“Indeed. And you have recounted the few occasions on which you were called to treat him professionally. He seems to have been a man in excellent health, and those injuries he sustained in action were quite naturally treated by the army surgeons in the field.”

“You are stating the obvious,” Hargrave said with tight lips.

“Perhaps it is obvious to you why you did not mention the one wound that you did treat, but it escapes me,” Rathbone said with the smallest of smiles.

For the first time Hargrave was visibly discomfited. He opened his mouth, said nothing, and closed it again. His hands on the rail were white at the knuckles.

There was silence in the courtroom.

Rathbone walked across the floor a pace or two and turned back.

There was a sudden lifting of interest throughout the court. The jury shifted on their benches almost imperceptibly.

Hargrave's face tightened, but he could not avoid an answer, and he knew it.

“It was a domestic accident, and all rather foolish,” he said, lifting his shoulder a little as if to dismiss it, and at the same time explain its omission. “He was cleaning an ornamental dagger and it slipped and cut him in the upper leg.”

“You observed this happen?” Rathbone asked casually.

“Ah-no. I was called to the house because the wound was bleeding quite badly, and naturally I asked him what had happened. He told me.”

“Then it is hearsay?” Rathbone raised his eyebrows. “Not satisfactory, Doctor. It may have been the truth-equally it may not.”

Lovat-Smith came to his feet.

“Is any of this relevant, my lord? I can understand my learned friend's desire to distract the jury's minds from Dr. Hargrave's evidence, indeed to try and discredit him in some way, but this is wasting the court's time and serving no purpose at all.”

The judge looked at Rathbone.

“Mr. Rathbone, do you have some object in view? If not, I shall have to order you to move on.”

“Oh yes, my lord,” Rathbone said with more confidence than Monk thought he could feel. “I believe the injury may be of crucial importance to the case.”

Lovat-Smith swung around with an expressive gesture, raising his hands palm upwards.

Someone in the courtroom tittered with laughter, and it was instantly suppressed.

Hargrave sighed.

“Please describe the injury, Doctor,” Rathbone continued.

“It was a deep gash to the thigh, in the front and slightly to the inside, precisely where a knife might have slipped from one's hand while cleaning it.”

“Deep? An inch? Two inches? And how long, Doctor?”

“About an inch and a half at its deepest, and some five inches long,” Hargrave replied with wry, obvious weariness.

“Quite a serious injury. And pointing in which direction?” Rathbone asked with elaborate innocence.

Hargrave stood silent, his face pale.

In the dock Alexandra leaned a fraction forward for the first time, as if at last something had been said which she had not expected.

“Please answer the question, Dr. Hargrave,” the judge instructed.

“Ah-er-it was… upwards,” Hargrave said awkwardly.

“Upwards?” Rathbone blinked and even from behind his elegant shoulders expressed incredulity, as if he could not have heard correctly.”You mean-from the knee up towards the groin, Dr. Hargrave?”

“Yes,” Hargrave said almost inaudibly.

“I beg your pardon? Would you please repeat that so the jury can hear you?”

“Yes,” Hargrave said grimly.

The jury was puzzled. Two leaned forward. One shifted in his seat, another frowned in deep concentration. They did not know what relevance it could possibly have, but they knew duress when they saw it, and felt Hargrave's reluctance and the sudden change in tension.

Even the crowd was silent.

A lesser man than Lovat-Smith would have interrupted again, but he knew it would only betray his own uncertainty.

“Tell us, Dr. Hargrave,” Rathbone went on quietly,”how a man cleaning a knife could have it slip from his hand so as to stab himself upwards, from knee to groin?” He turned on the spot, very slowly. “In fact, perhaps you would oblige us by snowing us exactly what motion you had in mind when you-er-believed this account of his? I presume you know why a military man of his experience, a general indeed, should be clumsy enough to clean a knife so incompetently? I would have expected better from the rank and file.” He frowned. “In fact, ordinary man as I am, I have no ornamental knives, but I do not clean my own silver, or my own boots.”

“I have no idea why he cleaned it,” Hargrave replied, leaning forward over the rail of the witness box, his hands gripping the edge.”But since it was he who had the accident with it, I was quite ready to believe him. Perhaps it was because he did not normally clean it that he was clumsy.”

He had made a mistake, and he knew it immediately. He should not have tried to justify it.

“You cannot know it was he who had the accident, if indeed it was an accident,” Rathbone said with excessive politeness. “Surely what you mean is that it was he who had the wound?”

“If you wish,” Hargrave replied tersely.”It seems a quibble tome.”

“And the manner in which he was holding it to sustain such a wound as you describe so clearly for us?” Rathbone raised his hand as if gripping a knife, and bent his body experimentally into various contortions to slip and gash himself upwards. It was perfectly impossible, and the court began to titter with nervous laughter. Rathbone looked up enquiringly at Hargrave.

“All right!” Hargrave snapped.”It cannot have happened as he said. What are you suggesting? That Alexandra tried to stab him? Surely you are supposed to be here defending her, not making doubly sure she is hanged!”

The judge leaned forward, his face angry, his voice sharp.

“Dr. Hargrave, your remarks are out of order, and grossly prejudicial. You will withdraw them immediately.”

“Of course. I'm sorry. But I think it is Mr. Rathbone you should caution. He is incompetent in his defense of Mrs. Carlyon.”

“I doubt it. I have known Mr. Rathbone for many years, but if he should prove to be so, then the accused may appeal on that ground.” He looked towards Rathbone.”Please continue.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Rathbone bowed very slightly. “No, Dr. Hargrave, I was not suggesting that Mrs. Carlyon stabbed her husband, I was pointing out that he must have lied to you as to the cause of this wound, and that it seemed undeniable that someone stabbed him. I shall make my suggestions as to who, and why, at a later time.”

There was another rustle of interest, and the first shadow of doubt across the faces of the jury. It was the only time they had been given any cause to question the case as Lovat-Smith had presented it. It was a very small shadow, no more than a flicker, but it was there.

Hargrave turned to step down.

“Just one more thing, Dr. Hargrave,” Rathbone said quickly.”What was General Carlyon wearing when you were called to tend this most unpleasant wound?”

“I beg your pardon?” Hargrave looked incredulous.

“What was General Carlyon wearing?” Rathbone repeated. “In what was he dressed?”

“I have no idea. For God's sake! What does it matter?”

“Please answer my question,” Rathbone insisted. “Surely you noticed, when you had to cut it away to reach the wound?”

Hargrave made as if to speak, then stopped, his face pale.

“Yes?” Rathbone said very softly.

“He wasn't.” Hargrave seemed to regather himself. “It had already been removed. He had on simply his underwear.”

“I see. No-no blood-soaked trousers?” Rathbone shrugged eloquently.”Someone had already at least partially treated him? Were these garments lying close to hand?”

“No-I don't think so. I didn't notice.”

Rathbone frowned, a look of suddenly renewed interest crossing his face.