled a face, partly sorrow, partly embarrassment.

"That must be a great comfort to you," Hester said, then found it sounded hollow the moment her words were out. "I mean to know that he was so admired."

"We knew it anyway," Felicia said without looking at her. "Everyone admired Thaddeus. He was a leader among men. His officers thought he was a hero, his troops would follow him anywhere. Had the gift of command, you see?" She looked at Hester, eyes wide. "He knew how to inspire loyalty because he was always fair. He punished cowardice and dishonesty; he praised courage and honor, and duty. He never denied a man his right, and never charged a man unless he was sure that man was guilty. He kept total discipline, but the men loved him for it."

"Have to in the army," Randolph added, glaring at Hester. "Do you know what happens when there is no discipline, girl? Army falls to pieces under fire. Every man for himself. Un-British! Frightful! A soldier must obey his superior at all times - instantly."

"Yes I do know," Hester said without thinking, but from the depth of her own feeling. "Sometimes it's glorious, and sometimes it's unmitigated disaster."

Randolph's face darkened. "What the devil do you mean, girl? What on earth do you know about it? Damned impertinence! I'll have you know I fought in the Peninsular War, and at Waterloo against the emperor of the French, and beat him too."

"Yes, Colonel Carlyon." She met his eyes without flinching. She felt a pity for him as a man; he was old, bereaved, muddle-headed and becoming more than a little maudlin. But soldierlike she stood her ground. "And magnificent campaigns they were, none more brilliant in all our history. But times have changed. And some of our commanders have not changed with them. They fought the Crimea with the same tactics, and they were not good enough. A soldier's blind obedience is only as good as his commander's knowledge of the situation and skill in combat."

"Thaddeus was brilliant," Felicia said icily. "He never lost a major campaign and no soldier forfeited his life because of any incompetence of his."

"Certainly not," Randolph added, and slid a fraction farther down in his seat, hiccuping.

"We all know he was a very good soldier, Papa," Edith said quietly. "And I am glad that men who served with him have written to say how grieved they are he is gone. It is a wonderful thing to have been so admired."

"He was more than admired," Felicia said quickly. "He was also loved."

"The obituaries have been excellent," Peverell put in. "Few men have had their passing marked by such respect."

"It is appalling that this whole disaster was ever allowed to progress this far," Felicia said with a tight expression in her face, blinking as if to avoid tears.

"I don't know what you mean." Damaris looked at her perplexedly. "Progress to what?"

"To trial, of course." Felicia's face puckered with anger and distress. "It should have been dealt with long before it ever got so far." She turned to Peverell. "I blame you for that. I expected you to cope with it and see that Thaddeus's memory was not subjected to vulgar speculation; and that Alexandra's madness, and it must be said, wickedness, was not made a public sensation for the worst elements of humanity to revel in. As a lawyer, you should have been able to do it, and as a member of this family, I would have thought your loyalty to us would have seen that you did."

"That's unfair," Damaris said immediately, her face hot and her eyes bright. "Just because one is a lawyer does not mean one can do anything one likes with the law. In fact just the opposite. Peverell has a trust towards the law, an obligation, which none of the rest of us have. I don't know what you think he could have done!"

"I think he could have certified Alexandra as insane and unfit to stand trial," Felicia snapped. "Instead of encouraging her to get a lawyer who will drag all our lives before the public and expose all our most private emotions to the gaze of the common people so they can decide something we all know anyway - that Alexandra murdered Thaddeus. For God's sake, she doesn't deny it!"

Cassian sat white-faced, his eyes on his grandmother.

"Why?" he said, a very small voice in the silence.

Hester and Felicia spoke at once.

"We don't know," Hester said.

"Because she is sick," Felicia cut across her. She turned to Cassian. "There are sicknesses of the body and sicknesses of the mind. Your mother is ill in her brain, and it caused her to do a very dreadful thing. It is best you try not to think of it, ever again." She reached out towards him tentatively, then changed her mind. "Of course it will be difficult, but you are a Carlyon, and you are brave. Think of your father, what a great man he was and how proud he was of you. Grow up to be like him." For a moment her voice caught, too thick with tears to continue. Then she mastered herself with an effort so profound it was painfully visible. "You can do that. We shall help you, your grandfather and I, and your aunts."

Cassian said nothing, but turned and looked very carefully at his grandfather, his eyes somber. Then slowly he smiled, a shy, uncertain smile, and his eyes filled with tears. He sniffed hard, swallowed, and everyone turned away from him so as not to intrude.

"Will they call him at the trial?" Damaris asked anxiously.

"Of course not." Felicia dismissed the idea as absurd. "What on earth could he know?"

Damaris turned to Peverell, her eyes questioning.

"I don't know," he answered. "But I doubt it."

Felicia stared at him. "Well for heaven's sake do something useful! Prevent it! He is only eight years old!"

"I cannot prevent it, Mama-in-law," he said patiently."If either the prosecution or the defense wishes to call him, then the judge will decide whether Cassian is competent to give evidence or not. If the judge decides he is, then Cassian will do so."

"You shouldn't have allowed it to come to trial," she repeated furiously. "She has confessed. What good can it do anyone to parade the whole wretched affair before a court? They will hang her anyway." Her eyes hardened and she glanced across the table. "And don't look at me like that, Damaris! The poor child will have to know one day. Perhaps it is better we don't lie to him, and he knows now. But if Peverell had seen to it that she was put away in Bedlam, it wouldn't be necessary to face the problem at all."

"How could he do that?" Damaris demanded. "He isn't a doctor."

"I don't think she is mad anyway," Edith interrupted.

"Be quiet," Felicia snapped. "Nobody wants to know what you think. Why would a sane woman murder your brother?"

"I don't know," Edith admitted. "But she has a right to defend herself. And Peverell, or anyone else, ought to wish that she gets it. . ."

"Your brother should be your first concern," Felicia said grimly. "And the honor of your family your next. I realize you were very young when he first left home and went into the army, but you knew him. You were aware what a brave and honorable man he was." Her voice quivered for the first time in Hester's hearing. "Have you no love in you? Does his memory mean no more to you than some smart intellectual exercise in what is legally this or that? Where is your natural feeling, girl?"

