As if sensing her gaze, Candace turned, and immediately Hester caught Charles’s attention. They moved toward her.

  Charles looked concerned, but before he could speak, Hester did.

  “We know what it was all about! Last night, late, Fitz translated a collection of local papers. I don’t know if we can prove it, but at least we know that Fitz did not kill anyone.” She found the tears thick in her throat and was furious with herself for such a display of emotion. “And he knows! Thank you, Charles…”

  Charles’s face lit with a sweet smile, but he was at a loss for the appropriate words.

  Candace threw her arms around Hester and hugged her, then stepped back, blushing. “I’m so glad!” She did not bother to look at Charles. “We shall be here. If there is anything we can do…”

  The crowd was pushing them to get through the door of the courtroom and find seats before they were all taken. There was no time to say anything more.

  Burnside began the day by recalling Hooper. He looked confident, even slightly amused, as if yesterday had been part of his plan, and he hadn’t been caught off balance, as it had appeared.

  “Good morning, Mr. Hooper,” he began smoothly, standing out in the area beneath the witness stand.

  “Good morning, sir,” Hooper replied.

  Hester had had no chance to speak to Hooper and tell him of their visit with Fitz, or what the paper had revealed. She hoped Hooper felt better than most men might have in his situation.

  “Mr. Hooper, you said under oath yesterday that you could not believe the accused to be guilty, in spite of the fact that you yourself, and your superior, Mr. Monk, arrested him and charged him with these crimes. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because you feared for his life? Do I remember correctly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps you can explain that for the court.” Burnside made it sound like an invitation, but everyone knew that Hooper had no choice.

  “Certainly,” Hooper replied. “People are horrified by the brutality of these crimes, and frightened that they will continue—”

  “Because you were unable to prevent them, and keep the commitment safe?” Burnside interrupted.

  Hester was aware that he was trying to knock Hooper off balance. Hooper must have known it too.

  “Yes, sir,” Hooper admitted. He had no choice. The answer was clear to everyone.

  “So you arrested him in spite of the fact that you did not believe him to be guilty?” Burnside said with apparent incredulity.

  “If he had been cornered in the streets and murdered by a mob, that would not have helped anyone,” Hooper said patiently. “If you are asking me if I believe Dr. Fitzherbert to be guilty now, no, I don’t.”

  “I did not ask!” Burnside snapped. “I was going to ask you only if the people in Shadwell believe Dr. Fitzherbert is a lunatic. Surely your investigation discovered at least that much? Then perhaps you would explain to us why they believed him to be guilty, for a dozen different reasons, and yet you still do not?” A smile of incredulity lifted his voice almost to a squeak.

  “You’ll have to ask them, sir,” Hooper answered with studied politeness only just short of offense.

  “Oh, I will ask several people,” Burnside snapped. He gave the slightest of bows toward Rathbone, and resumed his seat.

  Rathbone rose. He walked elegantly over to the center of the open space—the arena, as it were.

  “Mr. Hooper, you have made it clear that you do not believe Dr. Fitzherbert to be guilty of these crimes. You must have some reason for that belief. Would you be good enough to share it with us”—he glanced at Burnside, already rising to his feet again—“briefly. It might aid us in understanding what my learned friend has made sound very…odd.”

  “Yes, sir,” Hooper replied. “Before they became frightened out of their wits, the people in the community thought very well of Dr. Fitzherbert. He treated a lot of their sick, especially those who didn’t have much command of English. Spoke to them in their own language, very well, and they would talk to him about Hungary, and he’d listen. He spent some time there, and said they were very good to him when he was sick and on hard times. Repayment, he said. That’s what a good man does. You could find any number who’d testify to that. I’ll find them for you, if you like?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hooper. If it comes to that, I’ll ask you. I have no further questions for you now.”

