William Monk 03 - Defend and Betray

Furnival has told us that the halberd was protruding from his chest.” Lovat-Smith paced acrossthe 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 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
    M
onk 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