In the dock Sir Herbert winced very slightly, but his eyes remained steadily on Callandra.

"At first I thought it was the skivvy," she resumed. "Then an instant later a second body landed and scrambled to get out. It was then we looked at the first body and realized quite quickly that she was dead."

Again there was a gasp of indrawn breath around the room and a buzz of words, cut off instantly.

Rathbone glanced up at the dock. Even facial expressions could matter. He had known more man one prisoner to sway a jury against him by insolence. But he need not have worried. Sir Herbert was composed and grave, his face showing only sadness.

"I see." Lovat-Smith held up his hand very slightly. "How did you know this first body was dead, Lady Callandra? I know you have some medical experience; I believe your late husband was an army surgeon. Would you please just describe for us what the body was like." He smiled deprecatingly. "I apologize for asking you to relive what must be extremely distressing for you, but I assure you it is necessary for the jury, you understand?"

"It was the body of a young woman wearing a gray nurse's dress." Callandra spoke quietly, but her voice was thick with emotion. "She was lying on her back in the basket, sort of folded, one leg up. No one who was not rendered senseless would have remained in such a position. When we looked at her more closely, her eyes were closed, her face ashen pale, and there were purple bruise marks on her throat. She was cold to the touch."

There was a long sigh from the public galleries and someone sniffed. Two jurors glanced at each other, and a third shook his head, his face very grave.

Rathbone sat motionless at his table.

"Just one question, Lady Callandra," Lovat-Smith said apologetically. "Did you know the young woman?"

"Yes." Callandra's face was white. "It was Prudence Barrymore."

"One of the hospital nurses?" Lovat-Smith stepped back a yard. "In fact, one of your very best nurses, I believe? Did she not serve in the Crimea with Florence Nightingale?"

Rathbone considered objecting that this was irrelevant: Lovat-Smith was playing for drama. But he would do his cause more harm than good by trying to deny Prudence Barrymore her moment of posthumous recognition, as Lovat-Smith would know; he could see it in his faintly cocky stance, as if Rathbone were no danger.

"A fine woman in every respect," Callandra said quietly. "I had the highest regard and affection for her."

Lovat-Smith inclined his head. "Thank you, ma'am. The court offers you its appreciation for what must have been a most difficult duty for you. Thank you, I have nothing further to ask you."

Judge Hardie leaned forward as Callandra moved fractionally.

"If you would remain, Lady Callandra, Mr. Rathbone may wish to speak."

Callandra flushed at her own foolishness, although she had not actually taken a step to leave.

Lovat-Smith returned to his table, and Rathbone rose, approaching the witness box and looking up at her. He was disturbed to see her so drawn.

"Good morning, Lady Callandra. My learned friend has concluded with your identification of the unfortunate dead woman. But perhaps you would tell the court what you did after ascertaining that she was beyond your help?"

"I-we-Dr. Beck remained with her”-Callandra stammered very slightly-"to see she was not touched, and I went to report the matter to Sir Herbert Stanhope, so that he might send for the police."

"Where did you find him?"

"In the theater-operating upon a patient."

"Can you recall his reaction when you informed him what had happened?"

Again faces turned toward the dock as people stared at Sir Herbert, curious and titillated by horror.

"Yes-he was shocked, of course. He told me to go to the police station and inform the police-when he realized it was a police matter."

"Oh? He did not realize it immediately?"

"Perhaps that was my fault," she acknowledged. "I may have told him in such a way he thought it was a natural death. There are frequently deaths in a hospital."

"Of course. Did he appear to you to be frightened or nervous?"

A ghost of bitter amusement passed over her face.

"No. He was perfectly calm. I believe he completed the operation."

"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 me 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.