The Twisted Root

her death, Mr. Campbell?" Tobias pressed.
    "None at all, except that from Mrs. Monk’s description of the wound, it sounds distressingly like those inflicted on Treadwell, and"—he hesitated, and this time his composure nearly cracked—"upon my sister..."
    "Please," Tobias said gently. "Allow yourself a few moments, Mr. Campbell. Would you like a glass of water?"
    "No—no thank you." Campbell straightened up. "I beg your pardon. I was going to say that this woman’s death may be connected. Possibly she also was a nurse, and may have become aware of the thefts of medicine from the hospital. Perhaps she either threatened to tell the authorities or maybe she tried her hand at blackmail..." He did not need to finish the sentence, his meaning was only too apparent.
    "Just so." Tobias inclined his head in thanks, turned to the jury with a little smile, then went back to his table.
    There was silence in the gallery. Everyone was looking towards Rathbone, waiting to see what he would do.
    He glanced around, playing for time, hoping some shred of an idea would come to him and not look too transparently desperate. He saw Harry Stourbridge’s face, colorless and earnest, watching him with hope in his eyes. Beside him, Lucius looked like a ghost.
    There was a stir as the outside doors opened, and everyone craned to see who it was.
    Monk came in. He nodded very slightly.
    Rathbone turned to the front again. "If there is time before the luncheon adjournment, my lord, I would like to call Mr. William Monk. I believe he may have evidence as to the identity of the woman whose body was found last night."
    "Then indeed call him," the judge said keenly. "We should all like very much to hear what he has to say. You may step down, Mr. Campbell."
    Amid a buzz of excitement, Monk climbed the steps to the stand and was sworn in. Every eye in the room was on him. Even Tobias sat forward in his seat, his face puckered with concern, his hands spread out on the table in front of him, broad and strong, fingers drumming silently.
    Rathbone found his voice shaking a little. He was obliged to clear his throat before he began.
    "Mr. Monk, have you been engaged in trying to discover whatever information it is possible to find regarding the body of the woman found on Hampstead Heath last night?"
    "Since I was informed of it, at about one o’clock this morning," Monk replied. And, in fact, he looked as if he had been up all night. His clothes were immaculate as always, but there was a dark shadow of beard on his cheeks and he was unquestionably tired.
    "Have you learned anything?" Rathbone asked. Hearing his own heart beating so violently, he feared he must be shaking visibly.
    "Yes. I took the buttons from the boots she was wearing and a little of the leather of the soles, which were scarcely worn. Those particular buttons were individual, manufactured for only a short space of time. It is not absolute proof, but it seems extremely likely she was killed twenty-two years ago. Certainly, it was not longer, and since the boots were almost new, it is unlikely to be less than that. If you call the police surgeon, he will tell you she was a woman of middle age, forty-five or fifty, of medium height and build, with long gray hair. She had at some time in the past had a broken bone in one foot which had healed completely. She was killed by a single, very powerful blow to her head, by someone facing her at the time, and right-handed. Oh... and she had perfect teeth—which is unusual in one of her age."
    There was tension in the court so palpable that when a man in the gallery sneezed the woman behind him let out a scream, then stifled it immediately.
    Every juror in both rows stared at Monk as if unaware of anyone else in the room.
    "Was that the same police surgeon who examined the bodies of Tread well and Mrs. Stourbridge?" Rathbone asked.
    "Yes," Monk answered.
    "And was he of the opinion that the blows were inflicted by the same person."
    Tobias rose to his feet. "My lord, Mr. Monk has no medical expertise..."
    "Indeed," the judge agreed. "We will not indulge in hearsay, Sir Oliver. If you wish to call this evidence, no doubt the police surgeon will make himself available. Nevertheless, I should very much like to know the answer to that myself."
    "I shall most certainly do so," Rathbone agreed. Then, as the usher stood at his elbow, he said, "Excuse me, my lord." He took the note handed to him and read it to himself.
    It could not have been a