"But it's the quiet type you've got to watch out for," said others. "Probably has a lover somewhere. She was younger than her husband you know. Much younger. Too much younger."
"Killed him for his money," said the people on the street. "Read where she likes art and museums, stuff like that. Must be a queer one that Isobel d'Larte."
The accusations piled high against Isobel, but she said nothing. She sat in court, a tiny figure in black saying nothing, seemingly not even listening to the accusations of the Prosecutor.
"We will prove willful and premeditated murder," the Prosecutor thundered.
"Easily done," an old woman in the audience murmured spitefully. "Young wife, old husband. Rich husband. Murder! Easily proved."
"First witness," the Prosecutor called. "Sergeant Melot."
Sergeant Melot took the stand. The witness chair creaked under his weight. He answered a loud, "I do," when the clerk swore him in.
"Tell us about finding the body," the Prosecutor said. "Miss no details."
"A Mrs. Watson, servant of Arnaud d'Larte, called us at nine five P.M. on March 15. Her master was dead, she said. When we answered her call we found Mr. d'Larte's body in his bedroom. He had been dead for about an hour."
"The cause?"