Edith flushed hotly, her eyes miserable.

"I cannot help Thaddeus now, Mama."

"Well you certainly cannot help Alexandra," Felicia added.

"We know Thaddeus was a good man," Damaris said gently. "Of course Edith knows it. But she is a lot younger, and she never knew him as I did. He was always just a strange young man in a soldier's uniform whom everyone praised. But I know how kind he could be, and how understanding. And although he disciplined his men in the army, and made no allowances or bent any rules, with other people he could be quite different, I know. He was ..." Suddenly she stopped, gave a funny little half smile, half sigh, and bit her lip. There was intense pain in her face. She avoided Peverell's eyes.

"We are aware of your appreciation of your brother, Damaris," Felicia said very quietly. "But I think you have said enough. That particular episode is far better not discussed -  I'm sure you agree?"

Randolph looked confused. He started to speak, then stopped again. No one was listening to him anyway.

Edith looked from Damaris to her mother and back again.

Peverell made as if to say something to his wife, but she looked everywhere but at him, and he changed his mind.

Damaris stared at her mother as if some realization almost beyond belief had touched her. She blinked, frowned, and remained staring.

Felicia met her gaze with a small, wry smile, quite unwavering.

Gradually the amazement waned and another even more powerful emotion rilled Damaris's long, sensitive, turbulent face, and Hester was almost sure it was fear.

"Ris?" Edith said tentatively. She was confused as. to the reason, but aware that her sister was suffering in some fierce, lonely way, and she wanted to help.

"Of course," Damaris said slowly, still staring at her mother."I wasn't going to discuss it." She swallowed hard. "I was just remembering that Thaddeus could be ... very kind. It seemed... it seemed an appropriate time to - think of it."

"You have thought of it," Felicia pointed out. "It would have been better had you done so silently, but since you have not, I should consider the matter closed, if I were you. We all appreciate your words on your brother's virtues."

"I don't know what you are talking about," Randolph said sulkily.

"Kindness." Felicia looked at him with weary patience. "Damaris is saying that Thaddeus was on occasion extremely kind. It is not always remembered of him, when, we are busy saying what a brave soldier he was." Then again without warning emotion flooded her face. "All a man's good qualities should be remembered, not just the public ones," she finished huskily.

"Of course." He frowned at her, aware that he had been sidetracked, but not sure how, still less why. "No one denies it."

Felicia considered the matter sufficiently explained. If he did not understand, it was quite obvious she did not intend to enlighten him. She turned to Hester, her emotion gone, her expression perfectly controlled.

"Miss Latterly. Since, as my husband has said, jealousy is one of the ugliest and least sympathetic of all human emotions, and becomes a woman even less than a man, can you tell us what manner of defense this Mr. Rathbone intends to put forward?" She looked at Hester with the same cool, brave face she might have presented to the judge himself. "I imagine he is not going to be rash enough to attempt to lay die blame elsewhere, and say she did not do it .at all?"

"That would be pointless," Hester answered, aware that Cassian was watching her with a guarded, almost hostile expression. "She has confessed, and there is unarguable proof that she did it. The defense must rest in the circumstances, the reason why."

"Indeed." Felicia's eyebrows rose very high. "And just what sort of a reason does this Mr. Rathbone believe would excuse such an act? And how does he propose to prove it?"

"I don't know." Hester faced her pretending a confidence far from anything she felt. "It is not my prerogative to know, Mrs. Carlyon. I have no part in this tragedy, other than as a friend of Edith's, and I hope of yours. I mentioned Mr. Rathbone's name to you before I knew that there was no question that Alexandra was guilty of the act. But even had I known it, I would still have told you, because she needs a lawyer to speak for her, whatever her situation."

"She does not need someone to persuade her to fight a hopeless cause," Felicia said acidly."Or lead her to imagine that she can avoid her fate. That is an unnecessary cruelty, Miss Latterly, tormenting some poor creature and stringing out its death in order to entertain the crowd!"

Hester blushed hotly, but there was far too much guilt in her for her to find any denial.

It was Peverell who came to her rescue.

"Would you have every accused person put to death quickly, Mama-in-law, to save them the pain of struggle? I doubt that that is what they would choose."

"And how would you know that?" she demanded. "It might well have been exactly what Alexandra would choose. Only you have all taken that opportunity away from her with your interference."

"We offered her a lawyer," Peverell replied, refusing to back away. "We have not told her how to plead."

"Then you should have. Perhaps if she had pleaded guilty then this whole sorry business would be over with. Now we shall have to go into court and conduct ourselves with all the dignity we can muster. I presume you will be testifying, since you were there at that wretched party?"

"Yes. I have no choice."

"For the prosecution?" she enquired.

"Yes."

"Well at least if you go, one imagines Damaris will be spared. That is something. I don't know what you can possibly tell them that will be of use." There was half a question in her voice, and Hester knew, watching her tense face and brilliant eyes, that she was both asking Peverell what he intended saying, and warning him of family loyalties, trusts, unspoken ties that were deeper than any single occasion could test or break.

"Neither do I, Mama-in-law," he agreed. "Presumably only my observations as to who was where at any particular time. And maybe the fact that Alex and Thaddeus did seem to be at odds with each other. And Louisa Furnival took Thaddeus upstairs alone, and Alex seemed extraordinarily upset about it."

"You'll tell them that?" Edith said, horrified.

"I shall have to, if they ask me," he said apologetically. "That is what I saw."

"ButPev - "

He leaned forward. "My dear, they already know it. Maxim and Louisa were there, and they will say that. And Fenton Pole, and Charles and Sarah Hargrave . . ."

Damaris was very pale. Edith buried her face in her hands.

"This is going to be awful."

"Of course it is going to be awful," Felicia said thickly. "That is the reason why we must think carefully what we are going to say beforehand, speak only the truth, say nothing malicious or undignified, whatever we may feel, answer only what we are asked, exactly and precisely, and at all times remember who we are!"

