William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

not argue.
    Rathbone called Cardman, who stood in the witness box ramrod stiff, like a soldier facing a firing squad; his lips were tight and his skin almost bloodless. Monk could only imagine how he must loathe this. In as few words as possible he answered Rathbone’s questions about the letter that had been delivered and given to Havilland. He described Havilland’s response dismissing the servants to retire, and expressing the intention to stay up late and secure the house for the night himself. He identified the handwriting on the envelope as that of Havilland’s elder daughter, Mrs. Argyll. Rathbone thanked him.
    Dobie rose to his feet, a slight smile on his face. “This must be very unpleasant for you.”
    Cardman did not answer.
    “Did you see the contents of the envelope?”
    Cardman was startled. “No, sir, of course not!” The suggestion that he would read his master’s mail was clearly repugnant to him.
    “Did Mr. Havilland tell you what was in it, perhaps?”
    “No, sir.”
    “So you have no idea as to its contents?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Do you know where this letter is now?”
    “Mr. Havilland destroyed it, I believe.”
    “You believe?”
    “That is what the maid said who took it to him!”
    “Destroyed it? I see.” Dobie smiled. “Perhaps that accounts for why Sir Oliver has not given us the privilege of reading it. Mr. Cardman, have you any reason whatever to believe that this…letter…had anything whatever to do with Mr. Havilland’s death?”
    Cardman took a deep breath and let it out soundlessly. “No, sir.”
    “Neither have I,” Dobie agreed. He gave a little shrug and turned out his hands, palms upwards. “Neither has anyone!”
     
    The first witness of the afternoon was Melisande Ewart. Runcorn, having given his own evidence, was free to remain in the courtroom. He sat on the other side of the aisle in the gallery. Monk was acutely conscious of his stiff shoulders, clenched hands, eyes never moving from Melisande’s face.
    She stood in the witness box, calm but for two spots of color high in her cheeks.
    Rathbone was gentle with her, drawing from her bit by bit the account of Runcorn and Monk’s visit to her and exactly what she had told them. Finally he had her describe the man who had emerged from the mews and bumped into her.
    “Thank you, Mrs. Ewart,” he concluded. “Please remain where you are in case Mr. Dobie wishes to speak to you.”
    Monk looked again at the jury and saw sharp interest in their faces, and approval also. She was a woman of gentleness and considerable beauty, and she had conducted herself with quiet grace. Dobie would be a fool to attack her. Nevertheless he did.
    “You were returning from the theater, you said, ma’am?” he began.
    “Yes,” she agreed.
    “At about midnight?”
    “Yes.”
    “A little late. Did you attend a party after the final curtain?”
    “No. The traffic was very heavy.”
    “It must have been! What play did you see?” Obviously he already knew the answer.
    “Hamlet,”
she answered.
    “A great tragedy, perhaps the greatest, but full of violence and unnatural death,” he observed. “Murder after murder. Including Hamlet’s own father, as he finally succeeded in proving.”
    “I am familiar with the plot,” she said a little coldly.
    Runcorn’s knuckles were white, and his big hands clenched and unclenched slowly.
    “And just as you arrived home,” Dobie went on, “late and emotionally drained by one of the most powerful plays in the English language, you see a man emerge from the mews near your home.” He sounded reasonable, even soothing. “It is dusk, he almost bumps into you. He apologizes for being clumsy and a little drunk, and goes on his way. Have I summarized correctly what actually happened, Mrs. Ewart?”
    She hesitated, her eyes going to Rathbone as if for help.
    Runcorn half rose in his seat and then subsided, his face tight with anger.
    Hester grasped Monk’s arm, her fingers digging into him.
    “You are not incorrect, sir, so much as incomplete,” Melisande replied to Dobie. “The man was a stranger in the area and he had no legitimate business in the mews. There was a large, dark stain on the shoulder of his jacket. I did not ask about it, but he saw that I had noticed it, and he told me that it was manure. He had tripped and fallen in the mews. But it was a lie. I was close enough to him to have smelled manure. It smelled more like blood.”
    “Even if it was blood, that