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There was a moment of silent incredulity, then a rush of sound, a babble, disgust, laughter, anger.
Garstang stared at him, disbelief giving way to a slow, terrible memory.
The noise in the room subsided. Even Fowler sank back into his seat.
Monk craned forward.
Hester sat with her hands clenched.
“I saw her face . . .” Garstang said hoarsely. “I saw her face as she fell . . . white . . . she was . . .” He shuddered violently. “She was between murder . . . and death.” He put both hands up to his eyes.
“I apologize, Mr. Garstang,” Rathbone said gently and with sudden sincerity that was like a warmth in the room. He was speaking for an instant only to Garstang, not the court. “But your evidence is the key to the whole, terrible, tragic truth, and we all thank you for your courage of the mind, sir. You have saved a man’s life today.”
Fowler stood up and swiveled around as if looking for something that was not there.
Rathbone turned to him and smiled. “Your witness, Mr. Fowler.”
“For what?” Fowler demanded. “He has said nothing! What on earth does it matter that he saw her face? We all know it was she who fell!” He looked at the judge. “This is preposterous, my lord. Sir Oliver is making a farce out of a tragedy. Whether he is legally in contempt of court or not, morally he is.”
“I am inclined to agree,” the judge said with apparent reluctance. “Sir Oliver, you have certainly caught our attention, but you have proved nothing. I cannot allow you to continue in this manner. We have the public in our courts in order that they may see that justice is done, not as a form of entertainment. I shall not allow you to yield any further to the temptation to become a performer, in spite of your obvious talent in that direction.”
There was a murmur of nervous laughter around the court.
Rathbone bowed as if contrite. “I assure you, my lord, I shall shortly show how the fact that Mr. Garstang saw her face is of the utmost importance.”
“Are you questioning her identity?” the judge said with amazement.
“No, my lord. If I may call my next witness?”
“You may, but this testimony had better be relevant or I shall hold you in contempt, Sir Oliver.”
“It will be, my lord, thank you. I call the Reverend David Rider.”
Hester heard Monk’s gasp of indrawn breath and saw him lurch forward in his seat.
Margaret turned to stare at Hester, and then at Monk, the question in her face. Hester looked at her helplessly.
The court watched in silence as the vicar climbed the steps up to the witness-box, his hands gripping the rail as if to steady his balance. He looked tired, but worn out by emotion rather than any physical effort. His skin was pale and puffy around the eyes, and he looked back at Rathbone as if there was some profound understanding between them of more than grief, some overwhelming burden of knowledge which they shared.
Rider swore to his name, his occupation and his residence on the outskirts of Liverpool.
“Why are you here, Mr. Rider?” Rathbone asked gravely.
Rider spoke very quietly. “I have been wrestling with my conscience ever since Mr. Monk came to see me over a week ago, and I have come to the conclusion that my greater obligation is to tell that part of the truth that I know regarding Katrina Harcus. My duty to the living is too great to deny in order to protect the dead.”
There was a slight rustle of movement in the court, and then total silence.
Hester looked across at Dalgarno, as did several of the jurors, but they saw only complete confusion.
“You knew Katrina Harcus?” Rathbone asked.
“From her birth,” Rider replied.
Fowler shifted in his seat in apparent discomfort, but he did not interrupt.
“Then I presume you also know her mother?” Rathbone said.
“Yes. Pamela Harcus was my parishioner.”
