“No, she will wish you to be here where you can be comfortable. You will be told all you need to know.” She turned away from him to Peverell again and continued to discuss the general's last will and testament. It was a somewhat simple document that needed little explanation, but presumably she chose to argue it as a final closing of any other subject.

Everyone bent to continue with the meal, hitherto eaten entirely mechanically. Indeed Hester had no idea what any of the courses had been or even how many there were.

Now her mind turned to Damaris, and the intense, almost passionate emotion she had seen in her face, the swift play from sorrow to amazement to fear, and then the deep pain.

And according to Monk, several people had said she had behaved in a highly emotional manner on the evening of the general's death, bordering on the edge of hysteria, and been extremely offensive to Maxim Furnival.

Why? Peverell seemed to know nothing of its cause, nor had he been able to comfort her or offer any help at all.

Was it conceivable that she knew there was going to be violence, even murder? Or had she seen it? No-no one else had seen it, and Damaris had been distracted with some deep torment of her own long before Alexandra had followed Thaddeus upstairs. And why the rage at Maxim?

But then if the motive for the murder was something other than die stupid jealousy Alexandra had seized on, perhaps Damaris knew what it was? And knowing it, she might have foreseen it would end as it did.

Why had she said nothing? Why had she not trusted that Peverell and she together might have prevented it? It was perfectly obvious Peverell had no idea what troubled her; the expression in his eyes as he looked at her, the way he half spoke, and then fell silent, were all eloquent witness of that.

Was it the same horror, force, or fear that kept Alexandra silent even in the shadow of the hangman's rope?

In something of a daze Hester left the table and together with Edith went slowly upstairs to her sitting room. Damaris and Peverell had their own wing of the house, and frequently chose to be there rather than in the main rooms with the rest of the family. Hester thought it was extremely long-suffering of Peverell to live in Carlyon House at all, but possibly he could not afford to keep Damaris in this style, or anything like it, otherwise. It was a curious side to Damaris's character that she did not prefer independence and privacy, at the relatively small price of a modest household, instead of this very lavish one. But then Hester had never been used to luxury, so she did not know how easy it was to become dependent upon it.

As soon as the door was closed in the sitting room Edith threw herself onto the largest sofa and pulled her legs up under her, regardless of the inelegance of the position and the ruination of her skirt. She stared at Hester, her curious face with its aquiline nose and gentle mouth filled with consternation.

“Hester-it's going to be terrible!”

“Ofcourse.it is,” Hester agreed quietly. “Whatever the result, the trial is going to be ghastlyT Someone was murdered. That can only ever be a tragedy, whoever did it, or why.”

“Why…” Edith hugged her knees and stared at the floor.”We don't even know that, do we.” It was not a question.

“We don't,” Hester said thoughtfully, watching Edith's face. “But do you think Damaris might?”

Edith jerked up, her eyes wide. “Damaris? Why? How would she? Why do you say that?”

“She knew something that evening. She was almost distracted with emotion-on the verge of hysteria, they said.”

“Who said? Pev didn't tell us.”

“It doesn't seem as if he knew why,” Hester replied.”But according to what Monk was able to find out, from quite early in the evening, long before the general was killed, Damaris was so frantic about something she could barely keep control of herself. I don't know why I didn't think of it before, but maybe she knew why Alexandra did it. Perhaps she even feared it would happen, before it did.”

“But if she knew…” Edith said slowly, her face filled with distress and dawning horror. “No-she would have stopped it. Are you-are you saying Damaris was part of it?”

“No. No, certainly not,” Hester denied quickly. “I mean she may have feared it would happen, because perhaps what caused her to be so terribly upset was the knowledge of why Alexandra would do such a thing. And if it is something so secret that Alexandra would rather hang than tell anyone, then I believe Damaris will honor her feelings and keep the secret for her.”

“\fes,” Edith agreed slowly, her face very white. “Yes, she would. It would be her sense of honor. But what could it be? I can't mink of anything so-so terrible, so dark that…” She tailed off, unable to find words for the thought.

“Neither can I,” Hester agreed. “But it exists-it must- or why will Alexandra not tell us why she killed the general?”

“I don't know.” Edith bent her head to her knees.

There was a knock on the door, nervous and urgent.

Edith looked up, surprised. Servants did not knock.

“Yes?”, She unwound herself and put her feet down. “Come in.”

The door opened and Cassian stood there, his face pale, his eyes frightened.

“Aunt Edith, Miss Buchan and Cook are fighting again!” His voice was ragged and a little high. “Cook has a carving knife!”

“Oh-” Edith stifled an unladylike word and rose. Cassian took a step towards her and she put an arm around him. “Don't worry, I'll take care of it. You stay here. Hester…”

Hester was on her feet.

“Come with me, if you don't mind,” Edith said urgently. “It may take two of us, if it's as bad as Cass says. Stay here, Cass! It will be all right, I promise!” And without waiting any further she led the way out of the sitting room, along towards the back landing. Before they had reached the servants' stairs it was only too apparent that Cassian was right.

“You've no place 'ere, yer miserable old biddy! You should a' bin put out ter grass like the dried-up old mare yer are!”

“And you should have been left in the sty in the first place, you fat sow,” came back the stinging reply.

“Fat indeed, is it? And what man'd look at you, yer withered old bag o' bones? No wonder yer spend yer life looking after other folks' children! Nobody'd ever get any on you!”

“And where are yours, then? Litters of them. One every season-running around on all fours in the byre, I shouldn't wonder. With snouts for noses and trotters for feet.”

“I'll cut yer gizzard out, yer sour old fool! Ah!”

There was a shriek, then laughter.

“Oh damnation!” Edith said exasperatedly. “This sounds worse than usual.”

“Missed!” came the crow of delight. “You drunken sot! Couldn't hit a barn door if it was in front of you-you crosseyed pig!”

“Ah!”

Then a shriek from the kitchen maid and a shout from the footman.

Edith scrambled down the last of the stairs, Hester behind her. Almost immediately they saw them, the upright figure of Miss Buchan coming towards them, half sideways, half backwards, and a couple of yards away the rotund, red-faced cook, brandishing a carving knife in her hand.

“Vinegar bitch!” the cook shouted furiously, brandishing the knife at considerable risk to the footman, who was trying to get close enough to restrain her.

“Wine belly,” Miss Buchan retorted, leaning forward.

“Stop it!” Edith shouted sternly. “Stop it at once!”

“Yer want to get rid of 'er.” The cook stared at Edith but waved the knife at Miss Buchan. “She's no good for that poor boy. Poor little child.”

Behind them the kitchen maid wailed again and stuffed the corners of her apron into her mouth.

“You don't know what you're talking about, you fat fool,”

Miss Buchan shouted back at her, her thin, sharp face full of fury. “All you do is stuff him full of cakes-as if that solved anything.”