There was a sigh of breath and a buzz of movement around the court.

“And did you trace its owner?” Winchester asked.

“Yes, sir. It belonged to a Mr. Rupert Cardew …” Monk could not continue because of the uproar.

When the judge had regained control, Winchester thanked him and invited Monk to proceed.

“Mr. Cardew said that the item had been stolen from him the previous afternoon, and we later found evidence that that was indeed so.”

“Did this evidence implicate Arthur Ballinger?”

“No, sir.”

“So what did, Mr. Monk? So far, as I’m sure Sir Oliver would be quick to point out, there is nothing in the course of your investigation to suggest his name to you, much less to imply his guilt in the matter at all!”

“A short handwritten note inviting Parfitt to meet the accused at the boat, on the evening of his death,” Monk replied.

Again there were gasps and cries in the body of the court, and it was several moments before the judge managed to restore order.

“And where did you find this extraordinary document?” Winchester inquired.

“Written above another note given to me, presumably without appreciating its importance, by Mr. Jones, one of Mr. Parfitt’s employees,” Monk told him. “Parfitt wrote down the time he wanted Jones to ferry him to his boat.”

“Indeed. And was this note signed by the accused?”

“No. It was written on the back of a piece of paper, on the front of which was a list of medicines to be purchased for the use of patients in the Portpool Lane Clinic.”

Winchester’s black eyebrows shot up. “Good heavens! Are you certain?”

“Yes. We took it to the clinic and asked those who work there to identify it.”

“Just a moment! What made you consider the possibility that it had anything to do with them, Mr. Monk?”

“I asked my wife, who is a nurse there, if she recognized the items on the list. She did. She also knew who had written the list and when, because of the writing and what was listed.”

The silence in the courtroom was so thick, someone wheezing in the back row was momentarily audible.

Thoughts raced through Rathbone’s mind as to what he could ask Monk, how he could tear this apart. And, looking at Monk’s face, he knew that he was already prepared, even waiting. Was it possible that this time he really was sure?

“She wrote this list?” Winchester asked skeptically. “And you did not immediately recognize her hand, Mr. Monk? That strains credulity.”

“No, she didn’t write it,” Monk replied with the vestige of a smile. “It was written by Mrs. Claudine Burroughs, a woman of good society who gives her time to helping the sick and the poor. I did not recognize her hand because I am not familiar with it, but my wife did.”