Damaris swallowed convulsively.

Cassian stared at her with huge eyes, his lips parted.

Randolph sat up a trifle straighter.

"Offer no opinions," Felicia continued. "Remember that the vulgar press will write down everything you say, and quite probably distort it. That you cannot help. But you can most certainly help your deportment, your diction, and the feet that you do not lie, prevaricate, giggle, faint, weep or otherwise disgrace yourself by being less than the ladies you are - or the gentlemen, as the case is. Alexandra is the one who is accused, but the whole family will be on trial."

"Thank you, my dear." Randolph looked at her with a mixture of obligation, gratitude and an awe which for one ridiculous moment Hester imagined was akin to fear. "As always you have done what is necessary."

Felicia said nothing. A flicker of pain passed across her rigid features, but it was gone again almost as soon as it was there. She did not indulge in such things; she could not afford to.

"Yes, Mama," Damaris said obediently. "We will all do our best to acquit ourselves with dignity and honesty."

"You will not be required," Felicia said, but there was a slight melting in her tone, and their eyes met for a moment. "But of course if you choose to attend, you will be noticed, and no doubt some busybody will recognize you as a Carlyon."

"Will I go, Grandmama?" Cassian asked, his face troubled.

"No, my dear, you will certainly not go. You will remain here with Miss Buchan."

"Won't Mama expect me to be there?"

"No, she will wish you to be here where you can be comfortable. You will be told all you need to know." She turned away from him to Peverell again and continued to discuss the general's last will and testament. It was a somewhat simple document that needed little explanation, but presumably she chose to argue it as a final closing of any other subject.

Everyone bent to continue with the meal, hitherto eaten entirely mechanically. Indeed Hester had no idea what any of the courses had been or even how many there were.

Now her mind turned to Damaris, and the intense, almost passionate emotion she had seen in her face, the swift play from sorrow to amazement to fear, and then the deep pain.

And according to Monk, several people had said she had behaved in a highly emotional manner on the evening of the general's death, bordering on the edge of hysteria, and been extremely offensive to Maxim Furnival.

Why? Peverell seemed to know nothing of its cause, nor had he been able to comfort her or offer any help at all.

Was it conceivable that she knew there was going to be violence, even murder? Or had she seen it? No - no one else had seen it, and Damaris had been distracted with some deep torment of her own long before Alexandra had followed Thaddeus upstairs. And why the rage at Maxim?

But then if the motive for the murder was something other than die stupid jealousy Alexandra had seized on, perhaps Damaris knew what it was? And knowing it, she might have foreseen it would end as it did.

Why had she said nothing? Why had she not trusted that Peverell and she together might have prevented it? It was perfectly obvious Peverell had no idea what troubled her; the expression in his eyes as he looked at her, the way he half spoke, and then fell silent, were all eloquent witness of that.

Was it the same horror, force, or fear that kept Alexandra silent even in the shadow of the hangman's rope?

In something of a daze Hester left the table and together with Edith went slowly upstairs to her sitting room. Damaris and Peverell had their own wing of the house, and frequently chose to be there rather than in the main rooms with the rest of the family. Hester thought it was extremely long-suffering of Peverell to live in Carlyon House at all, but possibly he could not afford to keep Damaris in this style, or anything like it, otherwise. It was a curious side to Damaris's character that she did not prefer independence and privacy, at the relatively small price of a modest household, instead of this very lavish one. But then Hester had never been used to luxury, so she did not know how easy it was to become dependent upon it.

As soon as the door was closed in the sitting room Edith threw herself onto the largest sofa and pulled her legs up under her, regardless of the inelegance of the position and the ruination of her skirt. She stared at Hester, her curious face with its aquiline nose and gentle mouth filled with consternation.

"Hester - it's going to be terrible!"

"Ofcourse.it is," Hester agreed quietly. "Whatever the result, the trial is going to be ghastlyT Someone was murdered. That can only ever be a tragedy, whoever did it, or why."

"Why ..." Edith hugged her knees and stared at the floor."We don't even know that, do we." It was not a question.

"We don't," Hester said thoughtfully, watching Edith's face. "But do you think Damaris might?"

Edith jerked up, her eyes wide. "Damaris? Why? How would she? Why do you say that?"

"She knew something that evening. She was almost distracted with emotion - on the verge of hysteria, they said."

"Who said? Pev didn't tell us."

"It doesn't seem as if he knew why," Hester replied."But according to what Monk was able to find out, from quite early in the evening, long before the general was killed, Damaris was so frantic about something she could barely keep control of herself. I don't know why I didn't think of it before, but maybe she knew why Alexandra did it. Perhaps she even feared it would happen, before it did."

"But if she knew ..." Edith said slowly, her face filled with distress and dawning horror. "No - she would have stopped it. Are you - are you saying Damaris was part of it?"

"No. No, certainly not," Hester denied quickly. "I mean she may have feared it would happen, because perhaps what caused her to be so terribly upset was the knowledge of why Alexandra would do such a thing. And if it is something so secret that Alexandra would rather hang than tell anyone, then I believe Damaris will honor her feelings and keep the secret for her."

"\fes," Edith agreed slowly, her face very white. "Yes, she would. It would be her sense of honor. But what could it be? I can't mink of anything so - so terrible, so dark that. . ." She tailed off, unable to find words for the thought.

"Neither can I," Hester agreed. "But it exists - it must -  or why will Alexandra not tell us why she killed the general?"

"I don't know." Edith bent her head to her knees.

There was a knock on the door, nervous and urgent.

Edith looked up, surprised. Servants did not knock.

"Yes?", She unwound herself and put her feet down. "Come in."

The door opened and Cassian stood there, his face pale, his eyes frightened.

"Aunt Edith, Miss Buchan and Cook are fighting again!" His voice was ragged and a little high. "Cook has a carving knife!"

"Oh - " Edith stifled an unladylike word and rose. Cassian took a step towards her and she put an arm around him. "Don't worry, I'll take care of it. You stay here. Hester. . ."

Hester was on her feet.

