sense of decency? His gaze barely touched Alan Argyll. His erstwhile employer was finished, worthless. From the gallery Monk watched Sixsmith with an increasing sense of incredulity.
Rathbone had won. Monk looked across at Margaret Bellinger and saw her eagerness for the moment, her pride in Rathbone's extraordinary achievement for justice.
Dobie was questioning Sixsmith, ramming home the victory. 'Did you ever meet this extraordinary assassin before the night you paid him the money Mr. Argyll gave you?' he asked.
'No, sir, I did not,' Sixsmith replied quietly.
'Or after that?'
'No, sir.'
'Have you any idea who shot him, or why?'
'I know no more than you do, sir.'
'Why did you give him the money? For what purpose? Was it to kill James Havilland because he was causing you trouble, and possibly expensive delays?'
'No, sir. Mr. Argyll told me it was to hire men to keep the toshers and navvies from disrupting the work.'
'And what about Mr. Havilland?'
'I understood that Mr. Argyll was going to deal with that himself.'
'How?'
Sixsmith's gaze was intense. 'Show him that he was mistaken. Mr. Havilland was his father-in-law, and I believed that relations were cordial between them.'
'Could this man, this assassin, have misunderstood you?'
Sixsmith stared at him. 'No, sir. I was quite specific.'
Dobie could not resist making the very most of it. He looked at the jury, then at the gallery. 'Describe the scene for us,' he said at last to Sixsmith. 'Let the court see exactly how it was.'
Sixsmith obeyed him, speaking slowly and carefully, like a man emerging from a nightmare into the daylight of sanity. He described the room in the public house: the noise, the smell of ale, the straw on the floor, the press of men.
'He came in at about ten o'clock, as near as I can tell' he went on in response to Dobie's prompting. 'I knew him straightaway. He was fairly tall, and thin, especially his face. His hair was black and straight, rather long over his collar. His nose was thin at the bridge. But most of all, he had these extraordinary teeth, which I saw when he smiled. He bought a tankard of ale and came straight over to me, as if he already knew who I was. Someone must have described me very well. The man introduced himself, using Argyll's name so I would know who he was. We discussed the problem of the toshers in particular, and I told him a little more about it. I gave him the money. He accepted it, folded it away, and then stood up. I remember he emptied the tankard in one long draught, and then he left, without once looking backwards.'
Dobie thanked him and invited Rathbone to contest it if he wished.
Rathbone conceded defeat with both dignity and grace. Not by so much as a glance did he admit that it was actually the most elegant and perhaps the most difficult victory of his career.
The jury returned a verdict of guilty of attempted bribery, and the judge imposed a fine that was no more than a week's pay.
The court erupted in cheers, the gallery rising to its feet. The jury looked intensely satisfied, turning to shake one another's hands and pass words of congratulation.
Margaret abandoned decorum and met Rathbone halfway across the floor as he walked towards her. Her face was shining, but whatever she said to him was lost in the uproar.
Monk also was on his feet. He would speak a word or two to Runcorn, thank him for his courage in being willing to reexamine a case. Then he would go home to tell Hester-and Scuff.
TWELVE
The trial had finished promptly, so Monk was home comparatively early. The weather was bright and clear, and the February evening stretched out with no clouds-only trails of chimney smoke across the waning sky. It was going to freeze, and as he alighted from the omnibus the stones beneath his feet were already filmed with ice. But the air tasted fresh and the sweetness of victory was in it. The sun was low, and its reflection on the pale stretches of the river hurt his eyes. The masts of the ships were a black fretwork like wrought iron against the rich colors of the horizon beyond the rooftops.
He turned and walked smartly up Union Road to Paradise Place and then up the short path to his front door. As soon as he was inside he called out Hester's name.
She must have heard the triumph in his voice. Her face eager, she appeared at the top of the stairs from the bedroom, where she had been sitting with Scuff.
'We won!' he said, starting up the steps two at a time. He caught hold of her and swung her around, kissing her lips, neck, cheek, and lips again. 'We won it all! Sixsmith was convicted of no more than attempted bribery, and fined. Everyone knew that Argyll was guilty, and he's probably been arrested already. I didn't wait to see. Rathbone was brilliant, superb. Margaret was so proud of him, she absolutely glowed.'
The bedroom door was open, and Scuff was sitting up staring at them. He looked unnaturally pink. His hair was actually much fairer than Monk had supposed. He seemed to have forgotten about the lace on his nightgown, or even that it was Hester's. His shoulder must hurt him, but he was making little of that, too. Now his eyes were bright with expectation, longing to be told all there was to hear.
Hester led Monk into the room and sat on the bed herself so that he could recount it to them both.
'Yer won!' Scuff said excitedly. 'They gonna get Argyll fer killin' poor 'Avilland, an' Miss Mary as well? Yer gonna bury 'em proper?'
'Yes,' Monk said simply.
Scuffs eyes were shining. He was sitting close to Hester, quite naturally. Both of them seemed to be unaware of it. ' 'Ow d'yer do it?' he said, hungry for any piece of information. He had sorely missed being there to see it himself.
'Would you like a cup of tea before we begin?' Hester asked.
Scuff looked at her with total incomprehension.
Monk rolled his eyes.
She smiled. 'Right! Then you get nothing until it's all told, every last word!'
He began with the day's proceedings, recounting it as a story of adventure with all the details, looking at their faces, and enjoying himself. He described the courtroom, the judge, the jurors, the men and women in the gallery, and every witness. Scuff barely breathed; he could hardly bring himself even to blink.
Monk told them how he had climbed the steps to the witness box and stared at the court below him, how Sixsmith had craned forward in the dock, and how Rathbone had asked the questions on which it all turned.
'I described him exactly,' he said, remembering it with aching clarity. 'There wasn't a sound in the whole room.'
'Did they know 'e was the man wot killed Mr. 'Avilland?' Scuff whispered. 'D'yer tell 'em wot the sewer were like?'
'Oh, yes. I told them how we met him the first time, and how he turned around and shot you. That horrified them,' Monk answered honestly. 'I described the dark and the water and the rats.'
Scuff gave an involuntary little shiver at the memory of the terror. Without realizing it, he moved a fraction closer to Hester, so that he was actually touching her. She appeared to take no notice, except that there was a slight softening of her lips, as if she wanted to smile but knew she should not let him see it.
'Did Jenny Argyll give evidence?' she asked.
'Yes.' Monk met her eyes for a moment of appreciation, and an acknowledgment of what it had cost Rose Applegate. 'She told it all. Argyll denied it, of course, but no one believed him. If he'd looked at the jurors' faces, he could have seen his own condemnation then.' He realized suddenly what a final thing he had said. They had accomplished it, the seemingly impossible. Sixsmith was free and the law knew that Alan Argyll was guilty. It would be only a matter of time before he was on trial himself.
