by Anne Perry
“I have no idea,” Hargrave replied. “It would seem to me as if the only explanation must be that he fell backwards, as one would naturally, and in some way twisted in the air after—” He stopped.
Lovat-Smith’s black eyebrows rose curiously.
“You were saying, Doctor?” He spread his arms out. “He fell over backwards, turned in the air to allow the halberd to pierce his chest, and then somehow turned again so he could strike the floor with his temple? All without breaking the halberd or tearing it out of the wound. And then he rolled over to lie on his back with one leg folded under the other? You amaze me.”
“Of course not,” Hargrave said seriously, his temper unruffled, only a deep concern reflected in his face.
Rathbone glanced at the jury and knew they liked Hargrave, and Lovat-Smith had annoyed them. He also knew it was intentional. Hargrave was his witness, he wished him to be not only liked but profoundly believed.
“Then what are you saying, Dr. Hargrave?”
Hargrave was very serious. He looked at no one but Lovat-Smith, as if the two of them were discussing some tragedy in their gentlemen’s club. There were faint mutters of approval from the crowd.
“That he must have fallen and struck his head, and then spun, the halberd been driven into his body when he was lying on the ground. Perhaps he was moved, but not necessarily. He could quite naturally have struck his head and then rolled a little to lie on his back. His head was at an odd angle—but his neck was not broken. I looked for that, and I am sure it was not so.”
“You are saying it could not have been an accident, Dr. Hargrave?”
Hargrave’s face tightened. “I am.”
“How long did it take you to come to this tragic conclusion?”
“From the time I first saw the body, about—about one or two minutes, I imagine.” A ghost of a smile moved his lips. “Time is a peculiar commodity on such an occasion. It seems both to stretch out endlessly, like a road before and behind with no turning, and at the same time to crush in on you and have no size at all. To say one or two minutes is only a guess, made afterwards using intelligence. It was one of the most dreadful moments I can recall.”
“Why? Because you knew someone in that house, one of your personal friends, had murdered General Thaddeus Carlyon?”
Again the judge glanced at Rathbone, and Rathbone made no move. A frown crossed the judge’s face, and still Rathbone did not object.
“Yes,” Hargrave said almost inaudibly. “I regret it, but it was inescapable. I am sorry.” For the first and only time he looked up at Alexandra.
“Just so,” Lovat-Smith agreed solemnly. “And accordingly you informed the police?”
“I did.”
“Thank you.”
Rathbone looked at the jury again. Not one of them looked at the dock. She sat there motionless, her blue eyes on Rathbone, without anger, without surprise, and without hope.
He smiled at her, and felt ridiculous.
10
MONK LISTENED TO LOVAT-SMITH questioning Charles Hargrave with a mounting anxiety. Hargrave was creating an excellent impression with the jury; he could see their grave, attentive faces. He not only had their respect but their belief. Whatever he said about the Carlyons they would accept.
There was nothing Rathbone could do yet, and Monk’s intelligence knew it; nevertheless he fretted at the helplessness and the anger rose in him, clenching his hands and hardening the muscles of his body.
Lovat-Smith stood in front of the witness box, not elegantly (it was not in him), but with a vitality that held attention more effectively, and his voice was fine, resonant and individual, an actor’s instrument.
“Dr. Hargrave, you have known the Carlyon family for many years, and indeed been their medical adviser for most of that time, is that not so?”
“It is.”
“You must be in a position to have observed their characters, their relationships with one another.”
Rathbone stiffened, but did not yet interrupt.
Lovat-Smith smiled, glanced at Rathbone, then back up at Hargrave.
“Please be careful to answer only from your own observation,” he warned. “Nothing that you were told by someone else, unless it is to account for their own behavior; and please do not give us your personal judgment, only the grounds upon which you base it.”
“I understand,” Hargrave acknowledged with the bleakest of smiles. “I have given evidence before, Mr. Lovat-Smith. What is it you wish to know?”
