Rathbone considered objecting, but a look at the jurors’ faces, and he knew he would earn only their contempt. He would seem to be making ridiculous objections by which to try to distract them, which would only lend more credence to what Winchester was saying. And if he was honest, Rathbone himself believed there was someone behind Parfitt, pretty much as Monk and Winchester assumed.

“But you do not know who he is?” Winchester pursued.

“I believe that I do,” Monk contradicted him. “But the proof is what I came here to present.”

The jurors looked stunned. There was a buzz of excitement in the public gallery, rustles of movement and indrawn breath.

Winchester himself played it for all it was worth.

“Are you suggesting, Mr. Monk, that it was this … this investor who murdered Mickey Parfitt? Why, for heaven’s sake? Was the boat not making him a fortune?”

Rathbone stood up at last. “My lord, this is the wildest speculation!”

“It is indeed,” the judge answered tartly. “Mr. Winchester, you know better than this!”

“I apologize, my lord,” Winchester said humbly. “I’m sorry.”

It was only at that moment that Rathbone realized that Winchester had had nothing more to add anyway. Rathbone’s intervention had saved him from the jury’s realizing it.

“Have you anything else pertinent to say, Mr. Winchester?” the judge asked with evident impatience. “For example, something tangible, such as either of the weapons used in the attack of Mr. Parfitt, or a timetable of his movements? Or for that matter, a witness to anything at all? You have so far only a handful of obscene and repulsive photographs and a web of speculation, none of which you have connected to the accused.”

Winchester looked suitably chastened and once again addressed Monk. “Sir, his lordship has excellent points, and has graciously reminded me that I have yet to mention the weapons used to take the life of this repulsive man. Did you seek them, and did you find them?”

“I did not find the weapon with which his head was struck,” Monk replied. “It is difficult to know what that would have been, but any strong length of branch from a tree would have served, or a broken plank of wood, or an oar. There were many such lying on the bank, or floating in the water.”

Winchester looked faintly disconcerted, but he did not interrupt.

“However, we did find the weapon with which he was strangled,” Monk continued. “It was a dark blue cravat with an unusual pattern on it of leopards, very small and in threes, one above the other, in gold. It was made of silk, and there were six very tight knots in it, at slightly irregular distances matching the bruises perfectly.”

Winchester allowed the jury a few moments to absorb this information. “Really! And where did you find the cravat, Mr. Monk?”

“The police surgeon cut it from around Parfitt’s neck,” Monk answered.