There was a violent moment in the court. Baird shot to his feet, his face ashen. Oonagh tried to restrain him, clinging on to his arm. Alastair let out a cry of amazement.

Eilish sat white-knuckled, frozen.

“I had no idea what he was doing at the time, and no interest,” Quinlan went on in a clear, relentless voice. “Now I fear I may have witnessed something very terrible, and my failure to grasp its meaning has cost Miss Latterly the most dreadful experience imaginable, to be charged with the murder of her patient and tried for her life.”

Argyll looked flushed, almost stunned.

“I see,” he said with a choking voice. “Thank you, Mr. Fyffe. That must have been very difficult for you to reveal, prejudicing your own family as it does. The court appreciates your honesty.” If there was sarcasm in his mind, it barely touched his lips.

Quinlan said nothing.

Gilfeather rose immediately to cross-examine. He attacked Quinlan, his accuracy, his motives, his honesty, but he failed in all. Quinlan was quiet, firm and unshakable; if anything, his confidence grew. Gilfeather quickly realized his position was only damaged by pursuing it, and with only one bitter, angry movement, he resumed his seat.

Rathbone could barely contain himself. He wished to tell Argyll a hundred things about his summing up, what to say, above all what to avoid. It was simple. To play on emotion, the love of courage and honor, not to overplay the reference to Miss Nightingale, but he had no opportunity, and on reflection, perhaps that was best Argyll knew it all.

It was masterful; all the emotion was there, but concealed, latent rather than overt. He led them by their own passions, not his. When he sat down there was no sound in the room except the squeak as the judge sat forward and ordered the jury to retire and consider its verdict.

Then began the longest and the briefest time conceivable, between the moment when the die is cast and that when it falls.

It was one desperate, unbearable hour.

They filed back, their faces pale. They looked at no oae, not at Argyll or Gilfeather, and what brought Rathbone’s heart to his mouth, not at Hester.

“Have you reached your verdict, gentlemen?” the judge asked the foreman.

“We have, my lord,” he replied.

“Is it (he verdict of you all?”

“It is, my lord.”

“How do you find the prisoner, guilty or not guilty?”

“My lord, we find the case not proven.”

There was a thunderous silence, an emptiness ringing in the ears.

“Not proven?” the judge said with a lift of incredulity.

“Yes, my lord, not proven.”

Slowly the judge turned to Hester, his expression bitter.

“You have heard the verdict, Miss Latterly. You are not exonerated, but you are free to go.”

Chapter 11

“What does it mean?” Hester asked intently, staring at Rathbone. They were in the sitting room of the lodgings Callandra had taken while in Edinburgh for the trial. Hester was to stay with her at least for this night, and the reconsideration could be made in the morning. Rathbone was sitting in a hard-backed chair, too charged with emotion to relax in one of the spacious softer ones. Monk stood by the mantelshelf, half leaning on it, his face dark, his brows drawn down in concentration. Callandra herself seemed more at ease. She and Henry Rathbone sat opposite on the sofa silently.

“It means that you are neither innocent nor guilty,” Rathbone replied, pulling a face. “It is not a verdict we have in England. Argyll explained it to me.”

“They think I am guilty, but they are not really quite sure enough to hang me,” Hester said with a catch in her voice. “Can they try me again?”

“It means they think you’re guilty, but they can’t damned well prove it,” Monk put in bitterly. He turned to Rathbone, his lip curled. “Can they try her again?”

“No. In that respect it is the same as a verdict of not guilty.”

“But people will always wonder,” Hester said grimly, her face very pale. She was perfectly aware of what it meant. She had seen the expressions of the people in the gallery, even those who were truly uncertain of her guilt. Who would hire as a nurse a woman who might be a murderess?

The fact that she also might not was hardly a recommendation.

No one answered immediately. She looked at Monk, not that she expected comfort from him, but possibly because she did not. His face would reflect the worst she would find, the plain and bitter truth.

He stared back at her with such a blazing anger that for a moment she was frightened. Even during the trial of Per-cival in the Moidore case, she had never seen such a barely controllable rage in him.

“I wish I could say otherwise,” Rathbone said very softly. “But it is a very unsatisfactory conclusion.”

Callandra and Monk both spoke at once, but her voice was lost in his, which was harsh, furious, and immeasurably more penetrating. Whatever she said was never heard.

“It is not a conclusion. For the love of God, what is the matter with you?” He glared at them all, but principally at Rathbone and Hester. “We don’t know who killed Mary Farraline! We must find out!”

“Monk…” Rathbone began, but again Monk overrode him with a snarl of contempt.

“It is one of the family.”

“Baird Mclvor?” Callandra asked.

“I have doubts,” Henry Rathbone began. “It seems…”

“Unsatisfactory?” Monk asked with sarcasm, mimicking Oliver’s earlier comment. “Very. No doubt they’ll find him ‘not proven’ also, if it ever gets to trial. At least I hope so. I think it was that sniveling little beggar Kenneth. He embezzled from the company books, and his mother caught him.”

“If he has covered his tracks, and from his confidence I have no doubt he has,” Oliver argued, “then we’ll never prove it.”

“Well, you won’t if you run off back to London and leave Mclvor to face trial… and maybe hang for it,” Monk snapped back at him. “Is that what you intend?”

Rathbone looked temporarily nonplussed. He stared at Monk with acute dislike.

“Do we gather from your remark that you intend to remain, Mr. Monk?” Henry Rathbone asked, his mild face pinched with concern. “Is that because you believe you can accomplish something you have not done so far?”

A faint flush of anger and self-consciousness colored Monk’s lean cheeks.

“We have a great deal more to pursue than we did even a day ago. I’m going to remain here until I have seen the end of it.” He looked at Hester with a strange, mixed expression in his face. “You don’t need to be so frightened. Whether they can prove it or not, they’ll charge someone else.” His voice still sounded angry.

She felt absurdly, unreasonably hurt. It was unfair. He seemed to be blaming her because the matter was unresolved, and she was frightened, and only with the greatest difficulty prevented herself from bursting into tears. Now that the worst fear was over, the sense of anticlimax, the confusion and relief, and the continued anxiety were almost more than she could bear. She wanted to be alone, where she could allow herself to stop the pretense and not care in the slightest what anyone else thought. And at the same time she wanted company, she wanted someone to put his arms around her and hold her closely, tightly, and not to let her go. She wanted to feel the warmth of someone, the breathing heartbeat, the tenderness. She certainly did not want to quarrel, least of all with Monk.

And yet because she was so vulnerable, she was furious with him. The only defense was attack.

“I don’t know what you are so upset about,” she said. “No one accused you of anything, except perhaps incompetence! But they don’t hang you for that!” She turned to Callandra. “I am going to remain as well. For my own sake, as well as anyone else’s, I am going to find out who killed Mary Farraline. I really-”