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“I reserve the right to call this witness at a later stage, my lord,” he said.
Monk felt the sweat break out on his skin. Was it relief, or only a matter of delaying the inevitable? Hooper would have to testify at some time, and be subjected to Wingfield’s cross-examination. Monk needed someone to rescue him. He understood exactly the panic Pettifer must have felt when he was drowning. He could not breathe. The water was sucking him down, closing over his head.
And yet Monk did not want to take Hooper down with him. He liked Hooper, and the guilt would be crippling.
Wingfield called Dr. Hyde, the police surgeon. He went through the usual formalities of establishing his qualifications, then played straight into the core of the case.
“Were you called to Skelmer’s Wharf to examine the body of the dead man, Pettifer?”
“No,” Hyde said with asperity. “They brought him to me. Get your facts straight, man!”
Wingfield flushed. He had left the details to a junior, certain that the evidence was what he wanted. The expression on his face now suggested dire trouble for someone later.
“But you did receive the body of Pettifer, to determine the exact cause of his death, and anything else that might be relevant to it?”
“Yes.”
“Then is there some reason why you are so reluctant to tell the court what you found?”
“When you ask me.” Hyde stared straight back at him. “Ex-army doctor. You learn—never volunteer.”
“What did you think you were here for? I’m asking you, Dr. Hyde.”
Hyde smiled, but it was from amusement, not good humor. “The man’s lungs were full of water, and there were tiny dots of blood on the whites of his eyes, as one gets with suffocation of any kind. He drowned.”
“Had he any other injuries that would account for why he drowned to death?”
“You don’t drown except to death!” Hyde rolled his eyes. “And yes, he had a very slight bruise on his skull, and another on his neck.”
“Very slight?” Wingfield’s sarcasm was back. “How hard does it have to be to command your attention, Dr. Hyde? It knocked the man senseless!”
“Damned senseless to begin with to jump into the river when he can’t swim,” Hyde retorted. “Perhaps he wanted to take Mr. Monk’s attention in order to give Mr. Owen the chance to escape? Had you thought of that?”
“It’s irrelevant,” Wingfield pointed out with an equally tight smile in reply. “I doubt he intended to give his own life for it!”
“Which would indicate that he trusted Commander Monk to save him,” Hyde said. “He obviously didn’t think they were enemies.”
“Then his drowned corpse, with the bruises on his skull, would indicate the depth of his mistake in that,” Wingfield said triumphantly. “Thank you, Dr. Hyde. That is all.”
Rathbone rose to his feet.
The court was silent. Every juror was staring at him, waiting.
Monk felt his heart race.
“Dr. Hyde, you said the bruises on Mr. Pettifer’s neck and skull were slight. Does that mean he was not struck very hard?”
“No, sir, it means it was very shortly before his death. The bruises had not time to form.”
“I see. Whereabouts on his neck was the bruise? Would you indicate on your own neck, so the jury can see?”
Hyde put his hand to the left side of his neck, just a little forward of the ear.
“Not his throat?” Rathbone asked.
“No. Such a blow to his throat might have killed him. Here was where a man trying to rescue him might have intended to stop him long enough to save them both.”
Wingfield stood up sharply.
