You lift one of your papers, and peer at the doctor over the edge of it. ‘Dr Wilkes. The science of pathology enables our bodies to speak, when we can no longer speak for ourselves.’

‘In the sense that the body itself can tell how it died, that is correct.’

You nod, as if to flatter him with your approval. ‘But there’s an art to it?’

‘Art?’

‘Knowing what to look for. An understanding of human nature . . .’

He smiles. ‘Knowing what to look for separates scientists from charlatans. And I dare say actually finding it separates them from artists.’

There are a few chuckles. The doctor lifts his hand to stroke his chin and I fix my eyes on his fingers. Thick as sausages. How does he work with those? In my mind’s eye, they root in blood, pull flesh apart, spoon out livers and brains and hearts. I sway on my feet, close my eyes, and see the Surgeon, waggling his own paws.

‘Did you note Madame Benham’s stomach contents, Doctor?’

‘I applied a stomach pump, yes.’

‘What did you find?’

‘Only the remains of the ordinary food she had taken.’

‘Nothing unusual?’

He gives a shrug. ‘Carrots.’

‘Anything else?’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘You’ve been in court before, Doctor?’

‘More often than you, by the look of things.’ Laughter billows out across the gallery. The doctor lets the wind take his chest, smiles up at them.

‘Many times, then?’

‘I believe my curriculum vitae was established on Friday last, when you declined to ask me any questions.’

‘Yes. Very well. Let’s come to it.’ You fiddle with one of the inkwells, bend over it as a woman might, to smooth an iron over a cloth. I’d have liked a trade like yours, I think. Selling words.

‘You see, it’s been said many times, here in this very court, that only God sees a man’s heart. But I wonder . . . We must try, mustn’t we, to see to each other’s hearts?’

‘Is that what lawyers do now, Mr Pettigrew?’ He smirks.

‘Even surgeons must try.’

‘There’s no room for sentiment in a surgeon.’

‘Or an anatomist?’

‘There’s not much call for it. Corpses being incapable of emotion.’

‘But you’ve built your profession on the fact that they speak! People come to you, Dr Wilkes, no matter the condition you receive them in. People, who were . . . partial to figs! Or the smell of their babies, the joy of walking beside the ocean, the prick of the sun on one’s nose, and ‒’ You stop, as if embarrassed. ‘Well . . . any of those small joys that may come a man’s way while he has the breath for them.’

Dr Wilkes smirks up at the judge. ‘A pretty speech, My Lord, but I wonder, what is the relevance of these questions concerning a woman who’s been stabbed? It’s like blaming soured milk for a drowned cat.’

The judge, caught picking at his teeth with a finger, lowers it. ‘Yes, I agree. Mr Pettigrew, I’m afraid you’ve lost me as well.’