To Love a Scottish Lord Page 24

  Because of the high ceilings, sound carried very well. Whispers, laughter, and joking remarks from the crowd behind him made it seem as if this were an occasion for merriment.

  As if Marshall suspected his growing rage, the older man leaned over and whispered to him. “It’s unlawful to print court proceedings. Therefore, anyone who truly wants to know what has occurred must attend. It’s curiosity for them, Hamish, and nothing more personal.”

  He nodded, more to silence Marshall than in agreement. How could it not be personal? Sir John had set into motion actions that could end Mary’s life.

  He hadn’t slept well the night before, his nightmares propelling him awake. He no longer dreamed of the desert. Now he saw the gallows, and Mary being led to them, a determined smile on her face.

  The door to the left opened, and Sir John strode to his desk. At his entrance, the atmosphere in the court abruptly changed. As the sheriff frowned at the audience, speech subsided and laughter vanished.

  He was dressed in severe black, not unlike Mr. Marshall. Whereas the minister’s face always appeared genial, even when unsmiling, Sir John’s expression could only be deemed somber below his wig of sausagelike white curls.

  A moment ago, Hamish had wished an end to the levity in the room. Now, he wanted it back. The sheriff’s expression banished any hope that this might be a formality, an excuse to find Mary innocent and thereby quell the rumors.

  When they led her into the courtroom, an audible gasp emerged from the crowd. Brendan clamped his hand down on Hamish’s shoulder, hard, to keep him in place.

  “You cannot help her if you’re thrown out of court,” Brendan whispered to him.

  “Look at what they’ve done to her.”

  Marshall looked at him in concern as Sir John frowned in their direction.

  There were deep circles beneath Mary’s eyes. Her lips were nearly bloodless in her pale face. She looked almost frail in appearance, and she’d lost weight since he’d seen her last.

  She’d braided her hair, and the plaits were tucked into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her scarf was neatly arranged across her bodice, her hands pressed at her waist. A sound escaped him when he realized the pose was necessary because her wrists were bound. But he forced himself not to move, and a moment later shook off Brendan’s hand.

  A woman escorted Mary to the chair before stepping back and disappearing out of sight, leaving her to be guarded by the two men on either side of the box. Hardly necessary, Hamish thought, especially since she looked as if she might faint at any moment.

  Sir John did not make an opening remark to the court. Instead, he called the first witness.

  The man who took the witness chair was stocky, with a broad face; a direct, almost bulldoglike stare, and black hair that fell nearly to his eyes. He looked directly at the court rather than at Sir John.

  “State your name and your relationship to the accused.”

  “My name is Archibald Smyth. I am the Sheriff Substitute of Inverness Shire. I know Mary Gilly as a prisoner that I procured from Castle Starn on the thirtieth of October of this year.”

  He pointed his finger toward Mary, and she stared back at him without flinching.

  “Did you have any conversation with the accused?”

  “I did,” the man said, nodding. “She stated that she did not kill her husband, that she did not believe her husband had been murdered. That she did not, despite her skill as a healer, have any notion of why her husband died.”

  “Did she say anything else?”

  “No, sir. But her statement was freely given and not coerced.”

  A moment later, the man stepped down.

  The next witness stared hard at Mary before he sat. The look he continued to give her was filled with antipathy.

  Before being prompted by Sir John, he began to speak. “My name is Hugh Grampian. I am a physician in Inverness. I knew the late Mr. Gordon Gilly for fully twenty years. He consulted me from time to time, but after his marriage eleven years ago, I’d not seen the man professionally for years. Three months prior to his death, he consulted me at my offices on James Street, on the condition that I not mention his visits to his wife.”

  Hamish glanced over at Mary, wondering if her stoic expression was helping or hurting with the sheriff. Sir John stared at her just as dispassionately, his expression impossible to decipher.

