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Neither did Rathbone look for his father; he avoided the gallery altogether. It was not only emotional cowardice—or, to give it a kinder name, self-preservation—it was tactical sense. At this point feelings were redundant, a clear mind was needed, a sharp brain and logical thought.
The judge looked cold and complacent. It was not a difficult case from his view. He had no doubt of conviction. Sentencing a woman to hang would be unpleasant, but he had done it before, and would no doubt do it again. Then he would go home to his family and a good dinner. Tomorrow there would be a new case.
And the public would applaud him. Emotion was running high. There were people whom Society had set high in its estimation, had given a certain honor, attributed to them emotions nobler than the ordinary man. They included the religious and medical worlds. They had been set above others in esteem, and more was required of them in return. When they fell, they fell farther. Condemnation was accompanied by disillusion and all its discomfort to the beliefs. It was bitter, born of pain, anger and self-pity, because something precious had been attacked. The offense was not only against Mary Farraline. If one could not trust a nurse, the whole world was not what one had taken for granted. All safety was threatened. For that, the punishment was terrible.
He saw it in the faces of the jurors also. Judgment was touched with fear. And few men forgave one who frightened them.
The court came to order. James Argyll rose to his feet. There was total silence. Not a soul whispered or moved.
“May it please my lord, gentlemen of the jury,” he began. “So far you have heard much factual evidence as to how Mary Farraline met her death, and much indication as to how it may well have happened. You have heard a little of what manner of woman she was. The defense would be the last to wish to quibble with what has been said of her. Indeed, we would have added more. She was charming, intelligent, courteous, honorable; possessed of those rare qualities, both generosity and humor. While we do not contend that she was perfect—which of us mortals is—we know of no ill in her and have nothing to say of her but praise. Her family is not alone in mourning her.”
The judge sighed audibly, but no one in the gallery moved their eyes from Argyll. One or two of the jury frowned, uncertain what he was leading to.
Argyll regarded them seriously.
“However, we have heard very little of the character of the accused, Miss Hester Latterly. We have heard from the Farraline family that she met all the requirements for the brief task she was to undertake for them, but that is all. They saw her as an employee, for less than a day. Hardly time to get to know a person.”
The judge leaned forward as if to speak, then changed his mind. He looked to Gilfeather, but Gilfeather was quite serene, his flyaway hair on end, his smile amiable and totally unconcerned.
“I propose to call two witnesses to that end,” Argyll continued. “Just in case you feel one to be inadequate, possibly biased. To begin with I shall call Dr. Alan Moncrieff.”
There was a stirring of interest as the usher repeated the name, then a distinct rustle as heads craned to look when the door opened and a tall, lean man with an unusually handsome aquiline face walked across the open space between the gallery and the witness-box and climbed up the steps. He was sworn in and faced Argyll expectantly.
“Dr. Moncrieff, is the prisoner, Miss Hester Latterly, known to you?”
“Yes sir, I know her quite well.” In spite of his Scottish name, his voice was beautifully modulated, and very English.
Rathbone swore under his breath. Could Argyll not have found a man who sounded more like a native, less alien? Moncrieff might have been born and bred in Edinburgh, but he did not sound like it. He should have checked it himself. He should have said something. Now it was too late.
“Would you tell the court in what circumstances you knew her, sir?” Argyll requested.
“I served in the Army Medical Corps during the late war in the Crimea,” Moncrieff replied.
“With what regiment, sir?” Argyll asked innocently, his eyes wide.
“The Scots Greys, sir,” Moncrieff said with an almost imperceptible lift of his chin and straightening of his shoulders.
There was a second’s silence, and then an indrawing of breath by the half dozen or so who knew their military history. The Scots Greys, the Inniskilling Dragoons and the Dragoon Guards, a mere eight hundred men in all, had marshaled on the field of disaster at Balaclava and held a Russian charge of three thousand cavalry, and in eight blood-soaked minutes the Russians had broken and fled back the way they had come.
One man in the jury blew his nose fiercely and another was not ashamed to wipe his eyes.
Someone in the gallery called out “God save the Queen!” and then fell silent.
Argyll kept a perfect gravity, as if he had heard nothing.
“An odd choice for an Englishman?” he observed.
Gilfeather sat like stone.
“I am sure you have no intention of being offensive, sir,” Moncrieff said quietly. “But I was born in Stirling and studied medicine in Aberdeen and Edinburgh. I have spent some time in England, as well as abroad. You may blame my accent upon my mother.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Argyll said grimly. “It was a hasty conclusion, upon appearances—or rather, upon sound.” He did not add anything about the foolishness of such prejudgments. It would have been clumsy. The jury had taken the point as it was.
There was a murmur of approval around the gallery.
The judge scowled.
Rathbone smiled, in spite of himself.
