He had seen Hester angry before, burning with injustice, frightened for other people, close to despair, but never with the fear for herself. In a sense she had always been in some control of events, her own freedom not at stake.

He took off his coat and gave it to the clerk waiting to take it from him. Hester was so impatient of fools, so fierce to charge into battle. It was a characteristic most alarming, and highly unattractive in a woman. Society would not tolerate it. He smiled as he imagined how it would be greeted by most of the respectable ladies he knew. He could visualize the expressions in their well-bred faces. And it alarmed him, as his smile broadened with self-mockery, that it was the quality in her which most appealed to him. Gentler, more conventionally behaved women he found more comfortable, less challenging, less disturbing to his well-being, his assumptions and certainly his social and professional ambitions, but they did not remain always in his memory after they had parted. He was neither troubled by them nor invigorated. Safety was beginning to cloy, for all its seeming advantages.

Absentmindedly he thanked the clerk and walked past him to his office. He closed the door behind him and sat down at his desk. He must not allow this to happen to Hester. He was one of the best barristers in England, he was the ideal person to protect her and get this absurd charge dismissed. It irritated him that he would have to use Monk to find out the truth of what had happened, or at least enough of it to prove Hester’s innocence-and reasonable doubt would be far from satisfactory-but without facts he could do nothing.

It was not that he disliked Monk, not entirely. The man had an excellent mind, courage, and a kind of honor; even the fact that he was abrasive, often ill-mannered, and always arrogant was not of itself a strike against him. He was not a gentleman, for all his confidence, his elegance, his fine diction. The difference was indefinable, but it was there. There was a certain underlying aggression in him of which Rathbone was always aware. And his attitude towards Hester was intensely irritating.

Hester’s welfare was the only thing that mattered at the moment. His own feelings about Monk were irrelevant. He would send a messenger to fetch him, and while he was waiting for him to arrive, prepare sufficient money to send him to Edinburgh on the night train with instructions to remain there until he could learn precisely what jealousies, pressures financial or emotional, existed in the Farraline household which had produced this ridiculous accident of circumstance.

He rang the bell for the clerk to come, and when the door opened, drew breath to speak, then saw the man’s face.

“What is it, Clements? What is wrong?”

“The police, sir. Sergeant Daly is here to see you.”

“Ah.” Perhaps the charge had been withdrawn, and he would not need to send for Monk after all. “Ask him to come in, Clements.”

Clements bit his lip, his eyes troubled, and withdrew to obey.

“Yes?” Rathbone said hopefully as Sergeant Daly appeared in the doorway looking solid and sad. Rathbone was about to ask if the charges had been dropped when something in Daly’s face stopped him.

Daly closed the door behind him quietly, the latch clicking home with a snick.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rathbone.” His voice was light and very clear. In other circumstances it would have been pleasant, in spite of the London edge to the accent. “But I’ve got some rather unpleasant news.”

The words were very mild, and yet Rathbone felt a sense of dread out of all proportion to the situation. He breathed in, and his stomach lurched. His mouth was suddenly dry.

“What is it, Sergeant?” He managed to sound almost as calm as Daly had, completely belying the fear inside him.

Daly remained standing, his blunt face filled with sorrow.

“Well sir, I’m afraid Mr. and Mrs. Murdoch weren’t totally satisfied with the way poor Mrs. Farraline died, it being so unexpected like, and they called their own doctor to make an examination…” He left the words hanging in the air.

“You mean a postmortem?’ Rathbone said sharply. Why on earth did the man not come to the point? “What of it?”

“He’s not satisfied she died natural, sir.”

“What?”

“He’s not satisfied-”

“I heard you!” Rathbone made as if to rise from his seat but his legs betrayed him and he changed his mind. “What was… unnatural about it? Didn’t the police surgeon say it was heart failure?”

“Yes sir, he did that,” Daly agreed. “But it was a somewhat hasty examination, made with the understanding that the lady was elderly and that she suffered from a heart ailment already.”

“Are you now saying that that is not true?” Rathbone’s voice rose, even though he had not intended it to. He sounded shrill and he knew it. He must keep more control of himself!

“No sir, o’ course I’m not,” Daly said, shaking his head. “There’s no question she was elderly, and apparently she’d ‘ad this complaint for some time. But when Mr. Murdoch’s own doctor had a closer look, like ‘e was asked to, he wasn’t so sure. Mr. Murdoch suggested a postmortem examination, as is Mrs. Murdoch’s right, in the circumstances, what with the theft, an’ all.”

“What on earth do you mean, man?” Rathbone exploded. “You aren’t suggesting Miss Latterly strangled her patient for a piece of jewelry, are you? And then immediately reported finding it and made every effort to return it to the family?”

“No sir, not strangled…” Daly said quietly.

Rathbone’s throat tightened so he could hardly breathe.

“Poisoned,” Daly finished. “With a double dose of her medicine, to be exact.” He looked at Rathbone with deep sadness. “They found it when they cut her open an’ looked inside her. Not easy to spot, affects the heart, but seein’ as the lady was on the medicine, an’ two vials was empty when it should’a’ bin one, natural thing to look for, see? Not very pleasant, I’m afraid, but undeniable. I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Latterly is now being held on a charge of murder.”

“B-but…” Rathbone’s voice died away, choked in his throat, his lips dry.

“There weren’t no one else there, sir. Mrs. Farraline were perfectly all right when she got onto the train in Edinburgh with Miss Latterly, and she was dead, poor soul, when she arrived in London. You tell me what else we’re to believe.”

“I don’t know. But not that!” Rathbone protested. “Miss Latterly is a brave and honorable woman who served in the Crimea with Florence Nightingale. She saved dozens of lives, at great cost to herself. She gave up the comfort and safety of England to-”

“I know all that, sir,” Daly interrupted firmly. “You prove as someone else killed the old lady, and I’ll be the first to drop the charge against Miss Latterly. But until you do, we’re holding ‘er.” He sighed, looking at Rathbone sadly. “I got no pleasure in it She seems like a nice young lady, and I lost a brother in the Crimea meself. I know what some o’ those women did for our men. But it’s my duty, and liking ‘as nothing to do with it most of the time.”

“Yes-yes of course.” Rathbone leaned back in the chair, feeling drained, as if he had run a great distance. “Thank you. I shall begin my duty now, to find out what did happen and prove she had no part in it.”

“Yes sir. I wish you luck, sir. You’ll need all you can get, and more than luck as well.” And with that he turned around and opened the door, leaving Rathbone staring after him.

He had been gone only a few moments when Clements returned, his expression anxious. He poked his head around the door inquiringly.

“Mr. Rathbone, is there anything I can do, sir?”

“What?” Rathbone jerked to attention, at least physically. His thoughts were still in tumult. “What is it, Clements?”

“Is there anything I can do, sir? I take it it’s bad news of some nature.”