She seemed to struggle to keep control of herself. “I called to him again, and he looked up at me. Then he seemed to be in terrible pain, and he sort of just lay down on his side on the cockpit seat.” Tears appeared on her cheeks now. “I was very frightened. The wind began to get up again, and with no sail up, the boat was rolling very badly. I continued to call out to him in panic—panic that I was stuck at the top of the mast, and panic that he seemed to be having a heart attack, and I couldn’t help him.” Now she began to cry in earnest. Sutherland stood without speaking while she produced a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. Finally in control again, she continued. “A few minutes passed—I don’t know how long—then Paul slid off the seat onto the cockpit sole. He just lay there, facedown. It was obvious that he was unconscious; he just sort of flopped about when the boat rolled.”

“And then what did you do?”

“I just clung to the mast and cried.”

“For how long?”

“A long time. Two hours, maybe three. I wasn’t wearing a watch. Finally the sun got low in the sky; I realized that Paul wasn’t going to help me, and that I had to do something to help myself.”

“And what did you do?”

She took a deep breath and let it out. “I hugged the mast as tightly as I could, then I slipped out of the bosun’s chair and began sliding down the mast, except I slid a lot faster than I meant to. I went down very quickly until I came to rest on the crosstrees, in a sitting position. That hurt, and I was sort of stunned for a minute, so I just stopped and collected myself for a few minutes. The rolling wasn’t quite as bad, since I was farther down the mast. Finally I got up enough nerve to go the rest of the way down. I still don’t know why I didn’t fall and hurt myself.”

“Then you went to help your husband?”

“No, not immediately. I was so terrified and so exhausted from clinging to the mast that I just lay there in a heap. I think I may have even fainted for a while; I don’t know how long. When I could get up again, I made my way back to the cockpit. Paul was dead.”

Stone found that he had been holding his breath. He let it out in a rush, and everyone in the room—the coroner, the jury, and Sir Winston—turned and looked at him. “Excuse me,” he said sheepishly. He looked up and found Allison Manning staring at him. It seemed to be the first time she had been aware of his presence.

“Please go on,” Sir Winston said. “What did you do next?”