“I see.” The judge turned from Monk to Winchester. “I shall expect you to prove every step of this, Mr. Winchester, beyond reasonable doubt.”

“Yes, my lord. I shall leave the jury with no doubt at all. I wish that none of this were so.” He turned to the jury. “I apologize, gentlemen. This will be distressing to all of you, but for the sake of justice, I cannot spare your feelings. I …” He spread his hands helplessly.

Rathbone knew exactly what Winchester was doing, and there was no way Rathbone could prevent it. He had expected Winchester to be clever, but had hoped he would be sure enough of his case to be careless now and then, and take one or two things for granted, where Rathbone could trip him. So far he was treading almost softly, and it made the details all the more terrible. There was nothing for Rathbone to attack, nothing hysterical, nothing unnecessary. To question it would seem desperate, the first sign that he himself was not sure of his case.

He could not turn to look for her in the gallery, but he knew that Margaret would be watching him, waiting in an agony of tension for him to do something, anything but sit there helplessly. Rathbone was allowing Winchester to go on and on as if he, Rathbone, were tongue-tied. How could Rathbone explain to her, and her mother, that to make useless attacks weakened himself, not Winchester?

He should put her out of his mind; all else must be forgotten, except the defense. The battle was everything.

Monk was talking again in a low, shaking voice, describing the photographs he had seen.

Winchester held a packet in his hand. “My lord, if you believe it necessary, they can be shown to the gentlemen of the jury, just so they are without doubt that what Mr. Monk says is indeed quite a mild description of the terrible truth.”

The judge leaned forward and held out his hand.

Winchester walked across the floor and gave him the packet. His lordship opened it and looked.

Rathbone had not actually seen the pictures, but looking at the judge’s face was perhaps more powerful a flame to the imagination, a pain sharper than the actuality could have been, because it was a living thing in his mind, a monstrosity that changed and that he could never control.

Damn Winchester!

He looked across at the jury and saw their expressions. One man was white, his eyes blinking fiercely, not knowing where to look. Another kept rubbing his face with his hands, as if embarrassed. One man coughed, then blew his nose hard. Others were looking around the room, staring at the judge, fidgeting, breathing rapidly.

“Sir Oliver!” the judge said sharply, as if he had said it before and Rathbone had not heard him.

Rathbone rose to his feet. “Yes, my lord?”

“Are you content that the jury does not need to look at this … material?”