Madman's Dance (Time Rovers #3)(69)

“No, but he might feel inadvertent sympathy for his friend, having once faced the rope in Wales,” Arnett countered.

“I must agree,” Hawkins intoned. “Answer the question, Dr. Montrose.”

Alastair took a deep breath. “I was summoned to testify regarding the events surrounding the death of the woman I loved, and the man who murdered her.”

Gasps came from the courtroom.

“I have no further questions to put to this witness at this time, your lordship,” Arnett concluded smugly.

Wescomb rose. “Just to clear the air, what were the findings from that inquest in Wales?”



“That my actions were in self-defence,” Alastair replied.

“Thank you. Since Mr. Arnett has brought up the subject, did that experience in Wales give you particular sympathy for Sergeant Keats?”

“Yes. I also know what it is like to be falsely accused.”

Murmurs flew through the courtroom. Alastair allowed himself to relax. Arnett’s ploy had failed.

Lord Wescomb shifted directions. “Did you treat Sergeant Keats after his injury at the hands of a Fenian anarchist?”

“Yes.”

“How serious were those injuries?”

“Quite serious. He had a severe scalp laceration, a concussion, and a broken rib.”

“How was his recuperation progressing at the time of the murder?”

“He was improving, though still unsteady on his feet and easily fatigued. I recommended rest.”

“In your professional opinion, would Sergeant Keats have the strength to strangle a woman in his debilitated condition?”

“It would be extremely difficult, given the broken rib.”

“Even if he employed the sash from her robe?”

“It still would be very difficult.”

Wescomb paused to let that settle in the jury’s mind. “Is it true that you conducted further forensic studies in an effort to determine the height of the murderer, Doctor?”

“Yes, based on post-mortem evidence.” Alastair looked up at the judge, his heart in his throat. “If a demonstration is permitted, my lord?”

Hawkins took his time with the answer. “Providing it is in good taste.”

“It shall be, my lord. I would ask that my assistant join me at the front of the room.”

“I shall permit it.”

A figure rose and made her way forward, accompanied by whispers in the audience. The judge banged the noise back into silence.



“Who is this woman, Dr. Montrose?” he asked.

“This is Mrs. Butler, my housekeeper. She is of similar height to the deceased, my lord, and so will serve in Miss Hallcox’s stead during the demonstration.”

“I see. Pray, do not be theatrical about this.”

“In no way, my lord.”

With a nod from Alastair, Mrs. Butler turned her back to him. “Miss Hallcox,” he explained in a clear voice, “stood five feet, four and three-quarter inches tall without footwear, as she was at the time she was murdered. As Dr. Bishop has indicated, she was strangled from the rear. At this point, I ask Mr. Kingsbury to join us. Mr. Kingsbury is five feet six and one-half inches, which is very close to the prisoner’s height and will serve as a model for this demonstration.”

“I thought that Metropolitan police regulations required their policemen be at least five feet nine,” Wescomb said, feeding him the objection.

“In that regard, Sergeant Keats is a notable exception. I am quoting his height directly from police records. I also verified it this morning in the presence of the prison warder.”

There was murmuring as Wescomb’s assistant came forward. Alastair handed him the sash and Kingsbury positioned it on Mrs. Butler’s neck.

“You will note,” Alastair remarked, pointing to the tableau, “that the angle of the sash is nearly parallel.” He gave a nod and Kingsbury lightly tightened the fabric. Through it all, Mrs. Butler maintained a neutral expression as Alastair had instructed her, hands at her sides. He was quite proud of her performance.

The doctor gestured. The assistant removed the sash and handed it to him. “The ligature marks found on Miss Hallcox’s neck were not parallel, as would be expected of a man of Sergeant Keats’ stature,” he explained, stepping up behind Mrs. Butler. Repositioning the sash, he tightened it carefully. “During the post-mortem, we noted that the ligature marks on the back of her neck were not level, but rose, corresponding to someone approximately five feet nine, as I am.”



“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.