  Burnside called Scuff. Hester had been afraid that he would. He could easily have called Crow for exactly the same evidence, or at least much of it, but Scuff was far more vulnerable. She felt helpless, forced to watch and take no part. He would feel bitterly alone. He would defend Fitz, out of loyalty to Hester, and because he believed him to be innocent. Burnside would attack him mercilessly, as Scuff would be the most overwhelmed by the formality of the court, the most susceptible to being made to look foolish.

  Scuff walked across the open space and climbed up the steps to the stand. He swore to tell the truth, and nothing but, then faced Burnside.

  Hester noticed how young he looked. He was almost as tall as Monk, but slender, his skin fair, more a boy’s than a man’s.

  Burnside regarded him thoughtfully. “Will Monk, you said. But that is not the name you were born with, is it? It is one you—borrowed, shall we say?”

  Hester felt her chest tighten, as if she could not draw in breath.

  Rathbone half rose in his seat, then changed his mind and sat back down.

  “Is that a question, sir?” Scuff asked, clearing his throat a little.

  “Have you an answer?” Burnside raised his magnificent eyebrows.

  “Yes, sir. I don’t know what my name was when Commander Monk took me in. They called me Scuff, but that’s only a nickname. When I had to have a proper name they gave me that, and I’m proud of it, sir. It’s not borrowed, it was given to me.”

  There was a murmur of approval around the gallery.

  Hester let her breath out in relief, although she did not imagine Burnside would take kindly to the charged atmosphere. In fact, he might well resent it and try to manipulate the crowd back to the show of contempt he wanted. Scuff had not made a friend. But she was proud of him all the same, even though her every instinct was to go in there herself and tear Burnside apart.

  Burnside began again. “Took you in? A nice phrase. You were homeless, I believe. You lived on the riverbank, scavenging small odds and ends from the mud when the tide went out and selling them where you could. As do many unwanted children. A mixture of salvage and theft. Not a fortunate start in life for one who wishes to testify in the highest court in the land as to the good character of a man accused of murder.”

  Scuff’s face was pale, except for the two spots of color high on his cheeks.

  “You called me, sir. Maybe because I watched Fitz treating people, helping them, and I know some of the wrong reasons why some thought he might have killed people, just ’cos they jumped to conclusions. Folks do that when they’re scared out of their senses. Blame everyone, because they want it to end.”

  “Have you seen a lot of that in your…eighteen years of life?” Burnside asked with a very slightly sarcastic edge to his voice. “Oh, I beg your pardon. You don’t know how old you are, do you?”

  “No, I don’t, sir. But eighteen’s close enough, and yes, I’ve seen a lot of people blaming anyone else but themselves, if they think there’s a chance of getting away with it. Not many people take the blame for anything if they think they don’t have to. I’m surprised you don’t know that, being a lawyer an’ all.”

  There was a ripple of laughter around the gallery.

  Rathbone smiled.

  Burnside kept his temper. “You want to be a doctor one day, I believe. So you have been taking lessons from Dr. Fitzherbert? You admire his skill?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “And would you know a good doctor from a bad one, Scuff? I mean, Mr. Monk?”

  “Yes, sir. A simple man might say a doctor who could save a dying man and set him back on his feet again is good. But if you’d like me to describe an operation for you, I can. I’ve seen him do a few. And I can give you the names of the people he saved. I’ve seen him treat an infection in a man who was half dead, and several days later the man walked out the door on his way home. Another man had lockjaw. His back was arched off the table and his jaw locked like steel. I saw Dr. Fitz cauterize the wound he had with white-hot irons, one after another. I handed them to him myself. And the man’s alive and getting better. That’s a good doctor, sir.”

  A couple of people in the gallery applauded and were instantly silenced.

  “That’s a clever doctor.” Burnside made the difference sound subtle and important. “Good is another matter. You admire Dr. Fitzherbert, don’t you, Scuff? Your friends call you Scuff, don’t they?”

  “Those I regard as friends call me Will, sir. And yes, I do admire Dr. Fitzherbert’s skill. It is extraordinary. I also admire his willingness to treat people without money, if they don’t have it, and to teach people like me, who want to become doctors.”

