He droned on about ink densities and microscopic paper fibers, presenting a compelling, scientific-sounding case for forgery. The mood in the room turned against Prudence. She could feel the weight of their judgment, cold and heavy. Then Gideon's solicitor called Prudence to testify.
She walked to the front of the room, her back straight, her head held high. She spoke calmly, her voice clear and steady. She explained her uncle's two inkwells. She described his struggle with gout.
She did not embellish or appeal for sympathy. She simply stated the facts as she knew them. Trent's solicitor rose to cross-examine her. "Miss Bellamy, you ask us to believe these convenient habits of your late uncle, but you have no proof, no evidence to support these claims other than your own self-serving testimony."
"On the contrary," a new voice cut in. It was Gideon. He stood from his seat. "We have a great deal of evidence."
He gestured to a clerk, who brought forward a large box of papers. "In her work archiving my family's estate, Miss Bellamy has handled thousands of documents. In preparing for this inquiry, she and I reviewed my own family's correspondence with her uncle, dating back 30 years." He placed a letter on the magistrate's desk.
"A letter from my father to Mr. Lockhart, dated 1818. Note the signature, Mr. Ellery. Angular, strained, and a postscript mentioning his damned gout." He placed another document down.
"A note from Mr. Lockhart concerning a drainage ditch, 1821. You will see two different shades of ink in the same paragraph." He continued, document after document, building a mountain of corroborating evidence. He was not merely defending her.
He was prosecuting the lie. Then came the final, devastating blow. Prudence had done more than just find old letters. During her deep dive into the Kestrel Chase archives, she had been searching for anything related to Sorrel Down.
And she had found it. "And finally," Gideon said, his voice ringing with cold triumph, "a letter from my own father to Mr. Lockhart, dated five years ago. It had been misfiled with a set of unrelated tenancy agreements from the wrong decade. It took Miss Bellamy's meticulous cross-referencing of my father's journals to even know to look for it."
He handed the letter to the magistrate. Mr. Ellery read it, his face turning pale. He cleared his throat and read it aloud. "My dear Lockhart, I am relieved you have had the codicil formally drawn up and witnessed."
"It sets my mind at ease to know that Sorrel Down will never fall into the hands of speculators, and that our family's lands shall remain bound by good stewardship. I consider the matter settled." A collective gasp went through the room. It was irrefutable.
The codicil was not a forgery. It had been planned and acknowledged years ago. Lucian Trent's face was a mask of disbelief, which quickly curdled into fury. The expert he had hired began to stammer, backpedaling furiously.