“Could not Sergeant Keats have pulled upward on the sash?”
“Not with his broken rib, my lord.”
“What about standing on a chair or a stool? That would change the angle of the ligature mark.”
“I doubt the victim would have allowed the murderer time to prepare in such a fashion. Besides, Sergeant Keats’ rib injury would have precluded such an athletic feat.”
“Indeed. Your conclusion, Doctor?” Wescomb prompted.
“The marks on the deceased were made by an assailant taller than the accused.”
“Thank you for this most informative demonstration,” Wescomb said.
Realizing he was staring at the sash, Keats forced his eyes away. One thing was clear: no matter what happened to him, Alastair’s forensic career was launched as solidly as a new ship puts to sea.
“I wish to cross-examine, my lord,” Arnett said, rising to his feet. “Your demonstration, as my learned colleague calls it, has been most unusual. From your testimony you would have us believe that the prisoner is incapable of murder.”
“I did not say he was incapable of murder, sir. I said that the evidence indicates he did not commit this murder,” Alastair replied.
Wescomb beamed his approval.
“I see,” Arnett replied. “Now if I had a close friend staring at the noose, I wonder if I might be so inclined as to, well, obfuscate the evidence.” A dramatic pause. “Do you wish to recant your testimony, Doctor?” he asked silkily.
“No. The physical evidence stands. Sergeant Keats, by virtue of his height, could not have strangled Nicola Hallcox.”
“So you say. I have no more questions, my lord.”
Wescomb rose. “Dr. Montrose, did you have your findings validated by another impartial professional?”
“Yes. The forensic experts at St. Mary’s Hospital reviewed our findings and drew the same conclusion.”
“Thank you. That is all.”
~??~??~??~
“Damn the man!” Alastair slammed his fist on the table, causing all eyes in the Viaduct Tavern to swing toward him. Reuben retrieved his ale to keep it out of harm’s way.
Wescomb shook his head. “I did warn you that Arnett would pull all the tricks out of his bag.”
Alastair looked over at his mentor. “In future, Reuben, I think it best I not assist you. My professional opinion will always be in doubt because of that one event in Wales. I shouldn’t have wasted your time.”
Reuben chuffed. “On the contrary, you’ve not wasted it. You’re the one who found that discrepancy with the ligature mark. I didn’t see that.”
“Still—”
“Fancy place, isn’t it?” Reuben asked, pointedly changing the subject. His eyes roved upward. “I particularly like the painting of the three maidens.”
Realizing he would get no further on the topic, Alastair finally took note of their surroundings. The painting Reuben mentioned adorned one whole wall. Above it was a red-tiled ceiling supported by sturdy, cast iron pillars. As he looked around, he noted a man near the bar, watching them. The moment their eyes met, the fellow turned away.
“It’s built on top of old Newgate Prison,” Wescomb explained. “The cellar still holds some of the cells.” He stroked his gray moustache in thought. “On the whole, I think we’ve done rather well so far. We’ve shown the inspector has run a slipshod investigation, that there are a number of other gents who might feel the need to put Miss Hallcox in her grave, and proved that the sergeant is just too short to have done the deed.” He nodded, pleased. “We have firmly inserted an element of doubt in the minds of the jury.”
“Lord Wescomb?” a voice asked.
They looked up at the newcomer. He was dressed like most of the other patrons: suit and bowler. The defining difference was the pen and notebook in his hand. Alastair slipped a quick glance toward the bar. Their watcher was still there.
“Yes, sir?” Wescomb asked.
The man stepped forward to join them. “I’m Robert Anderson, reporter for the Chicago Herald.”
“You’re far afield, sir,” his lordship replied politely.
“So I am reminded each day.”
“Ah, that’s where I’ve heard the name. You were with the inspector the night Sergeant Keats was arrested.”
“Yes. Quite an adventure. I’ve been attending the trial and have a few questions to put to you, if you agree.”
“Such as?” Wescomb asked, going on guard.
“It appears that certain topics are off limits at the proceedings. Why is that?”
Wescomb’s expression grew even more guarded. “That is a question you must put to Home Office. I am not at liberty to answer.”
“Home Office,” the fellow repeated, making a note. “I have heard that there are still explosives at large in London.”
“Rumors come and go like the fog in this city.”
“Every now and then, rumors prove true.”
Wescomb eyed him. “It depends.”
“If you could make a plea to the public on behalf of your client, what would it be?” Anderson asked.
This was a question Wescomb could answer without restraint.
“My fervent request is that if someone saw the sergeant that night in Whitechapel, they must come forward. An innocent man’s life hangs in the balance.”
The reporter tucked away his notebook and pen. “Thank you, Lord Wescomb. I appreciate your time.” He inclined his head and set off for the door.
The peer let out a sigh of relief. “Reporters always make me nervous. You never know what they’ll write. Especially one from America.” He looked over at his companions. “You’re both welcome to come to my home for the evening. We’ll take supper and you can help me work on my closing arguments.”
“I regret I shall have to pass, Sagamor,” Reuben replied. “I am leaving for Dublin on Saturday to consult on a case. There is much that must be done before then.”
“How about you, Alastair?”
“Thank you, my lord. I would be happy to accompany you. I’d rather be doing something useful for a change.”
“Excellent.” Wescomb rose from his chair. “Come on. My carriage should arrive in a few minutes.”