Page 45 of To Love a Scottish Lord (Highland Lords #4)

T he Sheriff’s Court was held in a building that looked to predate Inverness itself. The walls, made of pink harl, were two feet thick, and the broad doors leading into the courtroom itself were ten feet high and thickly carved.

Hamish wondered if the structure had once been a church before Scotland’s reformation. If so, then it was not a setting for Sir John’s brand of justice. He had no liking for the sheriff, even though he’d never met the man. His actions alone dictated his character.

He and Brendan found seats beside Mr. Marshall in the first row.

They’d come early, suspecting that the hearing would be well attended.

Less than an hour later, the room was filled with spectators.

The gallery, located above the main floor, and surrounding the chamber on three sides, was likewise fully occupied.

The space in front of him appeared almost like an empty stage waiting for a performance to begin.

To the left was a high desk set up on a pedestal, no doubt so that Sir John could look down on the accused and the audience.

To the right was a paneled box five feet high and surrounding a chair on three sides.

A guard moved to stand on either side of the box, making him certain that that was where Mary would sit.

In the center, again on a pedestal, was a large chair with a high back upholstered in green leather.

Here was where the witnesses would give their testimony, beneath the disapproving gaze of Sir John.

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 lev ity 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, men tioned 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?”

“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.”