Cold Vengeance by Douglas Preston, Lincoln Child

describes his shooting skills rather differently than Mr. Grant.”
    “And how does Dr. Esterhazy describe his shooting abilities?”
    “He calls himself inexperienced.”
    “Have his actions and statements corresponded to those of a person responsible for such an egregious accident?”
    “So far as I have seen, yes.” Balfour, despite all, had not been able to put his finger on a single thing in Esterhazy’s actions that was inconsistent with shame, grief, and self-blame.
    “Would you say he can be considered a reliable and competent witness to these events?”
    Balfour hesitated. “I would say that nothing we’ve found to date has in any way disagreed with his statements.”
    The coroner seemed to consider this a moment. “Thank you, Inspector.”
    Next to speak was Esterhazy himself. In the ten days since the shooting, he had regained a good measure of composure, although a faintly haggard look of anxiety seemed to have deepened about him. His voice was steady, earnest, and low. He spoke of his friendship with Pendergast, which started when his sister married the FBI agent. He briefly mentioned her shocking death in the jaws of a man-eating lion, which elicited audible gasps from the audience. And then—at the gentle prodding of the coroner—he talked about the events leading up to Pendergast’s death: the hunt on the moors; the discussion of which stag to try for; the stalking on the Foulmire; the rising fog; his own disorientation; the sudden, bounding entrance of the stag and his instinctive shooting; the frantic attempt to rescue his former brother-in-law; and the man’s sinking into the quickmire. As Esterhazy spoke of these last events, and of his desperate trek back to Kilchurn Lodge, his veneer of calm broke and he became visibly upset, his voice cracking. The onlookers shook their heads, clearly moved and sympathetic. Ainslie’s face, Balfour noted with approval, remained as mournfully skeptical as always. He had a few questions about minor particulars—the timing of certain events, Esterhazy’s medical opinion of Pendergast’s wound—but beyond that, nothing. Esterhazy’s testimony was over in fifteen minutes. All in all, a remarkable performance.
    Performance. Now, why had he chosen that word?
    Because, despite everything, Balfour continued to find himself deeply suspicious of Esterhazy. It was nothing he could put his finger on. All the evidence added up. But if Balfour had wanted to kill someone, and make it look like an accident, he would have gone about it precisely as Esterhazy had.
    His mind was occupied with these thoughts while a string of minor witnesses cycled through. He glanced at Esterhazy. The man had taken great pains to come across as ingenuous, frank, simple to a fault—the typical bumbling American. But he wasn’t bumbling, and he clearly wasn’t stupid. He had both a medical degree and a doctorate—Balfour had checked.
    Ainslie’s dry voice went on. “As I mentioned earlier, the purpose of this inquest is to establish if there was a death. The evidence is as follows. It is the testimony of Dr. Esterhazy that he accidentally shot Aloysius Pendergast; that in his medical opinion the wound was mortal; and that he witnessed, with his own eyes, Pendergast’s submergence in the mire. It is the testimony of Inspector Balfour and others that the scene of the accident was fully investigated, and that the scant evidence found on the site was consistent with Dr. Esterhazy’s testimony. The inspector also testified that no body or effects were recovered either from the mire or from the surrounding moorlands. It is Inspector Balfour’s further testimony that, despite an exhaustive search of the neighboring villages, no trace of Mr. Pendergast has been found, and no witnesses to either his living or dead person have come to light.”
    He glanced around the common room. “Under the circumstances, there are two possible verdicts that could be delivered consistent with the facts