With extreme care as to the rules of evidence, all morning and well into the afternoon Lovat-Smith drew from Hargrave a picture of Thaddeus Carlyon as honorable and upright, a military hero, a fine leader to his men, an example to that youth which looked to courage, discipline and honor as their goals. He had been an excellent husband who had never ill-used his wife with physical violence or cruelty, nor made excessive demands of her in the marriage bed, but on the other hand had given her three fine children, to whom he had been a father of devotion beyond the normal. His son adored him, and rightly so, since he had spent much time with the boy and taken great care in the determination of his future. There was no evidence whatsoever that he had ever been unfaithful to his wife, nor drunk to excess, gambled, kept her short of money, insulted her, slighted her in public, or in any other way treated her less than extremely well.
Had he ever exhibited any signs whatever of mental or emotional instability?
None at all; the idea would be laughable, were it not so offensive.
What about the accused, who was also his patient?
That, tragically, was different. She had, in the last year or so, become agitated without apparent cause, been subject to deep moods of melancholy, had fits of weeping for which she would give no reason, had absented herself from her home without telling anyone where she was going, and had quarreled violently with her husband.
The jury were looking at Alexandra, but with embarrassment now, as if she were someone it was vulgar to observe, like someone naked, or caught in an intimate act.
“And how do you know this, Dr. Hargrave?” Lovat-Smith enquired.
Still Rathbone sat silently.
“Of course I did not hear the quarrels,” Hargrave said, biting his lip. “But the weeping and the melancholy I saw, and the absences were apparent to everyone. I called more than once and found unexplainably that she was not there. I am afraid the agitation, for which she would never give me a reason, was painfully obvious each time she saw me in consultation. She was so disturbed as to be hysterical—I use the word intentionally. But she never gave me any reason, only wild hints and accusations.”
“Of what?” Lovat-Smith frowned. His voice rose dramatically with interest, as if he did not know what the answer would be, although Monk, sitting almost in the same seat as on the previous day, assumed he must. Surely he was far too skilled to have asked the question without first knowing the answer. Although it was just possible his case was so strong, and proceeding without challenge, that he might have thought he could take the risk.
The jury leaned forward a trifle; there was a tiny rustle of movement. Beside Monk on the bench Hester stiffened. The spectators near them felt no such restraints of delicacy as the jury. They stared at Alexandra quite openly, faces agog.
“Accusations of unfaithfulness on the general’s part?” Lovat-Smith prompted.
The judge looked at Rathbone. Lovat-Smith was leading the witness. Rathbone said nothing. The judge’s face tightened, but he did not interrupt.
“No,” Hargrave said reluctantly. He drew in his breath. “At least, they were unspecific, I was not sure. I think she was merely speaking wildly, lashing out at anyone. She was hysterical; it made no sense.”
“I see. Thank you.” Lovat-Smith inclined his head. “That is all, Doctor. Please remain where you are, in case my learned friend wishes to question you.”
“Oh indeed, I do.” Rathbone rose to his feet, his voice purring, his movements tigerlike. “You spoke m
ost frankly about the Carlyon family, and I accept that you have told us all you know, trivial as that is.” He looked up at Hargrave in the high, pulpitlike witness stand. “Am I correct, Dr. Hargrave, in supposing that your friendship with them dates back some fifteen or sixteen years?”
“Yes, you are.” Hargrave was puzzled; he had already said this to Lovat-Smith.
“In fact as a friendship with the family, rather than General Carlyon, it ceased some fourteen years ago, and you have seen little of them since then?”
“I—suppose so.” Hargrave was reluctant, but not disturbed; his sandy face held no disquiet. It seemed a minor point.
“So in fact you cannot speak with any authority on the character of, for example, Mrs. Felicia Carlyon? Or Colonel Carlyon?”
Hargrave shrugged. It was an oddly graceful gesture. “If you like. It hardly seems to matter, they are not on trial.”
Rathbone smiled, showing all his teeth.
“But you mentioned your friendship with General Carlyon?”
