“Is that your defense?” Juster said loudly. “You appear to be summing up.”

“No, it is not!” Gleave retorted. “Although I hardly need more. But have your witness back, by all means.”

“Not a great deal to say,” Juster observed, taking his place. “Mr. Pitt, when you first questioned the housemaid, was she certain about the scratch on the billiard room door?”

“Absolutely.”

“So something has caused her to change her mind since then?”

Pitt licked his lips. “Yes.”

“I wonder what that could be?” Juster shrugged, then moved on quickly. “And the butler was certain that the library chair had been moved?”

“Yes.”

“Has he since changed his mind?” Juster spread his hands in the air. “Oh, of course you don’t know. Well, he hasn’t. The boot-boy is also quite certain he cleaned his master’s boots sufficiently thoroughly that there were no tufts or threads caught in them from the center of the carpet or the fringes.” He looked as if he had suddenly had an idea. “By the way, was the piece you found a thread from the fringe or a piece of soft fluff, as from the pile?”

“Soft fluff, of the color from the center,” Pitt replied.

“Just so. We have seen the shoes, but not the carpet.” He smiled. “Impractical, I suppose. Nor can we see the library shelves with their mismatched books.” He looked puzzled. “Why would a traveler and an antiquarian, interested most especially in Troy, its legends, its magic, its ruins that lie at the very core of our heritage, place three of its most vivid books on a shelf where he is obliged to climb steps to reach them? And obviously he did want them, or why would he have incurred his own death climbing up for them?” He lifted his shoulders dramatically. “Except, of course, that he didn’t!”

That evening Pitt found it impossible to settle. He walked around his garden, pulling the odd weed, noticing the flowers in bloom and those in bud, the new leaves on the trees. Nothing held his attention.

Charlotte came out beside him, her face worried, the late sunlight making a halo around her hair, catching the auburn in it. The children were in bed and the house was quiet. The air was already growing chilly.

He turned and smiled at her. There was no need to explain. She had followed the case from the first days and knew why he was anxious, even if she had no idea of the foreboding he felt now. He had not told her how serious it could be if Adinett were found not guilty because the jury believed Pitt was incompetent and driven by personal emotions, creating a case out of nothing in order to satisfy some ambition or prejudice of his own.

They spoke of other things, trivia, and walked slowly the length of the lawn and back again. What they said did not matter, it was the warmth of her beside him he valued, the fact that she was there and did not press with questions or allow her own fears to show.

The following day Cleave began his defense. He had already done all he could to dismiss the evidence of Dr. Ibbs, of the various servants who had seen the tiny changes Pitt had spoken of, and of the man in the street who had observed someone roughly answering Adinett’s description going into the side gate of Fetters’s house. Now he called witnesses to the character of John Adinett. He had no shortage from which to choose, and he allowed the whole courtroom to know it. He paraded them one after another. They were drawn from many walks of life: social, military, political, even one from the church.

The last of them, the Honorable Lyall Birkett, was typical. He was slender, fair-haired, with an intelligent, aristocratic face and a quiet manner. Even before he spoke he impressed a certain authority upon his opinions. He had no doubt whatever that Adinett was innocent, a good man caught in a web of intrigue and misfortune.

Since he had given his evidence, Pitt was now permitted to remain in the court, and since he was in command of the Bow Street station he was not answerable to anyone else to return to it. He chose to hear the rest of the trial from a place on the benches.

“Twelve years,” Birkett said in answer to Cleave’s question as to how long he had been acquainted with Adinett. “We met at the services Club. You can usually be pretty sure of who you meet there.” He smiled very slightly. It was not a nervous smile, not ingratiating, certainly not humorous, merely a gesture of good nature. “Small world, you see? Field of battle tests men. You get to know pretty quickly who’s got the mettle, who you can rely on when there’s anything to lose. Ask around a bit and you’ll run into someone who knows your man.”

“I think we can all understand that,” Cleave said expansively. He too smiled, at the jury. “Nothing better tests a man’s true worth, his courage, his loyalty and his honor in battle than the threat to his own life, or perhaps something worse, the fear of maiming without death, of being left crippled and in permanent pain.” An expression of great grief filled his face. He turned slowly so the gallery as well as the jurors might see it. “And did you hear anything ill of John Adinett among all your fellows at the Services Club, Mr. Birkett? Anything at all?”

“Not a word.” Birkett still treated the matter lightly. There was no amazement or emphasis in his voice. To him this seemed all a rather silly mistake which was going to be cleared up within a day or two, possibly less.

“But they did know Mr. Adinett?” Cleave pressed.

“Oh, yes, of course. He had served with particular distinction in Canada. Something to do with the Hudson Bay Company and a rebellion of some sort inland. Actually, Fraser told me about it. Said Adinett was more or less co-opted in because of his courage and his knowledge of the area. Vast wilderness, you know?” He raised fair eyebrows. “Yes, of course you know. Up in the Thunder Bay direction. No use for a man unless he has imagination, endurance, utter loyalty, intelligence and courage beyond limit.”

Cleave nodded. “How about honesty?”

Birkett looked surprised at last. His eyes widened. “One takes that for granted, sir. There is no place whatever for a man who is not honest. Anyone may be mistaken in one way or another, but a lie is inexcusable.”

“And loyalty to one’s friends, one’s fellows?” Cleave tried to look as if the question were casual and he did not know the answer. But he was in no danger of overplaying his hand. No one else in the room, except Juster, Pitt, and the judge, was sophisticated enough in courtroom histrionics to be aware of his tactics.

“Loyalty is more precious than life,” Birkett said simply. “I would trust John Adinett with all I possess-my home, my land, my wife, my honor-and have not a moment’s concern that I stood in danger of losing any of it.”

Cleave was pleased with himself, as well he might be. The jury were regarding Birkett with admiration, and several of them had looked up at Adinett squarely for the first time. He was winning, and he tasted it already.

Pitt glanced at the jury foreman and saw him frown.

“Did you know Mr. Fetters, by any chance?” Cleave enquired conversationally, turning back to the witness.

“Slightly.” Birkett’s face darkened and a look of sadness came into it that was so sharp no one could question its reality. “A fine man. It is a bitter irony that he should travel the world in search of the ancient and beautiful in order to uncover the glories of the past, and slip to his death in his own library.” He let out his breath silently. “I’ve read his papers on Troy. Opened up a new world for me, I admit. Never thought it so… immediate, before. I daresay travel and a passionate interest in the richness of other cultures were what drew Fetters and Adinett together.”