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Hester looked at the rest of the Farralines. One of them had killed Mary. It was absurd that she should stand here fighting for her life, and be able to stare at their faces one after another, and not know which one it was, even now.
Did they know, all of them—or only the one who had done it?
Old Hector was not there. Did that mean he was drunk as usual, or that Argyll intended to call him? He had not told her.
Sometimes it was better to have someone else plan the defense and conduct the battle. And there were other times she felt so agonizingly helpless she would have given anything at all to be able to stand up and tell them herself, question people, force the truth out of them. And even while the thought raced through her mind, she knew it would be totally futile.
Gilfeather concluded his questions and sat down with a smile. He looked comfortable, well satisfied with his position, and so he should. The jury was sitting in solemn and disapproving silence, their faces closed, their minds already set. Not one of them looked towards the dock.
Argyll rose to his feet, but there was little he could say and nothing at all to contest.
Behind him Oliver Rathbone was fuming with impatience. The longer this evidence took, the more firmly entrenched in the jurors’ minds was Hester’s guilt. Men were reluctant to change a decision once made. Gilfeather knew that as well as he did. Clever swine.
The judge’s face also was narrow and hard. His words might be full of legally correct indecision, but one had only to see him to know what his own verdict was.
Argyll sat down again almost immediately, and Rathbone breathed a sigh of relief.
The next person to be called was Griselda Murdoch. It was a piece of emotional manipulation. She had recently given birth and she looked pale and very tired, as if she had traveled only with difficulty for so tragic an event. The sympathy from the crowd was palpable in the air. The hatred for Hester increased with a bound till it hung thick like a bad smell in a closed space.
For Rathbone it was a nightmare. He did not know whether he would have attempted to tear her apart rather than allow the sympathy to build, or whether it would only make matters immeasurably worse. He was almost glad it was not his decision to make.
And yet to sit there helplessly was almost beyond bearing. He looked at Argyll, and could not read his face. He was staring through furrowed brows at Griselda Murdoch, but he could have been merely listening to her with concentration, or he could have been planning how to trap her, discredit her, attack her character, her veracity, or any other aspect of the effect she would have upon the jury.
“Mrs. Murdoch,” Gilfeather said softly, as if he were addressing an invalid or a child. “We are deeply sensible of your courage in coming to testify in this tragic matter, and of the cost it must have been for you to travel this distance in your present state of health.”
There was a murmur of sympathy around the room and someone spoke his approval aloud.
The judge ignored this.
“I will not trouble you to relive your emotions at the railway station, Mrs. Murdoch,” Gilfeather continued. “It would distress you for no purpose, and that is the furthest thing from my intention. If you would be so kind as to tell us what transpired after you returned to your home, with your husband, knowing that your mother had died. Do not hurry, and choose your words exactly as you please.”
“Thank you, you are most kind,” she said shakily.
Monk, staring at her, thought how unlike her sisters she was. She had not the courage of either of them, nor the passion of character. She might well be far easier for a man to live with, less demanding, less testing of patience or forbearance, but dear heaven she would also be infinitely less interesting. She was uncertain, timid, and there was a streak of self-pity in her that Oonagh would have found intolerable.
Or was it all an act, an outer garment designed to appeal to the court? Did she know who had killed her mother? Was it even conceivable, in a wild moment of insanity, that they had all conspired together to murder Mary Farraline?
No, that was absurd. His wits were wandering.
She was telling Gilfeather how she had unpacked Mary’s cases and found her clothes and the list of items, and in so doing had failed to find the gray pearl pin.
“I see.” Gilfeather nodded sagely. “And you expected to find it?”
“Certainly. The note said that it should be there.”
“And what did you do, Mrs. Murdoch?”
“I spoke to my husband. I told him it was missing and asked his advice,” she replied.
“And what did he advise you should do?”
“Well, of course the first thing we did was to search thoroughly again, through everything. But it was quite definitely not there.”
“Quite. We now know that Miss Latterly had it with her. This is not in dispute. What then?”
“Well—Connal, Mr. Murdoch, was most concerned that it had been stolen, and he …” She gulped and took several seconds to regain her composure. The court waited in respectful silence.
Behind Argyll, Rathbone swore under his breath.
