Henry regarded him gravely, all the humor gone from his eyes. "Very little," he said quietly. "But emotion will not win for you, Oliver. It is an excellent driving force, the best, and it will keep your courage high. Anger at injustice has righted more wrongs than most other things, and it is one of the great creative forces in a civilized society." He shook his head. "But in order not to replace one enemy with another, albeit innocently intended, you must use your intelligence. You told me that you are certain that both Mrs. Anderson and Mrs. Gardiner are lying to you. You cannot go into court without knowing at least what the lie is—and why they are telling it at the risk of their own deaths. The reason must be a very powerful one indeed."

"I know that," Oliver agreed. "And I have racked my brain to think what it could be."

"Is it the same reason for each?"

"I don’t even know that."

Henry sat thoughtfully, elbows on the arms of his chair, fingers steepled together. "I assume that you warned each of them that not only her own life, but the life of the other, rests upon the verdict. Therefore they each have a compelling reason for not telling you the truth. From what you say it seems possible that Mrs. Anderson does not know it, but certainly Mrs. Gardiner does. Why would a woman hang for a crime she did not commit?" He looked very steadily at Oliver. "Only because the alternative to her is worse."

"What could be worse than hanging?" Oliver asked.

"I don’t know. That is what you must find out."

"The hanging of someone you love..." Oliver said, as much to himself as to Henry.

"Is Lucius Stourbridge guilty?" Henry asked him.

"I don’t know," Oliver replied. "I don’t know why he could kill either Treadwell or his own mother."

"Treadwell is easier," Henry said thoughtfully. "The man may have threatened Mrs. Gardiner, or threatened the marriage, either through Mrs. Anderson or in some other way. He was a blackmailer. Much is possible. It is far more difficult to think of any motive for Lucius to have killed his mother."

"I’ve searched for one," Oliver admitted. "I’ve found nothing."

"It would be extraordinary if the two murders were not connected," Henry pursued, drawing his brows together. "What elements do they have in common?"

"Treadwell himself, and Miriam Gardiner," Oliver replied, "and the nature of the attacks."

"And the unknown," Henry added. "One must always include the possibility of a factor we have not considered, perhaps something outside our knowledge entirely. From what you have told me so far, it seems this may be the case here. Proceed with logic, eliminate what is impossible, and then examine what is left, no matter how ugly it may be. I have a feeling, Oliver, that this case may stretch your compassion to its limits and require more of you than you had thought to give. I am sorry. I appreciate that this is not easy for you, especially considering Hester’s involvement in it."