Weighed in the Balance (37 page)

Harvester could not have been better served if he had written the story himself.

Rathbone closed the paper with his exhilaration considerably
sobered. He had merely begun. He had accomplished the first step, no more.

The seal of displeasure was set upon the remainder of his breakfast by the arrival of the morning post, which included a short note from the Lord Chancellor.

The letter was signed with his name but not his title.

Rathbone put it down with a stiff hand, his fingers shaking. He no longer wished even tea or toast.

Harvester began the day by calling Dr. Gallagher to the stand. Rathbone wondered whether he had intended calling him even before the question of murder arose late the previous day. Possibly he had foreseen the newspaper’s reaction and been prepared. Harvester did not seem anxious. But then he was far too good an actor to show what he did not wish to have seen.

Gallagher, on the other hand, looked extremely uncomfortable. He climbed the steps to the stand awkwardly, tripping on the last one, only saving himself by grasping the railing. He faced the court and took the oath, coughing to clear his throat. Rathbone felt a certain pity for him. The man had probably been nervous attending the Prince in the first place. It had been a very serious accident, and he might well have expected to lose his patient and be blamed for his inability to perform a miracle. He must have been surrounded by people in deep anxiety and distress. He had no colleagues upon whom to call, as he would have had in a hospital. He must be wishing that he had demanded a second opinion, someone from London, so he would not now have to bear the responsibility alone—and, if there were to be any, the blame.

He looked white; his brow was already beaded with sweat.

“Dr. Gallagher,” Harvester began gravely, striding out to the middle of the floor. “I regret, sir, having to place you in this position, but you are no doubt aware of the charges that have been made regarding the death of Prince Friedrich, whether mischievously or with sincere belief. The fact remains that since they have been made in public, we cannot now allow them to go unanswered. We must find the truth, and we cannot do that without your full testimony.”

Gallagher started to speak and ended coughing. He pulled out a white handkerchief and put it to his mouth, then when he had finished, kept it in his hand.

“Poor man,” Zorah whispered beside Rathbone. It was the first comment she had passed upon any witness.

“Yes, sir, I understand,” Gallagher said unhappily. “I will do all that lies in my power.”

“I am sure you will.” Harvester was standing with his hands behind his back—what Rathbone had come to realize was a characteristic stance. “I must take you back to the original accident,” Harvester continued. “You were called to attend Prince Friedrich.” It was a statement. Everyone knew the answer.

“Where was he and what was his condition when you first saw him?”

“He was in his rooms in Wellborough Hall,” Gallagher replied, staring straight ahead. “He was on a board which had been brought upstairs because they feared the softness of the bed might cause the bones to scrape against each other were he unable to be absolutely flat. The poor man was still conscious and perfectly sensible to all his pain. I believe he had requested this himself.”

Rathbone glanced at Zorah and saw her face stiff with knowledge of the Prince’s suffering, as if in her mind it still existed. He steeled himself to search for guilt as well, but he saw no shadow of it.

He turned to look across at Gisela. Her expression was totally different. There was no life in her face, no turmoil, no anguish. It was as if every emotion in her were already exhausted. She had nothing whatever left.

“Indeed,” Harvester was saying somberly. “A very distressing affair altogether. What was your diagnosis, Dr. Gallagher, when you had examined him?”

“Several ribs were broken,” Gallagher answered. “His right leg was shattered, broken in three places very badly, as was his right collarbone.”

“And internal injuries?” Harvester looked as grim as if the pain and the fear were still alive and present among them all. In the gallery, there were murmurs of pity and horror. Rathbone was acutely aware of Zorah beside him. He heard the rustle of her skirts as her body twisted and became rigid, reliving the horror and uncertainty of that time. He did not mean to look at her again, but he could not help it. There was a mixture of feelings in her features, the extraordinary nose, too long, too strong for her face, the green eyes half closed, the lips parted. At that moment he found it impossible to believe she could have caused the death which followed after.

