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“Thank you. Please remain there, in case my learned friend, Sir Oliver, wishes to ask you anything.” Tremayne walked back across the open space of the floor and gestured an invitation to Rathbone.
Rathbone rose to his feet, thanked him, and walked calmly into the center of the court. Then he looked up at the witness stand to where Walters was waiting, his face heavy and apprehensive.
“Good morning, Mr. Walters,” he began. “I shall not detain you long. May I compliment you on the marvelous work the River Police do for us. I believe that in the nearly three quarters of a century that you have existed you have reduced crime on the river by a staggering amount. In fact, you solve more than ninety percent of the crimes you address, do you not?”
Walters straightened himself. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“You are rightly proud. It is a great service to Her Majesty, and to the people of London. Am I correct in thinking that the murder of this boy stirred a deep anger in you?”
“Yes, sir, you are. ‘E'd not only been murdered. From the burns on ‘is arms and body, ‘e'd been tortured as well.” Walters's face was ashen, his voice hoarse as though his throat were dry.
“It is very terrible,” Rathbone agreed. This was proceeding exactly as he had intended. Walters was a deeply sympathetic witness. “Was Mr. Durban similarly affected?” he went on. “Or perhaps I should more correctly ask you, what was Mr. Durban's manner, his reaction, when he saw the boy's corpse with his throat slashed open so his head hung half off, and the marks of deliberate torture on his flesh?”
Walters winced at the brutal words. He closed his eyes as if taking himself back to that fearful scene. “‘E wept, sir,” he said quietly. “‘E swore that ‘e'd find ‘oo done it, an’ see ‘im ‘ang till ‘is own ‘ead were near off ‘is body too. ‘E'd never, ever do that to another child.”
“I imagine we can all understand how he felt.” Rathbone spoke quietly, yet his voice had a timbre that carried to every seat in the silent court. He knew Lord Justice Sullivan was staring at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. He was probably wondering whether to remind Rathbone which side he was on. “And Commander Durban pursued it himself,” he continued. “With the assistance of Mr. Orme, you said? Mr. Orme, I believe, was his immediate right-hand man.”
“Yes, sir. He's still second in command, sir,” Walters agreed.
“Just so. These events you describe happened some year and a half ago. And we are only just come to trial. Did Mr. Durban abandon the case?”
Walters's face flushed with indignation. “No, sir! Mr. Durban worked on it day and night, until ‘e ‘ad to give over to other things, an’ then ‘e followed it on ‘is own time. ‘E never, ever gave up on it.”
Rathbone lowered his voice, while making sure that every word still carried to the jury and to the benches where the public sat awed and silent.
“Are you saying that he felt so passionately that he devoted his off-duty time to it, until the tragedy of his own early death cut short his dedication, to finding the person who had tortured and then killed this boy?”
“Yes, sir, I am. An’ then when ‘e found the notes Mr. Durban left, Mr. Monk took up after ‘im,” Walters said defiantly.
“Thank you.” Rathbone held up his hand to stop any more revelations. “We will get to Mr. Monk in due time. He can testify himself, should that prove necessary. You have made it all very clear, Mr. Walters. That is all I have to ask you.”
Tremayne shook his head, his face a little tight, concealing a certain unease.
The judge thanked Walters and excused him.
Tremayne called his next witness: the police surgeon who had examined the body of the boy. He was a thin, tired man with receding sandy hair and a surprisingly good voice, in spite of having to stop and sneeze, then blow his nose from time to time. He was obviously practiced at such court appearances. He had every answer on the tip of his tongue, and told them of the state of the boy's body briefly and precisely. Tremayne did not need to prompt him in anything. He used no scientific language to describe the wasted flesh, which was underdeveloped, barely beginning to show signs of puberty. He spoke simply of the flesh scarring that could have been made only by something like the lit end of a cigar. Finally he told them that the throat was cut so violently that the wound reached to the spine, so the whole head was only just attached. In such unaffected words the description seemed immeasurably more appalling. There was no passion or disgust in his language; it was all in his eyes, and in the rigid angles of his body as he gripped the rail of the witness stand.
Rathbone found it hard to speak to him. Legal tactics melted away. He was face-to-face with the reality of the crime, as if the surgeon had brought the smell of the mortuary with him, the blood and carbolic and running water, but nothing washed away the memory.
Rathbone stood in the middle of the floor with every eye in the room on him, and wondered suddenly if he really knew what he was doing. There was nothing this man could add that would help him. Yet to fail to ask him at least one question would make that obvious. He must never let Tremayne see any weakness. Tremayne might look like a dandy, a poet and dreamer caught by chance in the wrong place, but it was an illusion. His mind was keen as a razor, and he would scent weakness as a shark scents blood in the water.
“You were obviously very moved by this particular case, sir,” Rathbone said with great gravity. “Perhaps it was one of the most distressing you had seen?”
“It was,” the surgeon agreed.
“Did Mr. Durban seem to you similarly distressed by it?”
“Yes, sir. Any civilized man would be.” The surgeon looked at him with distaste, as if Rathbone himself were devoid of decency. “Mr. Monk after him was equally upset, if you were going to ask,” he added.
“It had occurred to me,” Rathbone acknowledged. “As you've implied, it is an appalling piece of savagery, and against a child who had obviously suffered already. Thank you.” He turned away.
“Is that all you have to ask me?” the surgeon called after him, his voice harder, challenging.
“Yes, thank you,” Rathbone replied with a slight smile. “Unless my learned friend has anything further, you are free to leave.”
Tremayne next called Orme. He was a solemn figure, not overtly nervous. He held his hands at his sides, not gripping the rail except when he went up the steps. Then he stood square in the box and faced Tremayne with as little expression on his face as he could manage.
Rathbone knew he would be a difficult man to break, and if he did so and the jury saw it, they would not forgive him. He glanced at them now, for the first time. Immediately he wished he had kept his resolve not to. They were mostly middle-aged men, old enough to have sons the victim's age. They sat stiffly in their sober best suits, white-faced and unhappy. Society had entrusted them not only with weighing the facts, but also with seeing the horror and dealing with it on behalf of everyone. If they sensed that they were being manipulated they would not pardon the man who did it.
