Page 86 of A Sudden, Fearful Death (William Monk 4)

“Successfully?” He had already ascertained that it was successfully, or he would not have asked. He could remember vividly asking Sir Herbert, and his candid, rather surprised reply.

“Yes.” Callandra met his eyes and he knew she understood precisely.

“A man with a calm mind and a steady hand,” he remarked. Again he was aware of the jury looking toward the dock.

Lovat-Smith rose to his feet.

“Yes, yes,” Judge Hardie said, waving his hand. “Mr. Rathbone, please keep your observations till your summation. Lady Callandra was not present at the rest of the operation to pass judgment upon it. You have already elicited that the patient survived, which I imagine you knew? Yes—quite so. Please proceed.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Rathbone bowed almost imperceptibly. “Lady Callandra, we may assume that you did in fact inform the police. One Inspector Jeavis, I believe. Was that the end of your concern in the case?”

“I beg your pardon?” She blinked and her face became even paler, something like fear in her eyes and the quick tightening of her mouth.

“Was that the end of your concern in the case?” he repeated. “Did you take any further actions?”

“Yes—yes I did….” She stopped.

“Indeed? And what were they?”

Again there was the rustle of movement in the court as silks and taffetas brushed against each other and were crushed as people leaned forward. On the jury benches all faces turned toward Callandra. Judge Hardie looked at her inquiringly.

“I—I employed a private agent with whom I am acquainted,” she replied very quietly.

“Will you speak so the jury may hear you, if you please,” Judge Hardie directed her.

She repeated it more distinctly, staring at Rathbone.

“Why did you do that, Lady Callandra? Did you not believe the police competent enough to handle the matter?” Out of the corner of his vision he saw Lovat-Smith stiffen and knew he had surprised him.

Callandra bit her lip. “I was not sure they would find the right solution. They do not always.”

“Indeed they do not,” Rathbone agreed. “Thank you, Lady Callandra. I have no further questions for you.”

Before the judge could instruct her, Lovat-Smith rose to his feet again.

“Lady Callandra, do you believe they have found the correct answer in this instance?”

“Objection!” Rathbone said instantly. “Lady Callandra’s opinion, for all her excellence, is neither professional nor relevant to these proceedings.”

“Mr. Lovat-Smith,” Judge Hardie said with a little shake of his head, “if that is all you have to say, Lady Callandra is excused, with the court’s thanks.”

Lovat-Smith sat down again, his mouth tight, avoiding Rathbone’s glance.

Rathbone smiled, but with no satisfaction.

Lovat-Smith called Jeavis to the stand. He must have testified in court many times before, far more frequently than anyone else present, and yet he looked oddly out of place. His high, white collar seemed too tight for him, his sleeves an inch too short.

He gave evidence of the bare facts as he knew them, adding no emotion or opinion whatever. Even so, the jury drank in every word and only once or twice did any one of them look away from him and up at Sir Herbert in the dock.

Rathbone had debated with himself whether to cross-examine or not. He must not permit Lovat-Smith to goad him into making a mistake. There was nothing in Jeavis’s evidence to challenge, nothing further to draw out.

“No questions, my lord,” he said. He saw the flicker of amusement cross Lovat-Smith’s face.

The next prosecution witness was the police surgeon, who testified as to the time and cause of death. It was a very formal affair and Rathbone had nothing to ask of him either. His attention wandered. First he studied the jurors one by one. They were still fresh-faced, concentration sharp, catching every word. After two or three days they would look quite different; their eyes would be tired, muscles cramped. They would begin to fidget and grow impatient. They would no longer watch whoever was speaking but would stare around, as he was doing now. And quite possibly they would already have made up their minds whether Sir Herbert was guilty or not.

Lastly before luncheon adjournment Lovat-Smith called Mrs. Flaherty. She mounted the witness box steps very carefully, face white with concentration, black skirts brushing against the railings on either side. She looked exactly like an elderly housekeeper in dusty bombazine. Rathbone almost expected to see a chain of keys hanging from her waist and an expense ledger in her hand.

She faced the court with offense and disapproval in every pinched line of her features. She was affronted at the necessity of attending such a place. All criminal proceedings were beneath the dignity of respectable people, and she had never expected in all her days to find herself in such a position.