Jenkins now had no alternative but to agree. Perhaps Coniston, by interrupting, had unintentionally done the defense a favor? Rathbone did not dare to look at him to see. It would be obvious to the jury, and they would see gamesmanship behind it.
“I … I suppose I would,” Jenkins conceded.
“Then would you please look up at the dock and tell me if you are certain that the woman sitting there is the same woman who came into your shop and asked to know where Zenia Gadney lived? We have already heard that it was a woman tall and dark, who looked something like her, but there are thousands of such women in London. Are you sure, beyond doubt, that it was this woman? She swears that it was not.”
Jenkins peered up at Dinah, blinking a little as if he could not see clearly.
“My lord,” Rathbone looked up at Pendock, “may I have the court’s permission to ask the accused to rise to her feet?”
Pendock had no choice; the request was only a courtesy. He would have to explain any refusal, and he had no grounds for it.
“You may,” he replied.
Rathbone turned to the dock and Dinah rose to her feet. It was an advantage. Rathbone realized it immediately. They could all see her more clearly, and every single juror was craning his neck to stare. She looked pale and grief-ravaged, and in a way more beautiful than when she had been in her own home, surrounded by familiar things. She had not yet been found guilty in the law, even if she had by the public, so she was permitted to wear her own clothes. Since she was still in mourning for her husband, it was expected she wear black, and with her dramatic features and pale, blemishless skin the loveliness of her face was startling, as was the suffering in it. She was composed, as if she had no energy left to hope, or to struggle.
Jenkins gulped again. “No.” He shook his head. “I can’t say as it were ’er. She … she looks different. I don’t recall ’er face being like that.”
“Thank you, Mr. Jenkins,” Rathbone said, gasping with relief inside. “My learned friend may wish to question you, but as far as I am concerned, I appreciate your time, and you are free to go back to your business and your service to the community in Copenhagen Place.”
“Yes, sir.” Jenkins turned anxiously toward Coniston.
Coniston’s hesitation was only fractional, but it was there. At least one or two of the jurors must have seen it.
“Mr. Jenkins,” Coniston began gently, aware of the court’s sympathy with the shopkeeper. He was a man like themselves, probably with family to support, trying to do his best in a situation he hated. He was eager to be done with it and free to carry on with his quiet, hardworking life, complete with its small pleasures, its opinions that were not weighed and measured, its very limited responsibility.
Rathbone knew all this was going through Coniston’s mind, because it had gone through his own.
Coniston smiled. “Actually, Mr. Jenkins, I find I have nothing to ask you. You are an honest man in a wretched situation, placed there by chance, and none of your own doing. Your compassion, carefulness, and modesty are to be admired. Please accept my thanks also, and return to your business, which I’m sure must need you, most particularly this close to Christmas.” Coniston gave a very slight bow and walked back gracefully to his seat.
Pendock’s face was tense. He glanced at the clock, then at Rathbone.
“Sir Oliver?”
Rathbone rose to his feet.
“My next witness may testify at some length, my lord, and I believe Mr. Coniston is bound to wish to question some of his evidence quite closely.” He too looked at the clock. He would not like to have to admit that he could not locate Runcorn at this hour, but he would if Pendock forced him into it.
“Very well, Sir Oliver,” Pendock sighed. “The court is adjourned until tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, my lord. Thank you.”
As soon as Rathbone was in his chambers he wrote a note to Runcorn, telling him that he required him to testify when the court resumed the following morning. What small chance they had of success depended upon it. He told Runcorn he would string it out as long as possible, for which he apologized, but he had little else, except Dinah herself, unless Monk had found something more to give shape to another suspect the jury could believe in. He would at least raise the subject of the syringe, and the far deeper and more terrible addiction it led to.
As soon as he had sent the messenger with the letter folded in an envelope, and sealed with wax, he wondered if he had said too much.
He went home tired, but unable to rest.
In the morning Rathbone took a hansom to the court, exhausted and worried. He did not even know if Runcorn would be there, and he had no excuses to offer. Not that he believed Pendock would accept any, however valid. He did not know for certain if Runcorn had even received his note. He had sent it to his home, in case he did not call in to the police station. But perhaps Runcorn had returned home late, tired, and had not even looked at any letters.
The traffic was jammed at Ludgate Circus, with shoppers, friends exchanging well wishes, celebrators beginning Christmas early, calling out cheerfully to one another.
Rathbone banged on the front of the hansom to attract the driver’s attention.
“Can’t you find a way around this? I have to be in court in the Old Bailey!” he demanded.
“Doin’ my best, sir,” the cabby answered. “It’s nearly Christmas!”
Rathbone bit back the answer that rose to his lips. It was not the man’s fault and being rude would only make matters worse. Why had there been no answer from Runcorn? What on earth was he going to say to the court if the man did not appear? Who else could he call at short notice? He would look totally incompetent. His face burned at the thought of it.
Perhaps he should have sent the note to the police station after all.
Then the hansom stopped again. All around there were vehicles of one sort or another, drivers shouting, laughing, demanding right-of-way.
He was too impatient to wait any longer. It was only a short walk along Ludgate Hill to the Old Bailey. The huge dome of St. Paul’s rose into the winter sky ahead of him and the Central Criminal Court to his left, Newgate Prison just beyond. He lunged out of the cab, pushing a handful of coins at the driver, and began to walk rapidly, then to run along the pavement.
He raced up the steps and almost bumped into Runcorn just inside the doors. Why was he so overwhelmingly relieved? He should have trusted the man. There was no time or opportunity to speak to him now. It was his own fault for being late. Coniston was standing a few yards away, and Pendock was coming down the hallway. If he attempted to confer with Runcorn, he would look as if he were uncertain about what evidence Runcorn had to offer. That was a gift he could not offer Coniston.
Fifteen minutes later he was behind his table. His notes were in front of him, a letter from Runcorn on the top. He tore it open and read the few lines.
Again Rathbone blamed himself for lacking in trust.
“Please call your witness, Sir Oliver,” Pendock ordered. His voice gravelly, a little tight, as if he also had slept little.
“I call Superintendent Runcorn of the Blackheath Police,” Rathbone replied.
Runcorn came in, watched by every eye in the room as he walked past the gallery. He was an imposing figure: burly, exuding confidence. He took the oath and stood upright waiting for the questions. His hands were by his sides: no clinging to the railing for him.
Rathbone cleared his throat. “Superintendent, you are in command of the police in the Blackheath area, are you not?”
“Yes, sir,” Runcorn said gravely.
“Were you called out when the body of Joel Lambourn was discovered on One Tree Hill in Greenwich Park
