Had he ever exhibited any signs whatever of mental or emotional instabUity?

None at all; the idea would be laughable, were it not so offensive.

What about the accused, who was also his patient?

That, tragically, was different. She had, in the last year or so, become agitated without apparent cause, been subject to deep moods of melancholy, had fits of weeping for which she would give no reason, had absented herself from her home without telling anyone where she was going, and had quarreled violently with her husband.

The jury were looking at Alexandra, but with embarrassment now, as if she were someone it was vulgar to observe, like someone naked, or caught in an intimate act.

“And how do you know this, Dr. Hargrave?” Lovat-Smith enquired.

Still Rathbone sat silently.

“Of course I did not hear the quarrels,” Hargrave said, biting his lip. “But the weeping and the melancholy I saw, and the absences were apparent to everyone. I called more than once and found unexplainably that she was not there. I am afraid the agitation, for which she would never give me a reason, was painfully obvious each time she saw me in consultation. She was so disturbed as to be hysterical-I use the word intentionally. But she never gave me any reason, only wild hints and accusations.”

“Of what?” Lovat-Smith frowned. His voice rose dramatically with interest, as if he did not know what the answer would be, although Monk, sitting almost in the same seat as on the previous day, assumed he must. Surely he was far too skilled to have asked the question without first knowing the answer. Although it was just possible his case was so strong, and proceeding without challenge, that he might have thought he could take the risk.

The jury leaned forward a trifle; there was a tiny rustle of movement. Beside Monk on the bench Hester stiffened. The spectators near them felt no such restraints of delicacy as the jury. They stared at Alexandra quite openly, faces agog.

“Accusations of unfaithfulness on the general's part?” Lovat-Smith prompted.

The judge looked at Rathbone. Lovat-Smith was leading the witness. Rathbone said nothing. The judge's face tightened, but he did not interrupt.

“No,” Hargrave said reluctantly. He drew in his breath. “At least, they were unspecific, I was not sure. I think she was merely speaking wildly, lashing out at anyone. She was hysterical; it made no sense.”

“I see. Thank you.” Lovat-Smith inclined his head. “That is all, Doctor. Please remain where you are, in case my learned friend wishes to question you.”

“Oh indeed, I do.” Rathbone rose to his feet, his voice purring, his movements tigerlike. “You spoke most frankly about the Carlyon family, and I accept that you have told us all you know, trivial as that is.” He looked up at Hargrave in the high, pulpitlike witness stand. “Am I correct, Dr. Hargrave, in supposing that your friendship with them dates back some fifteen or sixteen years?”

“Yes, you are.” Hargrave was puzzled; he had already said this to Lovat-Smith.

“In fact as a friendship with the family, rather than General Carlyon, it ceased some fourteen years ago, and you have seen little of them since then?”

“I-suppose so.” Hargrave was reluctant, but not disturbed; his sandy face held no disquiet. It seemed a minor point.

“So in fact you cannot speak with any authority on the character of, for example, Mrs. Felicia Carlyon? Or Colonel Carlyon?”

Hargrave shrugged. It was an oddly graceful gesture. “If you like. It hardly seems to matter; they are not on trial.”

Rathbone smiled, showing all his teeth.

“But you mentioned your friendship with General Carlyon?”

“Yes. I was his physician, as well as that of his wife and family.”

“Indeed, I am coming to mat. You say that Mrs. Carlyon, the accused, began to exhibit signs of extreme distress-indeed you used the word hysteria!”

“Yes-I regret to say she did,” Hargrave agreed.

“What did she do, precisely, Doctor?”

Hargrave looked uncomfortable. He glanced at the judge, who met his eyes without response.

“The question disturbs you?” Rathbone remarked.

“It seems unnecessarily-exposing-of a patient's vulnerability,” Hargrave replied, but his eyes remained on Rathbone; Alexandra herself might have been absent for all the awareness he showed of her.

“You may leave Mrs. Carlyon's interest in my hands,” Rathbone assured him. “I am here to represent her. Please answer my question. Describe her behavior. Did she scream?” He leaned back a little to stare up at Hargrave, his eyes very wide. “Did she faint, take a fit?” He spread his hands wide. “Throw herself about, have hallucinations? In what way was she hysterical?”

Hargrave sighed impatiently. “You exhibit a layman's idea of hysteria, if you pardon my saying so. Hysteria is a state of mind where control is lost, not necessarily a matter of uncontrolled physical behavior.”

“How did you know her mind was out of control, Dr. Hargrave?” Rathbone was very polite. Watching him, Monk longed for him to be thoroughly rude, to tear Hargrave to pieces in front of the jury. But his better sense knew it would forfeit their sympathy, which in the end was what would win or lose them the case-and Alexandra's life.

Hargrave thought for a moment before beginning.

“She could not keep still,” he said at length. “She kept moving from one position to another, at times unable even to remain seated. Her whole body shook and when she picked up something, I forget what, it,slipped through her fingers. Her voice was trembling and she fumbled her words. She wept uncontrollably.”

“But no deliriums, hallucinations, fainting, screaming?” Rathbone pressed.

“No. I have told you not.” Hargrave was impatient and he glanced at the jury, knowing he had their sympathy.

“Tell us, Dr. Hargrave, how would this behavior differ from that of someone who had just received a severe shock and was extremely distressed, even agonized, by her experience?”

Hargrave thought for several seconds.

“I cannot think that it would,” he said at last. “Except that she did not speak of any shock, or discovery.”

Rathbone opened his eyes wide, as if mildly surprised. “She did not even hint that she had learned her husband had betrayed her with another woman?”

He leaned a little forward over the rail of the witness box. “No-no, she did not. I think I have already said, Mr. Rathbone, that she could have made no such dramatic discovery, because it was not so. This affair, if you wish to call it that, was all in her imagination.”

“Or yours, Doctor,” Rathbone said, his voice suddenly gritted between his teeth.

Hargrave flushed, but with embarrassment and anger rather than guilt. His eyes remained fixed on Rathbone and there was no evasion in them.

“I answered your question, Mr. Rathbone,” he said bitterly. “You are putting words into my mouth. I did not say there was an affair, indeed I said there was not!”

“Just so,” Rathbone agreed, turning back to the body of the court again. “There was no affair, and Mrs. Carlyon at no time mentioned it to you, or suggested that it was the cause of her extreme distress.”

“That is…” Hargrave hesitated, as if he would add something, then found no words and remained silent.

“But she was extremely distressed by something, you are positive about that?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you. When did this occur, your first observation of her state of mind?”

“I have not a precise date, but it was in July of last year.”

“Approximately nine months before the general's death?”

“That is right.” Hargrave smiled. It was a trivial calculation.

“And you have no idea of any event at this time which could have precipitated it?”

“No idea at all.”

“You were General Carlyon's physician?”

“I have already said so.”