  “Tell me…Will…”

  Rathbone rose to his feet. “My lord, my learned friend is uncommonly condescending toward this witness. He is suggesting to the jury that he is a child. Mr. Monk is a young man learning and practicing medicine, and should be addressed as such by the court.”

  Justice Aldridge nodded, then looked at Burnside. “Mr. Burnside, will you please treat your witness with the same courtesy you would others. I don’t wish to have to remind you of this again.”

  Burnside acknowledged him with a mumbled word, and looked back at Scuff.

  “Did you have at least one occasion to search the streets for Dr. Fitzherbert, and find him wandering, dazed, half insensible and covered with blood?”

  “Yes. He had been up for nearly twenty-four hours and he was exhausted. The blood came from a difficult delivery of a baby.”

  “Were you there?” Burnside affected surprise.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Really? You are under oath, Mr….Monk. You do understand the idea that you are obliged to tell the truth, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “I put it to you again, were you there?”

  “Yes, sir. I also doubted Dr. Fitzherbert’s word and went back to the area where the baby had been born, and I asked around to make sure they were well. They were.”

  “You are evasive, sir! You were not there at the time of the birth!”

  “You did not say at the time of the birth,” Scuff said innocently. “I checked that Fitz’s story was true…”

  “So you doubted it!” Burnside said triumphantly.

  “No, sir, but I knew that you, or someone like you, would.”

  “Ah! So you foresaw the likelihood of Dr. Fitzherbert being charged with murder, and brought to trial for it! Why was that…Mr….Monk? I put it to you that it was because you yourself suspected him of exactly that!”

  Scuff stood absolutely still, his face pale.

  Hester ached to be able to help him, but there was nothing she could do. He was completely alone.

  “I could see the probability, sir,” Scuff agreed. “I didn’t want it to be him, but I could see that it might be. If it was, best we stop him as soon as we could. But it wasn’t him. Surgeons get blood on themselves sometimes. Surgery can be messy.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Burnside said with distaste. “But the sight of blood doesn’t bother you. I daresay you see plenty of it.”

  “A doctor’s not much use if he’s busy thinking about how he feels, not the patient,” Scuff said calmly.

  “Ah! I’m glad you mentioned that. Did you have occasion to see Dr. Fitzherbert having nightmares, delusions, hysterics, whatever you like to call it? You are under oath! I am still not satisfied that you understand that. Please do not play word games with the court. This is a deadly matter. Did you see the accused in a state of divorce from reality? Imagining that he was somewhere else, and generally behaving without any restraint whatever in his…delusions?”

  “I saw him in extreme distress from a nightmare, sir,” Scuff answered.

  “Ah! And how did you know that? Did he say so? Did he make some explanation of what he saw, or believed he saw? Describe him, please, for the jury.”

  Scuff turned a little in the box and looked at the jurors, who stared back at him solemnly.

  “He was covered in sweat, his clothes were soaked, and he was trembling as if he were freezing. His eyes were wide open, but he did not seem to see the men around him, or me. I have no way of knowing what he did see, except that he told me afterward he thought he was back in the war in the Crimea.”

  “And you believed this? You accepted that this was real? Why? Because you admired his surgery? Because you liked him; he was kind to you? Offered to teach you surgery? Why did you believe him, Will?” He said the last word with exaggerated care, bordering on sarcasm.

  Scuff’s voice dropped a little, but he turned back to face Burnside.

  “Because I was trapped once, in the bilges of a boat, boarded in. It was a man who trafficked in ways for…for prostitution. I thought I would never be found. I dreamed about it for ages afterward. It wasn’t as bad as what happened to Fitz, but it made me understand a bit.”

  It was not the answer Burnside had expected, and it knocked him off balance. Scuff had the immediate sympathy of the courtroom, and Burnside knew it. He was obliged to back away and change tactics.

  “So you understood his…his nightmares,” he said more gently. “You had sympathy for him. Is it possible that he misled you, playing upon your fellow feeling?”

