ESP 30

chapter 30

After a brief recess, the trial of Keith Dalmore, Count of Dalmore, resumed.

Although Briony was told she could return after giving her testimony, she chose instead to remain. She slipped into an obscure seat at the back of the gallery to observe what followed. A few nobles glanced her way with surprised expressions. She thought it would have been better if Myrtle or at least Dmitry had accompanied her, but she ignored the curious looks.

Since no direct link could be found between the Orlovian corpse discovered on December 25th and the Count, Marquis Fabia appeared to change his strategy. The questioning now shifted toward the Count’s lifestyle while residing in Ebony.

The Marquis likely intended to cast suspicion on the young, healthy Count’s private life—especially since he rarely attended society functions and had no notable pursuits of pleasure. It wasn’t a poor line of attack. History held cases where reclusive nobles, who seldom showed themselves in public, had committed unspeakable acts against their families or their subjects.

But Count Dalmore was not such a man.

To prove his hypothesis—that “a poor lord will do anything for money”—the Marquis produced Ebony’s annual financial statements. The documents, even notarized, seemed a little too neatly prepared, as though in anticipation of just such a moment. Yet, according to those records, Ebony’s productivity had clearly been improving.

Though the Dalmore family lacked the money to attend the social season, they had still managed to pay taxes to Her Majesty and repair their dilapidated facilities. That effort had begun long before the dowry from the sub-viscounty of Arlington entered their coffers. The young lord and, no doubt, his extremely capable secretary, had scraped and saved from here and there, wringing what they could out of poverty.

The records themselves were painstaking, almost absurdly so—listing every spoon of tea leaves, every chick hatched. Admirable thrift, or miserly to the extreme, depending on one’s view. The noblewomen in the gallery pitied the poor young bride who had married into such a penny-pinching household, while the men lamented that the Count, despite marrying a wealthy heiress, seemed to gain no benefit from her dowry.

Regardless, it was evident that a man busy tallying such records could hardly have had time to conspire with the enemy.

At the same time, the testimony revealed the Dalmores’ life to be unusually austere. The young Count was diligent. On weekdays, he commuted by carriage or horseback between Ebony and Fanshaw; on weekends and holidays, he personally oversaw estate affairs. Ebony Heights, the Dalmore seat, was large, but the number of servants employed there was comparatively small.

“Her husband worked like that all day? The young wife must have been lonely.”

“With that dowry, she could have just lived comfortably. Is the Count a workaholic?”

So handsome a man, and yet he lived such a dry, dutiful life—this unexpected sympathy was spreading through the gallery when suddenly a commotion arose outside the courtroom doors. The guard at the entrance cracked the door open, peered out, and turned pale with shock.

“Y-Your Honor…”

The judge asked irritably,

“What is it this time?”

“Well, outside, it’s…”

Thump. Thump-thump. The floor shook. People startled. Briony, too, glanced around in surprise. It was the sound of disciplined soldiers’ boots, their spears striking the floor in unison to announce someone’s arrival.

“Her Majesty the Queen approaches!”

The judge rose, startled. That was the signal for everyone else. The gallery nobles sprang to their feet. Surprise still lingered on their faces, but their swift reaction suggested that such appearances, though rare, were not entirely unheard of. Briony’s wandering gaze was suddenly caught by a familiar look—an easy, bright smile undisturbed even now.

…Lord Weardale.

So he, too, was present at the trial.

Their eyes met. He shaped words silently at her.

“…?”

What was he saying? Briony focused on his lips.

“Go… out… side.”

Outside? Leave?

She didn’t understand, but for him to signal at such a moment meant it was important. Yet with everyone standing and Her Majesty entering, she had no way to simply slip out. Briony calculated the distance to the main doors opened by the guards and the side door used by witnesses. She began to move cautiously.

Then appeared a small woman draped entirely in black satin.

Armed guards followed, surrounding her closely. Briony glimpsed the Queen of Algonquin only briefly. Smaller even than Briony herself, yet her upright bearing radiated authority that demanded respect. And—

She’s beautiful.

That was Briony’s impression.

“You may be seated.”

A clear, ringing voice broke the silence.

To Briony’s surprise, the voice was youthful. She looked toward the Queen again. Indeed, she was beautiful. Skin so pale it seemed almost translucent, silver curls glinting even in the dim indoor light, and doll-like features that could only be described as lovely.

Yet Briony had heard the rumors. The ruthless Queen who, a year after ascending the throne at seventeen, had exterminated her rivals’ entire family. The merciless monarch who, it was said, ordered even five-year-old children to be cut down. The highest lady of Algonquin, Leopoldine of Albraid.

