In the gallery a woman gasped. The jurors stared at Monk, frowning. Dobie shook his head as if Rathbone had taken leave of his wits.

Rathbone waited.

"The living bleed; the dead do not," Monk explained. "When the heart stops, there is no more flow of blood. His coat around the gunshot wound was caked with dry blood, but his legs were clean. Rigor mortis had already set in. The police surgeon will give you time of death, I imagine."

Dobie flushed and said nothing.

"Thank you." Rathbone nodded at Monk graciously. "I have no further questions for you."

Dobie declined to add anything, and Monk was excused.

He left the witness box but remained in the court while Rathbone called the surgeon, who corroborated all that Monk had said.

Then Runcorn slipped into a seat in the row opposite Monk's in the gallery just as Melisande Ewart took the stand. She walked up the steps of the witness box and faced the room. She was very composed, but even those who had not seen her before might have detected the effort it cost her. Her body was stiff, her shoulders rigid.

Monk glanced at Runcorn and saw him leaning forward, his gaze intent upon Melisande, as if by strength of will he would support her. Monk wondered if she had the faintest idea how profound was his feeling, and how extraordinary that was for a man such as he. If she did, would it please her or frighten her? Or would she treat tenderly that enormous compliment and read its vulnerability as well?

Rathbone moved into the center of the floor.

The jury sat silent, like men carved of ivory.

"Mrs. Ewart," Rathbone began, "I believe Superintendent Runcorn of the Metropolitan Police has just taken you to identify the body of the man Mr. Monk brought up from the cave-in at the construction. Is that correct?"

"Yes." Her voice was clear but very quiet.

There was a murmur of sympathy around the gallery. Some of the jurors nodded and their faces softened.

Monk looked up at Sixsmith. His heavy face was motionless, crowded with an emotion impossible to read.

"Have you ever seen him before?" Rathbone asked Melisande.

"Yes," she answered with a catch in her voice. "I saw him coming out of the mews that serves the home where I live at the moment, and also served that of Mr. James Havilland."

"When did you see this man?"

"On the night of Mr. Havilland's death."

"At any other times?"

"No. Never."

"You have seen him just once before today, and yet you are certain it is the same man?"

"Yes." Now she did not waver at all.

Rathbone could not afford to let it go so easily. "How is it that you are so sure?" he persisted.