Authors: Anne Perry
"Please be
more specific."
It was the line
that Rathbone had intended to take, so Monk was happy to respond. "James
Havilland had intimated that he feared a disaster if there was not a great deal
more time and care taken in the excavations. He did not record precisely what
he feared-or if he did, I did not find it. There are risks of land
movement-slippage, subsidence-in any major work. He seemed to fear something
further. What seems to have occurred last night was that the diggings went too
close to an underground river and the river burst the walls, carrying an
enormous weight of earth and rubble with it, and flooding the tunnels."
There was too
much noise of horror and distress from the gallery and jurors for Monk to
continue, and even the judge looked stricken. Obviously the news had not yet
reached the daily papers, and few had heard it even by word of mouth.
"Silence!"
the judge ordered, but there was no anger in his voice. He was calling his
court to order, but without criticism. "I assume, Mr. Monk, that you are
here, in spite of your appalling night, because there is some evidence Sir
Oliver feels pertinent to the case, even at this late stage of events?"
"Yes, my
lord."
"Very well.
Sir Oliver, please ask your questions."
"Thank you,
my lord," Rathbone acknowledged. "Mr. Monk, during the course of the
night, did you bring to the surface any bodies of the dead or the still living?"
"Yes."
"Were any
of them people that you knew?"
"Yes."
"Who were
they?"
"Two
navvies that I had spoken with, a tosher-a man who retrieves objects of value
from the sewers-and one other man whom I had met once before." He stopped
abruptly, memories of the pistol shot and Scuff falling momentarily choking his
breath. He was so tired that the past and present collided with each other and
the courtroom seemed to sway.
"Where did
you meet him before, Mr. Monk?"
Monk realized
that Rathbone had asked him twice. He stiffened his back and shoulders.
"In the sewers," he replied. "When I was looking for the man
Mrs. Ewart saw coming out of the mews after James Havilland was shot."
"You did
not arrest him?" Rathbone sounded surprised.
"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.
"Have you
ever seen him before?" Rathbone asked Melisande.
"Yes,"
she answered with a catch in her voice. "I saw him coming out of the mews
that serves the home where I live at the moment, and also served that of Mr.
James Havilland."
"When did
you see this man?"
"On the
night of Mr. Havilland's death."
"At any
other times?"
"No.
Never."
"You have
seen him just once before today, and yet you are certain it is the same
man?"
"Yes."
Now she did not waver at all.
Rathbone could
not afford to let it go so easily. "How is it that you are so sure?"
he persisted.
"Because of
his face in general, but his teeth in particular," she replied. She was
now even paler, and she held tightly to the rail as if she needed its support.
"Superintendent Runcorn moved the man's lips so I could see his teeth. I
am confident enough to swear under oath that it is the same man."
Runcorn relaxed
and eased his body back into the seat, letting out his breath in a long sigh.
"Thank you,
Mrs. Ewart," Rathbone said graciously. "I have nothing further to ask
you. I appreciate your time and your courage in facing what must have been
extremely unpleasant for you."
Dobie stood up
and looked at Melisande, then at the jury. Straightening his gown on his
shoulders, he sat down again.
Rathbone then
played a desperate card, but he had no choice, for he had to show purpose and
connection. He called Jenny Argyll.
She was dressed
in full mourning and looked as if she were ready to be pronounced dead herself.
Her movements were awkward. She looked neither to the right nor to the left,
and it seemed as if she might falter and crumple to the ground before she made
it all the way to the top of the steps. The usher watched her anxiously. Even
Sixsmith jerked forward, his face suddenly alive with fear. The guards beside
him pulled him back, but not before Jenny had looked up at him. Now her eyes
were burning, and it seemed as if she might actually collapse.
Alan Argyll had
yet to testify, so he was not in the court. Had he any idea of the net closing
around him?
Rathbone spoke
to Jenny, coaxing from her the agonizing testimony he had wanted so badly only
a few days earlier.
"You wrote
the letter asking your father to go to his stable at midnight, in order to meet
someone?"
"Yes."
Her voice was barely audible.
"Whom was
he to meet?"
She was ashen.
"My husband."
There was a gasp
around the entire room.
"Why in the
stable?" Rathbone was asking. "It was a November night. Why not in
the house, where it was warm and dry and refreshment could be offered?"
Jenny Argyll was
ashen. She had to force her voice to make it audible. "To ... to avoid an
interruption by my sister. It was to be a secret meeting.
"Who asked
you to write the letter, Mrs. Argyll?"
She closed her
eyes as if the terror and betrayal were washing over her like the black water
that had burst through the sides of the tunnel and engulfed the navvies deep
underground. "My husband."
In the dock
something indefinable within Sixsmith appeared to ease, as if he smelled victory
at last.
Rathbone allowed
a moment's terrible silence, then he asked the last question. "Did you
know that your father was to be killed in that stable, Mrs. Argyll?"
"No!"
Now her voice was strong and shrill. "My husband told me it was to be a
meeting to try to persuade my father that he was wrong about the tunnels, and
to stop the navvies and toshers from making any more trouble!"
"As Mr.
Sixsmith has told us," Rathbone concluded, unable to resist making the
point. "Thank you, Mrs. Argyll."
Dobie looked
confused. Suddenly, at the moment when he expected to be swept off his feet,
the tide had turned and retreated before him with no apparent explanation.
He asked only
one question. "It was your husband who asked this letter of you, Mrs.
Argyll? Not Mr. Sixsmith?"
"That is
correct," she whispered.
He thanked her
and excused her.
Monk looked at
the judge, whose face was furrowed with puzzlement. It seemed that the
prosecution and the defense had changed places, arguing each other's case.
Possibly he had understood what was happening, and as long as the law was not
flouted nor brought into disrespect, he would leave the drama to play itself
out. He adjourned the court for luncheon.
In the afternoon
Monk and Runcorn were both there. Dobie called Alan Argyll to the stand, as
Rathbone had fervently hoped he would. He had done all he could to make it
virtually impossible for him not to.
Argyll walked
across the floor white-faced and composed. He glanced upwards once towards the
dock, but it was impossible to tell if his eyes met those of Sixsmith or not.
Sixsmith was leaning forward again. Surely he must see freedom almost in his
grasp.
But Argyll had
not been in the court for his wife's testimony. He did not know his grip over
her was broken. He waited for Rathbone as if he thought he was still certain of
victory. Perhaps he did not even see the open hostility on the jurors' faces.
He looked at Dobie without a tremor, and his voice was clear when he answered.
"No. I did
not ask my wife to write such a letter." He even managed to affect
surprise.
Dobie looked
disbelieving. "There is no question that the letter existed, Mr. Argyll,
or that your wife wrote it. She has admitted as much to this court. If not at
your request, at whose would she do such a thing?"
Argyll paled.
Monk could see, from the angle of his head and the way his hands gripped the
rail in front of him, that he was suddenly frightened. He started to look up at
Sixsmith, then forced himself not to. Was he beginning at last to understand?