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“He shot the boy who was guiding me,” Monk replied. “I had to get the lad to the surface.”
The judge leaned forward. “Is the boy in satisfactory condition, Mr. Monk?”
“Yes, my lord. We got him medical treatment, took the bullet out. He seems to be recovering. Thank you.”
“Good. Good.”
Dobie rose to his feet. “My lord, all this is very moving, but it actually proves nothing at all. This unfortunate man, who appears to be without a name, is dead—conveniently for the prosecution—so he cannot testify to anything at all. He may be no more than some unfortunate indigent who thought to sleep quietly in the Havillands’ stable. Apparently he met his own tragic death when the excavations collapsed and buried him alive. We have no right, and no evidence, to make a villain of him now that he cannot answer for himself.” He smiled, pleased with his point, and looked around the courtroom before he resumed his seat.
“Sir Oliver?” The judge raised his eyebrows.
Rathbone smiled. It was a thin, calm gesture that Monk had seen on his lips before, both when he was winning and moving in for the final thrust and when he was losing and playing a last, desperate card.
“Mr. Monk,” he said smoothly in the utter silence. “Are you certain that this is the same man who shot the boy guiding you in the sewers? Surely the sewers are extremely dark. Isn’t one face, when you are startled and possibly afraid, pretty much like another?”
Monk gave him a small, bleak smile. “He held a lantern high up, I imagine in order to see us better and maybe take aim.” The moment was etched on his brain as if by a blade. He gripped the rail in front of him. “He had straight black hair and brows, a narrow nose, and highly unusual teeth. His eyeteeth were prominent and longer than the others, especially the left one. When a man is drawing a gun at you, it is a sight you do not forget.” He decided not to say any more. The tension was too stark for decoration with words to be appropriate. No one in the room moved, except one woman who gave a violent shudder.
“I see,” Rathbone acknowledged. “And did this unfortunate creature, malevolent or not, meet his own death as a result of last night’s disastrous cave-in?”
“No, he’d been shot in the back. He was already dead when the cave-in occurred.”
Dobie shot to his feet. “Objection, my lord. How can Mr. Monk possibly know that? Was he there? Did he see him get shot?”
Rathbone merely turned very slowly from Dobie to look at Monk, his eyebrows raised.
In the dock Sixsmith leaned forward.
“The man’s legs were broken by the timber and rubble that fell on him,” Monk replied. “There was no bleeding.”
In the gallery a woman gasped. The jurors stared at Monk, frowning. Dobie shook his head as if Rathbone had taken leave of his wits.
Rathbone waited.
“The living bleed; the dead do not,” Monk explained. “When the heart stops, there is no more flow of blood. His coat around the gunshot wound was caked with dry blood, but his legs were clean. Rigor mortis had already set in. The police surgeon will give you time of death, I imagine.”
Dobie flushed and said nothing.
“Thank you.” Rathbone nodded at Monk graciously. “I have no further questions for you.”
Dobie declined to add anything, and Monk was excused.
He left the witness box but remained in the court while Rathbone called the surgeon, who corroborated all that Monk had said.
Then Runcorn slipped into a seat in the row opposite Monk’s in the gallery just as Melisande Ewart took the stand. She walked up the steps of the witness box and faced the room. She was very composed, but even those who had not seen her before might have detected the effort it cost her. Her body was stiff, her shoulders rigid.
Monk glanced at Runcorn and saw him leaning forward, his gaze intent upon Melisande, as if by strength of will he would support her. Monk wondered if she had the faintest idea how profound was his feeling, and how extraordinary that was for a man such as he. If she did, would it please her or frighten her? Or would she treat tenderly that enormous compliment and read its vulnerability as well?
Rathbone moved into the center of the floor.
The jury sat silent, like men carved of ivory.
“Mrs. Ewart,” Rathbone began, “I believe Superintendent Runcorn of the Metropolitan Police has just taken you to identify the body of the man Mr. Monk brought up from the cave-in at the construction. Is that correct?”
“Yes.” Her voice was clear but very quiet.
There was a murmur of sympathy around the gallery. Some of the jurors nodded and their faces softened.
Monk looked up at Sixsmith. His heavy face was motionless, crowded with an emotion impossible to read.
