'Thank you, my lord,' Rathbone acknowledged. 'Mr. Monk, during the course of the night, did you bring to the surface any bodies of the dead or the still living?'
'Yes.'
'Were any of them people that you knew?'
'Yes.'
'Who were they?'
'Two navvies that I had spoken with, a tosher-a man who retrieves objects of value from the sewers-and one other man whom I had met once before.' He stopped abruptly, memories of the pistol shot and Scuff falling momentarily choking his breath. He was so tired that the past and present collided with each other and the courtroom seemed to sway.
'Where did you meet him before, Mr. Monk?'
Monk realized that Rathbone had asked him twice. He stiffened his back and shoulders. 'In the sewers,' he replied. 'When I was looking for the man Mrs. Ewart saw coming out of the mews after James Havilland was shot.'
'You did not arrest him?' Rathbone sounded surprised.
'He shot the boy who was guiding me,' Monk replied. 'I had to get the lad to the surface.'
The judge leaned forward. 'Is the boy in satisfactory condition, Mr. Monk?'
'Yes, my lord. We got him medical treatment, took the bullet out. He seems to be recovering. Thank you.'
'Good. Good.'
Dobie rose to his feet. 'My lord, all this is very moving, but it actually proves nothing at all. This unfortunate man, who appears to be without a name, is dead-conveniently for the prosecution-so he cannot testify to anything at all. He may be no more than some unfortunate indigent who thought to sleep quietly in the Havillands' stable. Apparently he met his own tragic death when the excavations collapsed and buried him alive. We have no right, and no evidence, to make a villain of him now that he cannot answer for himself.' He smiled, pleased with his point, and looked around the courtroom before he resumed his seat.
'Sir Oliver?' The judge raised his eyebrows.
Rathbone smiled. It was a thin, calm gesture that Monk had seen on his lips before, both when he was winning and moving in for the final thrust and when he was losing and playing a last, desperate card.
'Mr. Monk,' he said smoothly in the utter silence. 'Are you certain that this is the same man who shot the boy guiding you in the sewers? Surely the sewers are extremely dark. Isn't one face, when you are startled and possibly afraid, pretty much like another?'
Monk gave him a small, bleak smile. 'He held a lantern high up, I imagine in order to see us better and maybe take aim.' The moment was etched on his brain as if by a blade. He gripped the rail in front of him. 'He had straight black hair and brows, a narrow nose, and highly unusual teeth. His eyeteeth were prominent and longer than the others, especially the left one. When a man is drawing a gun at you, it is a sight you do not forget.' He decided not to say any more. The tension was too stark for decoration with words to be appropriate. No one in the room moved, except one woman who gave a violent shudder.
'I see,' Rathbone acknowledged. 'And did this unfortunate creature, malevolent or not, meet his own death as a result of last night's disastrous cave-in?'
'No, he'd been shot in the back. He was already dead when the cave-in occurred.'
Dobie shot to his feet. 'Objection, my lord. How can Mr. Monk possibly know that? Was he there? Did he see him get shot?'
Rathbone merely turned very slowly from Dobie to look at Monk, his eyebrows raised.
In the dock Sixsmith leaned forward.
'The man's legs were broken by the timber and rubble that fell on him,' Monk replied. 'There was no bleeding.'
In the gallery a woman gasped. The jurors stared at Monk, frowning. Dobie shook his head as if Rathbone had taken leave of his wits.
Rathbone waited.
'The living bleed; the dead do not,' Monk explained. 'When the heart stops, there is no more flow of blood. His coat around the gunshot wound was caked with dry blood, but his legs were clean. Rigor mortis had already set in. The police surgeon will give you time of death, I imagine.'
Dobie flushed and said nothing.
'Thank you.' Rathbone nodded at Monk graciously. 'I have no further questions for you.'
Dobie declined to add anything, and Monk was excused.
He left the witness box but remained in the court while Rathbone called the surgeon, who corroborated all that Monk had said.
Then Runcorn slipped into a seat in the row opposite Monk's in the gallery just as Melisande Ewart took the stand. She walked up the steps of the witness box and faced the room. She was very composed, but even those who had not seen her before might have detected the effort it cost her. Her body was stiff, her shoulders rigid.
Monk glanced at Runcorn and saw him leaning forward, his gaze intent upon Melisande, as if by strength of will he would support her. Monk wondered if she had the faintest idea how profound was his feeling, and how extraordinary that was for a man such as he. If she did, would it please her or frighten her? Or would she treat tenderly that enormous compliment and read its vulnerability as well?
Rathbone moved into the center of the floor.
The jury sat silent, like men carved of ivory.
'Mrs. Ewart,' Rathbone began, 'I believe Superintendent Runcorn of the Metropolitan Police has just taken you to identify the body of the man Mr. Monk brought up from the cave-in at the construction. Is that correct?'
'Yes.' Her voice was clear but very quiet.
There was a murmur of sympathy around the gallery. Some of the jurors nodded and their faces softened.
Monk looked up at Sixsmith. His heavy face was motionless, crowded with an emotion impossible to read.
'Have you ever seen him before?' Rathbone asked Melisande.
'Yes,' she answered with a catch in her voice. 'I saw him coming out of the mews that serves the home where I live at the moment, and also served that of Mr. James Havilland.'
'When did you see this man?'
'On the night of Mr. Havilland's death.'
'At any other times?'
'No. Never.'
'You have seen him just once before today, and yet you are certain it is the same man?'
'Yes.' Now she did not waver at all.
Rathbone could not afford to let it go so easily. 'How is it that you are so sure?' he persisted.
'Because of his face in general, but his teeth in particular,' she replied. She was now even paler, and she held tightly to the rail as if she needed its support. 'Superintendent Runcorn moved the man's lips so I could see his teeth. I am confident enough to swear under oath that it is the same man.'
Runcorn relaxed and eased his body back into the seat, letting out his breath in a long sigh.
'Thank you, Mrs. Ewart,' Rathbone said graciously. 'I have nothing further to ask you. I appreciate your time and your courage in facing what must have been extremely unpleasant for you.'
Dobie stood up and looked at Melisande, then at the jury. Straightening his gown on his shoulders, he sat down again.
Rathbone then played a desperate card, but he had no choice, for he had to show purpose and connection. He called Jenny Argyll.
She was dressed in full mourning and looked as if she were ready to be pronounced dead herself. Her movements were awkward. She looked neither to the right nor to the left, and it seemed as if she might falter and crumple to the ground before she made it all the way to the top of the steps. The usher watched her anxiously. Even Sixsmith jerked forward, his face suddenly alive with fear. The guards beside him pulled him back, but not before Jenny had looked up at him. Now her eyes were burning, and it seemed as if she might actually collapse.
Alan Argyll had yet to testify, so he was not in the court. Had he any idea of the net closing around him?
Rathbone spoke to Jenny, coaxing from her the agonizing testimony he had wanted so badly only a few days
