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“Yes.”

“And he shot himself ten days after Charis’s death, am I correct?”

“Yes. He was so distraught over Charis—”

“Then the only witnesses to this compromising, other than my client, are dead—your daughter and your husband. Is that correct?”

Lady Mostyn looked to her counsel.

“Is that correct, Lady Mostyn?” pressed Sir William. “Were any servants present?” he asked.

“N-no. There were no servants present. To my knowledge, only my husband and my daughter.”

“I see. My lords, I suggest to you that you consider several points here in this case: firstly, that there is no independent eyewitness to the events purported to have occurred. Secondly, that the young lady in question behaved with unbecoming boldness as witnessed by Lords Barrington and Revesby, with the connivance and positive encouragement of her parents, to entrap my client who is—or rather was, until recently—one of London’s most eligible bachelors. And Lord Ravenshaw is a wealthy man. This may seem irrelevant to the case until it is revealed that at the time these heinous events took place, Lord Mostyn was in serious debt.” He paused to let this sink in with his audience, who were all riveted to his discourse.

Lady Mostyn whimpered at this and wiped her eyes.

Tindal rose and said, “There is one more point I would like to make in closing out the case for the prosecution, my lords. I wish to apprise you of facts that have come to light recently in relation to the present Marquess of Ravenshaw’s mother—” Jerome heard this with alarm, his heart rate increasing and a sweat breaking out on his forehead.

“How is this relevant to the case?” asked Sir William.

“If you will allow me a moment, I will explain,” returned Tindal with a supercilious air. “The late Marchioness of Ravenshaw was prone to ill health. And—strange fancies.”

“I repeat of what relevance—”

“If you will allow me to continue!” Tindal said with some asperity. “Her Ladyship’s condition was a sad trial to her husband. On several occasions he contemplated having her committed to an institution where her condition could be treated.” Jerome’s hands clenched on the arms of his chair, wondering wildly where this was going. “But his compassion for his wife stayed his hand.” Tindal paused. “It is a well-known fact that the marchioness fell to her death from the balcony of her bedchamber window at the height of a terrible storm. It should also be noted that it was a full moon that night. The coroner gave a verdict of accidental death under the, ah—persuasion of the former marquess. in order that the lady could be buried in hallowed ground.”

Sir William Garrow slapped his hand upon the table and said loudly, “If my friend at the bar could get to the point of his peroration, perhaps we could see the relevance of this piece of hearsay to the case at hand?” A quite murmur went round the room.

“It is not hearsay, Sir William.” He produced a slender leatherbound book and held it aloft. “This is the late marchioness’s diary. A perusal of it will make it quite clear that Lady Ravenshaw suffered from delusions, that she was subject to fits of melancholy, and that she had persuaded herself that her husband was an evil man bent upon her destruction. In short, Lady Ravenshaw was mad. And it was only her husband’s kindness and forbearance that stood between her and Bedlam.”

Jerome clenched his teeth and looked at Sir William, who was frowning at Tindal in bewilderment.

“I shall quote a short passage,” continued Tindal, perching his glasses upon his nose and opening the volume to a marked page. He cleared his throat and began to read. “Gareth means to have me locked up. The laudanum brings me no relief from my nightmares. I cannot go on.”

He looked up from the page and lowered the book, removing his spectacles. “That entry was dated the very day that Lady Ravenshaw took her own life by flinging herself from the balcony of her bedchamber. The woman committed self murder. She was therefore, by definition, insane.”

He looked across at Jerome and said calmly, “It is a well-known fact that insanity is hereditary. I ask you gentlemen to consider that the marquess may be subject to the same illness of the mind as his mother. After all, not so long ago he was found asleep under a tree in Hyde Park. And a witness saw him the previous night hugging that tree. Is that the behavior of a sane man? I put it to you, gentlemen, it was that illness that caused him to be so lost to honor as to refuse to do right by Miss Dunsenay and to subsequently push her into the sea. The man is a murderer. There is no question of that. The only real question is: Was he of sound mind when he did it?”

The effect of this on the house was electric, a loud buzz springing up. Jerome sat stunned. How had Tindal come by his mother’s diary? Could he be right? Had he been wrong in his assumptions that it was his father’s hand that killed his mother? Could she indeed have jumped? He had not been home at all that year, choosing to stay at school rather than come home in the holidays. He was dizzy with the possibility, as his life appeared to be unraveling in front of him.