William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

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