court, broken legs, broken back, and all.'
'Scuff II be all right,' Orme said quietly, looking not at Monk but at Crow. 'Won't 'e?'
'Yes, I should think so,' Crow agreed. 'But look at his legs, Mr. Monk.'
'What about them? They're both broken.'
'See any blood?'
'No. Probably washed off in the water we took him through. I dragged him; he's heavier than you'd think.'
Crow looked at the body again, more carefully. Orme and Monk watched, growing more curious and then unaccountably concerned.
'Why does it matter?' Monk said finally.
Crow stood up, his legs stiff, moving awkwardly. 'Because he was dead before the slide hit him,' he replied. 'Dead bodies don't bleed. The only blood staining anything is on his coat, from the bullet hole in his chest. The river didn't wash that out.'
Monk found himself shaking even more violently. 'You mean he's been murdered? Surely he'd never have shot himself!'
'Not in the back, anyway,' Crow replied. 'Went in under his left shoulder blade, came out the front. I reckon whoever employed him paid his last account.'
Monk swallowed.
'Are you absolutely sure?'
Crow pulled his mouth tight and rolled his eyes very slightly. 'Take a look at the bastard yourself, but of course I'm sure! I'm no police surgeon, and don't want to be, but I know a bullet hole when I see one! Heavy caliber, I'd say, but ask the experts.'
Monk straightened up. 'Thank you. Will you and Sergeant Orme take him to the morgue and call the police surgeon? I must tell the prosecutor in the Sixsmith case, and Superintendent Runcorn. A man's life may hang on this.' It was an order, at least as far as Orme was concerned, and a request to Crow.
Orme relaxed. 'Of course,' he said resignedly. 'Come on.''
Monk went back to Paradise Road to tell Hester what had happened. No message from anyone else, however sympathetically or precisely delivered, would satisfy her-or Monk's own need to see her and tell her himself. He was confused and exhausted by the emotional horror of seeing so many people, in agony of body and terror of mind, whom he could not help. He knew those who were dead had been crushed, buried, and suffocated in the darkness, often alone as they felt life slip away from them. Hester could not heal that. No one could. Nor could she erase the memory. But she would understand. Just to see her would ease the knots locked hard inside him.
It was only now that he realized with amazement that he had not had time, or emotion, to spare, to be afraid for himself! It was a sweet, hot kind of relief. He was not a coward, at least not physically.
And he needed to see for himself that Scuff was still recovering. It was absurd that he should feel so intensely about it, but something compelled him to see Scuffs face for himself.
The moment he opened the door he heard movement upstairs. Before he was halfway along the passage he saw the light go up on the landing and Hester's figure on the top step. Her hair was unpinned and tangled from sleep, but she was still dressed, although barefooted.
'William?' she said urgently, her voice sharp with anxiety. She did not ask specific questions, but they were all there implicitly. Their understanding of each other was founded on the battles and the victories of the past.
He wanted to know about Scuff.
She answered him before he asked. 'He's getting stronger all the time,' she said, coming silently down the stairs. 'A little feverish about midnight, but it passed. It's going to take a week before he can get up much, and far more than that before he can go back to his own life. But he will.' Her eyes searched his face. She did not ask if the experiences of the night had been terrible; she read the answer in his demeanor and the fact that he did not even try to find words for what he had seen.
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, he took her in his arms and held her close, hard, wordlessly. In his mind he blessed over and over again whatever benevolence had led him to choose a woman whose beauty was of the soul: brave and vulnerable, funny, angry, and wise-someone to whom he need explain nothing.
Monk had no time to sleep, only to wash and change clothes and eat some hot breakfast. Of course, he also went up to look for a few moments at Scuff, who was scrubbed clean and sound asleep. The boy was still wearing Hester's nightgown with the lace edge next to his thin little neck, his left shoulder sitting crookedly over his bandages.
A few hours later, at half past eight, Monk was at Rathbone's office, explaining the night's events. A messenger was dispatched urgently to Runcorn, telling him to contact Melisande Ewart with a request that she be at the Old Bailey along with Runcorn that morning. If she was unwilling, a summons would be issued.
By ten o'clock the court was in session and Rathbone had asked permission to call Monk to the witness stand. Monk was startled by how stiff he was and how his legs ached as he climbed up. He had to grip the rail to steady himself. Even after a meal and a change of clothes he was exhausted. His shoulder ached, and the violence of the night invaded his mind.
Rathbone looked up at him anxiously. The barrister was as elegant as always-immaculately dressed, his fair hair smooth-but his eyes were shadowed and his lips pale and pulled a little tight. Because Monk knew him so well, he could see the tension in him. He knew how close he was to being beaten.
In the front row of the gallery Margaret Ballinger sat, white and unhappy. Her eyes seldom left Rathbone, even though most of the time it was only his back and profile that she could see.
'Mr. Monk,' Rathbone began, 'will you please tell the court where you were last night?'
Dobie, who apparently had not heard the news, immediately objected.
'Very well, may I rephrase the question?' Rathbone said tightly, his voice scraping in his throat. 'As some of the court may know, my lord, there was a catastrophic cave-in at the Argyll Company's sewer construction tunnel last night.' He stopped while the public gallery gasped and one or two people cried out. The jurors looked at one another in horror. The clamor subsided only at the judge's demand for order.
'Were you called to the scene, Mr. Monk?' Rathbone concluded.
'Yes.' Monk kept his answers as bare and as direct as possible. He glanced only once at Sixsmith up in the dock. The man's powerful face was cast forward, his body rigid with tension and totally unmoving.
'Who called you?' Rathbone asked Monk.
'Sergeant Orme of the Thames River Police.'
'Did he say why?'
'No. I believe he assumed that I would want to be involved since I had been investigating the risk of just such a disaster, because of James Havilland's fears and his subsequent death. Also, of course, we were doing all we could to help, as were the Metropolitan Police, the fire services, and various doctors, navvies, and any able-bodied men in the area.'
'Your point is taken, Sir Oliver,' the judge assured him. He turned to Monk. 'I would like to know, Inspector, what you found. Was it of the nature that you had been led to fear?'
'Yes, my lord,' Monk replied. 'That, and greater.'
'Please be more specific.'
It was the line that Rathbone had intended to take, so Monk was happy to respond. 'James Havilland had intimated that he feared a disaster if there was not a great deal more time and care taken in the excavations. He did not record precisely what he feared-or if he did, I did not find it. There are risks of land movement-slippage, subsidence-in any major work. He seemed to fear something further. What seems to have occurred last night was that the diggings went too close to an underground river and the river burst the walls, carrying an enormous weight of earth and rubble with it, and flooding the tunnels.'
There was too much noise of horror and distress from the gallery and jurors for Monk to continue, and even the judge looked stricken. Obviously the news had not yet reached the daily papers, and few had heard it even by word of mouth.
'Silence!' the judge ordered, but there was no anger in his voice. He was calling his court to order, but without criticism. 'I assume, Mr. Monk, that you are here, in spite of your appalling night, because there is some evidence Sir Oliver feels pertinent to the case, even at this late stage of events?'
'Yes, my lord.'
'Very well. Sir Oliver, please ask your questions.'
