‘As I’ve said, Mr Jessop, there is the will to act, yes, but there is this form of mental derangement laid over it. Think of the moment between sleep and waking, when it is difficult for the mind to be conscious of its own condition or even the condition or location of the body. It is a form of derangement close to that, save that it can last for hours.’

‘Sleepwalking!’ Jessop throws up his hands, spins around to the jury benches. ‘My friend makes a circus of this court.’

You jump up, palms flat on the table. ‘My Lord, were I permitted, I’d argue that my client’s state amounted as a matter of law to non-insane automatism. It might be novel, but isn’t that how the law develops? By looking for advances, by building on foundations –’

‘Mr Pettigrew.’ The judge pinches his lips together. ‘You are sneaking argument in through the back door again.’

‘Nor can he cut his cake both ways, My Lord,’ Jessop cries out. ‘Does the prisoner say she didn’t do this terrible thing? Or that she did it while sleepwalking? The sleepwalking defence kills her denial dead.’ He wags his lip, pleased as a cat with the warm squirm of feathers on his tongue.

Chapter Forty-Four

After Dr Lushing, Pru, dear Pru, comes and gives me a character. But it seems too little, too late, my head now teeming with the same dreadful image that’s no doubt filling all their heads. The butchering maid, the mistress dying in her bed. But I try for a smile, for Pru has been a friend, and a true blessing. This may be all the thanks I can ever give her. Her own smile thins, like something mixed in water, no doubt thinking of Madame, as I am. She says her kind words about me, a soothing balm, and then I lose her to the crowd. The second morning draws to a close, the judge breaks for lunch, and then the afternoon is upon us. And I am next to speak.

The prisoner is never permitted to take the oath, which is one of the many ways they tell us what we’re worth. But I find myself thinking it’s a good thing I’m not permitted to swear to it. I stare around the courtroom. Faces on top of faces, pressing as if against glass, layered like a grim cake. Sucked cheeks and slanted brows. A shot of panic, hot and swift as laudanum. How can I speak here? Who will listen? Who will believe me? I lean forward. ‘Sirs.’ My own voice booms back at me off the sounding board.

‘I was faithful to my lady, and happy to serve her. When I came back to Levenhall, it was because she sent for me herself. She was not well . . . and I . . . came back to nurse her. I loved my mistress. I couldn’t have done what you say I’ve done because I loved her.’