She stared at him uncomprehendingly.

“To save your son from further unnatural abuse…”

What little color there was left fled from her face. Her eyes were wide, so hollow as to seem black in the dim light.

“You-know…” She sank onto the cot. “You can't. Please…”

He sat on the bottom of the cot, facing her.

“My dear, I understand that you were prepared to go to the gallows rather than expose your son to the world's knowledge of his suffering. But I have something very dreadful to tell you, which must change your mind.”

Very slowly she raised her head and looked at him.

“Your husband was not the only one to use him in that way.”

Her breath caught in her throat, and she seemed unable to find it again. He thought she was going to faint.

“You must fight,” he said softly but with intense urgency.

“It seems most probable that his grandfather is another-and there is at least a third, if not more. You must use all the courage you have and tell the truth about what happened, and why. We must destroy them, so they can never harm Cassian again, or any other child.”

She shook her head, still struggling to breathe.

“You must!” He took both her hands. At first they were limp, then slowly tightened until they clung onto him as if she were drowning. “You must! Otherwise Cassian will go to his grandparents, and the whole tragedy will continue. You will have killed your husband for nothing. And you yourself will hang-for nothing.”

“I can't.” The words barely passed her lips.

“Yes you can! You are not alone. There are people who will be with you, people as horrified and appalled as you are, who know the truth and will help us fight to prove it. For your son's sake, you must not give up now. Tell the truth, and I will fight to see that it is believed-and understood.”

“Can you?”

He took a deep breath and met her eyes.

“Yes-lean.”

She stared at him, exhausted beyond emotion.

“I can,” he repeated.

Chapter 9

The trial of Alexandra Carlyon began on the morning of Monday, June 22. Major Tiplady had intended to be present, not out of cheap curiosity; normally he shunned such proceedings as he would have an accident had a horse bolted in the street and thrown and trampled its rider. It was a vulgar intrusion into another person's embarrassment and distress. But in this case he felt a deep and personal concern for the outcome, and he wished to demonstrate his support for Alexandra, and for the Carlyon family, or if he were honest, for Edith; not that he would have admitted it, even to himself.

When he put his foot to the ground he was well able to bear his weight on it. It seemed the leg had healed perfectly. However, when he attempted to bend it to climb the step up into a hansom, he found, to his humiliation, that it would not support him as he mounted. And he knew dismounting at the other end might well be even worse. He was both abashed and infuriated, but he was powerless to do anything about it. It obviously needed at least another week, and trying to force the issue would only make it worse.

Therefore he deputed Hester to report to him, since she was still in his employ and must do what she could for his comfort. He insisted this was crucial to it. She was to report to him everything that happened, not only the evidence that was given by each witness but their manner and bearing, and whether in her best judgment they were telling the truth or not. Also she was to observe the attitudes of everyone else who appeared for the prosecution and for the defense, and most particularly the jury. Naturally she should also mark well all other members of the family she might see. To this end she should equip herself with a large notebook and several sharp pencils.

“Yes Major,” she said obediently, hoping she would be able to fulfil so demanding an assignment adequately. He asked a great deal, but his earnestness and his concern were so genuine she did not even try to point out the difficulties involved.

“I wish to know your opinions as well as the facts,” he said for the umpteenth time. “It is a matter of feelings, you know? People are not always rational, especially in matters like this.”

“Yes, I know,” she said with magnificent understatement. “I will watch expressions and listen to tones of voice-I promise you.”

“Good.” His cheeks pinkened a trifle. “I am most obliged.” He looked down. “I am aware it is not customarily part of a nurse's duties…”

She hid a smile with great difficulty.

“And it will not be pleasant,” he added.

“It is merely a reversal of roles,” she said, allowing her smile to be seen.

“What?” He looked at her quickly, not understanding. He saw her amusement, but did not know what caused it.

“Had you been able to go, then I should have had to ask you to repeat it all to me. I have no authority to require it of you. This is far more convenient.”

“Oh-I see.” His eyes filled with perception and amusement as well. “Yes-well, you had better go, or you might be late and not obtain a satisfactory seat.”

“Yes Major. I shall be back when I am quite sure I have observed everything. Molly has your luncheon prepared, and…”

“Never mind.” He waved his hands impatiently. “Go on, woman.”

“Yes Major.”

She was early, as she had said; even so the crowds were eager and she only just got a seat from which she could see all the proceedings, and that was because Monk had saved it for her.

The courtroom was smaller than she had expected, and higher-ceilinged, mote like a theater with the public gallery far above the dock, which itself was twelve or fifteen feet above the floor where the barristers and court oflicials had their leather-padded seats at right angles to the dock.

The jury was on two benches, one behind the other, on the left of the gallery, several steps up from the floor, and with a row of windows behind them. On the farther end of the same wall was the witness box, a curious affair up several steps, placing it high above the arena, very exposed.

At the farther wall, opposite the gallery and the dock, was the red-upholstered seat on which the judge sat. To the right was a further gallery for onlookers, newsmen and other interested parties.

There was a great amount of wooden paneling around the dock and witness box, and on the walls behind the jury and above the dock to the gallery rail. It was all very imposing and as little like an ordinary room as possible, and at the present was so crowded with people one was able to move only with the greatest difficulty.

“Where have you been?” Monk demanded furiously. “You're late.”

She was torn between snapping back and gratitude to him for thinking of her. The first would be pointless and only precipitate a quarrel when she least wanted one, so she chose the latter, which surprised and amused him.

The Bill of Indictment before the Grand Jury had already been brought at an earlier date, and a true case found and Alexandra charged.

“What about the jury?” she asked him.”Have they been chosen?”

“Friday,” he answered. “Poor devils.”

“Why poor?”

“Because I wouldn't like to have to decide this case,” Monk answered. “I don't think the verdict I want to bring in is open tome.”

“No,” she agreed, more to herself than to him. “What are they like?”

“The jury? Ordinary, worried, taking themselves very seriously,” he replied, not looking at her but straight ahead at the judge's bench and the lawyers' tables below.

“All middle-aged, I suppose? And all men of course.”

“Not all middle-aged,” he contradicted. “One or two are youngish, and one very old. You have to be between twenty-one and sixty, and have a guaranteed income from rents or lands, or live in a house with not less than fifteen windows-”