  “It seems she was considered a healer, with an unwarranted reputation. She evidently could not see that her husband was ill. He complained of fever and nausea, mentioned that he had been purging. I took his complaint to be a difficulty in his bowels and prescribed a draught containing magnesia and soda. Two weeks later, he returned to see me, stating that the pain was getting worse in his stomach. I prescribed some powders containing rhubarb, soda, chalk, and mercury.”

  “Did he improve?”

  “On the contrary. But he would only come to see me when his wife was away, treating patients I believe.” He glanced out at the assembled crowd. “People shouldn’t be foolish enough to ignore their physician’s advice and then listen to anyone who will tell them what they wish to hear.”

  “Would you say that Mr. Gilly’s condition grew worse?”

  “Without a doubt,” the doctor said. “He was growing frailer with each passing week. Over the course of our treatments, I noticed that he became more and more irritable. I would even venture to say that he was somewhat delusional. There were times in which he believed that I was his father, and then the son he never had. On one occasion, Mr. Gilly even commented that I had the whiskers of a neighbor’s cat.” At the audience’s titters, the physician frowned. The sheriff cleared his throat and the sound subsided. “His gait grew so unstable,” Dr. Grampian continued, “that it was difficult for him to leave his home. Finally, he grew so weak that he was restrained to his bed. When I last called upon him in August, he urged me to stay away, stating that he did not want his wife to be hurt by my presence.”

  He turned and looked at Mary again. “He seemed certain that anything I would do to assist him would be looked upon with disfavor by that woman.”

  Mary looked down at her folded hands, and it seemed to Hamish that she trembled under the regard of the physician.

  “When did you last see Mr. Gilly?”

  “On the morning of the twenty-third of September, I called upon Mr. Gilly, only to be informed that he was dead. I asked to see the body so that I could give any opinion as to the cause of death. Mrs. Gilly looked surprised that I would ask, stating that her husband died of old age, with complications, perhaps, of a stomach tumor.

  “I told her at the time and I will tell you now that such diseases do not often happen in the way they did with Mr. Gilly. A healthy man is not normally struck down with pains in the stomach and bowels, nor does his mind disintegrate in the way Mr. Gilly’s did without a reason.”

  “Then you were not able to examine Mr. Gilly after his death?”

  “On the contrary, I presumed upon the apprentice, when Mrs. Gilly was otherwise occupied. The body was laid out on a bier in the dining room, already dressed in his grave clothes. The skin had a slightly jaundiced hue. I examined the body as well as I could and noted that over the region of the heart the sound seemed normal while over the liver the sound was dull.

  “I left the house, conferred with some of my colleagues, then returned to the house in the afternoon. I requested from Mrs. Gilly permission to perform a postmortem on the body. She refused.”

  “She refused the post-mortem?”

  “She did. I found it odd that a woman with such a reputation for being a healer would be so adamant about not wishing to learn more about her husband’s death.”

  “But you did not press her on it?”

  For the first time during his testimony the physician looked a little uncomfortable. “She was within her rights not to agree, of course,” he said. But Sir John was not content with his answer.

  “But you might have convinced her, had you tried to do so?�
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  “Perhaps,” Dr. Grampian answered.

  “Why didn’t you?”

  The doctor fingered his stock, adjusted the row of buttons on his waistcoat, toyed with the lace on his wrists. “You must understand, Sir John, that Mr. Gilly was an influential man. His death was a great loss to the citizens of Inverness.”

  Sir John sat back and surveyed the doctor with the first hint of disfavor. “And you did not wish to be linked to his death, Dr. Grampian?”

  “He was not my patient when he expired.”

  “But he might have been considered so had you insisted upon a post-mortem?”

  “He might have been,” Dr. Grampian reluctantly admitted.

  “And so, you simply guessed at the cause of his death?”

  “Indeed not!” the doctor exclaimed, sitting erect in the witness chair. “It was mismanagement, of a surety. That woman, who calls herself a healer, is solely responsible.”

  “You do not believe Mrs. Gilly possesses any healing powers?”

