The butler opened the door. Margaret was waiting for him in the withdrawing room. She was standing in the middle of the floor, as if she had heard him come and had risen to her feet. She looked tired. There were signs of strain in her face, and she was definitely pale, but her eyes were bright. As soon as he had closed the door behind him, she came to him quickly, putting her arms around him and kissing him on the cheek, and then the mouth.

Then she pulled away quickly. “We’re going to win, aren’t we? I can see it in the jurors’ faces. They’ll acquit him.” She closed her eyes. “Thank God for that.”

He held her tightly. “We’re not there yet, but yes, I think they’ll acquit.”

She opened her eyes again.

“They have to know that he didn’t kill that wretched man, not just that Monk can’t prove it.”

“It isn’t Monk, Margaret. It’s—”

“Yes, it is!” she responded vehemently. “Monk is the one who arrested him and brought the charge. I know he doesn’t run the prosecution in court because he isn’t a lawyer, but he’s behind it, and everyone knows that. Don’t quibble! You have to have them know it was somebody else, probably Rupert Cardew. They aren’t bringing that girl to say she stole his cravat, are they!”

“No, of course not. They can’t. She’s dead.” He watched her face, afraid of what he would see in it.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said quietly. “But I’m afraid prostitutes come to a bad end quite often. And she lied. I don’t know why. Maybe he threatened her. But it doesn’t matter now. You have to make sure the jury understands that she was killed, almost certainly by Rupert Cardew. That’s a good thing, for the case. Then they’ll really know Papa was innocent.”

“Do you hear what you are saying, Margaret?” he asked, pushing her a little farther from him, looking into her face. He saw the fear there, tightly controlled, the fierce protection, the urgency. There was no awareness at all that she had said anything to cast a shadow over her integrity.

“That justice will be done, and we’ll be safe again,” she replied.

Should he argue? Was there any point, or would she only be angry, and then push a further wedge between them? He knew he should not say it, and yet the words slipped out of his mouth: “Don’t you care that she’s dead, perhaps murdered?”