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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 n
eed, Doctor, or do you mean that she also cooked his food?”
