William Monk 05 - The Sins of the Wolf
almost imperceptible lift of his chin and straightening of his shoulders.
There was a second’s silence, and then an indrawing of breath by the half dozen or so who knew their military history. The Scots Greys, the Inniskilling Dragoons and the Dragoon Guards, a mere eight hundred men in all, had marshaled on the field of disaster at Balaclava and held a Russian charge of three thousand cavalry, and in eight blood-soaked minutes the Russians had broken and fled back the way they had come.
One man in the jury blew his nose fiercely and another was not ashamed to wipe his eyes.
Someone in the gallery called out “God save the Queen!” and then fell silent.
Argyll kept a perfect gravity, as if he had heard nothing.
“An odd choice for an Englishman?” he observed.
Gilfeather sat like stone.
“I am sure you have no intention of being offensive, sir,”Moncrieff said quietly. “But I was born in Stirling and studied medicine in Aberdeen and Edinburgh. I have spent some time in England, as well as abroad. You may blame my accent upon my mother.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Argyll said grimly. “It was a hasty conclusion, upon appearances—or rather, upon sound.” He did not add anything about the foolishness of such prejudgments. It would have been clumsy. The jury had taken the point as it was.
There was a murmur of approval around the gallery.
The judge scowled.
Rathbone smiled, in spite of himself.
“Please proceed, Mr. Argyll,” the judge said with exaggerated weariness. “Wherever the good doctor was born, or studied, is neither here nor there. I assume you are not going to say that he knew Miss Latterly in either place? No, I thought not. Do get on with it!”
Argyll was not in the slightest disturbed. He smiled at the judge and turned back to Moncrieff.
“And you encountered Miss Latterly while you were in the Crimea, Doctor?”
“Yes sir, on many occasions.”
“In the pursuit of your mutual profession?”
The judge leaned forward, a sharp frown between his brows making his face look even longer and narrower.
“Sir, this court requires that you be precise. You are misleading the jury. Dr. Moncrieff and Miss Latterly do not have a mutual profession, as you well know; and if you do not, then let me inform you. Dr. Moncrieff is a physician, a practitioner of the art of medicine. Miss Latterly is a nurse, a servant to such doctors in their care of the sick, to roll bandages, make beds, fetch and carry. She does not diagnose disease, she does not prescribe medicines, she does not perform operations of even the slightest nature. She does as she is told, no more. Do I make myself clear?” He turned to the jury. “Gentlemen?”
At least half the jurors nodded sagely.
“Doctor,” Argyll said smoothly, addressing Moncrieff. “I do not wish you to presume upon jurisprudence. Please confine yourself to medicine as your skill, and Miss Latterly as your observation.”
There was a titter around the room, hastily suppressed. One man in the gallery guffawed, and someone squeaked with alarm.
The judge was scarlet-faced, but events had overtaken him. He searched for words, and found none.
“Of course not, sir,” Moncrieff said quickly. “I know nothing about it, beyond what is open to every layman.”
“Did you work with Miss Latterly, sir?”
“Frequently.”
“What was your opinion of her professional ability?”
Gilfeather rose to his feet. “We are not doubting her professional ability, my lord. The prosecution is not charging she made any error in judgment as to procedure. We are quite sure all her acts were precisely what she intended them to be, and with full understanding of the consequences … at least medically speaking.”
There was another nervous giggle somewhere, instantly stifled.
“Proceed to what is relevant, Mr. Argyll,” the judge directed. “The court is waiting to hear Dr. Moncrieff’s testimony as to the character of the prisoner. Relevant or not, it is her right to have it heard.”
“My lord, I believe that competence to perform one’s duties, and to place the care of others before one’s own safety, while in great personal anger, is a profound part of a person’s character,” Argyll said with a smile.
There was a long, tense silence. No one in the gallery moved.
In spite of himself Rathbone’s eyes flickered up to Hester. She was staring at Argyll, her face white, the shadow of hope struggling in her eyes.
He felt an overwhelming
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