“Of course,” his lordship said with an indignant air. He frowned. “The authorities were good enough to show this… bomb to you, then? What did it look like?”

“It was a ginger-beer bottle. Similar bombs were found in the rooms of the two accused with Mr. Gould.” He shook his head sorrowfully, as if at the folly of such unlawful activity.

“Ginger-beer bottles?” his lordship asked in an interested tone. “What sort of detonators did they have?”

Mr. Morley frowned. “Detonators?”

“In order to have a bomb,” Lord Sheridan said patiently, “one must have a means of detonating it. Of making it explode,” he added, as Mr. Morley’s frown deepened.

“I don’t know about that,” Mr. Morley replied irritably. “But all three of the bottles contained explosives, according to Inspector Ashcraft. Some sort of acid, I think he said.”

His lordship’s eyebrows went up. “What sort of acid? Picric acid? Nitric acid? Sulphuric acid?”

“Nitric acid, I believe,” Mr. Morley said doubtfully, although the truth was that he had not paid a great deal of attention to the details.

“So it was bomb-making material, not bombs, that the men are said to have possessed.”

“It is all the same under the law.” Mr. Morley could feel himself growing defensive. This was not the sort of affair that Masters, Morley, and Dunderston usually found themselves engaged with. It was-

“It is not the same under the law,” his lordship objected mildly. He paused, drew on his pipe, and expelled a stream of fragrant smoke. “The inspector seems to have been unusually forthcoming. Did you not find that a trifle… suspicious?”

Morley adjusted his cuffs. “I suppose I did,” he admitted. In fact, it had occurred to him that Inspector Ashcraft might have shown him the evidence with the aim of inspiring a guilty plea. But Morley was not familiar with the conduct of criminal cases, and for all he knew, the entire procedure might have been quite normal. Of course, had it not been for the insistence of their largest client, the firm would not have taken the case at all and Amalgamated was certainly not going to like the idea of a guilty plea. He shifted uneasily. He was in rather a spot, and he knew it.

“And you saw no reason to question the official explanation, I suppose, or the charge?” His lordship’s question was sharply put, and Morley winced.

“I did not,” he replied, conscious that his answer left something to be desired. “I have never pretended, sir, to be a Sherlock Holmes. I am a solicitor, sir, and if there is some mystery here, it shall have to be left to the police to solve. Trial is scheduled for next week-August twenty-sixth, to be precise-which does not allow a great deal of time for preparation.”

“August twenty-sixth?” his lordship asked with a frown. “Isn’t that rather precipitous?”

Morley shrugged. “It seems that the docket was clear, and the authorities-”

“The authorities want to get it over with.”

“I suppose.” Morley sighed. “It is a difficult case, if I may be permitted to say so, and there is a great deal of public opinion against the accused men. Although,” he added deferentially, “Mr. Gould is fortunate in having a gentleman like yourself in his corner.” He gave a nervous laugh. “As it were. So to speak.”

“I suppose,” Lord Sheridan said, pursing his lips in a judicious manner, “that this is not quite the sort of case that Masters, Morley, and Dunderston usually take. It is not the sort of thing that Delderfield handles, either.” He chuckled dryly. “Getting rather old, I should say.”

“It is not our usual case,” Morley replied, attempting to suggest by his tone just how far beneath the firm’s usual notice this case lay. “My partners and I should not have accepted it at all if Amalgamated had not insisted quite so… strenuously.” In fact, Masters and Dunderston had preferred to reject Amalgamated’s request. It had only been his insistence that carried the day, and now he was faced with the unpleasant task of telling them that Delderfield would be entering a guilty plea.

“I say, old chap,” his lordship said, interrupting Morley’s thoughts. “It seems to me that you’re in a bit of a bind here. It’s not the sort of case you normally undertake, and not the sort of case you’d like to see associated with the firm’s name, either-especially since you anticipate a conviction. And Delderfield isn’t your man, either, from what I know of him. P’rhaps I might suggest another barrister with a bit more experience along… shall we say, criminal lines. A bit more drive, too. He would not be so quick to plead Gould guilty.”

Morley eyed him speculatively, wondering if his lordship’s suggestion might help him avoid what promised to be an uncomfortable situation with Amalgamated. “Who did you have in mind?” he asked finally.

“Chap named Edward Savidge. Good man, quite competent in his line. I thought perhaps…” His lordship let the pause lengthen.

“I suppose we might be able to work something out,” Morley said, affecting reluctance. “But Amalgamated should have to agree.”

“I will undertake to obtain their consent,” his lordship said. He picked up his hat and stood. “We are agreed, then, that Masters, Morley, and Dunderston will request the services of Edward Savidge for Mr. Gould’s defense?”

“With pleasure, sir,” Morley replied with great alacrity, and took his lordship’s hand. “With pleasure.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Kate always found it easiest and most pleasant to do her writing in the morning, beside the window in the library of Bishop’s Keep. It was her favorite room, the paneled walls lined with old leather-bound books, generations of her Ardleigh ancestors looking down from the wall, and Charles’s leather chair placed near the fireplace, her own upholstered one opposite. But perhaps it was Charles’s lingering presence in the room that made these surroundings so pleasant, and the recollection of their enjoyable teatime and evening conversations here. For Kate had discovered, much to her delight, that marriage to Charles Sheridan included a great many hours in lively conversation.

But the library was also a private retreat, for it contained Kate’s oak writing desk, placed in the small, green-curtained alcove in front of the casement window. This forenoon, Kate was seated there at her Royal typewriter, typing the final page of Beryl Bardwell’s latest fictional effort, a ghost story set at Glamis Castle, in Scotland. Several of Sir Walter Scott’s novels were stacked at her elbow for inspiration, and she had, for reference, a number of photographs that she had taken when she and Charles visited the castle the year before.

Usually, Kate had no trouble keeping her attention focused on Beryl’s current fiction, especially when it was as gripping as this ghost story. But she was distracted this morning by a group of students who were being instructed, just outside her window, in the fine art of pruning rose bushes. She was watching them and thinking with satisfaction that they were an attentive and diligent group, when she was interrupted by a knock at the library door.

“Come in,” she called, and Mrs. Bryan entered. She was dressed in her matron’s uniform of neat gray dress and white smock, and her brown hair was twisted up at the back of her head. She carried a sheaf of papers, the report that she made each Monday morning on the activities of the school. But she was not smiling.

“Good morning, your ladyship,” she said gloomily.