“I did not. They were locked in mortal combat.” Garstang’s voice was schoolmasterly, as to a particularly stupid child. “If he had even once let go of her she might have escaped him, and we should not be here to see justice done after the event.”

“Let us remember that we are here to see justice done,” Rathbone reminded him. “Not to exercise our personal feelings. You have described what you saw very precisely so far, Mr. Garstang. Did you see a figure go off the balcony and actually fall?”

“Yes, of course I did. That is when I left the window and ran out of the room and down the steps to see if I could help the poor woman, or on the other hand apprehend her murderer,” Garstang replied.

Rathbone held up his hand. “Just a moment, Mr. Garstang. I am afraid I need you to be more precise than that. I apologize for what must be distressing to any decent person. I assure you I would not do it were there any other way.”

Fowler stood up. “My lord, this witness has already told us in overlong detail what he saw. My learned friend is flattering—”

“I am not flattering the witness at all, my lord!” Rathbone cut across. “Mr. Garstang may be the only man who observed exactly what happened and is capable of telling us not what he has since concluded but what actually was.”

“If you do not have a point, Sir Oliver, I shall not indulge you again!” the judge warned. “Proceed, but be brief.”

The relief in Rathbone was visible even from where Hester sat, but she had no idea why. She could see nothing whatever changed. She glanced at Monk, and saw equal confusion in his face.

Rathbone looked up at Garstang. “Mr. Garstang, you saw her go off the balcony. You are sure it was she who went off?”

There was a moment of silent incredulity, then a rush of sound, a babble, disgust, laughter, anger.

Garstang stared at him, disbelief giving way to a slow, terrible memory.

The noise in the room subsided. Even Fowler sank back into his seat.

Monk craned forward.

Hester sat with her hands clenched.

“I saw her face . . .” Garstang said hoarsely. “I saw her face as she fell . . . white . . . she was . . .” He shuddered violently. “She was between murder . . . and death.” He put both hands up to his eyes.

“I apologize, Mr. Garstang,” Rathbone said gently and with sudden sincerity that was like a warmth in the room. He was speaking for an instant only to Garstang, not the court. “But your evidence is the key to the whole, terrible, tragic truth, and we all thank you for your courage of the mind, sir. You have saved a man’s life today.”

Fowler stood up and swiveled around as if looking for something that was not there.

Rathbone turned to him and smiled. “Your witness, Mr. Fowler.”