The Question of Orientation

Merrit Saye took the oath with his hands clean and his cuffs buttoned, as if the court had asked him to inspect a watch rather than explain a dead man’s question about wax.

The prosecutor stood beside the evidence table. “You have told us Mr. Quill asked whether an impression made from a ring would preserve the positions of its stones?”

“He did.”

“And whether it would show which stone faced the fingertips?”

“Yes.”

Saye spoke without hesitation. His answers had the plain finish of a measurement. Imogen watched the magistrate’s pencil move across the page.

“Did Mr. Quill explain why he wanted to know?”

“No.”

“Did he tell you he intended to make such an impression?”

“He asked if it could be done. That’s what I can say.”

The prosecutor let the distinction sit, then asked whether Quill had brought the replacement ring into the shop. Saye confirmed he had. Quill had tried it on; Saye had fitted it to his right fourth finger. The record already contained that fact, but hearing it aloud gave it a fresh usefulness. The same man who had worn the ring had wanted to know whether its arrangement could be copied in wax.

Imogen wrote down the exact words. She had no use for a shorthand that improved on what a witness had said.

The prosecutor asked if the stones could be mistaken for one another at a distance.

“They’re different colors,” Saye said. “That doesn’t make them identical.”

A few people shifted on the benches. Saye looked at the prosecutor, waiting.

“Could someone describe them as one dark and one pale stone?”

“Anyone with eyes could.”

The prosecutor moved on. He did not ask Saye to identify the recovered ring again. He did not need to. The questions had arranged the pieces close enough together for the magistrate to see the shape the Crown wanted: Quill’s ring, Quill’s question, Sera’s description of a hand at the back door.

Imogen had heard the question in the shop records before she ever saw the ring. She had also heard Sera say she could not identify the wearer. Both facts were true. Together, in court, they were becoming something neither woman had said.

The prosecutor sat. Imogen stood.

“Mr. Saye, before this inquiry, had you ever seen a wax impression of Mr. Quill’s ring?”

“No.”