life was at stake. But now that she had come alive, the wait seemed doubly endless.
The earl no longer stopped to consider that an acquitted Maggie meant he would be a married man. His lips moved in soundless prayer, “Dear God, if there is a God, let her go free.”
The bell to announce the return of the jury rang suddenly and violently.
“This is it,” said Mr. Farquharson.
Maggie Macleod straightened her back and looked straight in front of her.
The jury had only been out for an hour. As they shuffled into their seats again, the earl studied their faces. All of them were looking ox-like, except the foreman who stood nervously, holding a piece of paper.
“Have you decided on your verdict, gentlemen?” asked Lord Dancer, one white, well-manicured hand reaching towards the black cap.
“We have, my lord.”
“And do you find the panel guilty or not guilty of the charge of murder?”
“Not proven, my lord.”
“
What?
” Lord Dancer leaned forward, his gorgeous robes hunched about his shoulders, his pale eyes boring into those of the foreman. “
What
did you say?”
“Not proven, my lord.”
A great cheer went up from the court. The earl, who did not know the sympathy of the spectators had swung in favour of Maggie, looked wildly at Mr. Farquharson for help.
“What does the verdict mean?” he demanded. “Is she guilty or not?”
“Aye, it’s very strange that England and Scotland should share one Court of Appeal—the House of Lords—and one Parliament for so long and yet maintain such different procedures,” said Mr. Farquharson. “England has never had a ‘not proven’ verdict.”
“But what…?”
“Oh, it means she goes free. Not proven is a peculiarly Scottish verdict which the cynics translate as either Go away and don’t do it again, or We know you’re guilty, but we can’t prove it.”
Maggie was turning her head this way and that as people reached up to seize her hand to congratulate her. Lord Dancer had slumped back in his chair in disgust. Mrs. Chisholm, the wardress on Maggie’s right, whispered something in the ear and she gave a wan smile.
Cheering sounded from the mob waiting outside the court.
“Aye, they love her today,” sighed Mr. Farquharson, “but by tomorrow the wind will change and they’ll always be wondering whether she did it or not. That’s the awful thing about a ‘not proven’ verdict. It doesn’t matter where she goes, people will always look at her sideways, and no man in his right mind is going to marry her.”
Inside the court, all was chaos. Reporters ran hither andthither, each trying to find out by which door of the court Maggie meant to make her exit.
“I must see her,” said the earl, after Maggie had been led from the dock.
“Now, now,” said Mr. Farquharson soothingly, “There’s no need for that. She’ll be well looked after.”
But the earl was already off and struggling through the crowd. Mr. Farquharson reflected sadly that he did not really know young Peter very well after all. Why, the man was running after a possible murderess like any other vulgar notoriety-seeker. But Peter Strange was his guest—he could never really think of his young friend as the Earl of Strathairn—and it was his, Mr. Farquharson’s, duty to see that no harm came to him. He found the earl after a search. He was in a room off the main court with Maggie Macleod and Mr. Byles, her counsel. Flora Meikle stood sentinel by the doorway.
“I came to collect ye, Lord Strathairn,” said Mr. Farquharson, his accent broadening in his embarrassment. He kept his eyes averted from Maggie. “I’m right glad Mistress Macleod is free and it’s unco’ guid o’ ye to concern yourself with her welfare, but, och, I’m sure the lassie has relatives to take care of her.”
The earl hesitated. Maggie sat with her eyes downcast. He wished to leave with Mr. Farquharson but found he somehow could not.
Mr. Byles cleared his throat. “I would like you, Mr.
The earl no longer stopped to consider that an acquitted Maggie meant he would be a married man. His lips moved in soundless prayer, “Dear God, if there is a God, let her go free.”
The bell to announce the return of the jury rang suddenly and violently.
“This is it,” said Mr. Farquharson.
Maggie Macleod straightened her back and looked straight in front of her.
The jury had only been out for an hour. As they shuffled into their seats again, the earl studied their faces. All of them were looking ox-like, except the foreman who stood nervously, holding a piece of paper.
“Have you decided on your verdict, gentlemen?” asked Lord Dancer, one white, well-manicured hand reaching towards the black cap.
“We have, my lord.”
“And do you find the panel guilty or not guilty of the charge of murder?”
“Not proven, my lord.”
“
What?
” Lord Dancer leaned forward, his gorgeous robes hunched about his shoulders, his pale eyes boring into those of the foreman. “
What
did you say?”
“Not proven, my lord.”
A great cheer went up from the court. The earl, who did not know the sympathy of the spectators had swung in favour of Maggie, looked wildly at Mr. Farquharson for help.
“What does the verdict mean?” he demanded. “Is she guilty or not?”
“Aye, it’s very strange that England and Scotland should share one Court of Appeal—the House of Lords—and one Parliament for so long and yet maintain such different procedures,” said Mr. Farquharson. “England has never had a ‘not proven’ verdict.”
“But what…?”
“Oh, it means she goes free. Not proven is a peculiarly Scottish verdict which the cynics translate as either Go away and don’t do it again, or We know you’re guilty, but we can’t prove it.”
Maggie was turning her head this way and that as people reached up to seize her hand to congratulate her. Lord Dancer had slumped back in his chair in disgust. Mrs. Chisholm, the wardress on Maggie’s right, whispered something in the ear and she gave a wan smile.
Cheering sounded from the mob waiting outside the court.
“Aye, they love her today,” sighed Mr. Farquharson, “but by tomorrow the wind will change and they’ll always be wondering whether she did it or not. That’s the awful thing about a ‘not proven’ verdict. It doesn’t matter where she goes, people will always look at her sideways, and no man in his right mind is going to marry her.”
Inside the court, all was chaos. Reporters ran hither andthither, each trying to find out by which door of the court Maggie meant to make her exit.
“I must see her,” said the earl, after Maggie had been led from the dock.
“Now, now,” said Mr. Farquharson soothingly, “There’s no need for that. She’ll be well looked after.”
But the earl was already off and struggling through the crowd. Mr. Farquharson reflected sadly that he did not really know young Peter very well after all. Why, the man was running after a possible murderess like any other vulgar notoriety-seeker. But Peter Strange was his guest—he could never really think of his young friend as the Earl of Strathairn—and it was his, Mr. Farquharson’s, duty to see that no harm came to him. He found the earl after a search. He was in a room off the main court with Maggie Macleod and Mr. Byles, her counsel. Flora Meikle stood sentinel by the doorway.
“I came to collect ye, Lord Strathairn,” said Mr. Farquharson, his accent broadening in his embarrassment. He kept his eyes averted from Maggie. “I’m right glad Mistress Macleod is free and it’s unco’ guid o’ ye to concern yourself with her welfare, but, och, I’m sure the lassie has relatives to take care of her.”
The earl hesitated. Maggie sat with her eyes downcast. He wished to leave with Mr. Farquharson but found he somehow could not.
Mr. Byles cleared his throat. “I would like you, Mr.
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