Briony bowed her head with the others and sat.

The Queen’s silver-grey eyes swept the courtroom, finally fixing on Marquis Fabia.

“Marquis, bring me the results of the questioning thus far.”

The Marquis strode to the stenographer’s table, snatched the records, and flipped through them. As head of the Queen’s Eye, he was well-versed even in shorthand. He whispered quietly to Her Majesty.

The Queen nodded.

“Judge, continue the trial. I shall hear the rest myself.”

An armchair was hastily placed beside the inquisitor’s bench. The Queen settled into it.

The atmosphere of the courtroom shifted instantly. The idle fluttering of fans ceased, playful glances disappeared, even the silent admiration for the unflinching young Count was hushed.

The Marquis seemed to have been waiting for this moment. He advanced on the accused with the face of a seasoned hunter.

“Count Dalmore. Do you recognize this handwriting?”

The Count glanced at the document.

“It is mine.”

“Then can you explain what is written here?”

The Marquis turned to the gallery—though in truth, to the Queen—and added,

“This letter was found in the accused’s study during the search of his manor. It appears to contain confidential military information…”

“That is not a letter but a manuscript draft. I wrote it, yes, but I don’t recall the details.”

The Marquis pressed, “You’ve just demonstrated a prodigious memory of events from two months ago. And yet you cannot recall words you yourself penned so carefully?”

“I am a court scribe, Inquisitor. Drafting ten, even a hundred documents a day is my work. Wouldn’t it be stranger if I remembered each one?”

“Then let me read it aloud.”

The Marquis cleared his throat.

“‘Ten thousand cavalry at the northern border, numbers doubled after sundown. A week’s wait guarantees success. Station archers in the gorge, drive the enemy in and slaughter them.’ This concerns a military operation, does it not? And when one speaks of the northern border of Algonquin, what comes to mind but Orlov?”

“Hearing it now, perhaps. But it is no military strategy or intelligence report.”

The Count gave a self-conscious cough.

“…It is from my clumsy attempt at writing fiction.”

“A manuscript?”

“Yes. I was considering earning money through writing and jotted a few lines. It seems it remained in my study.”

It was a convenient excuse—suspicious notes dismissed as mere imagination. Without additional evidence, however, the Marquis could press no further.

“…Yet during the search, you said nothing of this.”

“Because the investigators gave me no chance to explain. They stormed in, ransacked my house, and dragged me away. Afterwards—”

The Marquis cut him off.

“Do not stray from the matter. This text is too detailed to be dismissed as fancy. You did not copy it illegally from classified military documents?”

“You must be mistaken. The High Court does not handle military intelligence.”

That was common knowledge to the nobles present. Flustered at his own blunder, the Marquis flushed and fell silent.

Now what would he do?

“…In short, Count, you claim you had nothing to do with the corpse found at the Fanshaw East Gate last year, you bought an Orlov-style hat but had nothing to do with Orlov, and you wrote of a border military campaign but had nothing to do with state secrets. Is that correct?”

“That is correct.”

“Then why did you resist the Queen’s Eye investigator with force?”

“It was a warning, not an intent to harm.”

“Investigator Olson testified he only requested cooperation to preserve the scene, but you drew your rapier first, did you not?”

Even faced with testimony against him, the Count did not waver.

“He claimed to represent Her Majesty. As a Count sworn to the Crown, I could not tolerate such presumption.”

“That differs from my investigator’s account. He said that when your wife was restrained, you cried, ‘Do not lay a hand on her.’”

The entire gallery held its breath. Even Queen Leopoldine listened, her face unreadable behind the mask of composure. She merely lowered her long lashes once and opened her eyes again.

“…That is not untrue. That day marked the finalization of my divorce. It was the day my former wife was to leave Ebony. I did not wish for trouble then.”

“What sort of trouble?”

The Count let out a dry laugh.

“If she had fainted or thrown a fit in fright and hurt herself, I would have had to pay greater alimony. I wished to avoid that expense.”

A ripple of unrest spread through the courtroom once more. In that light, even drawing a blade at Her Majesty’s investigators seemed plausible. If one were parting ways from a marriage made for money, avoiding further financial loss would be the natural concern. And yet…

Three years together, and no affection at all?

That was the common thought among the spectators.

Marquis Fabia, however, was unsettled. As head of the Queen’s Eye, he had exposed countless criminals. He prided himself on sensing lies and piecing together scattered clues. Yet this accused man revealed no cracks—whether from shamelessness or sheer strength of nerve, the Marquis could not tell.

Where else can I press him?

He was just about to glare down the Count when the Queen lifted a pale hand.

Before the judge could speak, her voice rang out:

“I have heard enough.”