"Were you right in your treatment?" he asked, picking up his hat and opening the door for her.
"Yes, it seemed so."
"Then you are correct, it was unforgivable." He led the way out of the offices into the icy street. He walked on the outside of the pavement, guiding her along the street, across the corner, dodging the traffic and the crossing sweeper, and at the far side, into the entrance of a fine coaching inn built in the high day when post coaches were the only way of travel from one city to another, before the coming of the steam railway.
The inside was beautifully appointed, and she would have been interested to take greater notice of pictures, notices, the copper and pewter plates and the post horns, had there been more time. The patrons also caught her attention, well-to-do men of business, rosy faced, well clothed against the winter chill, and most of all in obvious good spirits.
But Rathbone was welcomed by the host the moment they were through the door, and was immediately offered a table advantageously placed in a good corner and advised as to the specialty dishes of the day.
He consulted Hester as to her preference, then ordered, and the host himself set about seeing that only the best was provided. Rathbone accepted it as if it were pleasing, but no more than was his custom. He was gracious in his manner, but kept the appropriate distance between gentleman and innkeeper.
Over the meal, which was neither luncheon nor dinner, but was excellent, she told him the rest of the case in Queen Anne Street, so far as she knew it, including Myles Kellard's attested rape of Martha Rivett and her subsequent dismissal, and more interestingly, her opinion of Beatrice's emotions, her fear, which was obviously not removed by Percival's arrest, and Septimus's remarks that Octavia had said she heard something the afternoon before her death which was shocking and distressing, but of which she still lacked any proof.
She also told him of John Airdrie, Dr. Pomeroy and the loxa quinine.
By that time she had used an hour and a half of his time and he had used twenty-five minutes of hers, but she forgot to count it until she woke in the night in her room in Queen Anne Street.
"What do you advise me?" she said seriously, leaning a little across the table. "What can be done to prevent Percival being convicted without proper proof?"
"You have not said who is to defend him," he replied with equal gravity.
"I don't know. He has no money."
"Naturally. If he had he would be suspect for that alone." He smiled with a harsh twist. "I do occasionally take cases without payment, Miss Latterly, in the public good.'' His smile broadened. "And recoup by charging exorbitantly next time I am employed by someone who can afford it. I will inquire into it and do what I can, give you my word."
"I am very obliged to you," she said, smiling in return. "Now would you be kind enough to tell me what I owe you for your counsel?"
"We agreed upon half a guinea, Miss Latterly."
She opened her reticule and produced a gold half guinea, the last she had left, and offered it to him.
He took it with courteous thanks and slid it into his pocket.
He rose, pulled her chair out for her, and she left the coaching inn with an intense feeling of satisfaction quite unwarranted by the circumstances, and sailed out into the street for him to hail her a hansom and direct it back to Queen Anne Street.
The trial of Percival Garrod commenced in mid-January 1857, and since Beatrice Moidore was still suffering occasional moods of deep distress and anxiety, Hester was not yet released from caring for her. She complied with this arrangement eagerly, because she had not yet found other means of earning her living, but more importantly because it meant she could remain in the house at Queen Anne Street and observe the Moidore family. Not that she was aware of having learned anything helpful, but she never lost hope.
The whole family attended the trial at the Old Bailey. Basil had wished the women to remain at home and give their evidence in writing, but Araminta refused to consider obedience to such an instruction, and on the rare occasions when she and Basil clashed, it was she who prevailed. Beatrice did not confront him on the issue; she simply dressed in quiet, unadorned black, heavily veiled, and gave Robert instructions to fetch her carriage. Hester offered to go with her as a matter of service, and was delighted when the offer was accepted.
Fenella Sandeman laughed at the very idea that she should forgo such a marvelously dramatic occasion, and swept out of the room, a little high on alcohol, wearing a long black silk kerchief and flinging it in the air with one white arm, delicately mittened in black lace.
Basil swore, but it was to no avail whatever. If she even heard him, it passed over her head harmlessly.
Romola refused to be the only one left at home, and no one bothered to argue with her.
The courtroom was crammed with spectators, and since this time Hester was not required to give any evidence, she was able to sit in the public gallery throughout.
The prosecution was conducted by a Mr. F. J. O'Hare, a flamboyant gentleman who had made his name in a few sensational cases-and many less publicized ones which had earned him a great deal of money. He was well respected by his professional peers and adored by the public, who were entertained and impressed by his quiet, intense manner and sudden explosions into drama. He was of average height but stocky build, short neck and fine silver hair, heavily waved. Had he permitted it to be longer it would have been a leonine mane, but he apparently preferred to appear sleek. He had a musical lilt to his voice which Hester could not place, and the slightest of lisps.
Percival was defended by Oliver Rathbone, and as soon as she saw him Hester felt a wild, singing hope inside her like a bird rising on the wind. It was not only that justice might be done after all, but that Rathbone had been prepared to fight, simply for the cause, not for its reward.
The first witness called was the upstairs maid, Annie, who had found Octavia Haslett's body. She looked very sober, dressed in her best off-duty blue stuff dress and a bonnet that hid her hair and made her look curiously younger, both aggressive and vulnerable at the same time.
Percival stood in the dock, upright and staring in front of
him. He might lack humility, compassion or honor, but he was not without courage. He looked smaller than Hester remembered him, narrower across the shoulders and not as tall. But then he was motionless; the swagger that was part of him could not be used, nor the vitality. He was helpless to fight back. It was all in Rathbone's hands now.
The doctor was called next, and gave his evidence briefly. Octavia Haslett had been stabbed to death during the night, with not more than two blows to the lower chest, beneath the ribs.
The third witness was William Monk, and his evidence lasted the rest of the morning and all the afternoon. He was abrasive, sarcastic, and punctiliously accurate, refiising to draw even the most obvious conclusions from anything.
F. J. O'Hare was patient to begin with and scrupulously polite, waiting his chance to score a deciding thrust. It did not come until close to the end, when he was passed a note by his junior, apparently reminding him of the Grey case.
"It would seem to me, Mr. Monk-it is Mr. now, not Inspector, is that so?" His lisp was very slight indeed.
"It is so," Monk conceded without a flicker of expression.
“It would seem to me, Mr. Monk, that from your testimony you do not consider Percival Garrod to be guilty."
"Is that a question, Mr. O'Hare?"
"It is, Mr. Monk, indeed it is!"
"I do not consider it to be proved by the evidence to hand so far," Monk replied. "That is not the same thing."
“Is it materially different, Mr. Monk? Correct me if I am in error, but were you not sincerely unwilling to convict the offender in your last case as well? One Menard Grey, as I recall!"