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Rathbone stood up and addressed the judge. “Thank you, my lord. But I think Sergeant Orme has already told us all that he is able to.”
Orme left the stand, and his place was taken by Overstone, the police surgeon who had examined the corpse. He held himself with military precision and looked straight at Coniston, his face bleak, his thinning hair smooth to his head. He looked tired, as if he had done this too many times, and it was getting harder rather than easier for him. It flickered through Rathbone’s mind that it was requiring all the man’s strength of will to speak with a steady, unemotional voice.
“You examined the body of this unfortunate woman that the police found on Limehouse Pier, Dr. Overstone?” Coniston began.
“I did,” Overstone answered.
“Describe it for me, if you please. I mean what manner of person had she been in life?”
“About five foot, three inches tall,” Overstone replied. “Of average build, thickening a little around the waist. She appeared to be well nourished. I would estimate her age to be middle or late forties. Her hair was light brown, her eyes blue. As much as one could tell, she must have been very pleasant-looking in life. She had good teeth, fine-boned hands.”
“Any sign of illness?” Coniston inquired, as if it were a reasonable question.
Overstone’s face tightened. “The woman was hacked to bits!” he said between his teeth. “How in God’s name would I know?”
Coniston flushed slightly, even though he had incited the answer. In that instant Rathbone knew he had done it intentionally. The emotion in the room was taut as a violin string. Rathbone felt his own muscles lock and his neck ache with the effort of trying to breathe deeply and relax. Some of the jurors were looking at him, wondering what on earth he would do to defend anyone accused of such a crime. Possibly they wondered why he was here at all.
Coniston’s penitence was brief. He addressed Overstone again.
“But you could ascertain the cause of her death, couldn’t you, sir?” he said respectfully.
“Yes. A violent blow to the head,” Overstone answered. “It crushed her skull. She would have died instantly. The mutilation was done after her death, thank heaven. She can have known nothing about it.” There was a very slight defensiveness in Overstone’s face.
“Thank you, Doctor,” he said calmly. He walked back toward his seat, then at the last moment turned around again and looked up. “Oh … one more thing. Would it have required great strength to have struck the blow that killed her?”
“No, not if it were wielded with a swing.”
“Did you ever find what it was that was used?”
“They brought the body to me, man!” Oversto
ne said irritably. “They didn’t take me onto the pier to look at it.”
Coniston’s face remained impassive. “Just so. Have you any idea what the weapon was? What do you think most likely, if you please?”
“A heavy piece of metal: a length of piping, something of that order,” Overstone answered him. “I doubt a wooden bar would have had the weight, unless it was hardwood, even ebony.”
“And the mutilations? Would they have needed particular strength or skill?”
“Just a sharp blade. There was nothing skilled about it.” Overstone said the words with loathing.
“Would a woman have the strength to have done it?” Coniston finally asked what everyone in the room was thinking.
“Yes.” Overstone did not add anything.
Coniston thanked him and turned to Rathbone. “Your witness, Sir Oliver.”
Rathbone tried desperately to think of anything to say that would make the slightest difference. Dinah must be wondering why on earth she had hired him. Her life was in his hands.
“Was there anything about the injuries, anything at all, to indicate what manner of person had inflicted them?” he asked, looking up at Overstone.
“No, sir,” Overstone replied.
“Nothing to suggest their height?” Rathbone elaborated. “Strength? Whether they were left- or right-handed, for example. Male or female? Young or old?”
“I said nothing at all, sir,” Overstone repeated. “Except perhaps, considering the power of the blow, it might have been two-handed.” He lifted both his own arms above his head, hands clenched together, and brought them down and sideways, as if holding a two-handed sword. “But that hardly helps. All it does is make height irrelevant.”
“So it could have been anyone, except perhaps a child?”