But he still had no idea how much she knew or what were
her true reasons for making the charge of murder, or even if she had loved Friedrich or merely felt pity for any human suffering. She was as unreadable to him as she had been the first day he had met her. She was exasperating, possibly more than a little mad, and yet he could not see her as villainess, and he could not dislike her. It would make things a great deal easier if he could. Then he might discharge his legal duty to her and feel excused, instead of caring what happened to her, even if it was entirely her own doing.

Gallagher was describing the internal injuries he was aware of—or, in his best medical opinion, guessed.

“Of course, it is impossible to know,” he said awkwardly. “He seemed to be recovering, at least his general health. I think he would have remained severely incapacitated.” He took a deep breath. “Now it appears I missed something which may have ruptured when he moved or perhaps coughed severely. Sometimes even a sneeze can be very violent.”

Harvester nodded. “But the symptoms as you observed them were entirely consistent with death from injury, such as those he sustained in what was a very bad fall indeed?”

“I … I believed so at the time.” Gallagher fidgeted, turning his chin as if to loosen a collar which was choking him, but he did not move his hands from where they gripped the rail in front of him. “I signed the certificate according to my honest belief. Of course—” He stopped. Now his embarrassment was abundantly plain to every man and woman in the room.

Harvester looked grim. “You have second thoughts, Dr. Gallagher? Upon reading in the newspapers of Sir Oliver’s suggestion in yesterday’s hearing—or earlier than that, may I ask?”

Gallagher looked wretched. He kept his eyes on Harvester’s face, as if he dared not glance away in case he should meet Gisela’s gaze.

“Well … really … I suppose mostly since reading the newspapers. Although a private inquiry agent spoke to me
some little time ago, and his questions were rather disturbing, but I gave it little credence at the time.”

“So your thoughts were prompted by others? Would this agent be in the employ of Sir Oliver and his client, by any chance?” He made a slight, almost contemptuous, gesture towards Zorah.

“I …” Gallagher shook his head. “I have no idea. He gave me to understand he was charged with protecting the good name of the Princess and of Lord and Lady Wellborough.”

There was a murmur of anger from the crowd. One of the jurors pursed his lips.

“Did he! Did he indeed?” Harvester said sarcastically. “Well, that may be so, but I can tell you without doubt, Doctor, that he has no connection whatever with the Princess Gisela, and I shall be amazed if he had any with Lord and Lady Wellborough. Their reputations are in no danger, nor ever have been.”

Gallagher said nothing.

“On reflection, Doctor,” Harvester continued, walking a few paces and turning back, “do you now still feel that your original diagnosis was correct? Did Prince Friedrich die as a result of injuries sustained in his accident, and possibly exacerbated by a fit of coughing or sneezing?”

“I really do not know. It would be impossible to be certain without an autopsy on the body.”

There was a gasp around the room. A woman in the gallery shrieked. One of the jurors looked extremely distressed, as if it were about to happen right in front of him, there and then.

“Is there anything to prove it cannot have been an injury which was the cause, Dr. Gallagher?” Harvester demanded.

“No, of course not! If there were I should not have signed the certificate.”

“Of course not,” Harvester agreed vehemently, spreading his hands. “Oh, one more thing. I assume you called upon the Prince very regularly while he was recuperating?”

“Naturally. I went every day. Twice a day for almost the first week after the accident, then as he progressed well and the fever abated, only once.”

“How long after the accident did he die?”

“Eight days.”

“And during that time, who, to your knowledge, cared for him?”

“Every time I called, the Princess was there. She appeared to attend to his every need.”

Harvester’s voice dropped a fraction and became very precise. “Nursing need, Doctor, or do you mean that she also cooked his food?”

There was silence in the room. It hammered in the ears. The chamber was so crowded with people they were jammed together in the seats, fabric rubbing on fabric, the wool gabardine of gentlemen’s coats against the taffeta and bombazine of women’s gowns, suits and wraps. But for all the sound they might have been waxworks.

