"I can’t stop them, Mrs. Anderson," he said gently, startled by the respect in his own voice. "And they’ll know anyway when it comes to trial. That is perhaps the only good thing about this whole affair. All London will hear of the plight of our old people to whom we owe so much—and choose not to pay. We may even hope that a few will take up the fight to have things changed."

She looked at him, hope and denial struggling in her face. She shook her head, pushing the thought away and yet unable to let go completely.

"D’you think so?"

"It is worth fighting for." He smiled very slightly. "But my first battle is for you. How long have you been paying Treadwell, and how much?"

Her voice hardened, and the pity vanished from her eyes. "Five years—an’ I paid him all I had, except a couple of shillings to live on."

Rathbone felt a tightening around his heart.

"And he asked you for more the night of his death. How much?"

Her voice sank to a whisper. She hesitated a moment before answering at all. "1 never saw him the night he died. That’s God’s truth."

He asked the question whose answer he did not want to hear and possibly he would not believe.

"Do you know who did?"

She answered instantly, her voice hard. "No, I don’t! Miriam told me nothing, except it wasn’t her. But she was in a terrible state, frightened half out of her mind an’ like the whole world had ended for her." She leaned towards him, half put out her hand, then took it back, not because the emotion or the urgency was any less, simply that she dared not touch him. "Never mind about me, Mr. Rathbone. I took the medicines. You can’t help me. But help Miriam, please! That’s what I want. If you’re my lawyer, like you said, you’ll speak up for her. She never killed him. I know her—I raised her since she was thirteen. She’s got a good heart an’ she never deliberately hurt anyone, but somebody’s hurt her so bad she’s all but dead inside. Help her—please! I’d go to the rope happy if I knew she was all right...."

He met her eyes and felt his throat choke. He believed her. It was a wild statement. She might have no real conception of what it would be like when the moment came, when the judge put on his black cap, and later when she was alone in the end, walking the short corridor towards the trap in the floor, and the short drop. Then it would be too late. But he still believed her. She had seen much death. There could be little of loneliness or pain that she was not familiar with.

"Mrs. Anderson, I am not sure there is anything I can do, but I promise I will not secure any leniency—or indeed, any defense—for you at Miriam Gardiner’s expense. And I will certainly do all I can to secure her acquittal, if she wishes it, and you do—"