"Even if it was blood, that does not mean he was guilty of murder," Dobie argued.

Melisande's eyes widened. "You mean he might have been in Mr. Havilland's stable and fallen over his dead body innocently, without thinking he should mention it?"

Dobie's face flamed, and there was a titter of embarrassed laughter around the courtroom.

"Bravo," Hester whispered to Monk.

Runcorn was smiling, his eyes bright, his cheeks red.

Dobie returned to the attack, but he was losing and he knew it. Moments later he retreated. Rathbone thanked Melisande again and then called the first of his nervous, uninteresting, but very necessary witnesses who were going to prove the trail of the money Aston Sixsmith had paid to the assassin. They detailed every move from Argyll's bank to its final destination. This line of enquiry was tedious but essential. It would continue for the rest of the day-and if Dobie wanted to contest any of it, it would go on probably longer than that.

When the court adjourned, there was no time for private conversation. Monk excused himself from Hester and caught up with Rathbone in the corridor outside. "I need to speak with Sixsmith," he said urgently. "Can you manage it? Persuade him to see me."

"How?" Rathbone looked tired, in spite of the victory with Melisande Ewart, such as it was. "I've already gone over every argument I can think of with Sixsmith. The man is desperate and numb with what has happened to him. He has worked for Argyll for years and feels totally betrayed."

"So he should," Monk answered, matching his stride with Rathbone's. "And if we prove it was murder, but not that Argyll's the one who hired the assassin, then Sixsmith will pay for it on the end of a rope!"

"All right," Rathbone said quickly. "You don't need to labor the point. But don't give him false hope, Monk." There was warning in his eyes, even fear.

"I don't intend to," Monk replied, hoping he could keep his promise. "Exactly the opposite."

It took Rathbone half an hour to arrange the meeting in a room off the corridor leading away from the court itself. Sixsmith looked somehow smaller than he had in the tunnel when Monk had seen him before.

Dressed in an ordinary suit, he was broad-shouldered and solid, but not so tall. His hair was neatly barbered, his shirt white, his hands clean. His nails were unbroken-remarkably so, considering the surroundings in which he usually worked.

He sat in the chair opposite Monk, putting his hands on the table between them. His skin was pale, and he had cut himself shaving. A tiny muscle twitched in his temple on the left side. "What is it?" he said bluntly. "Haven't you done enough?"