“Did you consider your husband to be in good health when you married him, my lady?”

“The Earl was a vigourous man of excellent aspect.” Isobel spoke in so low an accent as to be almost inaudible. “I anticipated a long and fruitful life in his company.” Her eyes drifted to where Fitzroy Payne sat, splendidly elegant in dark coat and breeches; I saw him smile encouragement, and hoped that the jury did not observe the exchange.

“Though he was a gentleman some” — at this, Mr. Bott peered narrowly at a paper before his nose — ”six-and-twenty years your senior?”

“Married him for his fortune, she did,” came another voice from behind me.

Tom Hearst started to his feet and looked about the room, his indignation on his face. To my relief, I saw his brother George reach a restraining hand to his elbow, and with unconcealed reluctance the Lieutenant regained his seat.

“Silence!” Sir William Reynolds bellowed, his aspect furious. The muttering died away, and the coroner returned to Isobel. “Pray reply to the question, my lady.”

Isobel drew breath. She looked down at her clasped hands. “My husband's energy was high and his appearance youthful, despite his years. I did not anticipate his passing so soon.”

Mr. Bott sniffed, and peered at Isobel with sharp eyes. “Do you recall, my lady,” he said slowly, “what the late Earl of Scargrave consumed the evening of his death?”

“He partook of the repast laid for the ball, as did all our guests. It included such victuals as roast beef, a variety of vegetables, roast goose and pudding, pasties and oysters; for drink we had a spiced mulled punch and claret.” At this, my friend sought my eyes, her own filled with doubt. “I cannot think what else.”

“And how many guests did you entertain that evening, my lady?”

“Some hundred from London and the surrounding country.”

Mr. Bott paused before the next question, and looked significantly at the jury. “And you will swear, my lady, that all partook of the same food as the Earl?”

“I must believe it to be probable,” Isobel replied. “I myself was handed a dish by my husband; and that he had fetched mine in the same span as fetching his own, I know to be true.”

“And did your husband betray any sign of indisposition while the ball held sway?”

The Countess hesitated, and Mr. Bott leaned forward expectantly. “He was in excellent form and spirits for some hours,” Isobel told him, “but was overcome after midnight by severe dyspepsia, having drunk down a glass of claret in toasting my health.” Her voice faltered, and I keenly felt all her distress. “We bore him to his rooms. I bade our guests farewell.”

Fanny Delahoussaye's attention was clearly wandering, like a child's in the midst of the vicar's lengthy sermon; her blond head drifted around the room, seeking an object worthy of her interest, until recalled to dignity by a pinch from her mother.

“And did his lordship then request anything further?” Mr. Bott continued.

“He asked for a milk toddy and sweetmeats, in hopes that it might settle his stomach.”

The coroner fairly pounced. “Did you partake of either my lady?”

“I did not, sir.”

“Did any in the household?”

“I do not believe so.”

Fitzroy Payne's brows were knit in perturbation. As I gazed at the Earl, Tom Hearst leaned towards him and whispered something in his ear. Beyond them sat Mr. George Hearst, so clearly absorbed in his own thoughts that he must have heard little of what passed before him. He might better have escorted restive Fanny back to the Manor, since neither was engaged by the proceedings.

Mr. Bott's dry voice demanded my attention. “And who, my lady, assembled the plate of sweetmeats?”

“The plate and toddy were brought to my husband by my late maid, Marguerite.”

“Were you within the room at this time, my lady?”

“I was, sir, attending to my husband's comfort.”

“And was anyone else of the household permitted into your presence?”

“All but the maid had sought their beds.”

“Indeed. The maid, your ladyship says.” Mr. Bott looked to his jury with a barely perceptible nod. “And did Lord Scargrave consume his sweetmeats and milk, my lady?”

“He did.”

“And did his condition improve?”

Isobel hesitated, and looked for me.

“Did it improve his condition, Lady Scargrave?”

“It did not,” Isobel said faintly. “Within a very short time, he progressed from pain to vomiting, and his deterioration was swift.”

“How short a time?”

“A quarter-hour, perhaps a half-hour; I could not undertake to say.”

“And when did you send for Dr. Pettigrew?”

“The village surgeon we assayed first, believing the Earl's illness to be of a common nature; but within an hour the man declared himself unfit for the management of his lordship's case. It was then decided that we should send for Dr. Pettigrew.”

The memory of that terrible night overcame me — the Earl's moans banishing sleep from the house, and my own fearful shuddering as I lay alone in the massive mahogany bed, awaiting Isobel's summons.

“What hour of the clock would this have been?”

“I should put it at about half-past one.” Isobel swayed slightly in her chair, and then recovered; but that the strain of public exposure told upon her was evident.

“And Dr. Pettigrew has testified that he arrived before dawn.”

“I believe it was nearly five o'clock. By that time I had roused my dear friend, Miss Austen, who kindly sat vigil with me by his lordship's bedside.”

At this, the coroner's sharp eyes fell upon me, and I blushed — cursing my susceptible cheeks all the while.

“And your husband passed away not long thereafter?”

Isobel dropped her gaze. “He was dead at sunrise.”

A shifting among the chairs of the jury; I studied the twelve men's faces, and read discomfort in their souls. Behind me the assembled townsfolk began to murmur.

Mr. Bott once more took up his mallet, and achieved a disgruntled peace. “I would ask you, Lady Scargrave, whether you recognise the item I am now presenting to you.” He held out a fine scrap of lawn.

“I do,” Isobel said steadily.

“And could you name it for the jury?”

My friend's eyelids fluttered and she drew a shaky breath. “It is a handkerchief of Swiss lawn, embroidered with my initials, and forming one of a dozen purchased with my wedding clothes in Bond Street last August.”

“Thank you, my lady. You may stand down.”

I saw all too clearly what the pinch-faced man at the long table intended; he had shown the jury as plain as day that the Earl had eaten nothing that others had not consumed as well but for the sweetmeats; and that these were administered in his wife's presence only — excepting the maid, who was now dead. Further elucidation was hardly necessary.

Next to be called was Sir William himself; and he described for the jury's edification the anonymous letters, not neglecting to advise them that it was Lady Scargrave herself who had summoned him with news of the first — a point, I thought, that should be taken in Isobel's favour; for had she guilt to hide, surely she should have as soon burnt the note as called the magistrate? The townsfolk at my back knew of the letter nailed to the door of the very tavern in which we sat; but the intelligence of two other threatening notes, received by the Countess and held in secret, fell upon them with all the suddenness of a spring storm.

Mr. Bott made swift work of their startled ejaculations and flurried conversation. His hammer rose and fell. Then he turned to my friend the magistrate, and sniffed audibly. “The first note, Sir William, instructed her ladyship that the second should be sent to you?”

“It did.”

“And when the Countess summoned you to Scargrave the very day of her husband's interment” — how imperious and unfeeling the odious little man made Isobel seem — ”she declared herself convinced that the maid was the author of the letters, and entreated your help?”