“Yes. I was his physician, as well as that of his wife and family.”
“Indeed, I am coming to that. You say that Mrs. Carlyon, the accused, began to exhibit signs of extreme distress—indeed you used the word hysteria?”
“Yes—I regret to say she did,” Hargrave agreed.
“What did she do, precisely, Doctor?”
Hargrave looked uncomfortable. He glanced at the judge, who met his eyes without response.
“The question disturbs you?” Rathbone remarked.
“It seems unnecessarily—exposing—of a patient’s vulnerability,” Hargrave replied, but his eyes remained on Rathbone; Alexandra herself might have been absent for all the awareness he showed of her.
“You may leave Mrs. Carlyon’s interest in my hands,” Rathbone assured him. “I am here to represent her. Please answer my question. Describe her behavior. Did she scream?” He leaned back a little to stare up at Hargrave, his eyes very wide. “Did she faint, take a fit?” He spread his hands wide. “Throw herself about, have hallucinations? In what way was she hysterical?”
Hargrave sighed impatiently. “You exhibit a layman’s idea of hysteria, if you pardon my saying so. Hysteria is a state of mind where control is lost, not necessarily a matter of uncontrolled physical behavior.”
“How did you know her mind was out of control, Dr. Hargrave?” Rathbone was very polite. Watching him, Monk longed for him to be thoroughly rude, to tear Hargrave to pieces in front of the jury. But his better sense knew it would forfeit their sympathy, which in the end was what would win or lose them the case—and Alexandra’s life.
Hargrave thought for a moment before beginning.
“She could not keep still,” he said at length. “She kept moving from one position to another, at times unable even to remain seated. Her whole body shook and when she picked up something, I forget what, it slipped through her fingers. Her voice was trembling and she fumbled her words. She wept uncontrollably.”
“But no deliriums, hallucinations, fainting, screaming?” Rathbone pressed.
“No. I have told you not.” Hargrave was impatient and he glanced at the jury, knowing he had their sympathy.
“Tell us, Dr. Hargrave, how would this behavior differ from that of someone who had just received a severe shock and was extremely distressed, even agonized, by her experience?”
Hargrave thought for several seconds.
“I cannot think that it would,” he said at last. “Except that she did not speak of any shock, or discovery.”
Rathbone opened his eyes wide, as if mildly surprised. “She did not even hint that she had learned her husband had betrayed her with another woman?”
He leaned a little forward over the rail of the witness box. “No—no, she did not. I think I have already said, Mr. Rathbone, that she could have made no such dramatic discovery, because it was not so. This affair, if you wish to call it that, was all in her imagination.”
“Or yours, Doctor,” Rathbone said, his voice suddenly gritted between his teeth.
Hargrave flushed, but with embarrassment and anger rather than guilt. His eyes remained fixed on Rathbone and there was no evasion in them.
“I answered your question, Mr. Rathbone,” he said bitterly. “You are putting words into my mouth. I did not say there was an affair, indeed I said there was not!”
“Just so,” Rathbone agreed, turning back to the body of the court again. “There was no affair, and Mrs. Carlyon at no time mentioned it to you, or suggested that it was the cause of her extreme distress.”
“That is …” Hargrave hesitated, as if he would add something, then found no words and remained silent.
“But she was extremely distressed by something, you are positive about that?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you. When did this occur, your first observation of her state of mind?”
“I have not a precise date, but it was in July of last year.”
“Approximately nine months before the general’s death?”
“That is right.” Hargrave smiled. It was a trivial calculation.
“And you have no idea of any event at this time which could have precipitated it?”
“No idea at all.”
“You were General Carlyon’s physician?”
“I have already said so.”
“Indeed. And you have recounted the few occasions on which you were called to treat him professionally. He seems to have been a man in excellent health, and those injuries he sustained in action were quite naturally treated by the army surgeons in the field.”
“You are stating the obvious,” Hargrave said with tight lips.
