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The judge was staring at him intensely.
One of the jurors had his hand up to his face.
Gisela sat like stone, drained as if all that mattered to her, all that gave her life, had already left her.
In the gallery, a woman was weeping quietly.
Zorah’s face was pinched with unhappiness. She looked as if she had lived through the pain and grief of the day all over again.
“There was no diarrhea,” Gallagher said very slowly. “Unless it occurred before I arrived and I was not told. There were no convulsions.”
“And dilation of the pupils, Dr. Gallagher?” Rathbone almost held his breath. He could feel his own pulse beating.
“Yes …” Gallagher’s voice was little more than a whisper. He coughed, and coughed again. “Yes, there was dilation of the pupils of the eyes.” He looked wretched.
“And is that a symptom of bleeding to death, Doctor?” Rathbone kept all criticism from his voice. It was easy … he did not feel it. He doubted any man in Gallagher’s place would have thought of it.
Gallagher breathed out with a sigh. “No. No, it is not.”
There was a gasp in the gallery.
The judge’s face tightened, and he watched Rathbone gravely.
“Dr. Gallagher,” Rathbone said in the prickling silence, “are you still of the opinion that Prince Friedrich died as a result of bleeding to death from the wounds sustained in his fall?”
The jurors stared at Gisela and then at Zorah.
Zorah clenched her fists and moved forward an inch.
“No sir, I am not,” Gallagher answered.
There was a shriek from the gallery and the gasping of breath. Apparently someone fainted, because several people started to rise to their feet and jostle to make space.
“Give her air!” a man commanded.
“Here! Smelling salts,” someone else offered.
“Burn a feather!” came the call. “Ushers! Water!”
“Brandy! Has anyone a flask of brandy? Oh, thank you, sir!”
The judge waited until the woman had been assisted, then gave Rathbone leave to continue.
“Thank you, my lord,” Rathbone acknowledged.
“Can you name the cause of death, Dr. Gallagher, in your best judgment? So long after the event, and without any further examination, we appreciate you can only guess.”
The movement in the gallery ceased abruptly. The fainting woman was ignored.
“I would guess, sir, that it was the poison of the yew tree,” Gallagher said wretchedly. “I profoundly regret that I did not realize it at the time. I tender my apologies to Princess Gisela and to the court.”
“I am sure no person of sensibility blames you, Doctor,” Rathbone said frankly. “Which of us would have thought on the death of a prince, in the home of a respected member of the aristocracy, to look for poison? I most certainly would not, and if any man here says he would, I would beg leave to take issue with him.”
“Thank you,” Gallagher said painfully. “You are very generous, Sir Oliver. But medicine is my duty and my calling. I should have observed the eyes and had the courage and the diligence to pursue the discrepancy.”
“You have had the courage now, sir, and we are obliged to you for it. That is all I have to ask you.”
Harvester rose to his feet. He looked pale and less certain than at the beginning of the day. He did not move with the same ease.
