"No, but I was responsible for Melville," Oliver answered. "I was very personally and directly responsible. If she had believed she could trust me, then she would have told me the truth. We could have told Zillah Lambert, at least, and she would probably have respected the confidence, for her own sake if not for Melville's. Then there need never have been a case and Melville would still be alive ... possibly even practicing her profession."

"Perhaps," Henry agreed. "Is that what is troubling you?"

"I suppose so."

"Didn't you ask her, press her for the truth?"

"Yes, of course I did! Obviously she didn't trust me."

"What was to prevent her trusting Zillah Lambert, regardless of you?"

"Well... nothing, I suppose."

"But years of rejection," Henry concluded. "Years of lying and concealing. You cannot know everything that went before which made her what she was." He reached for his tobacco and pulled out a few shreds between his fingers and thumb, pushing them into the bowl of his pipe. "Perhaps you were unimaginative not to have guessed, perhaps not. Either way, there is nothing you can do now except cripple yourself with remorse. That will serve no one. It is self-indulgent... and perhaps you need a little indulgence, but do not let it persist for too long. It can become a habit—and an excuse."

"My God, you're a harsh judge," Oliver said, jerking his head up to glare at his father.

Henry struck a match and lit his pipe. It went out again immediately. His mouth softened, but there was no equivocation in his mild blue eyes.

"Do you want to be invalided out?"

"No, of course I don't. And I'd like a glass of sherry. Actually, I left before I drank more than a sip of the port."

"It's behind you." Henry made another attempt at lighting his pipe.

The following morning a little before noon Rathbone was in his offices in Vere Street when his clerk told him the police surgeon had called with information.

"Ask him in," Rathbone said immediately.

The surgeon came in, looking grave.

"Well?" Rathbone asked as soon as the barest formalities were over.

"Definitely belladonna," the surgeon replied, sitting down in the chair opposite the desk. "Not very surprising. Easy to come by." He stopped.

"But..." Rathbone prompted, sitting a little straighter.

The surgeon bit his lips, his eyes narrowing. "But the thing that I find hard to understand, and which brings me back to you rather than merely sending you a report, is that from the amount she took, and the time she died, she must have taken it while she was still in the courthouse." He drew his brows together. "Which can only mean she had it with her, presumably against such an eventuality as ... what? What happened that afternoon that suddenly became unbearable?"