Enid turned to him, her expression a mixture of anguish and almost an expectation of hurt, as if she already knew he would reject such intimacy, yet she could not help offering herself. She put her hand on his arm. Even from where Rathbone stood, he could see how thin her fingers were. It was only three and a half weeks since she had passed the crisis of her illness.

Ravensbrook remained frozen, as if he was not even aware of her.

There was silence in the room.

Rathbone looked again at Selina.

“Miss Herries, when did you see Caleb again? Consider your answer very carefully. An error in judgment now could cost you very dearly.”

Ebenezer Goode half rose to his feet, then decided an objection would achieve nothing. The question had been too carefully worded to be considered a threat. He sank back.

In the crowd someone dropped an umbrella, rustled for an instant, then left it where it lay.

“Miss Herries?”

Selina stared at Rathbone and he remained fixed on her gaze, as if he could see into her brain, read her fears and weigh them one against another. The judge moved his hands, then refolded them.

“Next day,” Selina said almost inaudibly.

“Did he mention Angus?”

“No . . .” Her voice was a whisper.

“Will you please speak so we may hear you, Miss Herries?” the judge directed.

“No.”

“Not at all?” Rathbone pressed.

` No.

“He didn't say that he had met him?”

` No.”

“And you didn't ask?” Rathbone allowed his eyebrows to shoot up. “Did you not care? You surprise me. Was it not the money for the rent of your home which Angus was to bring? Surely that was a matter of the utmost importance to you?”

“I took the message,” she said flatly. “Wot else weren't up ter me ter ask.”

“And he didn't tell you? Reassure you, for example? How boorish. Perhaps he was in too foul a temper.”

This time Ebenezer Goode did rise.

“My lord, my learned friend is making suggestions for which he has had no grounds, and they are the merest speculation . . . .”

“Yes, yes,” the judge agreed. “Mr. Rathbone, please do not lead your witness with such remarks. You know better than that. Ask your question and have done.”

“My lord. Miss Herries, was Caleb in a bad temper when you saw him again?”

“No.”

“Just a little hurt?”

“Hurt?” she said suspiciously.

“Stiff! Bruised?”

“Yeah, well . . .” She hesitated, weighing how far she dare lie. Her glance slid once towards Caleb, then quickly away again. She was frightened, weighing one danger against another.

Rathbone was sorry for her, but he could not relent. There were facets of his professional skills he did not enjoy.

It would be overdoing it to draw the jury's attention to her dilemma. They had seen Caleb's face. They knew her position. Better to allow them to deduce it than to patronize them, risk having them think he was too eager.