Page 24 of The Frozen River

I dip my head in feigned respect. “I come before the Court of General Sessions to deliver testimony regarding a death, as is my duty before the law and the state of Massachusetts.” Well-rehearsed words. I need to be careful.

A wave of mutterings rises behind me.

“What death?” North asks, his eyes tightening at the corners.

“Joshua Burgess.”

Now the wave crashes ashore in a full-blown cacophony. North bangs his gavel on the table to regain order. When the room is silent once more, I continue.

“Joshua Burgess was found yesterday morning, caught in the ice off Bumberhook Point. I was called to this establishment to examine the body and render my opinion on cause of death.”

Ephraim shifts uneasily in my peripheral vision when he hears the cool note in North’s voice.

“And what is your opinion, Mistress Ballard, on cause of death?” North asks.

“Murder.”

Gasps. Mutters. Exclamations. These sounds erupt behind me, along with stools clattering backward, men springing to their feet. Several tankards tip over, and I hear the steady drip of ale splashing on the flagstone floor. Deaths are far too common in these parts, but murder is rare. I remain standing, expression as still and disinterested as I can manage. I keep my eyes on North, and he holds the gaze, locks it in place with his own. Beside him Henry Sewall glances between us, his quill hovering above the record book he keeps for the court.

It takes several seconds of gavel banging before order is restored. “That is a weighty charge, Mistress Ballard.”

“I charge nothing, I only state my findings.” I stand straight and tall and speak with confidence. “Bruises covered his face, torso, and groin. Several teeth were broken. It was clear he had been beaten badly while still alive. He had numerous broken bones. His neck was snapped, windpipe exposed, and rope burns were evident in a complete circle beneath his chin. It was obvious that, after being beaten, Joshua Burgess was hanged. I do not believe he was alive when thrown into the river.”

North stares at me, his dark eyes turned to flint, but I can’t interpret the expression on his face. His voice sounds impartial when he asks, “How can you be sure that he was thrown in?”

Oh you bastard, you have never questioned my testimony before, I think, then carefully say, “It is a deduction based on the evidence.”

“And have you ever seen a man hanged, Mistress Ballard?”

“Yes.” This astonishes me, coming from him, and I’m not afraid to show it. He of all people should know the answer to that question. “I have.”

I ignore the disruption behind me, pay no attention to the standing, whispering, muttering crowd at my back. So intent am I on North—eager to identify the fleeting expression that crosses his face—that I don’t notice the man who has come to stand beside me until he speaks.

“Your Honor,” he says. “If I may address the court? I too have information pertinent to the situation.”

Dr. Page.

Dammit. Damn it all to hell.

When Judge North speaks again, I finally recognize the look I hadn’t been able to identify: certainty.

“Of course. Please state your name and profession for the court records.”

“Dr. Benjamin Page. Licensed physician and Harvard Medical School graduate.”

The crowd gathered at Pollard’s Tavern is adequately impressed. They murmur and nod their approval. Lean forward. Assess the man with curiosity. Several of the younger women sit up straighter. Watch him with acute interest. They are looking for a wedding ring, any sign that he is spoken for. Despite my irritation, I can’t deny that this is an excellent way for a new physician to advertise his services.

“Carry on, Doctor Page,” North says, his voice louder, imperious. “The court always respects the word of a trained medical professional.”

“I too inspected the body of Joshua Burgess yesterday, but I’m afraid my findings are quite different from those of Mistress Ballard.”

North lifts a hand, palm up, and waves it, giving him the floor. “Please, explain.”

I curl my fingers inward, stopping just short of making a fist, as I turn my steady gaze to Dr. Page. He steps into the open area before the table but speaks only to North.

“While it is true that the body in question does show some… injury,… I believe this is due to being swept downstream amidst ice and debris. A great deal of damage can happen to a body in churning water. In addition, there was no rope on or near the body of Mr. Burgess that would indicate a hanging. It is my professional opinion that he died from drowning—most likely due to intoxication—and that all injuries were incurred in a postmortem state.”

Page folds his hands across his stomach as though he has just delivered a lecture on human anatomy—complete with appropriate Latin terminology—to a rapt classroom. Postmortem. It doesn’t take a linguist to decipher the definition of that word, but Page knows that it makes him sound knowledgeable and qualified before the court.