“Perhaps it is obvious to you why you did not mention the one wound that you did treat, but it escapes me,” Rathbone said with the smallest of smiles.
For the first time Hargrave was visibly discomfited. He opened his mouth, said nothing, and closed it again. His hands on the rail were white at the knuckles.
There was silence in the courtroom.
Rathbone walked across the floor a pace or two and turned back.
There was a sudden lifting of interest throughout the court. The jury shifted on their benches almost imperceptibly.
Hargrave’s face tightened, but he could not avoid an answer, and he knew it.
“It was a domestic accident, and all rather foolish,” he said, lifting his shoulder a little as if to dismiss it, and at the same time explain its omission. “He was cleaning an ornamental dagger and it slipped and cut him in the upper leg.”
“You observed this happen?” Rathbone asked casually.
“Ah—no. I was called to the house because the wound was bleeding quite badly, and naturally I asked him what had happened. He told me.”
“Then it is hearsay?” Rathbone raised his eyebrows. “Not satisfactory, Doctor. It may have been the truth—equally it may not.”
Lovat-Smith came to his feet.
“Is any of this relevant, my lord? I can understand my learned friend’s desire to distract the jury’s minds from Dr. Hargrave’s evidence, indeed to try and discredit him in some way, but this is wasting the court’s time and serving no purpose at all.”
The judge looked at Rathbone.
“Mr. Rathbone, do you have some object in view? If not, I shall have to order you to move on.”
“Oh yes, my lord,” Rathbone said with more confidence than Monk thought he could feel. “I believe the injury may be of crucial importance to the case.”
Lovat-Smith swung around with an expressive gesture, raising his hands palm upwards.
Someone in the courtroom tittered with laughter, and it was instantly suppressed.
Hargrave sighed.
“Please describe the injury, Doctor,” Rathbone continued.
“It was a deep gash to the thigh, in the front and slightly to the inside, precisely where a knife might have slipped from one’s hand while cleaning it.”
“Deep? An inch? Two inches? A
nd how long, Doctor?”
“About an inch and a half at its deepest, and some five inches long,” Hargrave replied with wry, obvious weariness.
“Quite a serious injury. And pointing in which direction?” Rathbone asked with elaborate innocence.
Hargrave stood silent, his face pale.
In the dock Alexandra leaned a fraction forward for the first time, as if at last something had been said which she had not expected.
“Please answer the question, Dr. Hargrave,” the judge instructed.
“Ah—er—it was … upwards,” Hargrave said awkwardly.
“Upwards?” Rathbone blinked and even from behind his elegant shoulders expressed incredulity, as if he could not have heard correctly. “You mean—from the knee up towards the groin, Dr. Hargrave?”
“Yes,” Hargrave said almost inaudibly.
“I beg your pardon? Would you please repeat that so the jury can hear you?”
“Yes,” Hargrave said grimly.
The jury was puzzled. Two leaned forward. One shifted in his seat, another frowned in deep concentration. They did not know what relevance it could possibly have, but they knew duress when they saw it, and felt Hargrave’s reluctance and the sudden change in tension.
Even the crowd was silent.
A lesser man than Lovat-Smith would have interrupted again, but he knew it would only betray his own uncertainty.
“Tell us, Dr. Hargrave,” Rathbone went on quietly, “how a man cleaning a knife could have it slip from his hand so as to stab himself upwards, from knee to groin?” He turned on the spot, very slowly. “In fact, perhaps you would oblige us by showing us exactly what motion you had in mind when you—er—believed this account of his? I presume you know why a military man of his experience, a general indeed, should be clumsy enough to clean a knife so incompetently? I would have expected better from the rank and file.” He frowned. “In fact, ordinary man as I am, I have no ornamental knives, but I do not clean my own silver, or my own boots.”
“I have no idea why he cleaned it,” Hargrave replied, leaning forward over the rail of the witness box, his hands gripping the edge. “But since it was he who had the accident with it, I was quite ready to believe him. Perhaps it was because he did not normally clean it that he was clumsy.”