William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

those other elements were solved, it would never be enough until her name was cleared and she and her father were buried as they would have wished. But Rathbone did not need to know that. It was a private wound, deep inside him, inextricably wound into his love for Hester.
    Rathbone was looking at him. “I’ve investigated the Argylls’ engines. They’re pretty much the same as everyone else’s. Better, because they’ve been modified with great skill and considerable invention, but no more dangerous.”
    “There’s something!” Monk insisted.
    “Then bring it to me,” Rathbone said simply.
     
    In the Old Bailey the next morning, after the jury was appointed and the opening addresses were delivered, Oliver Rathbone began the case for the prosecution. His first witness was Runcorn.
    Monk sat in the public gallery, with Hester beside him. Neither of them was a witness, so it was permissible for them to attend. He glanced at her grave face. It was pale, and he knew she was thinking of Mary Havilland. He imagined what she must be remembering of her own grief, and the sense of helplessness and guilt because she had not been there for her father and mother. With such events, Monk knew, there was always the belief, however foolish, that there was something one could have said or done that would have made a difference. But he had not seen anger in her, or heard her blame her brother, James, for not somehow preventing it. She had never lashed out at him that Monk knew of. How did she keep at bay the bitterness and the sense of futility?
    Then a sudden thought struck him. How incredibly stupid he was not to have seen it before! Was her need to throw herself into fighting pain, injustice, and helplessness her way of making the past bearable? Was her readiness to forgive born of her own understanding of what it was to fail? She worked with all her strength at Portpool Lane not only to meet a fraction of the women’s needs but to answer her own as well. Anything short of her whole heart in the battle could never be enough for her. He was guarding her from the danger without because he was afraid for himself—afraid of what losing her would mean. He was thinking of his own sleepless nights, his imagination of her danger. All the time he was increasing the danger within.
    Impulsively he reached across and put his hand over hers, holding her softly. After a moment her fingers responded. He knew what that moment meant. It was the loss of something inside her, which he had taken away. He would have to put it back as soon as he could, however afraid he was for her or for himself without her.
    Right now Runcorn was climbing the twisting steps to the high, exposed witness stand. He looked uncomfortable, in spite of the fact that he must have testified in court countless times over the years. He was neatly dressed, even excessively soberly, as if for church, his collar starched and too tight. He answered all Rathbone’s questions precisely, adding nothing. His voice was uncharacteristically touched with grief, as if he too was thinking not of James Havilland but of Mary.
    Rathbone thanked him and sat down.
    Runcorn turned a bleak face towards Mr. Dobie, counsel for the defense, who rose to his feet, straightened his robes, and walked forward into the well of the court. He looked up at the high witness stand with its steps and squinted a little at Runcorn, as if uncertain exactly what he saw. He was a young man with a soft face and a cloud of curly dark hair.
    “Superintendent Runcorn—that is your rank, isn’t it?” he asked. His expression was bland, almost timid.
    “Yes, sir,” Runcorn replied.
    “Just so. That implies that you are considerably experienced in investigating violent deaths—accidental, suicidal, and murderous?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “You are good at it?”
    Runcorn was startled.
    “I apologize.” Dobie shook his head. “That was an unfair question. Modesty forbids that you reply honestly. I will accept that you are.” He glanced momentarily at Rathbone, as if half expecting an objection.
    Rathbone would not object, and they both knew it. “I have no quarrel with Mr. Dobie’s conclusion, my lord, even if it seems a little premature.”
    The judge’s face tightened in appreciation of his predicament.
    In the dock, high above the proceedings and where those in the gallery had to crane their necks sideways to see him, Aston Sixsmith sat gripping the rails with his hands. His knuckles were white,