Margaret sat with her knuckles white, leaning forward a little.

Fowler called his next witness—the police surgeon, of whom Rathbone asked nothing—and then began on the neighbors who had seen or heard something that evening.

Rathbone glanced at his watch now and then.

“What is he waiting for?” Monk hissed.

“I don’t know!” Hester said more sharply than she had intended. What could Rathbone hope for? What other solution was there? He had not shaken any of the testimony at all, let alone suggested the alternative he had spoken of so dramatically.

They adjourned for the day and people trooped out into the halls and corridors. Hester overheard more than one say that they would not bother to return.

“I don’t know why a man like Rathbone would take such a case,” one man said disgustedly as he began down the broad steps into the street. “There’s nothing in it for him but defeat, and he knows it.”

“He can’t be doing as well as we thought,” his companion replied.

“He knows his client’s guilty!” The first man pursed his lips. “Still, I’d have thought he’d try, for the look of it.”

Hester was so angry she started forward, but stopped as she felt the pressure of Monk’s hand on her arm. She swung around to face him.

“What were you going to say?” he asked.

She drew breath to reply, and realized she had nothing prepared that made sense. She saw Margaret’s misery and growing confusion. “He’ll fight!” she assured her, because she knew how badly Margaret wanted to believe it.

Margaret made an attempt at a smile, but excused herself to find a hansom home before facing the evening in Coldbath Square.

* * *

Hester began the fourth day of the trial with a sinking heart. She had lain awake in the night wondering whether to go to Rathbone’s house and demand to see him, but realized there was nothing she could learn that would help, and certainly she had nothing to offer him. She had no idea who could have killed Katrina Harcus, or why. She knew it was not Monk, and was less and less certain that it was Dalgarno, although she could not like the man. Looking at him through the days so far she had seen fear in his face, in the hunched angle of his shoulders, the tight lips and pallor of his skin, but she had not seen pity for the dead woman. Nor had she seen any concern for Livia Baltimore, who was growing more miserable with each new piece of testimony that showed how callously he had treated a young woman who had believed he loved her, and whom, all evidence showed, deeply loved him.