When she reached the bottom of the stairs, he took her in his arms and held her close, hard, wordlessly. In his mind he blessed over and over again whatever benevolence had led him to choose a woman whose beauty was of the soul: brave and vulnerable, funny, angry, and wise-someone to whom he need explain nothing.

Monk had no time to sleep, only to wash and change clothes and eat some hot breakfast. Of course, he also went up to look for a few moments at Scuff, who was scrubbed clean and sound asleep. The boy was still wearing Hester's nightgown with the lace edge next to his thin little neck, his left shoulder sitting crookedly over his bandages.

A few hours later, at half past eight, Monk was at Rathbone's office, explaining the night's events. A messenger was dispatched urgently to Runcorn, telling him to contact Melisande Ewart with a request that she be at the Old Bailey along with Runcorn that morning. If she was unwilling, a summons would be issued.

By ten o'clock the court was in session and Rathbone had asked permission to call Monk to the witness stand. Monk was startled by how stiff he was and how his legs ached as he climbed up. He had to grip the rail to steady himself. Even after a meal and a change of clothes he was exhausted. His shoulder ached, and the violence of the night invaded his mind.

Rathbone looked up at him anxiously. The barrister was as elegant as always-immaculately dressed, his fair hair smooth-but his eyes were shadowed and his lips pale and pulled a little tight. Because Monk knew him so well, he could see the tension in him. He knew how close he was to being beaten.

In the front row of the gallery Margaret Ballinger sat, white and unhappy. Her eyes seldom left Rathbone, even though most of the time it was only his back and profile that she could see.

"Mr. Monk," Rathbone began, "will you please tell the court where you were last night?"

Dobie, who apparently had not heard the news, immediately objected.

"Very well, may I rephrase the question?" Rathbone said tightly, his voice scraping in his throat. "As some of the court may know, my lord, there was a catastrophic cave-in at the Argyll Company's sewer construction tunnel last night." He stopped while the public gallery gasped and one or two people cried out. The jurors looked at one another in horror. The clamor subsided only at the judge's demand for order.

"Were you called to the scene, Mr. Monk?" Rathbone concluded.

"Yes." Monk kept his answers as bare and as direct as possible. He glanced only once at Sixsmith up in the dock. The man's powerful face was cast forward, his body rigid with tension and totally unmoving.

"Who called you?" Rathbone asked Monk.

"Sergeant Orme of the Thames River Police."

"Did he say why?"