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And yet as Fowler paraded one witness after another, Rathbone said and did nothing.
“For God’s sake!” Monk said desperately that evening as he paced his sitting room floor. “He can’t be going to let it go by default. He’s got to do more than just hope they can’t prove it. Does he want to get accused of an incompetent defense?” He was ashen-faced, his eyes hollow. “He’s not doing that to save me, is he?”
“No, of course not,” Hester said instantly, standing in front of him.
“Not for me,” Monk said with painful humor. “For you.”
She caught his arm. “He’s not still in love with me.”
“The more fool he!” he retorted.
“He’s in love with Margaret,” she explained. “At least he soon will be.”
He drew in his breath, staring at her. “I didn’t know that!”
A flash of impatience crossed her face and disappeared. “You wouldn’t,” she replied. “I don’t know what he’s going to do, William, but he’ll do something—for honor, pride, all kinds of things. He won’t let it go without a fight.”
But Rathbone was unavailable all weekend. When Hester went to fetch fresh milk on Saturday morning, Monk snatched a few moments alone to look again at Katrina’s diary. He hated doing it, but he was desperate enough to grasp after any clue at all.
But he still could understand only fragments of it. It was cryptic, scattered words as if simply to remind herself of emotions; the people who inspired them were so woven into her life she needed nothing more to bring them back to her. Nothing made a chain of sense.
He struggled with his own memory. There was something just beyond his grasp, something that defined it all, but the shadows blurred and the harder he looked the more rapidly it dissolved into chaos, leaving him dependent on the slow, minute process of the law.
On Monday morning, when the trial resumed for the third day, it looked as if letting go without a fight was exactly what Rathbone was going to do.
Monk, Hester and Margaret all sat in an agony of impatience as Fowler brought on the police witnesses, first the constable called to the scene who found the body, then Runcorn, who described his own part in the proceedings.
At last Rathbone accepted the invitation, now offered somewhat sarcastically, to cross-examine the witness.
“Good gracious!” Fowler said in amazement, playing to the jury, who until now had had nothing to consider but uncontested evidence.
“Superintendent Runcorn,” Rathbone began courteously. “You described your conduct in excellent detail. You appear to have overlooked nothing.”
Runcorn eyed him with suspicion. He was far too experienced at giving evidence to imagine a compliment was merely that. “Thank you, sir,” he said flatly.
“And presumably you tried to find evidence proving that this cloak found on the roof from which Miss Harcus fell belonged to Mr. Dalgarno?”
“Naturally,” Runcorn conceded.
“And did you succeed?” Rathbone enquired.
“No, sir.”
“Mr. Dalgarno doesn’t have a cloak?”
“Yes, sir, but it’s not that one.”
“Has he two, then?”
“Not that we can trace, sir. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t his,” Runcorn said defensively.
“Of course not. He purchased this one secretly in order to leave it on the rooftop after he had thrown Miss Harcus off it to her death.”
There was a nervous titter around the room. Several jurors looked confused. Jarvis Baltimore reached across and slid his hand over Livia’s.
“If you say so, sir,” Runcorn replied blandly.
“No, no, I do not say so!” Rathbone retorted. “You say so! I say it belonged to someone else . . . who was on the roof and was responsible for Miss Harcus’s death . . . someone you never thought of trying to trace.”
