William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

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