imagined what she must be remembering of her own grief, and the sense of helplessness and guilt because she had not been there for her father and mother. With such events, Monk knew, there was always the belief, however foolish, that there was something one could have said or done that would have made a difference. But he had not seen anger in her, or heard her blame her brother, James, for not somehow preventing it. She had never lashed out at him that Monk knew of. How did she keep at bay the bitterness and the sense of futility?
Then a sudden thought struck him. How incredibly stupid he was not to have seen it before! Was her need to throw herself into fighting pain, injustice, and helplessness her way of making the past bearable? Was her readiness to forgive born of her own understanding of what it was to fail? She worked with all her strength at Portpool Lane not only to meet a fraction of the women's needs but to answer her own as well. Anything short of her whole heart in the battle could never be enough for her. He was guarding her from the danger without because he was afraid for himself-afraid of what losing her would mean. He was thinking of his own sleepless nights, his imagination of her danger. All the time he was increasing the danger within.
Impulsively he reached across and put his hand over hers, holding her softly. After a moment her fingers responded. He knew what that moment meant. It was the loss of something inside her, which he had taken away. He would have to put it back as soon as he could, however afraid he was for her or for himself without her.
Right now Runcorn was climbing the twisting steps to the high, exposed witness stand. He looked uncomfortable, in spite of the fact that he must have testified in court countless times over the years. He was neatly dressed, even excessively soberly, as if for church, his collar starched and too tight. He answered all Rathbone's questions precisely, adding nothing. His voice was uncharacteristically touched with grief, as if he too was thinking not of James Havilland but of Mary.
Rathbone thanked him and sat down.
Runcorn turned a bleak face towards Mr. Dobie, counsel for the defense, who rose to his feet, straightened his robes, and walked forward into the well of the court. He looked up at the high witness stand with its steps and squinted a little at Runcorn, as if uncertain exactly what he saw. He was a young man with a soft face and a cloud of curly dark hair.
'Superintendent Runcorn-that is your rank, isn't it?' he asked. His expression was bland, almost timid.
'Yes, sir,' Runcorn replied.
'Just so. That implies that you are considerably experienced in investigating violent deaths-accidental, suicidal, and murderous?'
'Yes, sir.'
'You are good at it?'
Runcorn was startled.
'I apologize.' Dobie shook his head. 'That was an unfair question. Modesty forbids that you reply honestly. I will accept that you are.' He glanced momentarily at Rathbone, as if half expecting an objection.
Rathbone would not object, and they both knew it. 'I have no quarrel with Mr. Dobie s conclusion, my lord, even if it seems a little premature.'
The judge s face tightened in appreciation of his predicament.
In the dock, high above the proceedings and where those in the gallery had to crane their necks sideways to see him, Aston Sixsmith sat gripping the rails with his hands. His knuckles were white, his eyes un-moving from Dobie s figure.
Dobie looked at Runcorn. 'May we assume that you took the death of James Havilland very seriously?'
'Of course.' Runcorn could see where this question was leading, but still he could not avoid the trap. He had long since learned not to add anything he did not need to.
'And you concluded that he had taken his own life?'
'Yes, sir-the first time.' Runcorn was forcing himself not to fidget. He stood as if frozen.
Dobie smiled. 'I will ask you in due course why you judged it necessary to consider it a second time. You did judge it necessary, didn't you? It was not some other sort of reason that drove you to go back again to a closed case-a favor owed, or a sense of pity, for example?'
'No, sir.' But Runcorn's face betrayed that the answer was less than the whole truth.
Monk moved uncomfortably in his seat. He ached to be able to help Runcorn, but there was nothing at all he could do.
'What made you conclude that Havilland had killed himself? The first time, that is?' Dobie asked with gentle interest.
'The gun beside him, the fact that nothing was stolen, and no sign of a break-in,' Runcorn said miserably.
'Was there anything of value a thief could have taken?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Did you find any evidence that Mr. Havilland had been anxious or distressed recently?'
'No one expected him to take his own life,' Runcorn insisted.
'People seldom do.' Dobie gave a slight shrug. 'It is always difficult to imagine. Whose gun was it that he used-I'm sorry, that was used, Superintendent?'
Runcorn's face was tight, his jaw clenched. His large hands gripped the rail of the stand. 'His own.'
'And of course you verified that?'
'Yes.'
'Perhaps you would be good enough to tell the court what on earth made you go back two months later and question your first decision. That initial decision seems eminently sensible-in fact, the only decision you could have reached.'
Runcorn's face was deep red, but his gaze back at Dobie did not waver. 'His daughter also died in tragic and questionable circumstances,' he replied.
'Questionable?' Dobie's eyebrows rose, and his tone was one of disbelief. 'I thought she also took her own life. Have I misunderstood? Is she not also buried in a suicide's grave?'
It was Dobie's first tactical error. Beside Monk, Hester closed her eyes, and the delicate corners of her mouth tightened. She sat motionless, old memories clearly raw inside her. In the rest of the gallery there was a slight sigh. Monk turned to see the jurors' faces and found pity and distaste. They might not disagree, but they found the reference cruel.
Dobie had not realized it yet. He was waiting for Runcorn to answer.
Runcorn's face was bleak, his voice soft and startlingly full of emotion. 'It was the haste and possible injustice of that decision that made me look at Mr. Havilland's death again,' he replied. 'I knew Mary Havilland because of her father's death. She was always certain he was murdered. I didn't believe her then, but her own death drew me to go back and look at her father's once more.'
There was a flush of anger on Dobie's lineless face. 'Are you being strictly honest with us, Superintendent? Was it not actually a visit from a certain Mr. Monk that caused you to look at it again? He is a friend of yours, is he not? And please do not be disingenuous.'
Runcorn was tight-lipped. 'Monk and I served together some years ago,' he answered. 'He's now with the River Police, and since he was investigating Mary Havilland's death and heard about her father, yes, of course he came to me to find out in more detail what had happened.'
'And you told him what you had originally concluded, that Havilland shot himself?'
'I told him the details of our investigation. In light of the daughter's death as well, we looked into it again,' Runcorn said doggedly.
'In case you were mistaken, Superintendent?'
'I hope not. But if I am, I'm man enough to own it!'
A second tactical error. There was a rumble of applause in the gallery.
Hester smiled, her eyes bright with approval.
Dobie ridiculed Runcorn a little further, then realized he was doing his case more harm than good and let him go.
The police surgeon gave a very wide range for the time of Havillands death, in answer to Rathbone's questions. Dobie picked it out but did not argue.
Rathbone called Cardman, who stood in the witness box ramrod stiff, like a soldier facing a firing squad; his lips were tight and his skin almost bloodless. Monk could only imagine how he must loathe this. In as few words as possible he answered Rathbone's questions about the letter that had been delivered and given to Havilland. He
