“You’ve got it, woman!” he cried. “Kentworthy did his level best to force me to say that that poor creature, Emily Garlett, had administered the poison to herself. This is the red herring across the trail. Not a doubt of it!”
He sat back in his chair.
“The more I know of law and lawyers, the more I feel that what we call law and justice are queer, twisted things,” he said in a low voice. “Perhaps Kentworthy has done the best in the circumstances. At any rate, it’s not our job to let him down or blame him.”
His wife shook her head.
“To my mind no one is justified in putting words into Jean’s mouth which she never uttered, and never will utter,” she said firmly.
“You are one of those old-fashioned people who believe in telling the truth,” said the doctor dubiously. “I’d have said the same of myself a month ago. Of course, you and I know that that woman never committed suicide—the idea’s absurd! Still, if they can’t get any better notion, that’s what the defence will set out to prove—I can see that well enough. I fear me I shall be asked the question straight out, if only because of this foolish article.”
“And if you are asked the question straight out, what is it you intend to say in answer, Jock?”
They were both unheeding and uncaring of the good breakfast which was fast getting cold, and instinctively they had both lowered their voices for fear lest Jean, though they believed her to be safe in bed, might suddenly open the door on them.
“Well, Jenny, if I’m on oath, what can I say, except that to the best of my belief the thought of suicide never crossed Mrs. Garlett’s mind?”
“Will you have to put it quite as strongly as that?” asked his wife.