"Come with me, if you don't mind," Edith said urgently. "It may take two of us, if it's as bad as Cass says. Stay here, Cass! It will be all right, I promise!" And without waiting any further she led the way out of the sitting room, along towards the back landing. Before they had reached the servants' stairs it was only too apparent that Cassian was right.

"You've no place 'ere, yer miserable old biddy! You should a' bin put out ter grass like the dried-up old mare yer are!"

"And you should have been left in the sty in the first place, you fat sow," came back the stinging reply.

"Fat indeed, is it? And what man'd look at you, yer withered old bag o' bones? No wonder yer spend yer life looking after other folks' children! Nobody'd ever get any on you!"

"And where are yours, then? Litters of them. One every season - running around on all fours in the byre, I shouldn't wonder. With snouts for noses and trotters for feet."

"I'll cut yer gizzard out, yer sour old fool! Ah!"

There was a shriek, then laughter.

"Oh damnation!" Edith said exasperatedly. "This sounds worse than usual."

"Missed!" came the crow of delight. "You drunken sot! Couldn't hit a barn door if it was in front of you - you crosseyed pig!"

"Ah!"

Then a shriek from the kitchen maid and a shout from the footman.

Edith scrambled down the last of the stairs, Hester behind her. Almost immediately they saw them, the upright figure of Miss Buchan coming towards them, half sideways, half backwards, and a couple of yards away the rotund, red-faced cook, brandishing a carving knife in her hand.

"Vinegar bitch!" the cook shouted furiously, brandishing the knife at considerable risk to the footman, who was trying to get close enough to restrain her.

"Wine belly," Miss Buchan retorted, leaning forward.

"Stop it!" Edith shouted sternly. "Stop it at once!"

"Yer want to get rid of 'er." The cook stared at Edith but waved the knife at Miss Buchan. "She's no good for that poor boy. Poor little child."

Behind them the kitchen maid wailed again and stuffed the corners of her apron into her mouth.

"You don't know what you're talking about, you fat fool,"

Miss Buchan shouted back at her, her thin, sharp face full of fury. "All you do is stuff him full of cakes - as if that solved anything."

"Be quiet," Edith said loudly. "Both of you, be quiet at once!"

"And all you do is follow him around, you dried-up old witch!" The cook ignored Edith completely and went on shouting at Miss Buchan. "Never leave the poor little mite alone. I don't know what's the matter with you."

"Don't know," Miss Buchan yelled back at her. "Don't know. Of course you don't know, you stupid old glutton. You don't know anything. You never did."

"Neither do you, you miserable old baggage!" She waved the knife again, and the footman darted backwards, missing his step and overbalancing. "Sit up there all by yourself dreaming evil thoughts," the cook went on, oblivious of the other servants gathering in the passage. "And then come down here to decent folk, thinking you know something." She was well into her stride and Edith might as well not have been there."You should 'ave bin born an 'undred years ago-then they'd 'ave burned you, they would. And served you right too. Poor little child. They shouldn't allow you anywhere near'im."

"Ignorant you are," Miss Buchan cried back at her. "Ignorant as the pigs you look like - nothing but snuffle around all day eating and drinking. All you think about is your belly. You know nothing. Think if a child's got food on his plate he's got everything, and if he eats it he's well. Ha!" She looked around for something to throw, and since she was standing on the stairs, nothing came to hand. "Think you know everything, and you know nothing at all."

"Buckie, be quiet!" Edith shrieked.

"That's right, Miss Edith," the cook said, cheering her on. "You tell 'er to keep 'er wicked mouth closed! You should get rid of 'er! Put 'er out! Daft, she is. All them years with other folks' children have turned 'er wits. SheTs no good for that poor child. Lost 'is father and 'is mother, poor little mite, and now 'e 'as to put up with that old witch. It's enough to drive 'im mad. D'yer know what she's bin tellin"im? Do yer?"

"No - nor do I want to," Edith said sharply."You just be quiet!"

"Well you should know!" The cook's eyes were blazing and her hair was flying out of nearly all its pins. "An' if nobody else'll tell yer, I will! Got die poor little child so confused 'e don't know anything anymore. One minute 'is grandmama tells 'im 'is papa's dead and 'e's gotter ferget 'is mama because she's a madwoman what killed 'is papa an' will be 'anged for it. Which God 'elp us is the truth."

The footman had rearmed himself and approached her again. She backhanded him almost unconsciously.

"Then along comes that wizened-up ol' bag o' bones," she continued regardless, "an' tells 'im 'is mama loves 'im very much and in't a wicked woman at all. Wot's 'e to think?" Her voice was rising all the time. "Don't know whether 'e's comin' or goin', nor 'oo's good nor bad, nor what's the truth about anything." She finally took the damp dish towel out of her apron pocket and hurled it at Miss Buchan.

It hit Miss Buchan in the chest and slid to the floor. She ignored it completely. Her face was pale, her eyes glittering. Her thin, bony hands were knotted into fists.

"You ugly, interfering old fool," she shouted back. "You know nothing about it. You should stay with your pots and pans in the kitchen where you belong. Cleaning out the slop pots is your place. Scrubbing the pans, slicing the vegetables, food, food, food! Keep their stomachs full - you leave their minds to me."

"Buckie, what have you been saying to Master Cassian?" Edith asked her.

Miss Buchan went very white. "Only that his mother's not a wicked woman, Miss Edith. No child should be told his mother's wicked and doesn't love him."

"She murdered his rather, you daft old bat!" the cook yelled at her. "They'll hang her for it! How's 'e goin' to understand that, if he doesn't know she's wicked, poor little creature?"

"We'll see," Miss Buchan said. "She's got the best lawyer in London. It's not over yet."

" 'Course it's over," the cook said, scenting victory. "They'll 'ang 'er, and so they should. What's the city coming to if women can murder their 'usbands any time they take a fancy to - and walk away with it?"

"There's worse things than killing people," Miss Buchan said darkly. "And you know nothing."

"That's enough!" Edith slipped between the two of them. "Cook, you are to go back to the kitchen and do your own job. Do you hear me?"

