“Mrs. Erskine, do you know who abused Valentine Furnival?”

“No.”

“You did not ask him?”

“No! No, of course not!”

“Did you speak of it to your brother? “

“No! No I didn't. I didn't speak of it to anyone.”

“Not to your mother-or your father?”

“No-not to anyone.”

“Were you aware that your nephew, Cassian Carlyon, was being abused?”

She flushed with shame and her voice was low and tight in her throat. “No. I should have been, but I thought it was just his grief at losing his father-and fear that his mother was responsible and he would lose her too.” She looked up once at Alexandra with anguish. “I didn't spend as much time with him as I should have. I am ashamed of that. He seemed to prefer to be alone with his grandfather, or with my husband. I thought-I thought that was because it was his mother who killed his father, and he felt women…” She trailed off unhappily.

“Understandable,” Rathbone said quietly. “But if you had spent time with him, you might have seen whether he too was abused-”

“Objection,” Lovat-Smith said quickly. “All this speech of abuse is only conjecture: We do not know that it is anything beyond the sick imaginings of a spinster servant and a young girl in puberty, who both may have misunderstood things they saw, and whose fevered and ignorant minds leaped to hideous conclusions-quite erroneously.”

The judge sighed. “Mr. Lovat-Smith's objection is literally correct, Mr. Rathbone.” His heavy tone made it more than obvious he did not share the prosecutor's view for an instant. “Please be more careful in your use of words. You are quite capable of conducting your examination of Mrs. Erskine without such error.”

Rathbone inclined his head in acceptance, and turned back to Damaris.

“Did your husband, Peverell Erskine, spend much time with Cassian after he came to stay at Carlyon House?”

“Yes-yes, he did.” Her face was very white and her voice little more than a whisper.

“Thank you, Mrs. Erskine. I have no more questions for you, but please remain there. Mr. Lovat-Smith may have something to ask you.”

Damaris turned to Lovat-Smith.

“Thank you,” Lovat-Smith acknowledged. “Did you murder your brother, Mrs. Erskine?”

There was a ripple of shock around the room. The judge frowned sharply. A juror coughed. Someone in the gallery stood up.

Damaris was startled. “No-of course I didn't!”

“Did your sister-in-law mention this alleged fearful abuse to you, at any time, either before or after the death of your brother?”

“No.”

“Have you any reason to suppose that such a thing had ever entered her mind; other, of course, than the suggestion made to you by my learned friend, Mr. Rathbone?”

“Yes-Hester Latterly knew of it.”

Lovat-Smith was taken by surprise.

There was a rustle and murmur of amazement around the court. Felicia Carlyon leaned forward over the gallery railing to stare down at where Hester was sitting upright, white-faced. Even Alexandra turned.

“I beg your pardon?” Lovat-Smith said, collecting his wits rapidly. “And who is Hester Latterly? Is that a name that has arisen once before in this case? Is she a relative-or a servant perhaps? Oh-I recall: she is the person to whom Mrs. Sobell enquired for a lawyer for the accused. Pray tell us, how did this Miss Latterly know of this deadly secret of your family, of which not even your mother was aware?”

Damaris stared straight back at him.

“I don't know. I did not ask her.”

“But you accepted it as true?” Lovat-Smith was incredulous and he allowed his whole body to express his disbelief. “Is she an expert in the field, that you take her word, unsubstantiated by any fact at all, simply a blind statement, over your own knowledge and love and loyalty to your own family? That is truly remarkable, Mrs. Erskine.”

There was a low rumble of anger from the court. Someone called out “Traitor!”

“Silence!” the judge ordered, his face hard. He leaned forward towards the witness stand. “Mrs. Erskine? It does call for some explanation. Who is this Miss Latterly that you take her unexplained word for such an abominable charge?”

Damaris was very pale and she looked across at Peverell before answering, and when she spoke it was to the jury, not to Lovat-Smith or the judge.

“Miss Latterly is a good friend who wishes to find the truth of this case, and she came to me with the knowledge, which has never been disputed, that I discovered something the evening of my brother's death which distressed me almost beyond bearing. She assumed it was something else, something which would have done a great injury to another person-so I was obliged, in justice, to tell her the truth. Since she was correct in her assumption of abuse to Cassian, I did not argue with her, nor did I ask her how she knew. I was too concerned to allay her other suspicion even to think of it.”

She straightened up a little more, for the first time perhaps, unconsciously looking heroic. “And as for loyalty to my family, are you suggesting I should lie here, in this place, and under oath to God, in order to protect them from the law-and the consequence of their acts towards a desperately vulnerable child? And that I should conceal truths which may help you bring justice to Alexandra?” There was a ring of challenge in her voice and her eyes were bright. Not once had she looked towards the gallery.

There was nothing for Lovat-Smith to do but retreat, and he did it gracefully.

“Of course not, Mrs. Erskine. All we required was that you should explain, and you have done so. Thank you-I have no more questions to ask you.”

Rathbone half rose. “Nor I, my lord.”

The judge released her. “You are excused, Mrs. Erskine.”

The entire courtroom watched as she stepped down from the witness box, walked across the tiny space to the body of the court and up the steps through the seated crowd and took her place beside Peverell, who quite automatically rose to his feet to greet her.

There was a long sigh right around the room as she sat down.

Felicia deliberately ignored her. Randolph seemed beyond reaction. Edith reached a hand across and clasped hers gently.

The judge looked at the clock.

“Have you many questions for your next witness, Mr. Rathbone?”

“Yes, my lord; it is evidence on which a great deal may turn.”

“Then we shall adjourn until tomorrow.”

Monk left the court, pushing his way through the jostling, excited crowds, journalists racing to find the first hansoms to take them to their papers, those who had been unable to find room inside shouting questions, people standing around in huddles, everyone talking.

Then outside on the steps he was uncertain whether to search for Hester or to avoid her. He had nothing to say, and yet he would have found her company pleasing. Or perhaps he would not. She would be full of the trial, of Rathbone's brilliance. Of course that was right, he was brilliant. It was even conceivable he would win the case, whatever winning might be. She had become increasingly fond of Rathbone lately. He realized it now with some surprise. He had not even thought about it before; it was something he had seen without its touching the conscious part of his mind.

Now he was startled and angry that it hurt.

He walked down the steps into the street with a sudden burst of energy. Everywhere there were people, newsboys, costermongers, flower sellers, men with barrows of sandwiches, pies, sweets, peppermint water, and a dozen other kinds of food. People pushed and shouted, calling for cabs.

This was absurd. He liked both Hester and Rathbone-he should be happy for them.

Without realizing what he was doing he bumped into a smart man in black with an ivory-topped cane, and stepped into a hansom ahead of him. He did not even hear the man's bellow of fury.