The Old Bailey loomed like a court of judgment, its granite walls pale against the grey sky. Eleanor had seen it briefly before, a sign of law and order. Now, handcuffed between two constables, she walked its steps as the accused.

A crowd had gathered outside the courthouse, their voices cutting like blades.

"Murderess!" someone spat.

"She killed him for his money!" another shouted.

A cabbage leaf slapped her shoulder; she grimaced but sat stiff with her gaze locked straight ahead. The mob of jeers swelled as if humiliation brought them to life. Journalists scribbled quickly, cartoonists sketched her bent figure, caricatures waiting for tonight's dailies.

Inside, the clamour died but the eyes continued. Eleanor was led through the corridors, between oak-panelled walls that were faintly perfumed with polish and dust. At last, the great doors of the courtroom creaked open, and she entered a room that hummed with whispers.

The gallery was full. Gentlemen in silk top hats, women carrying fans in their hands, clerks bending over their ledgers. They had all come to see the destruction of Henry Whitmore's widow.

At the defence table, Jonathan rose to greet her. He looked serene, but as she sat next to him, she felt the faint rigidity of his jaw, the whiteness of his knuckles on his pen.

"You are not alone," he breathed, quiet for her alone.

The judge appeared, his wig and robes, his gavel hitting wood. "This court is now in session."

The indictment read: "That Eleanor Whitmore, on the night of the fifteenth of March, feloniously, wilfully, and of malice aforethought, poisoned her husband, Henry Whitmore, to death."

The words struck Eleanor in the chest like stones.

"How does the defendant plead?" the clerk asked.

Eleanor's throat was dry. She had no words for a moment. Harrow placed a hand against the table, a silent reminder of solidity.

"Not guilty," she did finally get out, her voice trembling but clear. "I am innocent."

Whispers grew. Some laughed, others menacingly guffawed. But Jonathan's gaze remained on the judge's face.

---

The trial that day was brief, an arraignment, nothing more than a formality. But already the prosecution has made their attempt.

Crown Prosecutor Edmund Graves rose to his feet, his lean, tall figure, his words hammer blows. "The Crown will establish that the defendant quarrelled with her husband on the night he was murdered. That she alone had unrestricted access to the study where she poisoned him. That she alone stood to benefit from his death."

He moved toward the jury box, his eyes aglow. "It is an old tale, my lords and ladies, as old as greed itself. A wealth won at the cost of a man's life."

Gasps coursed through the gallery. Eleanor's eyes dropped, her cheeks reddening.

Harrow rose next. He did not thunder like Graves, nor sneer. His voice was deliberate, reflective, an opposite to the prosecutor's heat.

My learned friend will paint a picture of convenience and suspicion," he continued. "But suspicion is not proof. The Crown assumes much, but the presumption is not proven. The defence will show that Mrs. Whitmore had no means and no intention of doing this crime. She is indicted on rumour, not evidence. And we will not have rumour convict her."

He forward-stooped his head forward and sat. Whispers in the gallery altered, softer now, uncertain.

For the first time, Eleanor saw the minute crack in the utter conviction that had already convicted her in the public imagination.

---

As the session closed, Eleanor was taken back to her cell. But just as the constables were taking her away, Jonathan stooped near.

"You did well," he breathed.

"I nearly choked on the word," she confessed. "Innocent. They looked at me like it was a lie."

"Then we shall show them otherwise." His gaze probed hers with a burning intensity. "Tomorrow, we begin in earnest."

---

That night, in the privacy of his office, Jonathan sat at his desk, candlelight flickering across stacks of papers. He removed his spectacles, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and breathed out the air he had been holding since the trial began.

Eleanor Whitmore's face haunted him — white, proud, desperate. Her protestations of innocence rang in his ears. And yet he knew what failure was. If he could not convince the jury, she would hang.

His fellow lawyers had already warned him, "Jonathan, you risk everything. If she's guilty, you'll be a fool. If she's innocent and convicted, your conscience will never rest."

But he had promised. Because something in Eleanor's eyes — something raw and unprotected behind her mask — had touched within him a conviction deeper than career, deeper than reputation.

Justice was not about comfort. Justice was about truth. And truth, he vowed to himself, would not be silenced.

--- 

The second day dawned.

The court was packed again, the audience eager for drama. Eleanor stood next to Jonathan, her back ramrod straight, her gloved hands clasped together.

The Crown's first witness was summoned: Mrs. Keaton, the housemaid. A fidgety woman, her apron wringing in her hands as she spoke, her eyes darting from one side of the courtroom to the other.

"I overheard them quarrel," she told him, voice trembling. "Mr. Whitmore and the mistress. She said… she said she could no longer abide him."

Gasps. Some of "there, you see". Eleanor squeezed her eyes shut. She remembered the words — Comfort built on debts and lies — but not as Mrs. Keaton now spoke them, warped into menace.

Graves pressed on. "And then later that night, what did you hear?"

"I did hear a scream. I went to the study door, and it was shut. When the door opened, there was Mrs. Whitmore. Mr. Whitmore was dead in his chair."

Graves swept his arms out. "There you have it. Opportunity. Access. Presence. A wife who wanted her husband killed, and a husband now dead."

As Jonathan rose for cross-examination, the gallery leaned forward.

"Mrs. Keaton," he began slowly, "how long have you been employed by the Whitmore family?"

"Six years, sir."

"And in the six years, how often have you overheard quarrels?"

She blinked. "Well… often enough."

"Often enough," Jonathan repeated. "Mr. Whitmore and his wife?"

"Yes, sir."

"And Mr. Whitmore and his partners?" 

The maid hesitated. "Yes… sometimes."

"And even with his servants?"

A grudging nod. "Yes."

"So, there were a lot of fights. They were, indeed, the family mode. Is that a correct description?"

The maid's lips thinned. "Yes, sir."

Jonathan's tone turned sterner. "Now, you said you overheard Mrs. Whitmore stated she couldn't stand him. But did you hear her say she would kill him?"

Mrs. Keaton's eyes went wide. "No, sir."

"Did you see her put anything in his drink?"

"No, sir."

Jonathan faced the jury, his tone low but firm. "So we have arguments, yes — the kind many saw in many houses. But no one who witnessed the poison administered. No one witnessed anything. Only speculation."

He nodded. "No more questions."

The murmurs shifted once more. Suspicions had started to seep into the room.

---

By nightfall, Eleanor recovered the faintest spark of Vigor. Jonathan had worn down the barrier Graves was building, stone by stone.

But as she was led back to her cell, she knew that the battle had just started. More witnesses would materialize. More rumours, more lies, more suspicion under the guise of knowledge.

However, for the first time since the death of Henry, she believed perhaps, perhaps, the truth had any chance to breathe.