"She should be got rid of," the cook repeated, looking over Edith's shoulder at Miss Buchan."You mark my words, Miss Edith, she's a - "

"That's enough." Edith took the cook by the arm and physically turned her around, pushing her down the stairs.

"Miss Buchan," Hester said quickly, "I think we should leave them. If there is to be any dinner in the house, the cook should get back to her duties."

Miss Buchan stared at her.

"And anyway," Hester went on, "I don't think there's really any point in telling her, do you? She isn't listening, and honestly I don't think she'd understand even if she were."

Miss Buchan hesitated, looking at her with slow consideration, then back at the retreating cook, now clasped firmly by Edith, then at Hester again.

"Come on," Hester urged. "How long have you known the cook? Has she ever listened to you, or understood what you were talking about?"

Miss Buchan sighed and the rigidity went out of her. She turned and walked back up the stairs with Hester. "Never," she said wearily. "Idiot," she said again under her breath.

They reached the landing and went on up again to the schoolroom floor and Miss Buchan's sitting room. Hester followed her in and closed the door. Miss Buchan went to the dormer window and stared out of it across the roof and into the branches of the trees, leaves moving in the wind against the sky.

Hester was not sure how to begin. It must be done very carefully, and perhaps so subtly that the actual words were never said. But perhaps, just perhaps, the truth was at last within her grasp.

"I'm glad you told Cassian not to think his mother was wicked," she said quietly, almost casually. She saw Miss Buchan's back stiffen. She must go very carefully. There was no retreat left now, nothing must be said in haste or unguardedly. Even in fury she had betrayed nothing, still less would she here, and to a stranger. "It is an unbearable thing for a child to think."

"It is," Miss Buchan agreed, still staring out of the window.

"Even though, as I understand it, he was closer to his father."

Miss Buchan said nothing.

"It is very generous of you to speak well of Mrs. Carlyon to him," Hester went on, hoping desperately that she was saying the right thing."You must have had a special affection for the general - after all, you must have known him since his childhood." Please heaven her guess was right. Miss Buchan had been their governess, hadn't she?

"I had," Miss Buchan agreed quietly. "Just like Master Cassian, he was."

"Was he?" Hester sat down as if she intended to stay some time. Miss Buchan remained at the window. "You remember him very clearly? Was he fair, like Cassian?" A new thought came into her mind, unformed, indefinite. "Sometimes people seem to resemble each other even though their coloring or their features are not alike. It is a matter of gesture, mannerism, tone of voice ..."

"Yes," Miss Buchan agreed, turning towards Hester, a half smile on her lips. "Thaddeus had just the same way of looking at you, careful, as if he were measuring you in his mind."

"Was he fond of his father too?" Hester tried to picture Randolph as a young man, proud of his only son, spending time with him, telling him about his great campaigns, and the boy's face lighting up with the glamour and the danger and the heroism of it.

"Just the same," Miss Buchan said with a strange, sad expression in her face, and a flicker of anger coming and going so rapidly Hester only just caught it.

"And to his mother?" Hester asked, not knowing what to say next.

Miss Buchan looked at her, then away again and out of the window, her face puckered with pain.

"Miss Felicia was different from Miss Alexandra," she said with something like a sob in her voice. "Poor creature. May God forgive her."

"And yet you find it in your heart to be sorry for her?" Hester said gently, and with respect.

"Of course," Miss Buchan replied with a sad little smile. "You know what you are taught, what everyone tells you is so. You are all alone. Who is there to ask? You do what you think - you weigh what you value most. Unity: one face to the outside world. Too much to lose, you see. She lacked the courage ..."

Hester did not understand. She groped after threads of it, and the moment she had them the next piece made no sense. But how much dare she ask without risking Miss Buchan's rebuffing her and ceasing to talk at all? One word or gesture of seeming intrusion, a hint of curiosity, and she might withdraw altogether.

"It seems she had everything to lose, poor woman," she said tentatively.

"Not now," Miss Buchan replied with sudden bitterness. "It's all too late now. It's over - the harm is all done."

"You don't think the trial might make a difference?" Hester said with fading hope. "You sounded before as if you did."

Miss Buchan was silent for several minutes. Outside a gardener dropped a rake and the sound of the wood on the path came up through the open window.

"It might help Miss Alexandra," Miss Buchan said at last. "Please God it will, although I don't see how. But what will it do to the child? And God knows, it can't alter the past for anyone else. What's done is done."

Hester had a curious sensation, almost like a tingling in the brain. Suddenly shards of a pattern fell together, incomplete, vague, but with a tiny, hideous thread of sense.

"That is why she won't tell us," she said very slowly. "To protect the child?"

"Tell you?" Miss Buchan faced Hester, a pucker of confusion between her brows.

"Tell us the real reason why she killed the general."

"No - of course not," she said slowly. "How could she? But how did you know? No one told you."

"I guessed."

"She'll not admit it. God help her, she thinks that is all there is to it - just the one." Her eyes filled with tears of pity and helplessness, and she turned away again. "But I know there are others, of course there are. I knew it from his face, from the way he smiles, and tells lies, and cries at night." She spoke very quietly, her voice full of old pain. "He's frightened, and excited, and grown up, and a tiny child, and desperately, sickeningly alone, all at the same time like his father before him, God damn him!" Miss Buchan took a long, shuddering breath, so deep it seemed to rack her whole, thin body. "Can you save her, Miss Latterly?"

"I don't know," Hester said honestly. All the pity in the world now would not permit a lie. It was not the time. "But I will do everything I can - that I swear to you."

Without saying anything else she stood up and left the room, closing the door behind her and walking away towards the rest of the small rooms in the wing. She was looking for Cassian.

She found him standing in the corridor outside the door to his bedroom, staring up at her, his face pale, his eyes careful.

"You did the right thing to get Edith to stop the fight," she said matter-of-factly. "Do you like Miss Buchan?"

He continued to stare at her without speaking, his eyelids heavy, his face watchful and uncertain.

