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Was that a smirk on his face? She felt the blood burn up her cheeks at the thought that Ingram might have boasted to such a man of the things he had caused her to do! Would she ever live that down? Was he mentioning Ingram now on purpose? A warning to her of what he knew?
She stared at him with defiance, even hatred, as if he were Ingram. They even had the same color of eyes!
He was waiting for her to thank him.
“Thank you,” she said coldly.
“I am sure you are deeply distressed,” he went on, his voice even gentler, and now holding a little pity.
Good God! She knew what he was going to do! He was going to suggest to the court that her mind was unhinged by grief, and she was not to be taken seriously.
Very deliberately she smiled back at him. She must not, she would not, let him win.
“Fortunately for me I have had considerable time to become used to the idea, Mr. Wingfield. Ingram was ailing far more than most people knew for some time before he had his seizure. In fact, I have been prepared for widowhood for nearly two years. And I am well provided for, both financially and with good friends. I consider myself most fortunate. And poor Ingram is at last at peace. But while I thank you for your courtesy, I am sure the court is interested only in the truth of this case. What is it you wish to know?” She smiled back at him now with exactly the same gentle patronage he had exercised toward her. She hoped he recognized it.
“I am puzzled by what you are referring to as ‘Dr. Crow’s witness,’?” he said, but perhaps not with quite the overwhelming confidence he had had before. “What was it regarding?”
She would have to make it up! “The death of Mr. Blount, which appears to have begun the idea of a conspiracy,” she replied.
“And the reference to crows?” he pressed.
She raised her eyebrows a little, as if his ignorance surprised her.
“I believe it is the slang term for a doctor, among some people.”
“People you know, Lady York?” he asked incredulously.
“Affectionately, yes. Is that of relevance, Mr. Wingfield?”
He considered pressing it again, and changed his mind.
She prayed fervently that Crow’s witness would turn up very soon. She was struggling to think of anything more to say.
There was a moment’s rather stiff silence. An usher crossed the floor to speak to Rathbone. Suddenly the tension in the room mounted, as if a tingle of excitement had rippled through the air. All the jurors were facing him as Rathbone smiled.
“My lord, Dr. Crow’s witness has arrived. I would like to excuse Lady York and call Albert Tucker to the stand.”
Lyndon bit his lip and leaned a little forward behind his magnificent carved bench.
“This had better be relevant, Sir Oliver. I share Mr. Wingfield’s dislike of theatrics!” There was a touch of sarcasm to his tone. He disliked Wingfield’s own theatrics just as much. “If Mr. Wingfield has finished his questions you are excused, with our thanks, Lady York.”
Wingfield agreed and with overwhelming relief she thanked him and, grasping the rail, came carefully down the stairs and across the floor to take her seat again.
Albert Tucker came in conducted by another usher, and took the stand. He was a lean man wearing a blue pea coat. He had a weather-beaten face and narrow, blue eyes, as though he were permanently squinting against the light reflected off the water.
He swore to his name and his occupation as a lighterman on the Thames.
Rathbone came straight to the point. He knew the court’s patience was wearing thin.
“Did you pull the body of a dead man out of the river, who was later identified as Blount?”
“Yes, sir. Me and Willis, sir. We reported ’im straightaway.”
“To the River Police?”
He shook his head. “No sir. ’E were drownded. Weren’t no reason not ter give ’im straight to the Customs, since ’e were escaped from them, like.”
“How did you know that his name was Blount, or that he had escaped from the custody of the Customs service?” Rathbone asked curiously.
