"Mrs. Whitmore," he bowed, just far enough to be polite. "I have a few questions to ask you. Your assistance will be greatly appreciated by us."

Eleanor rested her elbow on the chair. "I have nothing to hide, Inspector."

His gaze swept over her with disdain. "I'm told there was a row last night. Shouting. Harsh words uttered."

She tightened her throat. "It was a fight. Every marriage has fights."

"Perhaps. But your husband is dead, poisoned in his own home. The servants claim to have heard more than fight. They heard threats."

"That's a lie," she whispered, though the recollection of her own angry words, Comfort built on debts and lies, burned hot in her ears.

Inspector Hale gestured towards the constables. "Go back to the house and search. I need to see everything from the kitchens up to the lady's rooms. Even the servant's room shouldn't be left out."

"Yes sir," the constables responded.

---

With the sun climbing up through low cloud, Inspector Hale's orders were carried out with the unmerciful severity of a siege.

Navy-clad constables descended upon the estate like carrion birds, boots racing across parquet flooring, mud and contempt in their wake.

"From the kitchens to the lady's rooms," Hale had instructed. "Even the servants' quarters. Sweep no corner."

And they swept none.

Two constables rushed into Henry's study. He had always prohibited anyone from entering and had only allowed Eleanor to enter on more than one occasion. One lifted a decanter into his nostrils, sniffed. "Brandy. A good 'un, too," he growled, setting it down with disdain.

"Search for poison flasks," said the other, rifling through drawer after drawer with the keenness of a boy on Christmas morning.

Eleanor finally rose to her feet. "You won't get anything in this ruin," she said to him, her voice soft but as hard as steel.

But Hale didn't even look back at her. "Truth isn't always where it's supposed to be," he said. "Sometimes it's in wastebaskets and teacups."

Downstairs in the kitchen, war raged in clanging spoons and bitter questioning. The cook, Mrs. Greaves, flushed and indignant, griped at the invasion.

"How is this a good house!" she spat, banging a wooden spoon on the table. "I've worked for the Whitmore's for twelve years and I never—!"

"You heard them shouting, didn't you?" snapped one of the young constables.

"Aye, I heard words. But words aren't knives. She didn't kill him with her tongue."

Clara, the maid, pale-faced and flustered, clutched her hands so hard her knuckles whitened. "They quarrelled," she admitted. "But it is none of our concern, sir—"

"It is now," a voice from the door, unyielding as steel. Hale had a gift for timing his entrances to the most inconvenient moments.

In the servants' passage, trunks were thrown open, bedclothes rumpled, shoes shaken as if poison would spill out like a secret. Eleanor's lady's maid, Margaret, rigid backed as they searched out her sewing case.

"I sewed on Mrs. Whitmore's cuffs yesterday. I know nothing about poison," she said coldly. "Nor does she."

A constable sneered. "How do you know that?"

Margaret's eyes flared. "Because I have eyes. I have ears. And I wait upon her. She is trying, perhaps. But murder? That is not in her nature."

Even loyalty, though, broke down under relentless suspicion. Gossip grew like Mold, the butler had seen something strange, the footman recalled misplaced keys, the maid recalled a bottle she could not account for.

Every witness statement, no matter how ambiguous, was taken down seriously, the truth smearing in the ink.

---

The cell door opened again. Eleanor braced herself for additional constables, additional questioning, additional questions that were intended to pull at the fabric of her existence. But it was Jonathan this time.

Barrister Jonathan, the man who had appeared to come out of nowhere, looming in the doorway like some unlikely saviour. He entered without a word, his presence alone more commanding than the guards who had come before him.

She studied him as he closed the door behind him with deliberate care, his dark eyes scanning the small, grey room before fixing on her. He was the same as before, tall, composed, his black coat impeccable despite the drab surroundings.

“Mrs. Whitmore,” he began, his voice low and measured. “I trust you’ve had some time to think.”

Eleanor nodded, though there was nothing much to consider. What was there to decide? She was accused of murder. Her life, so filled with certainty and privilege, had been stripped down to nothing. What could anyone do for her now?

And so, she said nothing. She had found these days that silence was usually the most honest answer.

Not waiting for her to utter anything, Jonathan sat opposite her, pulling out a stack of papers from his briefcase. They crackled intrusively in the still room. He made no attempt at small talk; he got straight to the issue.

"Tell me again what happened the night Henry died," he said, his eyes as cutting as a scalpel.

Eleanor closed her eyes, the memory rising in a burning wave. She was in the study again, Henry slumped in his chair, the brandy glass beside him, the poison so silent, so invisible. She could still feel the effect of it — the cold, brittle fear that had gripped her heart when she'd found him. The disbelief. The shock.

"There were just the two of us. The servants had left early, and… and we had an argument. Henry had been drinking. I was upset with him."

Jonathan's gaze remained on her, regarding her as though she was a puzzle he hadn't yet solved. "And?"

"We discussed the company, and then… no more."

Jonathan allowed the silence to linger for a moment before saying, "Was anyone else there that night? Anyone out of the ordinary? A servant, maybe?"

"No," Eleanor replied instantly. "No one. Just the two of us."

Jonathan hesitated, his eyes on her with a combination of patience and determination. "Had you noticed anything out of the ordinary there in recent times?"

"I... I don't know," she said slowly, her eyes distant. "It's all a blur now. But. yes. Henry was always so secretive about his things."

Jonathan nodded, as if to himself. "I will be leaving now, but if you remember anything, please do let me know."

And then, Jonathan rose to his feet, gathering his papers. "The Crown will base it on motive and opportunity. They'll say you struggled, that you stood to gain something. But motive isn't evidence. Opportunity isn't guarantee. If there's another hand in this, we'll find it."

Eleanor looked up at him, praying. "But if we can't?"

"Then," he asserted, his voice determined, "we fight with all the truth you possess. The law is not for whispers, Mrs. Whitmore. It is for evidence, reason, and those who will employ them. And I do."

Her lips trembled. "Why? You risk your career for me. You risk being branded the man who defended a murderess."

He stood facing away from her at the door, reluctant. She was certain he was going to leave without an answer. But then, in a low voice:

"Because justice, Mrs. Whitmore, is only justice if it does not flinch when the world demands it bend."

The door slammed shut behind him, and Eleanor remained alone once more. And this time the silence was not suffocating.