“No,” Gallagher said firmly. “She did not cook. I was led to understand she did not have the art. And since she was a princess, one could hardly have expected it of her. I was told she never went to the kitchens. Indeed, I was told she never left the suite of rooms from the time he was brought to them until after he had died … in fact, not for some days after that. She was distraught with grief.”

“Thank you, Dr. Gallagher,” Harvester said graciously. “You have been most clear. That is all I wish to ask you presently. No doubt Sir Oliver will have some point to raise, if you will be so good as to remain where you are.”

Gallagher turned to face Rathbone as he rose and came forward. Monk had mentioned the yew trees at Wellborough to him, and he had done his research. He must not antagonize the man if he wished to learn anything of use. And he must forget Zorah, leaning forward and listening to every word, her eyes on him.

“I think we can all appreciate your position, Dr. Gallagher,” he began with a faint smile. “You had no cause whatever to suppose the case was other than as you were told. No one expects or foresees that in such a household, with such people, there will be anything that is untoward or other than as it should be. You would have been criticized for the grossest offensiveness and insensitivity had you implied otherwise, even in the slightest manner. But with the wisdom of hindsight, and now having some idea of the political situation involved, let us reexamine what you saw and heard and see if it still bears the same interpretation.”

He frowned apologetically. “I regret doing this. It can only be painful for all those present, but I am sure you perceive the absolute necessity for having the truth. If murder was done, it must be proved, and those who are guilty must account.”

He looked quite deliberately at the jury, then at Gisela, sitting bleak-faced and composed next to Harvester.

“And if there were no crime at all, simply a tragedy, then we must prove that also, and silence forever the whispers of evil that have spread all over Europe. The innocent also are entitled to our protection, and we must honor that trust.”

He turned back to the witness stand before Harvester could complain that he was making speeches.

“Dr. Gallagher, what precisely were the symptoms of Prince Friedrich’s last few hours and of his death? I would spare everyone’s feelings if I could, most of all those of his widow, but this must be.”

Gallagher said nothing for a moment or two. He seemed to be marshaling his ideas, setting them right in his mind before he began.

“Do you wish to refer to notes, Dr. Gallagher?” the judge inquired.

“No, thank you, my lord. It is a case I shall not forget.” He drew in a deep breath and cleared his throat huskily. “On the day the Prince was taken more seriously ill, I was summoned
earlier than I had expected to call. A servant from Wellborough Hall came to my house and requested that I come immediately, as Prince Friedrich was showing symptoms of considerable distress. I asked what they were, and he told me he was feverish, had a very severe headache and was nauseous, and was experiencing great internal pain. Of course, I went immediately.”

“You had no patients at that time?”

“One. An elderly gentleman with the gout, a chronic condition for which I could do little but advise him to abstain from Port wine. Advice he declined to take.”

There was a nervous titter around the gallery, and then silence again.

“And how did you find Prince Friedrich when you saw him. Dr. Gallagher?” Rathbone asked.

“Much as the manservant had said,” Gallagher replied. “By then he was in severe pain and had vomited. Unfortunately, in the cause of decency the vomitus had not been kept, so I was unable to ascertain the degree of blood in it, but the Princess told me it was considerable. She feared he was bleeding heavily, and she was in very great distress. Indeed, she seemed to be in greater agony of emotion than he was of body.”

“Did he vomit again while you were there?”

“No. Very shortly after I arrived he fell into a kind of delirium. He seemed very weak. His skin was cold to the touch, clammy, and of a blotchy appearance. His pulse was erratic, insofar as it could be found at all, and he was in great internal pain. I admit I … I was in fear for his life from that time on. I held very little hope he could recover.” He was ashen himself, and looking at his rigid stance and agonized face, Rathbone could well imagine the scene as Gallagher had struggled desperately to help the dying man, knowing he was beyond all human aid, watching his suffering and unable to relieve it. It was a profession Rathbone could never have followed himself. He vastly preferred to deal with the anguish
and injustices of the mind, the complications of the law and its battles.