Defend and Betray - Anne Perry [147]
“Quite correct,” Hargrave replied with a flicker of a smile across his rakish, rather elegant sandy face. “I presume he phrased it that way because he did not want to alarm people or cause more distress than necessary.”
“Why do you say that, Doctor?”
“Because as soon as I went into the hallway myself and saw the body it was perfectly apparent that he was dead. Even a person with no medical training at all must have been aware of it.”
“Could you describe his injuries—in full, please, Dr. Hargrave?”
The jury all shifted fractionally in their seats, attention and unhappiness vying in their expressions.
A shadow crossed Hargrave’s face, but he was too practiced to need any explanation as to the necessity for such a thing.
“Of course,” he agreed. “At the time I found him he was lying on his back with his left arm flung out, more or less level with one shoulder, but bent at the elbow. The right arm was only a short distance from his side, the hand twelve or fourteen inches from his hip. His legs were bent, the right folded awkwardly under him, and I judged it to be broken below the knee, his left leg severely twisted. These guesses later turned out to be correct.” An expression crossed his face it was impossible to name, but it did not seem to be complacency. His eyes remained always on Lovat-Smith, never once straying upwards towards Alexandra in the dock opposite him.
“The injuries?” Lovat-Smith prompted.
“At the time all that was visible was bruising to the head, bleeding from the scalp at the left temple where he had struck the ground. There was a certain amount of blood, but not a great deal.”
People in the gallery were craning their necks to stare up at Alexandra. There was a hiss of indrawn breath and a muttering.
“Let me understand you, Doctor.” Lovat-Smith held up his hand, strong, short-fingered and slender. “There was only one injury to the head that you could see?”
“That is correct.”
“As a medical man, what do you deduce from that?”
Hargrave lifted his wide shoulders very slightly. “That he fell straight over the banister and struck his head only once.”
Lovat-Smith touched his left temple.
“Here?”
“Yes, within an inch or so.”
“And yet he was lying on his back, did you not say?”
“I did,” Hargrave said very quietly.
“Dr. Hargrave, Mr. Furnival has told us that the halberd was protruding from his chest.” Lovat-Smith paced across the floor and swung around, staring up at Hargrave on the witness box, his face creased in concentration. “How could a man fall from a balcony onto a weapon held upright in the hands of a suit of armour, piercing his chest, and land in such a way as to bruise himself on the front of his temple?”
The judge glanced at Rathbone.
Rathbone pursed his lips. He had no objections. He did not contest that Alexandra had murdered the general. This was all necessary, but beside the point of the real issue.
Lovat-Smith seemed surprised there was no interruption. Far from making it easier for him, it seemed to throw him a trifle off his stride.
“Dr. Hargrave,” he said, shifting his balance from one foot to the other.
A juror fidgeted. Another scratched his nose and frowned.
“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