Anne Perry - The Sins of the Wolf

Callandra replied as accurately as she could remember, and no one else stirred or made a sound while she was speaking. She went on, at Gilfeather’s prompting, to tell how Hester had gone upstairs to wash and had returned with the gray pearl pin, and what had transpired after that. Gilfeather tried his best to keep her answers brief, to cut her off, to best rephrase his questions so that a confirmation or denial would be sufficient, but she was not to be led.

Rathbone sat still behind Argyll listening to every word, but his eyes as often as not were upon the faces of the jury. He could see their respect for Callandra, and indeed that they liked her, but they also knew that she was biased towards the prisoner.

How much would they discount for that reason?

It was impossible to tell.

He turned to watch the Farralines instead. Oonagh was still composed, her face totally calm, watching Callandra with interest and not without respect. Beside her, Alastair looked unhappy, his aquiline face drawn, as if he had slept poorly, which was hardly surprising. Did he know about the company books? Had he begun his own inquiries since his mother’s death? Had he suspected his weaker younger brother?

What quarrels were there in that family when the door was closed and the outside, public world could neither see nor hear?

It was not surprising that none of them looked at Hester. Did they know, or at least believe, that she was innocent?

He leaned forward and tapped Argyll on the shoulder.

Very slowly Argyll leaned backward so he could hear if Rathbone bent and whispered.

“Are you going to play on the family’s guilt?” he said under his breath. “It is very probable at least one of them knows who it is-and why.”

“Which one?”

“Alastair, I should guess. He is head of the family, and he looks wretched.”

“He won’t break as long as his sister is there to support him,” Argyll said in reply so softly Rathbone had to strain to hear him. “If I could drive a wedge between those two, I would, but I don’t know how yet, and to try it and fail would only strengthen them. I’ll only get one chance. She is a formidable woman, Oonagh Mclvor.”

“Is she protecting her husband?”

“She would, I think, but why? Why would Baird Mclvor have killed his mother-in-law?”

“I don’t know,” Rathbone confessed.

The judged glared at him and for several moments he was obliged to keep silent, until Callandra again earned the judge’s disapproval and his attention returned to her.

“Fear,” he whispered to Argyll again.

“Of whom?” Argyll asked, his face expressionless.

“Play on fear,” Rathbone replied. “Find the weakest one and put him on the box, and make the others fear he or she would give them away, either out of panic and clumsiness or to save his own skin.”

Argyll was silent for so long Rathbone thought he had not heard.

He leaned forward again and was about to repeat it when Argyll replied.

“Who is the weak one? One of the women? Eilish, with her ragged school, or Deirdra, with her flying machine?”

“No, not the women,” Rathbone said with a certainty that surprised him.

“Good,” Argyll agreed dryly, the shadow of a smile curving his lips. “Because I wouldn’t have done it.”

“How gallant.” Rathbone was bitingly sarcastic. “And damned useless.”

“Not gallant at all,” Argyll said between his teeth. “Practical. The jury will love Eilish; she is both beautiful and good. What else can you ask? And they’ll deplore Deirdra’s deceit of her husband, but they’ll secretly like her. She’s small and pretty and full of courage. The fact that she’s as mad as a hatter won’t make any difference.”

Rathbone was relieved that Argyll was not as stupid as he had feared. It mattered too much for him to be angry at his own discomfort.

“Go after Kenneth,” he replied to the earlier question. “He is the weak link-and possibly the murderer. Monk has the information about his mistress. Get old Hector, if he’s sober enough, and that will be sufficient to raise the question of the books.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rathbone,” Argyll said tightly. “I had thought of that.”

“Yes, of course,” Rathbone conceded. “I apologize,” he added as an afterthought.

“Accepted,” Argyll murmured. “I am aware of your personal involvement with the accused, or I would not.”

Rathbone felt his face burning. He had not thought of his relationship with Hester as an “involvement.”

“Your witness, Mr. Argyll,” the judge said sharply. “If you would be good enough to give us your attention, sir.”

Argyll stood up, his temper flushing in his face. He did not reply to the judge. Perhaps he did not trust himself to.

“Lady Callandra,” he said courteously. “Just to make sure we have understood you correctly, Miss Latterly brought the pin to you while you were downstairs? You did not find it in her luggage, nor did any of your servants?”

“No. She found it when she went to wash before luncheon. None of my servants would have occasion to look in her luggage, nor would she, had she not decided to stay with me during the meal.”

“Quite so. And her immediate reaction was to bring it to you.”

“Yes. She knew it was not hers, and feared something was seriously wrong.”

“In which she was tragically correct. And your advice was to seek a solicitor’s counsel in the matter, so it might be returned to Mrs. Farraline’s estate?”

“Yes. She took it to Mr. Oliver Rathbone.”

“The matter, Lady Callandra, or the pin itself?”

“The matter. She left the pin in my house. I wish now that she had thought to take it with her.”

“I doubt it would have forestalled this sorry situation, madam. The plan had been very carefully laid. She did all a sensible person could, and it availed her nothing.”

“Mr. Argyll,” the judge snapped. “I will not warn you again.”

Argyll inclined his head graciously. “Thank you, Lady Callandra. I have no more questions.”

The last witness for the prosecution was Sergeant Daly, who recounted his having been called in by Dr. Ormorod, the whole of his procedure from that time until he had arrested Hester and finally charged her with murder. He spoke levelly and carefully and with great sadness, every now and again shaking his head, his mild, clear face regarding the whole courtroom with benign interest.

Gilfeather thanked him.

Argyll declined to question him. There was nothing to say, nothing to argue with.

Gilfeather smiled. The prosecution rested its case.

The jury nodded to one another silently, already certain of their verdict.

The defense began the following morning. The crowd which filled the gallery was in an unusual mood, shifting and whispering in a strange mixture of apathy and then sudden interest, its tenor changing every few moments. Some believed it was all over, and the defense was merely a legal nicety in order that there could be no appeal against unfair process of law. Others were half expecting a battle of wits, however futile. The former were admirers of Gil-feather, the latter of James Argyll. Almost everyone was partisan; those who had no interest in either combatant were sure of the outcome and had not bothered to attend at all.

Rathbone was so on edge he had kept clearing his throat and it now ached. He had not slept until it was nearly time to get up, then he had been deeply in nightmare and waking had been difficult. The previous evening he had gone first to spend time with his father, then, realizing how short his temper, he had not wished to inflict it on anyone else, particularly Henry. He had spent from half past eight until nearly midnight alone, going over and over the case in his mind, rehearsing every scrap of evidence they knew, and when that proved fruitless, repeating as well as he could remember all the testimony Gilfeather had presented. It was not conclusive, of course it was not. Hester was not guilty! But she could have killed Mary Farraline, and in the absence of anything to suggest someone else had, suggest it powerfully, believably, any jury would convict her.