described Havillands response dismissing the servants to retire, and expressing the intention to stay up late and secure the house for the night himself. He identified the handwriting on the envelope as that of Havillands elder daughter, Mrs. Argyll. Rathbone thanked him.
Dobie rose to his feet, a slight smile on his face. 'This must be very unpleasant for you.'
Cardman did not answer.
'Did you see the contents of the envelope?'
Cardman was startled. 'No, sir, of course not!' The suggestion that he would read his master's mail was clearly repugnant to him.
'Did Mr. Havilland tell you what was in it, perhaps?'
'No, sir.'
'So you have no idea as to its contents?'
'No, sir.'
'Do you know where this letter is now?'
'Mr. Havilland destroyed it, I believe.'
'You believe?'
'That is what the maid said who took it to him!'
'Destroyed it? I see.' Dobie smiled. 'Perhaps that accounts for why Sir Oliver has not given us the privilege of reading it. Mr. Cardman, have you any reason whatever to believe that this… letter… had anything whatever to do with Mr. Havilland's death?'
Cardman took a deep breath and let it out soundlessly. 'No, sir.'
'Neither have I,' Dobie agreed. He gave a little shrug and turned out his hands, palms upwards. 'Neither has anyone!'
The first witness of the afternoon was Melisande Ewart. Runcorn, having given his own evidence, was free to remain in the courtroom. He sat on the other side of the aisle in the gallery. Monk was acutely conscious of his stiff shoulders, clenched hands, eyes never moving from Melisande's face.
She stood in the witness box, calm but for two spots of color high in her cheeks.
Rathbone was gentle with her, drawing from her bit by bit the account of Runcorn and Monk's visit to her and exactly what she had told them. Finally he had her describe the man who had emerged from the mews and bumped into her.
'Thank you, Mrs. Ewart,' he concluded. 'Please remain where you are in case Mr. Dobie wishes to speak to you.'
Monk looked again at the jury and saw sharp interest in their faces, and approval also. She was a woman of gentleness and considerable beauty, and she had conducted herself with quiet grace. Dobie would be a fool to attack her. Nevertheless he did.
'You were returning from the theater, you said, ma'am?' he began.
'Yes,' she agreed.
'At about midnight?'
'Yes.'
'A little late. Did you attend a party after the final curtain?'
'No. The traffic was very heavy.'
'It must have been! What play did you see?' Obviously he already knew the answer.
'Hamlet,' she answered.
'A great tragedy, perhaps the greatest, but full of violence and unnatural death,' he observed. 'Murder after murder. Including Hamlet's own father, as he finally succeeded in proving.'
'I am familiar with the plot,' she said a little coldly.
Runcorn's knuckles were white, and his big hands clenched and unclenched slowly.
'And just as you arrived home,' Dobie went on, 'late and emotionally drained by one of the most powerful plays in the English language, you see a man emerge from the mews near your home.' He sounded reasonable, even soothing. 'It is dusk, he almost bumps into you. He apologizes for being clumsy and a little drunk, and goes on his way. Have I summarized correctly what actually happened, Mrs. Ewart?'
She hesitated, her eyes going to Rathbone as if for help.
Runcorn half rose in his seat and then subsided, his face tight with anger.
Hester grasped Monk's arm, her fingers digging into him.
'You are not incorrect, sir, so much as incomplete,' Melisande replied to Dobie. 'The man was a stranger in the area and he had no legitimate business in the mews. There was a large, dark stain on the shoulder of his jacket. I did not ask about it, but he saw that I had noticed it, and he told me that it was manure. He had tripped and fallen in the mews. But it was a lie. I was close enough to him to have smelled manure. It smelled more like blood.'
'Even if it was blood, that does not mean he was guilty of murder,' Dobie argued.
Melisande's eyes widened. 'You mean he might have been in Mr. Havilland's stable and fallen over his dead body innocently, without thinking he should mention it?'
Dobie's face flamed, and there was a titter of embarrassed laughter around the courtroom.
'Bravo,' Hester whispered to Monk.
Runcorn was smiling, his eyes bright, his cheeks red.
Dobie returned to the attack, but he was losing and he knew it. Moments later he retreated. Rathbone thanked Melisande again and then called the first of his nervous, uninteresting, but very necessary witnesses who were going to prove the trail of the money Aston Sixsmith had paid to the assassin. They detailed every move from Argyll's bank to its final destination. This line of enquiry was tedious but essential. It would continue for the rest of the day-and if Dobie wanted to contest any of it, it would go on probably longer than that.
When the court adjourned, there was no time for private conversation. Monk excused himself from Hester and caught up with Rathbone in the corridor outside. 'I need to speak with Sixsmith,' he said urgently. 'Can you manage it? Persuade him to see me.'
'How?' Rathbone looked tired, in spite of the victory with Melisande Ewart, such as it was. 'I've already gone over every argument I can think of with Sixsmith. The man is desperate and numb with what has happened to him. He has worked for Argyll for years and feels totally betrayed.'
'So he should,' Monk answered, matching his stride with Rathbone's. 'And if we prove it was murder, but not that Argyll's the one who hired the assassin, then Sixsmith will pay for it on the end of a rope!'
'All right,' Rathbone said quickly. 'You don't need to labor the point. But don't give him false hope, Monk.' There was warning in his eyes, even fear.
'I don't intend to,' Monk replied, hoping he could keep his promise. 'Exactly the opposite.'
It took Rathbone half an hour to arrange the meeting in a room off the corridor leading away from the court itself. Sixsmith looked somehow smaller than he had in the tunnel when Monk had seen him before.
Dressed in an ordinary suit, he was broad-shouldered and solid, but not so tall. His hair was neatly barbered, his shirt white, his hands clean. His nails were unbroken-remarkably so, considering the surroundings in which he usually worked.
He sat in the chair opposite Monk, putting his hands on the table between them. His skin was pale, and he had cut himself shaving. A tiny muscle twitched in his temple on the left side. 'What is it?' he said bluntly. 'Haven't you done enough?'
There was no time for Monk to soften any of what he must say, however harsh it sounded. 'Sir Oliver Rathbone can tie every detail of the money all the way from Argyll's bank to you passing it to the man who murdered Havilland.'
'If you think I'm going to plead guilty, you are wasting your time,' Sixsmith said angrily. 'And more to the point, you're wasting mine as well. I never denied that I paid the money! I thought it was to bribe a bunch of ruffians to see off some of the toshers who were giving us a hard time and spreading rumors about uncharted underground rivers and scaring the hell out of some of the navvies.'
'Then say so!' Monk challenged him.
Sixsmith's heavy lip curled. 'Admit to bribing thugs to knock around a few men who are no more than a nuisance? They'll have me in jail so fast, I'll barely see the ground. Are you a fool?'
'No, but you are!' Monk responded. 'Rathbone will prove it anyway. If you want to come out of this alive, you'll
