Rathbone tried to think back. It had been the day Sachev-erall had put the witnesses on the stand and exposed what he thought was a homosexual affair. Had Melville known that was going to happen, or feared it? If so, why had she not told Rathbone to plead guilty and settle out of court? She would have saved Wolff's reputation at least. And if she loved him, surely she would have done that?

Had she carried belladonna all the time, just in case?

"Do you know something?" the surgeon asked. "I would guess she took it after two in the afternoon, and well before five in the evening, probably before four."

"Yes, it probably makes as much sense as suicide ever does," Rathbone answered wearily.

"You do not sound entirely convinced." The surgeon looked at him with a slight shake of his head. "Is there some fact I should know?"

"No. No ... I am afraid it was a tragedy which may well have been inevitable from the moment Sacheverall called Isaac Wolff to the stand, let alone that damned prostitute. Thank you for coming to let me know in person."

The surgeon stood up and offered his hand. Rathbone took it, and then saw him to the door. He returned to his chair, still with a vague sense of unease, as if there was something unexplained or incomplete, but he could not think what. Probably it was as his father had said, his own sense of guilt.

Nevertheless that evening he went to see Monk at his rooms in Fitzroy Street. He found him brooding over a handful of letters. He seemed quite pleased to be interrupted.

"Trivial case," he said, putting them aside and rising to his feet as Rathbone came in. "You look awful. Still thinking about Keelin Melville?"

"Aren't you?" Rathbone continued, throwing himself into the large chair reserved for clients. "The police surgeon came to see me today. It was belladonna she took. Some time in the afternoon."

"But she was in court all afternoon," Monk said with surprise. "You were with her."

"Well, he was quite sure," Rathbone repeated. "Said it had to have been between two and five at the latest, more likely four."

"What time did she leave court?" Monk pressed. He was sitting upright on his chair. "Is she supposed to have swallowed the stuff?"

"Yes, of course! What else? Pulled out a syringe and put a needle into her arm?" Rathbone said tartly, but his attention was suddenly focused.

"In what form?" Monk asked.

"What?"

"What form was the belladonna?" Monk clarified. "Pills? Drops? Powder? A mixture?"

"I've no idea. I didn't ask. What does it matter now?"