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with my husband's death. Neither of us did.”
    “How did Mr. Fowler come to be in your home?”
    “Cornelius had found out about us. The night before his death we had a dreadful row. When Peter saw marks on my face the next day, he insisted on confronting Cornelius. I tried to dissuade him, but he was adamant. After dinner I made a show of going upstairs, but in fact I waited on the landing. I answered the door at the first knock and managed to sneak Peter up to my boudoir. It was while I was trying to convince him that his presence would only make matters worse that—that Cornelius must have been murdered.”
    “Neither of you heard anything?”
    She shook her head. “My boudoir is on the second floor, at the rear of the house. It wasn’t until Peter stormed downstairs to have it out with Cornelius that we—we found him dead.”
    She began sobbing quietly while my thoughts raced. Only now did I fully comprehend the damaging case against Annjenett. I still believed her innocent, but I couldn’t be certain of the actor. For all I knew she might, even now, be lying to protect him.
    I hesitated, but the question had to be asked. “How much do you know about Mr. Fowler,Annjenett?”
    She guessed my thoughts and her eyes flashed. “Only that he is the kindest, gentlest of men. Peter was prepared to fight Cornelius to protect me, but he would never have murdered him in cold blood.”
    I abandoned this line of questioning; Annjenett was obviously too smitten with the actor to give an unbiased opinion. Before I could think of another way to approach the subject, however, I heard the jailer's approaching footsteps. Hurriedly, I pulled a document out of my briefcase and handed it to her, along with pen and ink.
    “If we’re to secure your release,” I told her, “we have to discover who really murdered your husband. This paper gives me authority to go through his effects. It also allows me to claim the money we’ve demanded of Mr. Shepard, which we’ll need to pay your household expenses and, if necessary, use for your defense.”
    “Yes, of course,” she agreed and quickly signed the paper. Her pale face showed a flicker of hope. “What do you expect to find in my husband's belongings?”
    I was loath to admit I hadn’t the faintest idea. She had little enough to sustain her through the coming days and nights, and far too much time to agonize over her situation. Temporizing, I said
    there was always the chance the police had overlooked something, and was pleased when she seemed to take heart in this possibility. A moment later the jailer threw the cell door open with a clang.
    “There's a couple of gents waitin’ to see the prisoner.” He eyed me suspiciously. “One of ‘em says he's the lady's lawyer.”
    It wasn’t difficult to guess that Joseph Shepard, or one of his associates, was here to interview Annjenett. It was no less than I expected. I was only glad I had been able to speak to her first. I gave Annjenett a confident smile.
    “Don’t lose heart,” I told her. “I’ll come back to see you soon.”
    “Oh, Sarah, please do.” Impulsively, she leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. Taken aback, I smiled and mumbled something I hoped was reassuring, then turned and departed the cell.
    Just as the jailer had announced, I found two men waiting in the jail's anteroom. One was a stranger, the other was the towering figure of Robert Campbell.
    “You!” I said incredulously. “Don’t tell me Joseph Shepard is allowing you to handle my client's defense.”
    “Your client, madam?” the second man said in surprise. “I was given to understand that I was to represent Mrs. Hanaford.”
    “Pay no attention to her, Paulson.” Campbell's look was scornful. “The woman fancies herself an attorney and has somehow foisted herself upon Hanaford's widow.”
    Ignoring him, I extended my hand to the older man. “My name is Sarah Woolson, and Mr. Campbell's disclaimers to the contrary, I am a fully