William Monk 03 - Defend and Betray

the men who stood against all Europe and defeated Napoleon, saved England from the French, acquired Africa, India, Canada, quarter of the world, what have you left? No one is going to do that for one woman who is a criminal anyway.”
    “All you are saying is that the odds are heavy against us.” He deliberately made his voice harder, suppressing the emotion he felt. “That same redcoat would not have turned away from battle because he was not sure of winning. You haven’t read his history if you can entertain that thought for a second. His finest victories have been when outnumbered and against the odds.”
    “Like the charge of the Light Brigade?” she said with sudden sarcasm. “Do you know how many of them died? And for nothing at all!”
    “Yes, one man in six of the entire Brigade—God knows how many were injured,” he replied flatly, aware of a dull heat in his cheeks. “I was thinking more of the ‘thin red line’—which if you recall stood a single man deep, and repulsed the enemy and held its ground till the charge broke and failed.”
    There was a smile on her wide mouth, and tears in her eyes, and no belief.
    “Is that what you intend?”
    “Certainly.”
    He could see she was still frightened, he could almost taste it in the air, but she had lost the will to fight him anymore. She turned away; it was surrender, and dismissal. She needed her time alone to prepare for the fear and the embarrassment, and the helplessness of the day.
        The first witness was Charles Hargrave, called by Lovat-Smith to confirm the events of the dinner party already given, but primarily to retell his finding of the body of the general, with its terrible wound.
    “Mr. Furnival came back into the room and said that the general had had an accident, is that correct?” Lovat-Smith asked.
    Hargrave looked very serious, his face reflecting both his professional gravity and personal distress. The jury listened to him with a respect they reserved for the more distinguished members of certain professions: medicine, the Church, and lawyers who dealt with the bequests of the dead.
    “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.