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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.
“I imagine everyone here can conceive your distress, Doctor,” he said aloud and with sincere respect. “We can only be grateful we were not in your place. What happened next?”
“Prince Friedrich failed rapidly,” Gallagher answered. “He grew colder and weaker. The pain seemed to subside, and he slipped into a coma from which he did not recover. He died at about quarter to four that afternoon.”
“And you concluded from what you had seen, and what you already knew of the case, that he had bled to death internally?”
“Yes.”
“A not-unnatural conclusion, given the circumstances as they were then,” Rathbone agreed. “But tell me, Dr. Gallagher, looking back now, is there anything whatever in those symptoms which is indicative not of internal bleeding but of poison? For example, the poison from the bark or leaves of the yew tree?”
There was a sharp intake of breath around the room. Someone gave a little squeal. A juror looked very distressed.
Zorah fidgeted and frowned.
As always, Gisela remained impassive, but her face was so bloodless she might have been dead herself, a marble figure of a woman.
Rathbone put his hands in his pockets and smiled sadly, still facing the witness. “In case you have had no occasion recently to remind yourself of what those are, Doctor, let me enumerate them—for the court, if not for you. They are giddiness, diarrhea, dilation of the pupils of the eyes, pain in the stomach and nausea, weakness, pallor of the skin, convulsions, coma and death.”
Gallagher closed his eyes, and Rathbone thought he swayed a little in the stand.