"Shall we go into your room?" she suggested. She was not sure how she was going to approach the subject, but nothing now would make her turn back. The truth was almost reached, at least this part of it.

Wordlessly he turned around and opened the door. She followed him in. Suddenly she was furious that the burden of so much tragedy, guilt and death should rest on the narrow, fragile shoulders of such a child.

He walked over to the window; the light on his face showed the marks of tears on his soft, blemishless skin. His bones were still not fully formed, his nose just beginning to strengthen ana lose its childish outline, his brows to darken.

"Cassian," she began quietly.

"Yes ma'am?" He looked at her, turning his head slowly.

"Miss Buchan was right, you know. Your mother is not a wicked person, and she does love you very much."

"Then why did she kill my papa?" His lip trembled and with great difficulty he stopped himself from crying.

"You loved your papa very much?"

He nodded, his hand going up to his mouth.

The rage inside her made her tremble.

"You had some special secrets with your papa, didn't you?"

His right shoulder came up and for an instant a half smile brushed over his mouth. Then there was fear in his eyes, a guarded look.

"I'm not going to ask you about it," she said gently. "Not if he told you not to tell anyone. Did he make you promise?"

He nodded again.

"That must have been very difficult for you?"

"Yes."

"Because you couldn't tell Mama?"

He looked frightened and backed away half a step.

"Was that important, not to tell Mama?"

He nodded slowly, his eyes on her face.

"Did you want to tell her, at first?"

He stood quite still.

Hester waited. Far outside she heard faint murmurs from the street, carriage wheels, a horse's hooves. Beyond the window the leaves flickered in the wind and threw patterns of light across the glass.

Slowly he nodded.

"Did it hurt?"

Again the long hesitation, then he nodded.

"But it was a very grown-up thing to do, and being a man of honor, you didn't tell anyone?"

He shook his head.

"I understand."

"Are you going to tell Mama? Papa said if she ever knew she'd hate me - she wouldn't love me anymore, she wouldn't understand, and she'd send me away. Is that what happened?" His eyes were very large, full of fear and defeat, as if in his heart he had already accepted it was true.

"No." She swallowed hard. "She went because they took her, not because of you at all. And I'm not going to tell her, but I think perhaps she knows already - and she doesn't hate you. She'll never hate you."

"Yes she will! Papa said so!" His voice rose in panic and he backed away from her.

"No she won't! She loves you very much indeed. So much she is prepared to do anything she can for you."

"Then why has she gone away? She killed Papa, Grand-mama told me - and Grandpapa said so too. And they'll take her away and she'll never come back. Grandmama said so. She said I've got to forget her, not think about her anymore! She's never coming back!"

"Is that what you want to do - forget her?"

There was a long silence.

His hand came up to his mouth again. "I don't know."

"Of course you don't, I'm sorry. I should not have asked. Are you glad now no one is doing that to you anymore -  what Papa did?"

His eyelids lowered again and he hunched his right shoulder and looked at the ground.

Hester felt sick.

"Someone is. Who?"

He swallowed hard and said nothing.

"Someone is. You don't have to tell me who - not if it's secret."

He looked up at her.

"Someone is?" she repeated.

Very slowly he nodded.

"Just one person?"

He looked down again, frightened.

"All right - it's your secret. But if you want any help any time, or someone to talk to, you go to Miss Buchan. She's very good at secrets, and she understands. Do you hear me? "

He nodded.

"And remember, your mama loves you very much, and I am going to try to do everything I can to see that she comes back to you. I promise you."

He looked at her with steady blue eyes, slowly rilling with tears.

"I promise," she repeated. "I'm going to start right now. Remember, if you want to be with somebody, talk to them, you go to Miss Buchan. She's here all the time, and she understands secrets - promise me?"

Again he nodded, and turned away as his eyes brimmed over.

She longed to go over and put her arms around him, let him weep, but if he did he might not be able to regain the composure, the dignity and self-reliance he must have in order to survive the next few days or weeks.

Reluctantly she turned and went out of the door, closing it softly behind her.

* * * * *

Hester excused herself to Edith as hastily as possible and without any explanation, then as soon as she was on the pavement she began to walk briskly towards William Street. She hailed the very first hansom she saw and requested the driver to take her to Vere Street, off Lincoln's Inn Fields, then she sat back to compose herself until she should arrive at Rathbone's office.

Once there she alighted, paid the driver and went in. The clerk greeted her civilly, but with some surprise.

"I have no appointment," she said quickly. "But I must see Mr. Rathbone as soon as possible. I have discovered the motive in the Carlyon case, and as you must know, there is no time to be lost."

He rose from his seat, setting down his quill and closing the ledger.

"Indeed, ma'am. Then I will inform Mr. Rathbone. He is with a client at the moment, but I am sure he will be most obliged if you are able to wait until he is free."

"Certainly." She sat down and with the greatest difficulty watched the hands on the clock go around infinitely slowly until twenty-five minutes later the inner office door opened. A large gentleman came out, his gold watch chain across an extensive stomach. He glanced at her without speaking, wished the clerk good-day, and went out.

The clerk went in to Rathbone immediately, and within a moment was out again.

"If you please, Miss Latterly?" He stood back, inviting her in.

"Thank you." She barely glanced at him as she passed.

Oliver Rathbone was sitting at his desk and he rose to his feet before she was across the threshold.

"Hester?"

She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, suddenly breathless.

"I know why Alexandra killed the general!" She swallowed hard, an ache in her throat. "And my God, I think I would have done it too. And gone to the gallows before I would have told anyone why."

"Why?" His voice was husky, little more than a whisper. "For God's sake why?"

"Because he was having carnal knowledge of his own son!"

"Dear heaven! Are you sure?" He sat down suddenly as though all the strength had gone out of him. "General Carlyon - was . . . ? Hester. . . ?"

"Yes - and not only he, but probably the old colonel as well - and God knows who else."

Rathbone shut his eyes and his face was ashen.

"No wonder she killed him," he said very quietly.

