“What?”

“Not less than fifteen windows,” he repeated with a sardonic smile, looking sideways at her. “And of course they are all men. That question is not worthy of you. Women are not considered capable of such decisions, forlieaven's sake. You don't make any legal decisions at all. You don't own property, you don't expect to be able to decide a man's fete before the law, do you?”

“If one is entitled to be tried before a jury «f one's peers, I expect to be able to decide a woman's fate,” she said sharply. “And rather more to the point, I expect if I come to trial to have women on the jury. How else could I be judged fairly?”

“I don't think you'd do any better with women,” he said, pulling his face into a bitter expression and looking at the fat woman in front of them.”Not that it would make the slightest difference if you did.”

She knew it was irrelevant. They must fight the case with the jury as it was. She turned around to look at others in the crowd. They seemed to be all manner of people, every age and social condition, and nearly as many women as men. The only thing they had in common was a restless excitement, a murmuring to one another, a shirring from foot to foot where they were standing, or a craning forward if they were seated, a peering around in case they were to miss something.

“Of course I really shouldn't be 'ere,” a woman said just behind Hester.”It won't do me nerves any good at all. Wickedest thing I ever 'eard of, an”er a lady too. You expec' better from them as ought ter know 'ow ter be'ave their-selves.”

“I know,” her companion agreed. “If gentry murders each other, wot can yer expec' of the lower orders? I ask yer.”

“Wonder wot she's like? Vulgar, I shouldn't wonder. Of course they'll 'ang 'er.”

“O' course. Don't be daft. Wot else could they do?”

“Right and proper thing too.”

“ 'Course it is. My 'usband don't always control 'isself, but I don't go murderin”im.”

“ 'Course you don't. No one does. What would 'appen to the world if we did?”

“Shockin'. And they're sayin' as there's mutiny in India too. People killin' an' murderin' all over the place. I tell yer, we live in terrible times. God 'isself only knows what'll be next!”

“An' that's true for sure,” her companion agreed, sagely nodding her head.

Hester longed to tell them not to be so stupid, that there had always been virtue and tragedy-and laughter, discovery and hope-but the clerk called the court to order. There was a rustle of excitement as the counsel for the prosecution came in dressed in traditional wig and black gown, followed by his junior. Wilberforce Lovat-Smith was not a large man, but he had a walk which was confident, even a trifle arrogant, and full of vitality, so that everyone was immediately aware of him. He was unusually dark of complexion and under the white horsehair wig very black hair was easily visible. Even at this distance, Hester could see with surprise as he turned that his eyes were cold gray-blue. He was certainly not a handsome man, but there was something compelling in his features: sharp nose, humorous mouth and heavy-lidded eyes which suggested sensuality. It was the face of a man who had succeeded in the past, and expected to again.

He had barely taken his place when there was another murmur of excitement as Rathbone came in, also gowned and wigged and followed by a junior. He looked unfamiliar to Hester, lately used to seeing him in ordinary clothes and informal in his manner. Now he was quite obviously thinking only of the contest ahead on which depended not only Alexandra's life but perhaps die quality of Cassian's also. Hester and Monk had done all they could; now it lay with Rathbone. He was a lone gladiator in the arena, and the crowd was hungering for blood. As he turned she saw the familiar profile with its long nose and delicate mouth so ready to change from pity to anger, and back to wry, quick humor again.

“It's going to begin,” someone whispered behind her. “That's the defense. It's Rathbone-I wonder what he's going to say?”

“Nothing 'e can say,” came the reply from a man somewhere to her left. “Don't know why 'e bothers. They should 'ang 'er, save the government the money.”

“Save us, more like.”

“Ssh!”

“Sshyerself!”

Monk swung around, his voice vicious.”If you don't want a trial you should vacate the seat and allow someone who does to sit in it. There are plenty of slaughterhouses in London if all you want is blood.”

There was a gasp of fury.

“ 'Ow dare you speak to my wife like that?” the man demanded.

“I was speaking to you, sir,” Monk retorted. “I expect you to be responsible for your own opinions.”

“Hold your tongue,” someone else said furiously. “Or we'll all be thrown out! The judge is coming.”

And indeed he was, splendid in robes touched with scarlet, white wig only slightly fuller than those of the lawyers. He was a tallish man with a broad brow and fine strong nose, short jaw and good mouth, but he was far younger than Hester had expected, and for no reason that she understood, her heart sank. In some way she had imagined a fatherly man might have more compassion, a grandfatherly man even more again. She found herself sitting forward on the edge of the hard bench, her hands clenched, her shoulders tight.

There was a rising wave of excitement, then a sudden silence as the prisoner was brought in, a craning forward and turning of heads on the benches behind the lawyers, of all except one woman dressed entirely in black, and veiled. Beneath the gallery in the dock the prisoner had been brought in.

Even the jury, seemingly against their will, found their eyes moving towards her.

Hester cursed the arrangement which made it impossible to see the dock from the gallery.

“We should have got seats down there,” she said to Monk, nodding her head towards the few benches behind the lawyers' seats.

“We?” he said acidly. “If it weren't for me you'd be standing outside.”

“I know-and l\a grateful. All the same, we should still try to get a seat down there.”

“Then come an hour earlier next time.”

“I will. But it doesn't help now.”

“What do you want to do?” he whispered sarcastically. “Lose these seats and go out and try to get in downstairs?”

“Yes,” she hissed back. “Of course I do. Come on!”

“Don't be ridiculous. You'll end up with nothing.”

“You can do as you please. I'm going.”

The woman in front swung around. “Be quiet,” she said furiously.

“Mind your own business, madam,” Monk said, freezing calm, then grasped Hester by the elbow and propelled her out past the row of protesting onlookers. Up the aisle and outside in the hallway he maintained silence. They went down the stairs, and at the door of the lower court he let go of her.

“All right,” he said with a scathing stare. “Now what do you propose to do?”

She gulped, glared back at him, then swung around and marched to the doors.

A bailiff appeared and barred the way. “I'm sorry. You can't go in there, miss. It's all full up. You should 'a come earlier. You'll 'ave ter read about it in the papers.”

“That will not be satisfactory,” she said with all the dignity she could muster. “We are involved in the case, retained by Mr. Rathbone, counsel for the defense. This is Mr. Monk,” she inclined her head slightly. “He is working with Mr. Rathbone, and Mr. Rathbone may need to consult with him during the course of the evidence. I am with him.”

The bailiff looked over her head at Monk. “Is that true, sir?”

“Certainly it is,” Monk said without a flicker, producing a card from his vest pocket.

“Then you'd better go in,” the bailiff agreed cautiously. “But next time, get in 'ere a bit sooner, will you.”

“Of course. We apologize,” Monk said tactfully. “A little late business, you understand.”

And without arguing the point any further, he pushed Hester inside and allowed the bailiff to close the doors.