William Monk 18 - A Sunless Sea

others to be quiet.
    “Order! Please, ladies and gentlemen,” Pendock said from the bench. “Let us continue. Allow Sergeant Orme to be heard.”
    “Thank you, my lord,” Coniston said soberly, then turned again to Orme. “I assume you and Commander Monk examined this poor woman’s remains?”
    “Yes, sir. There was nothing we could do for her. She was past all human help,” Orme said hoarsely. “We asked the witness’s name and address, and all she could tell us, which wasn’t anything. She had just come there looking for her husband. Then I stayed with the body, and Mr. Monk went for the local police.”
    “The local police?” Coniston said with raised eyebrows. “But since she was found on the pier, was she not within your jurisdiction?”
    “Yes, sir. But the first thing we wanted to know was who she was,” Orme pointed out reasonably.
    Coniston smiled and relaxed his tense position a fraction. “Of course. We will come to that. She was not known to you?”
    “No, sir.”
    “And could you describe the body for us, Sergeant?” This time he made no apology.
    Rathbone would like to have objected, but there were no grounds. The crime was appalling. Coniston was entitled to horrify the jury until they were sick and weeping. Had Rathbone been prosecuting he would have done the same.
    Orme swallowed hard. Even from where he was sitting, Rathbone could see the muscles of his neck and jaws tighten. The effort it cost him to maintain his control would be just as visible to the jurors.
    “Yes, sir,” Orme said quietly. He gripped the rail in front of him and breathed in and out several times before beginning. “She wasn’t a young woman, maybe forty, but not gone to fat. Her skin was very white, what we could see of it. Her clothes had been torn, or cut, and her … her bosom laid bare. Someone had slit her open right from …” He moved a rather jerky hand to the middle of his own chest and then slowly down below the rail to where his groin would be. He swallowed again.“And her entrails were pulled out, sir, an’ left lying all over her. It … it wasn’t easy to see if everything was there, sir, an’ I wouldn’t know anyway.”
    Coniston looked pale himself. “Was that the full extent of her injuries, Sergeant?”
    “No, sir. There was blood matted in her hair, as if she’d been hit pretty hard.”
    Coniston stood with his head bowed. “Thank you, Sergeant. Would you please remain on the stand in case my learned friend for the defense has any questions for you?” He looked across at Rathbone with a courteous smile. There was nothing for Rathbone to question, and they both knew it.
    Rathbone stood up and addressed the judge. “Thank you, my lord. But I think Sergeant Orme has already told us all that he is able to.”
    Orme left the stand, and his place was taken by Overstone, the police surgeon who had examined the corpse. He held himself with military precision and looked straight at Coniston, his face bleak, his thinning hair smooth to his head. He looked tired, as if he had done this too many times, and it was getting harder rather than easier for him. It flickered through Rathbone’s mind that it was requiring all the man’s strength of will to speak with a steady, unemotional voice.
    “You examined the body of this unfortunate woman that the police found on Limehouse Pier, Dr. Overstone?” Coniston began.
    “I did,” Overstone answered.
    “Describe it for me, if you please. I mean what manner of person had she been in life?”
    “About five foot, three inches tall,” Overstone replied. “Of average build, thickening a little around the waist. She appeared to be well nourished. I would estimate her age to be middle or late forties. Her hair was light brown, her eyes blue. As much as one could tell, she must have been very pleasant-looking in life. She had good teeth, fine-boned hands.”
    “Any sign of illness?” Coniston inquired, as if it were a reasonable question.
    Overstone’s face tightened. “The woman was hacked to bits!” he said between his teeth. “How in God’s name would I know?”
    Coniston flushed slightly, even though he had incited the answer. In that instant Rathbone knew he had done it intentionally. The emotion in the room was taut as a violin string. Rathbone felt his own muscles lock and his neck ache with the effort of trying to breathe deeply and relax. Some of the jurors were looking at him, wondering what on earth he would do to