  “I believe that she’s capable of reading books and parroting instructions, or that she could serve as a midwife. I do not think she has sufficient learning or training to be of true assistance. She seems to have adopted a unique way of treating people, which leads them to believe that she’s giving them helpful advice. They would be better served,” he said, looking out over the crowd, “to heed their physician’s instructions.”

  “If you have so much antipathy for Mrs. Gilly, Dr. Grampian, why have you not come forward before now?” the sheriff asked.

  The entire courtroom silenced to hear the doctor’s answer.

  The physician only stared at the magistrate, his features fixed in a stern look, one that might have precluded further questioning. But Sir John evidently feared no man.

  “Is it because she treats the poor, Dr. Grampian, and offers no interference to your business?”

  Dr. Grampian didn’t answer. The words lingered in the air even as the physician was dismissed and Charles Talbot took his place in the witness chair.

  “Please state your name and your relationship to the accused.”

  “My name is Charles Talbot, and I was the late Gordon Gilly’s apprentice.”

  “For how long did you work in that capacity, Mr. Talbot?”

  “For twelve years.”

  “So you came to be in his employ before his marriage to his wife, is that not correct?”

  “It is, sir. I was in the household when Mrs. Gilly married her husband.”

  “Did you think it odd that he chose to marry a woman so much younger than himself?”

  “I thought he was a fortunate man,” Charles said. “Or maybe just a wealthy one.”

  Laughter erupted in the courtroom.

  Sir John didn’t look at the miscreants, simply addressed his comments to Charles.

  “Are you aware that Mr. Gilly had the opportunity to consult a physician several months prior to his death?”

  “Yes,” Charles responded. “I was. He didn’t actually tell me, but I had seen him taking a medicine twice a day. When I asked what it was, he admitted it was something that the physician had given him.”

  “Did you discuss his illness with Mr. Gilly?”

  “I did not wish to ask any inopportune questions, sir. Mr. Gilly didn’t have any use for illness, and disliked feeling bad. I believe that he subscribed to the same philosophy as his wife that the less said about something unpleasant, the better.”

  “But he continued to be treated by his wife?”

  Charles nodded. “He was. We had a habit of sitting in the parlor after dinner, and it was then that Mrs. Gilly would give him the drink she prepared.”

  “And he took it with no reluctance?”

  Charles seemed to hesitate. Sir John frowned at him, and he continued, looking reluctant. “He didn’t want to drink the mixture some nights, but she insisted.”

  The crowd behind Hamish began to stir, individual voices that began as murmurs picking up and becoming words that he could discern only too well. The sentiment was turning against Mary. She sat immobile in her box, paying no attention to the audience in the courtroom, no expression on her face. Both Brendan and Marshall glanced at him, but Hamish didn’t move.

  “What did she do on those nights?”

  Charles glanced quickly at Mary and then away, the impression that of a man who was forced by necessity to tell the truth, but who didn’t wish to betray a woman.

  Mary might have been carved from marble.

  “She would plead with him to drink the medicine, saying that it was for his own good, that she wouldn’t be able to sleep unless she knew he’d taken it. Sometimes, she’d weep.”

  Mary looked up, staring at Charles. Her gaze was intent, but not revealing. Hamish, however, had the impression that the young man lied.

  “Did you ever see Mr. Gilly become ill after taking one of these potions?”

  Charles murmured something, his head bent and his gaze on the floor. Hamish didn’t believe the pose of reluctant accuser one moment.

  “I cannot hear you, Mr. Talbot.”

  Charles raised his head and stared directly at the sheriff. “Yes,” he said, loudly enough to be heard in the back of the courtroom. “He was ill almost every night after she gave him the drink.”

  The murmurs were growing louder. Sir John leveled a gaze on the assembled people in the chamber and the gallery until the voices once again subsided.

  “What was in this potion she gave him?”

  Charles shook his head. “She never told me, although I saw her mix it once. After Mr. Gilly’s death, I began to investigate.” He glanced at the sheriff, and Sir John nodded. “I found this in Mr. Gilly’s room.”

