Rathbone affected amazement, but his pulse was racing, his mind suddenly filled with excitement.

“Indeed? This Miss Benson would appear to be key to your case, Mr. Monk? If you do not call her, you leave speculation in the minds of the jury either that she does not exist or that, if she did testify, she would not say what you wish her to. Can you explain such a decision to the court?” He made a slight, elegant gesture with his hand to include the rest of the room.

Monk was pale. “Yes, I can. Fearing for her safety, I had Miss Benson moved from her lodgings in Chiswick into the clinic in Portpool Lane. I believed she would be safe there. However, she chose to leave without telling anyone where she was going. I assume that she was afraid.”

“Ah, yes—the clinic where the dubious Mr. Robinson keeps the books. Are you saying that you now do not know where she is?”

“Yes.” There was something tight and strained in Monk’s face, a pain that possibly only Rathbone knew him well enough to recognize.

The look that passed over Monk’s face troubled Rathbone, but he did not know why. He had the feeling that he had missed something. “Then, we must draw our own conclusions, both as to why Miss Benson came up with her original story and why she now has taken flight and refuses to come forward and repeat it to us. Thank you, Mr. Monk. I do not believe I have anything further to ask you.”

Monk moved to leave the stand.

“Oh! Just one more thing!” Rathbone said.

Monk stopped and turned back, his face bleak.

“Will Mr. Winchester be calling Mr. Cardew to explain this … theft? I have no notice that he will be a witness.”

“I don’t know. Quite possibly.”

Rathbone inclined his head, satisfied. He waved dismissal graciously and returned to his seat.

Winchester rose and called Mr. Horrible Jones to the stand.

The judge frowned. “Is that his lawful name, Mr. Winchester?”

“It appears to be the only one he knows, my lord,” Winchester responded.

“Very well. I suppose we have no choice. Proceed.”

’Orrie climbed awkwardly up the winding steps to the stand and stood clutching the rail as if the whole edifice were swaying like a ship at sea. One eye swiveled dangerously; the other looked with grave apprehension at the jury, who either stared back at him or painfully avoided his gaze.

He was sworn in, and Winchester asked him with considerable courtesy to state his occupation and describe his relationship with Mickey Parfitt. When that was answered, Winchester asked him about finding Mickey’s body with Tosh Wilkin, calling the police, and later the arrival of Monk and Orme.

It was all very predictable, and there was nothing for Rathbone to object to, and nothing for him to add.