“Discrepancy of facts does not necessarily mean crime,” he said slowly. “People move things for many reasons, not always with evil intent.” He was fumbling for words. “Sometimes it is an attempt to help, or to make an accident look less careless, to remove the blame from those still alive or to hide an indiscretion. Even to mask a suicide.”

Cleave looked surprised. He had not expected a reply.

It was a small victory. Pitt must not allow it to weaken his guard.

“The scuff marks on the carpet,” Cleave said, returning to the attack. “When did they happen?”

“At any time since the carpet was last swept, which the maid told me was the previous morning,” Pitt answered.

Cleave assumed an air of innocence. “Could they have been caused by anything other than one man dragging the dead body of another?”

There was a titter of nervous laughter in the court.

“Of course,” Pitt agreed.

Cleave smiled. “And the tiny piece of fluff on Mr. Fetters’s shoe, is that also capable of alternative explanations? For example, the carpet was rumpled at the corner and he tripped? Or he was sitting in a chair and slipped his shoes off? Did this carpet have a fringe, Mr. Pitt?”

Cleave knew perfectly well that it did.

“Yes.”

“Exactly.” Cleave gestured with both hands. “A slender thread, if you will excuse the pun, on which to hang an honorable man, a brave soldier, a patriot and a scholar such as John Adinett, don’t you think?”

There was a murmur around the room, people shifting in their seats, turning to look up at Adinett. Pitt saw respect in their faces, curiosity, no hatred. He turned to the jury. They were more guarded, sober men taking their responsibilities with awe. They sat stiffly, collars high and white, hair combed, whiskers trimmed, eyes steady. He did not envy them. He had never wanted to be the final judge of another man. Even the smooth-faced foreman looked concerned, his hands in front of him, fingers laced.