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“I quibble with your word allegation, my lord.” Argyll stared up at the bench. “I do not see it as any kind of charge. I think it is a most praiseworthy thing to do.”
Quinlan leaned forward over the edge of the witness-box, his fingers gripping the rail.
“It might be, if that were all it was,” he said fiercely. “But McIvor is inexcusable. I always knew he lusted after her.” His voice was rising and growing louder. “He tried to seduce her from any kind of morality or honor. But that he should use this excuse for it—and to corrupt her honesty as well—is beyond pardon.”
There was a whisper around the room. The judge banged his gavel sharply.
Argyll cut in before there could be any direction from the bench or Gilfeather could protest.
“Are you not leaping to conclusions, Mr. Fyffe?” he asked with a lift of surprise displayed for the judge’s sake. “I did not say that Mr. McIvor had done more than procure the books for her.”
Quinlan’s face was still white, his eyes narrowed to gleaming slits. He regarded Argyll with contempt.
“I know you did not. Do you take me for a fool, sir? I’ve watched him for years, staring at her, making excuses to be with her, the whispers, and laughter, the sudden falling into silence, the moods of temper and depression when she ignored him, the sudden elation when she did not.” Again his voice was becoming shrill. “I know when a man is in love with a woman and when his desire has consumed him beyond his control. He has at last devised a way to gain her trust—and God knows what else!”
“Mr. Fyffe …” Argyll began, but he did not seriously attempt to stop him.
“But I recognize what I should have guessed before now,” Quinlan went on, staring at Argyll and ignoring the rest of the court. “It is amazing how blind one can be until one’s attention is forced to that which is painful.”
At last Gilfeather rose to his feet.
“My lord, this is all most regrettable, and I am sure the court feels for Mr. Fyffe’s shock and dismay, but it is entirely irrelevant as to who murdered Mary Farraline. My learned friend is only wasting time and attempting to divert the jury’s attention from the issue.”
“I agree,” the judge said, and closed his mouth in a thin hard line.
But before he could add any further ruling, Quinlan turned to him, his eyes blazing.
“It is not irrelevant, my lord. Baird McIvor’s behavior is very relevant indeed.”
Gilfeather made as if to protest again.
Argyll gestured with his hands, intentionally ineffectual.
Rathbone said a prayer under his breath, his hands clenched, his body aching with the strain. He dared not look at Hester. He had forgotten Monk as if he had never existed.
In the box Quinlan stood upright, his face white, two sharp furrows at the bridge of his nose.
“The family solicitor asked me to go through certain of Mrs. Farraline’s papers, relating to her estate—”
“Yes, sir?” the judge interrupted.
“I frequently handled her financial affairs,” Quinlan replied. “My brother-in-law Alastair is too busy with his own commitments.”
“I see. Proceed.”
“I have discovered something which has shocked and appalled me,” Quinlan said. “And also explained many circumstances previously beyond my understanding.” He swallowed hard. He had the attention of every person in the room, and he knew it.
Gilfeather frowned, but made no attempt to interrupt.
“And this discovery, Mr. Fyffe?” Argyll asked.
“My mother-in-law owned a property, a family inheritance, in the far north, a croft—a smallholding, to be precise—in Ross-shire. It is not of great worth, only twenty-five acres or so and a house, but quite sufficient to provide one or two people with an adequate living.”
“I do not find that shocking or appalling, Mr. Fyffe,” the judge said critically. “Pray explain yourself, sir.”
Quinlan glanced at him, then once again faced the court.
“The property has been leased out for at least six years, through the agency of Baird McIvor, but no money from it, whatsoever, has ever reached Mrs. Farraline’s accounts.”
