Rathbone took it from him and set it down. “So you opened the cell and allowed Lord Ravensbrook in?” Monk prompted.

“Yes, sir. An' o' course I locked it be'ind 'im, the prisoner bein' charged wi' a violent crime, like, it were necessary.”

“Of course it was,” Monk agreed. “Then what happened?”

“Nuffink, for 'bout five minutes or so.”

“You waited out here?”

“O' course.”

“And after five minutes?”

“'Is lordship, Lord Ravensbrook, 'e knocked on the door an' asked ter come out. I thought it was kind o' quick, but it in't none o' my business. So I let 'im aht. But 'e weren't through.” He was still holding the rolled-up handkerchief at Ravensbrook's chest, and the blood was seeping through his fingers. “ 'E said as the prisoner wanted ter write 'is last statement an' 'ad I any paper and a pen an' ink,” he went on, his voice hoarse. “Well, o' course I don't 'ave it in me pocket, like, but I told 'im as I could send for 'em, which I did. I'nt that right, me lord?” He looked down at Ravensbrook for confirmation, but Ravensbrook seemed almost unaware of him.

“You sent for them. Who did you send?” Monk pressed.

“Jimson, the other bloke on watch wi' me. The feller wot yer sent for the nurse.”

“And you locked the cell door?”

“O' course I locked it.” There was indignation in his voice.

“And Lord Ravensbrook waited out here with you?”

“Yeah, yeah 'e did.”

“Did he say anything?”

Ravensbrook neither moved on his chair nor made any sound.

“Wot, ter me?” the gaoler said with surprise. “Wot would a lordship talk ter the likes o' me abaht?”

“You waited in silence?” Monk asked. “Yeah. Weren't long, three or four minutes, then Jimson came back wi' pen an' paper an' ink. I gave 'em ter 'is lordship, opened the cell door again, and 'e went in, an' I locked it.”

“And then?”

The man screwed up his face in concentration. “I'm trying ter think as if I 'eard anythink, but I can't recall as I did. I should lave…”

Why.

“Well, there must 'a bin summink, mustn't there?” he said reasonably. “'Cos arter a few minutes like, 'is lordship banged on the door an' shouted fer 'elp, shouted real loud, like 'e were in terrible trouble-which o' course 'e were.” He took a deep breath, still staring at Monk. “So me an' Jimson, we both went to the door, immediate like. Jimson unlocked it, an' I stood ready, not knowin' what ter expec'.' “And what did you find?”

He looked over towards the cell door about ten feet away, and still very slightly ajar.

“'Is lordship staggerin' an' beatin' on the doors wi' 'is fists,” he answered, his voice strained. “An' 'e were all covered in blood, like 'e is now.” He glanced at Ravensbrook, then away again. “The prisoner were in an leap on the floor, wi' even more blood on 'im. I can't remember wot I said, nor wot Jimson said neither. 'E 'elped 'is lordship out, an' I went ter the prisoner.” He kept his eyes fixed on Monk's face, as if to block out what was in his mind. “I knelt down by 'im an' reached for 'is 'and, like, ter see if 'e were alive. I couldn't feel nothin'. Although ter be 'onest wif yer, sir, I dunno as 'ow I weren't shakin' so much I wouldn't a' knowed anyway. But I think 'e were dead already. I never seen so much blood in me life.”

“I see.” Monk's eye strayed involuntarily towards the half-open cell door.

He forced his attention back to the man in front of him. “And then what?”

The gaoler looked at Ravensbrook, but Ravensbrook gave him no prompt whatsoever; in fact, from the fixed expression on his face, he might not even have heard what they said.

“We asked 'is lordship what 'ad 'appened,” the gaoler said unhappily.

“Although anyone could see as there'd bin a terrible fight, an' some'ow the prisoner'd got the worst o' it.”

“And when you asked Lord Ravensbrook, what did he say?”

“'E said as the prisoner'd leaped on 'im and attacked 'im when 'e 'ad the penknife out ter recut the nib, and 'though 'e'd done 'is best ter fight 'im off, in the struggle, 'e'd got 'isself stabbed, an' it were all over in a matter o' seconds. Caught the vein in 'is throat and whoosh! Gom.” He swallowed hard, his concentration on Monk intense. “Don' get me wrong, sir, I wouldn't never 'ave had it 'appen, but maybe there's some justice in it.

Don't deserve ter get away wi' munlerin' 'is bruvver, like. No one do. But I 'ates an 'anging. Jimson says as I'm soft, but it in't the way for no man ter go.”

“Thank you.” Monk did not volunteer an opinion, but a certain sense of his agreement was in his silence, and the absence of censure in his voice. At last Monk turned to Ravensbrook and spoke clearly and with emphasis. “Lord Ravensbrook, will you please tell us exactly what happened? It is most important, sir.”

Ravensbrook looked up very slowly, focusing on Monk with difficulty, like a man wakening from a deep sleep.

“I beg your pardon?”

Monk repeated his words.

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” He drew in his breath and let it out silently. “I'm sorry.” For several more seconds he said nothing, until Rathbone was about to prompt him. Then at last he spoke. “He was in a very strange mood,” he said slowly, speaking as if his lips were stiff, his tongue unwilling to obey him. His voice was curiously flat. Rathbone had seen it before in people suffering shock. “At first he seemed pleased to see me,”

Ravensbrook went on. “Almost relieved. We spoke about trivialities for a few minutes. I asked him if he needed anything, if there was anything I could do for him.” He swallowed, and Rathbone could see his throat tighten.

“Straightaway he said that there was.” Ravensbrook was speaking to Monk, ignoring Rathbone. “He wanted to write a statement. I thought perhaps he was going to make a clean breast of it, some kind of confession, for Genevieve's sake. Tell her where Angus's body was.” He was not looking directly at Monk, but at some distance of the mind, some region of thought or hope.

“And was that what he wanted?” Rathbone asked, although he held no belief that it could have been. It was only a last, wild chance that he might have said something. But what could it matter, except that Genevieve would have some clearer idea. And was that good or bad? Perhaps ignorance was more merciful.

Ravensbrook looked at him for the first time.

“No…” he said thoughtfully. “No, I don't think he even intended to write anything. But I believed him. I came out and asked for the materials, which were brought me. I took them back in. He grasped the pen from me, put it in the inkwell, which I had placed on the table, then made an attempt to write. I think he forced it. Then he looked up at me and said the nib was blunt and had divided, would I recut it.” He moved his shoulders very slightly, not quite a shrug. “Of course I agreed. He gave it to me. I wiped it clean so I could see what I was doing, and then I took out my knife, opened it… “

No one in the room moved. The gaoler seemed mesmerized. There was no sound of the outer world, the courthouse beyond the heavy, iron door.

Ravensbrook looked back at Monk again, his eyes dark and full of nightmare.

Then, almost as if closing curtains within his mind, he looked just beyond him. His voice was a little high-pitched, as if he could not open his throat. “The next moment I felt a ringing blow, and I was forced back against the wall, and Caleb was on top of me.” He took a deep breath. “We struggled for several moments. I did all I could to free myself, but he had an extraordinary strength. He seemed determined to kill me, and it was all I could do to force the knife away from my throat. I made a tremendous effort, I suppose seeing the nearness of death in the blade. I don't know exactly how it occurred. He jerked back, slipped, and missed his footing somehow, and fell, pulling me on top of him.”

Rathbone tried to visualize it, the fear, the violence, the confusion. It was not difficult.