  Withdrawing something from an inside vest pocket, he began to unwrap it from a linen handkerchief. Hamish could feel the tension in the room as people around him leaned forward to get a better look. When the unwrapping was complete, Charles held a small vial with a frosted glass top up to the light. Hamish had seen many similar ones in Mary’s chest.

  “This was one of the ingredients in the mixture she prepared.”

  “Can you identify the contents?”

  “As you can see, sir, it’s clearly labeled.” He stood and walked the short distance to the sheriff’s desk, reached up, and placed it in front of Sir John.

  The sheriff peered at the container and read the label aloud. “Mercury.”

  For the first time, Mary’s eyes met Hamish’s before quickly sliding away. So, she’d known he was there all along. The look on her face was dispassionate now, but he’d seen her flinch as Charles gave his testimony.

  The sheriff surprised him and the rest of the courtroom by recalling the physician.

  “Is mercury used for the treatment of disease?” Sir John asked.

  “Frequently it is, but only under the care of a trained physician. Mercury is efficacious for several diseases, some of which would not be wise to mention in mixed company, sir.” He glanced at several of the women in the gallery. “However, it should be treated with caution.”

  “So it might it be possible to give a fatal dose to a patient?”

  “Indeed it could.”

  Dead silence filled the room, and hundreds of pairs of eyes looked at Mary.

  Next, Sir John called the young maid, Betty. She walked to the chair looking as if it were the gallows, instead. Her hands clutched a handkerchief with a punishing grip as she sat and looked at Sir John. She kept pressing her lips together and alternately licking them. When he asked her to identify herself, she jumped at the sound of his voice.

  “My name is Betty Carmichael.”

  “State your relationship to the accused.”

  The young girl looked first at the sheriff and then at Mary. “I am maid to Mrs. Gilly, and to the late Gordon Gilly.”

  “You had occasion to tend to Mr. Gilly prior to his death, did you not?”

  “Well, I do what I’m told, sir. If Mr. Gilly wanted a bowl of soup, I fetc
hed it. Or if his linens needed changing, I did that, too.” She bowed her head, and Hamish didn’t doubt she would have made a small curtsy if she hadn’t been seated in the chair.

  “He was a very kind man, sir. He was forever saying thank you and please, and he never forgot the smallest kindness. He often gave me a few coins for the market, and told me to bring back a pretty ribbon for my hair or a sweetmeat for me and Cook to share.”

  “Have you ever seen him ingest any substance that would knowingly do him harm?”

  Betty looked confused. “I’m not sure what you mean, sir. Mr. Gilly was very careful about what he ate. For the longest time, he had a problem with his bowels, and he couldn’t eat more than a few oats in the morning or some toast in the afternoon.”

  “For how long was he ill?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t say he was ill, sir. He was old.”

  Again, that hint of laughter, this time from the gallery.

  “He was losing a lot of weight because of it,” she said, her head bobbing up and down. “There were times he wouldn’t eat anything at all but Mrs. Gilly’s drink.”

  “She was the only one to feed him, then?”

  “Not really, sir. It were a bunch of herbs all ground up with some ale to give it a taste. She would mix it up for him in the evening and he’d drink it.”

  The courtroom had grown hushed.

  “For how long did she give him this potion?”

  “Well, a few months, sir. But she was forever giving him tonics, at least while I was with them.” She glanced over at Mary and smiled wanly.

  “How long have you been with the accused?”

  Betty looked at Mary again. “Nearly five years, sir. Since I was twelve. She took me home when my mother died. I learned my numbers from her, and how to read. She taught me how to be a maid so that I could always have a job.”

  “I only asked you how long you’d been with the accused, Miss Carmichael, not a description of each day that passed since you entered her employ.” Sir John scowled at Betty, but she didn’t wilt under his censure. Instead, she tilted her head back and looked up at him with a frown on her face. A chick facing down a hawk.

  “Did he take the drink up until the night he died?”