Rathbone stood up and addressed the judge. “Thank you, my lord. But I think Sergeant Orme has already told us all that he is able to.”
Orme left the stand, and his place was taken by Overstone, the police surgeon who had examined the corpse. He held himself with military precision and looked straight at Coniston, his face bleak, his thinning hair smooth to his head. He looked tired, as if he had done this too many times, and it was getting harder rather than easier for him. It flickered through Rathbone’s mind that it was requiring all the man’s strength of will to speak with a steady, unemotional voice.
“You examined the body of this unfortunate woman that the police found on Limehouse Pier, Dr. Overstone?” Coniston began.
“I did,” Overstone answered.
“Describe it for me, if you please. I mean what manner of person had she been in life?”
“About five foot, three inches tall,” Overstone replied. “Of average build, thickening a little around the waist. She appeared to be well nourished. I would estimate her age to be middle or late forties. Her hair was light brown, her eyes blue. As much as one could tell, she must have been very pleasant-looking in life. She had good teeth, fine-boned hands.”
“Any sign of illness?” Coniston inquired, as if it were a reasonable question.
Overstone’s face tightened. “The woman was hacked to bits!” he said between his teeth. “How in God’s name would I know?”
Coniston flushed slightly, even though he had incited the answer. In that instant Rathbone knew he had done it intentionally. The emotion in the room was taut as a violin string. Rathbone felt his own muscles lock and his neck ache with the effort of trying to breathe deeply and relax. Some of the jurors were looking at him, wondering what on earth he would do to defend anyone accused of such a crime. Possibly they wondered why he was here at all.
Coniston’s penitence was brief. He addressed Overstone again.
“But you could ascertain the cause of her death, couldn’t you, sir?” he said respectfully.
“Yes. A violent blow to the head,” Overstone answered. “It crushed her skull. She would have died instantly. The mutilation was done after her death, thank heaven. She can have known nothing about it.” There was a very slight defensiveness in Overstone’s face.
“Thank you, Doctor,” he said calmly. He walked back toward his seat, then at the last moment turned around again and looked up. “Oh … one more thing. Would it have required great strength to have struck the blow that killed her?”
“No, not if it were wielded with a swing.”
“Did you ever find what it was that was used?”
“They brought the body to me, man!” Overstone said irritably. “They didn’t take me onto the pier to look at it.”
Coniston’s face remained impassive. “Just so. Have you any idea what the weapon was? What do you think most likely, if you please?”
“A heavy piece of metal: a length of piping, something of that order,” Overstone answered him. “I doubt a wooden bar would have had the weight, unless it was hardwood, even ebony.”
“And the mutilations? Would they have needed particular strength or skill?”
“Just a sharp blade. There was nothing skilled about it.” Overstone said the words with loathing.
“Would a woman have the strength to have done it?” Coniston finally asked what everyone in the room was thinking.
“Yes.” Overstone did not add anything.
Coniston thanked him and turned to Rathbone. “Your witness, Sir Oliver.”
Rathbone tried desperately to think of anything to say that would make the slightest difference. Dinah must be wondering why on earth she had hired him. Her life was in his hands.
“Was there anything about the injuries, anything at all, to indicate what manner of person had inflicted them?” he asked, looking up at Overstone.
“No, sir,” Overstone replied.
“Nothing to suggest their height?” Rathbone elaborated. “Strength? Whether they were left- or right-handed, for example. Male or female? Young or old?”
“I said nothing at all, sir,” Overstone repeated. “Except perhaps, considering the power of the blow, it might have been two-handed.” He lifted both his own arms above his head, hands clenched together, and brought them down and sideways, as if holding a two-handed sword. “But that hardly helps. All it does is make height irrelevant.”
“So it could have been anyone, except perhaps a child?”
“Just so.”
Rathbone nodded. There was nothing more he could ask. Overstone was dismissed.
Next Coniston called Monk to the stand.
Monk was immaculately dressed, as always, elegant even to his polished boots. But he climbed the stairs to the witness bar as if he were stiff, and stood with one shoulder a little higher than the other.
To begin with, the court seemed less tense, not knowing what to expect from him. They thought the worst horror was past. Nevertheless the jurors watched him gravely, faces pale, several of them fidgeting with discomfort. They knew the people in the gallery were looking at them, trying to guess what they thought. Rathbone did not see a single one of them look toward Dinah Lambourn sitting high up in the dock, with burly woman jailers on either side of her.
Coniston seemed aware this time that he was dealing with a potentially hostile witness, in spite of the fact that it was Monk who had arrested Dinah. Rathbone’s long friendship with Monk must be widely known. Coniston was far too clever not to have made certain he was aware of such things and the effect it might have on his case.
“Mr. Monk,” he began softly. The gallery was silent, to be sure they missed nothing. “You were with Sergeant Orme when you first discovered the body of this poor woman, that dawn at Limehouse Pier. You and he heard the screams of the woman who found her. Orme remained with her to guard the body, and you went to call the local police, in case they could identify her, and appropriate authorities to take care of the corpse?”
“Yes,” Monk agreed, his face carefully expressionless.
“Did the local police know who she was?” Coniston asked casually, as if he did not know the answer.
“No,” Monk replied.
Coniston looked a little startled. He stood motionless, stopped in mid-stride. “They had never had occasion to arrest her, or at least caution her regarding her activities as a prostitute?”
“That is what they said,” Monk agreed again.
“If she was indeed a prostitute, do you not find that remarkable?” Coniston asked with a lift of surprise in his voice.
Monk’s face was expressionless. “People often don’t recognize someone when they have died violently, especially if there is a lot of blood involved. People can look smaller than you remember them when they were alive. And if they are not dressed as you know them, or in a place where you expect to see them, you do not always realize who they are.”
Coniston looked as if that was not the answer he had wanted. He moved on. “Did you then make inquiries to find out who she was?”
“Of course.”
“Where did you inquire?” Coniston spread his hands, encompassing an infinity of possibilities.
“We spoke to local residents, shopkeepers, other women who lived in the area and with whom she might have been acquainted,” Monk answered, still hardly any emotion in his voice.
“When you say ‘women,’ do you mean prostitutes?” Coniston pressed.
Monk’s face was bland. Probably only Rathbone could see the tiny muscle ticking in his cheek.
“I mean laundresses, factory workers, peddlers, anyone who might have known her,” he said.
“Were you successful?” Coniston inquired courteously.
“Yes,” Monk told him. “She was identified as Zenia Gadney, a middle-aged woman who lived quietly, by herself, at Fourteen Copenhagen Place, just beyond Limehouse Cut. She was known to several other people in the