Hester came over and sat down on the chair opposite the desk. There was no need to spell it out. They both knew the helplessness of a woman who wanted to leave her husband without his agreement, and that even if she did, all children were legally his, not hers. By law she would forfeit all right to them, even nursing babies, let alone an eight-year-old son.

"What else could she do?" Hester said blankly. "There was no one to turn to - I don't suppose anyone would have believed her. They'd lock her up for slander, or insanity, if she tried to say such a thing about a pillar of the military establishment like the general."

"His parents?" he said, then laughed bitterly. "I don't suppose they'd ever believe it, even if they saw the act."

"I don't know," she admitted. "The old colonel does it too - so he would be no help. Presumably Felicia never knew? I don't know how Alexandra did; the child certainly didn't tell her. He was sworn to secrecy, and terrified. He'd been told his mother wouldn't love him anymore, that she'd hate him and send him away if she ever found out."

His face was pale, the skin drawn tight.

"How do you know?"

Detail by detail she related to him the events of the afternoon. The clerk knocked on the door and said that the next client was here. Rathbone told him to go away again.

"Oh God," he said quietly when she had finished. He turned from the window where he had moved when she was halfway through. His face was twisted with pity, and anger for the pain and loneliness and the fear of it. "Hester..."

"You can help her, can'tyou?" she pleaded. "She'Uhang for it, if you don't, and he'll have no one. He'll be left in that house - for it to go on."

"I know!" He turned away and looked out of the window. "I'll do what I can. Let me think. Come back tomorrow, with Monk." His hands clenched by his sides."We have no proof."

She wanted to cry out that there must be, but she knew he did not speak lightly, or from defeat, only from the need to be exact. She rose to her feet and stood a little behind him.

"You've done what seemed impossible before," she said tentatively.

He looked back at her, smiling, his eyes very soft.

"My dear Hester.

She did not flinch or ease the demand in her face.

"I'll try," he said quietly. "I promise you I will try."

She smiled quickly, reached up her hand and brushed his cheek, without knowing why, then turned and left, going out into the clerk's office with her head high.

* * * * *

The following day, late in the morning, Rathbone, Monk and Hester sat in the office in Vere Street with all doors closed and all other business suspended until they should have reached a decision. It was June 16.

Monk had just heard from Hester what she had learned at the Carlyon house. He sat pale-faced, his lips tight, his knuckles clenched. It marred his opinion of himself that he was shocked, but he was, too deeply to conceal it. It had not occurred to him that someone of the breeding and reputation of General Carlyon should indulge in such a devastating abuse. He was too angry even to resent the fact that it had not occurred to him to look for such an answer. All his thoughts were outward, to Alexandra, to Cassian, and to what was to come.

"Is it a defense?" he demanded of Rathbone. "Will the judge dismiss it?"

"No," Rathbone said quietly. He was very grave this morning and his long face was marked by lines of tiredness; even his eyes looked weary. "I have been reading cases all night, checking every point of law I can find on the subject, and I come back each time to what is, I think, our only chance, and that is a defense of provocation. The law states that if a person receives extraordinary provocation, and that may take many forms, then the charge of murder may be reduced to manslaughter."

"That's not good enough," Monk interrupted, his voice rising with his emotion. "This was justifiable. For God's sake, what else could she do? Her husband was committing incest and sodomy against her child. She had not only a right but a duty to protect him. The law gave her nothing - she has no rights in her son. In law it is his child, but the law never intended he should be free to do that to him."

"Of course not," Rathbone agreed quietly, the effort of restraint trembling behind it. "Nevertheless, the law gives a woman no rights in her child. She has no means to support it, and no freedom to leave her husband if he does not wish her to, and certainly no way to take her child with her."

"Then what else can she do but kill him?" Monk's face was white. "How can we tolerate a law which affords no possible justice? And the injustice is unspeakable."

"We change it, we don't break it," Rathbone replied.

Monk swore briefly and violently.

"I agree," Rathbone said with a tight smile. "Now may we proceed with what is practical?"

Monk and Hester stared at him wordlessly.

"Manslaughter is the best we can hope for, and that will be extremely difficult to prove. But if we succeed, me sentence is largely at the discretion of the judge. It can be as little as a matter of months, or as great as ten years."

Bom Hester and Monk relaxed a little. Hester smiled bleakly.

"But we must prove it," Rathbone went on. "And that will be very hard to do. General Carlyon is a hero. People do not like their heroes tarnished, let alone utterly destroyed." He leaned back a little, sliding his hands into his pockets. "And we have had more than enough of that with the war. We have a tendency to see people as good or evil, it is so much easier both on the brain and on the emotions, but especially the emotions, to place people into one or the other category. Black or white. It is a painful adjustment to have to recognize and accommodate into our thinking the fact that people with great qualities which we have admired may also have ugly and profoundly repellent flaws."

He did not look at either of them, but at a space on the farther wall. "One then has to learn to understand, which is difficult and painful, unless one is to swing completely 'round, tear up one's admiration, and turn it into hate - which is also painful, and wrong, but so much easier. The wound of disillusion turns to rage because one has been let down. One's own sense of betrayal outweighs all else."

His delicate mouth registered wry pity.

"Disillusion is one of the most difficult of all emotions to wear gracefully, and with any honor. I am afraid we will not find many who will do it. People will be very reluctant to believe anything so disturbing. And we have had far too much disturbance to our settled and comfortable world lately as it is - first the war, and all the ugly whispers there are of inefficiency and needless death, and now wind of mutiny in India. God knows how bad that will turn out to be."

He slid a little farther down in his chair. "We need our heroes. We don't want them proved to be weak and ugly, to practice vices we can barely even bring ourselves to name-let alone against their own children."

"I don't care a damn whether people like it or not," Monk said violently. "It is true. We must force them to see it. Would they rather we hang an innocent woman, before we oblige them to see a truth which is disgusting?"

"Some of them well might." Rathbone looked at him with a faint smile. "But I don't intend to allow them that luxury."

"If they would, then there is not much hope for our society," Hester said in a small voice. "When we are happy to turn from evil because it is ugly, and causes us distress, then we condone it and become party to its continuance. Little by little, we become as guilty of it as those who commit the act - because we have told them by our silence that it is acceptable."

