The Twisted Root

standing, and of course men. It had never been possible he could have had people who would identify with Miriam or Cleo. So much for a jury of one’s peers.
    In the afternoon, Tobias quietly and with dignity declined to call Lucius Stourbridge to the stand. It was an ordeal he did not need to inflict upon a young man already wounded almost beyond bearing.
    The jury nodded in respect. They would not have forgiven it of him if he had. Rathbone would have done the same, and for the same reasons.
    Tobias called the last witness, Aiden Campbell. His evidence was given quietly, with restraint and candor.
    "Yes, she had great charm," he said sadly. "I believe everyone in the household liked her."
    "Including your sister, Mrs. Stourbridge?"
    The question remained unanswered.
    Campbell looked very pale. His skin was bleached of color, and there were shadows like bruises under his eyes. He stood straight in the witness stand, but he was shaking very slightly, and every now and again he had to stop and clear his throat. It was apparent to everyone in the courtroom that he was a man laboring under profound emotion and close to losing control of himself.
    Tobias apologized again and again for obliging him to relive experiences which had to be deeply distressing for him.
    "I understand," Campbell said, biting his lip. "Justice requires that we follow this to its bitter end. I trust you will do it as speedily as you may."
    "Of course," Tobias agreed. "May we proceed to the days immediately leading to your sister’s death?"
    Campbell told them in as few words as possible, without raising his voice, of Miriam’s last visit to Cleveland Square after her release from custody and from the charge of having murdered Treadwell. According to him, she was in a state of shock so deep she hardly came out of her room, and when she did she seemed almost to be in a trance. She was civil, but no more. She avoided Lucius as much as possible, not even allowing him to comfort her over her fearful distress on Cleo Anderson’s account.
    "She was devoted to Mrs. Anderson?" Tobias stressed.
    "Yes." There was no expression in Campbell’s face except sadness. "It is natural enough. Mrs. Anderson had apparently raised her as a daughter since she was twelve or thirteen. She would be an ungrateful creature not to have been. We respected it in her."
    "Of course," Tobias agreed, nodding. "Please continue."
    Reluctantly, Campbell did so, describing the dinner that evening, the conversation over the table about Egypt, their returning and each going about their separate pursuits.
    "And Mrs. Gardiner did not dine with you?"
    "No."
    "Tell us, Mr. Campbell, did your sister say anything to you, that evening or earlier, about her feelings regarding the murder of Treadwell and the accusation against Mrs. Gardiner?"
    Rathbone rose to object, but he had no legal grounds— indeed, no moral grounds either. He was obliged to sit down again in silence.
    Campbell shook his head. "If you are asking if I know what happened, or why, no, I do not. Verona was distressed about something. She was certainly not herself. Any of the servants will testify to that."
    Indeed, they already had, although, of course, Campbell had not been in court at the time, since he had not yet appeared himself.
    "I believe she had discovered something ..." His voice grew thick, emotion all but choking him. "It is my personal belief, although I know nothing to support it, that before she died, she knew who had killed Treadwell, and exactly why. I think that is why she returned alone to her room, in order to consider what she should do about it." He closed his eyes. "It was a fatal decision. I wish to God she had not made it."
    He had said very little really. He had brought out no new facts, and he had certainly not accused anyone, and yet his testimony was damning. Rathbone could see it in the jurors’ faces.
    There was no purpose in Rathbone’s questioning Campbell. There was nothing for him to say, nothing to elaborate, nothing to challenge. It was Friday evening. He had two days in which to create some kind of defense, and nothing whatever with which to do it—unless Monk found something. And there was no word from him.
    When the court rose he considered pleading with Miriam one more time, and abandoned the idea. It would serve no purpose. Whatever the truth was, she had already convinced him that she would go to the gallows rather than tell it.
    Instead, he went out into the September