William Monk 13 - Death of a Stranger

remember that we are here to see justice done,” Rathbone reminded him. “Not to exercise our personal feelings. You have described what you saw very precisely so far, Mr. Garstang. Did you see a figure go off the balcony and actually fall?”
    “Yes, of course I did. That is when I left the window and ran out of the room and down the steps to see if I could help the poor woman, or on the other hand apprehend her murderer,” Garstang replied.
    Rathbone held up his hand. “Just a moment, Mr. Garstang. I am afraid I need you to be more precise than that. I apologize for what must be distressing to any decent person. I assure you I would not do it were there any other way.”
    Fowler stood up. “My lord, this witness has already told us in overlong detail what he saw. My learned friend is flattering—”
    “I am not flattering the witness at all, my lord!” Rathbone cut across. “Mr. Garstang may be the only man who observed exactly what happened and is capable of telling us not what he has since concluded but what actually was.”
    “If you do not have a point, Sir Oliver, I shall not indulge you again!” the judge warned. “Proceed, but be brief.”
    The relief in Rathbone was visible even from where Hester sat, but she had no idea why. She could see nothing whatever changed. She glanced at Monk, and saw equal confusion in his face.
    Rathbone looked up at Garstang. “Mr. Garstang, you saw her go off the balcony. You are sure it was she who went off?”
    There was a moment of silent incredulity, then a rush of sound, a babble, disgust, laughter, anger.
    Garstang stared at him, disbelief giving way to a slow, terrible memory.
    The noise in the room subsided. Even Fowler sank back into his seat.
    Monk craned forward.
    Hester sat with her hands clenched.
    “I saw her face . . .” Garstang said hoarsely. “I saw her face as she fell . . . white . . . she was . . .” He shuddered violently. “She was between murder . . . and death.” He put both hands up to his eyes.
    “I apologize, Mr. Garstang,” Rathbone said gently and with sudden sincerity that was like a warmth in the room. He was speaking for an instant only to Garstang, not the court. “But your evidence is the key to the whole, terrible, tragic truth, and we all thank you for your courage of the mind, sir. You have saved a man’s life today.”
    Fowler stood up and swiveled around as if looking for something that was not there.
    Rathbone turned to him and smiled. “Your witness, Mr. Fowler.”
    “For what?” Fowler demanded. “He has said nothing! What on earth does it matter that he saw her face? We all know it was she who fell!” He looked at the judge. “This is preposterous, my lord. Sir Oliver is making a farce out of a tragedy. Whether he is legally in contempt of court or not, morally he is.”
    “I am inclined to agree,” the judge said with apparent reluctance. “Sir Oliver, you have certainly caught our attention, but you have proved nothing. I cannot allow you to continue in this manner. We have the public in our courts in order that they may see that justice is done, not as a form of entertainment. I shall not allow you to yield any further to the temptation to become a performer, in spite of your obvious talent in that direction.”
    There was a murmur of nervous laughter around the court.
    Rathbone bowed as if contrite. “I assure you, my lord, I shall shortly show how the fact that Mr. Garstang saw her face is of the utmost importance.”
    “Are you questioning her identity?” the judge said with amazement.
    “No, my lord. If I may call my next witness?”
    “You may, but this testimony had better be relevant or I shall hold you in contempt, Sir Oliver.”
    “It will be, my lord, thank you. I call the Reverend David Rider.”
    Hester heard Monk’s gasp of indrawn breath and saw him lurch forward in his seat.
    Margaret turned to stare at Hester, and then at Monk, the question in her face. Hester looked at her helplessly.
    The court watched in silence as the vicar climbed the steps up to the witness-box, his hands gripping the rail as if to steady his balance. He looked tired, but worn out by emotion rather than any physical effort. His skin was pale and puffy around the eyes, and he looked back at Rathbone as if there was some profound understanding between them of more than grief, some overwhelming burden of knowledge which they shared.
    Rider swore to his name, his occupation and his residence on the outskirts