Rathbone glanced at her, his eyes bright and soft.

"Then we must prove it," Monk said between his teem. "We must make it impossible for anyone to deny or evade."

"I will try." Rathbone looked at Hester, then at Monk. "But we haven't enough here yet. I'll need more. Ideally I need to name the other members of the ring, if there is one, and from what you say" - he turned to Hester - "there may be several members. And of course I dare not name anyone without proof. Cassian is only eight. J may be able to call him; that will depend upon the judge. But his testimony alone will certainly not be sufficient."

"I think Damaris might know," Hester said thoughtfully. "I'm not certain, but she undoubtedly discovered something at the party that evening, and it shook her so desperately she was hardly able to keep control of herself."

"We have several people's testimony to that," Monk added.

"If she will admit it, that will go a long way towards belief," Rathbone said guardedly. "But it will not be easy to make her. She is called as a witness for the prosecution."

"Damaris is?" Hester was incredulous. "But why? I thought she was on our side."

Rathbone smiled without pleasure. "She has no choice. The prosecution has called her, and she must come, or risk being charged with contempt of court. So must Peverell Erskine, Fenton and Sabella Pole, Maxim and Louisa Furnival, Dr. Hargrave, Sergeant Evan, and Randolph Carlyon."

"But that's everyone." Hester was horrified. Suddenly hope was being snatched away again."What about us? That's unjust. Can't they testify for us too?"

"No, a witness can be called by only one side. But I shall have an opportunity to cross-examine them," Rathbone replied. "It will not be as easy as if they were my witnesses. But it is not everyone. We can call Felicia Carlyon - although I am not sure if I will. I have not subpoenaed her, but if she is there I may call her at the last moment - when she has had an opportunity to hear the other testimony."

"She won't tell us anything," Hester said furiously."Even if she could. And I don't suppose she knows. But if she did, can you imagine her standing up in court and admitting that any member of her family committed incest and sodomy, let alone her heroic son, the general!"

"Not willingly." Rathbone's face was grim, but there was a faint, cold light in his eyes. "But it is my art, my dear, to make people admit what they do not wish to, and had not intended to."

"You had better be damnably good at it," Monk said angrily.

"I am." Rathbone met his eyes and for a moment they stared at each other in silence.

"And Edith," Hester said urgently. "You can call Edith. She will help all she can."

"What does she know?" Monk swung around to her. "Willingness won't help if she doesn't know anything."

Hester ignored him. "And Miss Buchan. She knows."

"A servant." Rathbone bit his lip. "A very elderly woman with a hot temper and a family loyalty. . . If she turns against them they won't forgive her. She will be thrown out without a roof over her head or food to eat, and too old to work anymore. Not an enviable position."

Hester felt hopelessness wash over her anger. A black defeat threatened to crush her.

"Then what can we do? "

"Find some more evidence," Rathbone replied. "Find out who else is involved."

Monk thought for a few moments, his hands knotted hard in his lap.

"That should be possible: either they came to the house or the child was taken to them. The servants will know who called. The footmen ought to know where the boy went." His face pinched with anger. "Poor little devil!" He looked at Rathbone critically."But even if you prove other men used him, will that prove that his father did, and that Alexandra knew it?"

"You give me the evidence," Rathbone replied. "Everything you get, whether you think it is relevant or not. I'll decide how to use it."

Monk rose to his feet, scraping back his chair, his whole body hard with anger.

"Then we have no time to lose. God knows there is little enough."

"And I shall go to try and persuade Alexandra Carlyon to allow us to use the truth," Rathbone said with a tight little smile. "Without her consent we have nothing."

"Oliver." Hester was aghast.

He turned to her, touching her very gently.

"Don't worry, my dear. You have done superbly. You have discovered the truth. Now leave me to do my part."

She met his eyes, dark and brilliant, took a deep breath and let it out slowly, forcing herself to relax.

"Of course. I'm sorry. Go and see Alexandra. I shall go and tell Callandra. She will be as appalled as we are."

* * * * *

Alexandra Carlyon turned from the place where she had been standing, staring up at the small square of light of the cell window. She was surprised to see Rathbone.

The door swung shut with a hollow sound of metal on metal, and they were alone.

"You are wasting your time, Mr. Rathbone," she said huskily. "I cannot tell you anything more."

"You don't need to, Mrs. Carlyon," he said very gently. "I know why you killed your husband - and God help me, had I been in your place I might have done the same."

She stared at him uncomprehendingly.

"To save your son from further unnatural abuse ..."

What little color there was left fled from her face. Her eyes were wide, so hollow as to seem black in the dim light.

"You - know ..." She sank onto the cot. "You can't. Please . . ."

He sat on the bottom of the cot, facing her.

"My dear, I understand that you were prepared to go to the gallows rather than expose your son to the world's knowledge of his suffering. But I have something very dreadful to tell you, which must change your mind."

Very slowly she raised her head and looked at him.

"Your husband was not the only one to use him in that way."

Her breath caught in her throat, and she seemed unable to find it again. He thought she was going to faint.

"You must fight," he said softly but with intense urgency.

"It seems most probable that his grandfather is another - and there is at least a third, if not more. You must use all the courage you have and tell the truth about what happened, and why. We must destroy them, so they can never harm Cassian again, or any other child."

She shook her head, still struggling to breathe.

"You must!" He took both her hands. At first they were limp, then slowly tightened until they clung onto him as if she were drowning. "You must! Otherwise Cassian will go to his grandparents, and the whole tragedy will continue. You will have killed your husband for nothing. And you yourself will hang - for nothing."

"I can't." The words barely passed her lips.

"Yes you can! You are not alone. There are people who will be with you, people as horrified and appalled as you are, who know the truth and will help us fight to prove it. For your son's sake, you must not give up now. Tell the truth, and I will fight to see that it is believed - and understood."

"Can you?"

He took a deep breath and met her eyes.

"Yes - lean."

She stared at him, exhausted beyond emotion.

"I can," he repeated.