  “No. He didn’t know anything about it. It’s…it’s not something I like to talk about. I only told him afterward.”

  “I see.” Burnside was having to rethink his attack altogether. He walked away, turned and then looked up at Scuff again. “You are a very loyal young man,” he said gravely. “I’m sure the court respects you for it. But tell us, when Dr. Fitzherbert was in the state of nightmare, waking nightmare, did he know where he was? Did he recognize you, for example?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “Did he ever tell you about his long journey home, on foot, across the whole of Europe?”

  “Not much.”

  “Could he have killed people there, in his delirium, his tension to be free from the suffocating corpses of the battlefield, when his supposed comrades left him to die?” Burnside spoke in a voice laden with disgust.

  “I’ve no idea. He didn’t say much about it, except that the Hungarians were kind to him. It’s Hungarians that are dead, sir, not British soldiers. Not that the British left him behind on purpose. They thought he was dead, like so many hundreds of others.”

  “It sounds like the sort of nightmare that would drive any man insane,” Burnside said quietly. “Thank you…Mr. Monk.” He turned to Rathbone. “Your witness, Sir Oliver.”

  Rathbone rose to his feet. “Thank you, but I believe Mr. Monk has told us all he can.”

  Burnside looked disappointed. “In that case, if it please your lordship, I would like to adjourn for the day, and tomorrow call Commander Monk of the Thames River Police.”

  —

  THAT EVENING HESTER, MONK and Rathbone sat together again, preparing for what might well be the last day of Burnside’s case. They still had far too little to be able to prove that there was reasonable doubt as to Fitz’s guilt, except for the first crime, and there was still nothing to disprove Burnside’s contention that Fitz had actually committed that one as well, even if at Haldane’s bidding and with possible payment, although that was unprovable too, since there had been none.

  “He’ll ask you about your investigations, in detail,” Rathbone warned Monk. “He’ll go over the weapons with you, where they were traced to and the fact that anyone could have got hold of them. He’ll show that Fitz was familiar with the use of a bayonet in a way that no one else was—for example, Haldane. That Fitz knew anatomy well enough to strike with one blow to the heart. That he had no witnesses to his whereabouts for any of the murders, and that he was so used to death, he was callous to it, perfectly capable of such brutality—that being with death day after day, month after month, had made him capable of such things without showing any more aftereffects of shock than the nightmares we all know he had. He will suggest they were caused by guilt, and it will be easy for anyone to believe.”

  Rathbone leaned forward over the dinner table.

  “And what is possibly far more important, they will want to believe it, because it is much better to think that a man was driven mad by war than that it was an ordinary citizen who did these things. We all want to believe it was something alien, preventable, a once-only happening, because it means we will be safe from now on. It’s very difficult indeed to dissuade anyone from believing what he needs to in order to feel safe.”

  “Then we must contain it,” Hester said immediately. “If we can’t win with logic, then we must win with emotion.”

  Monk smiled at her, a little bleakly, but there was an extraordinary gentleness in his eyes. “What emotion?” he asked.

  She bit her lip. “I don’t know yet…Do we have any idea who really did it? Haldane probably killed Fodor, but who killed the others? Was it because of Professor Kelemen and the abuse, the exam marks?”

  “But how did they get it exactly the same as for Fodor’s death?” Rathbone asked. “Even to the candles and the blood, and the smashed Catholic relics and things? Who else even knew?

  “I don’t know,” Monk admitted. “But I believe it was Antal Dobokai—”

  “You’ve always wanted to blame him,” Hester said sadly. “Why? I know he’s ambitious and self-serving, but that’s a long way from murder.”

  “And why the savagery?” Rathbone added. “If the three other men all suffered abuse from Kelemen and kept silent about it, to get them higher marks, wouldn’t it be far wiser to agree to act together and keep it a secret? Or did one of them try to blackmail the others? If that is so, then as soon as the second one was killed, wouldn’t they get together and defend themselves? It doesn’t make sense, Monk.”