RATHBONE WAS AT BRANCASTER’S chambers by eight o’clock the next morning, carrying the papers he had regarding York’s conduct of the Beshara trial. He was too tired and too confused in his emotions to feel any sense of triumph in the fact that he almost certainly had enough material to gain Beshara a new trial, were he alive, or—since he was not—to overthrow a highly questionable verdict. But the victory over Ingram York gave him no sense of triumph. The man had abused his position. Perhaps Rathbone would never know all the small reasons that had brought it about, but he would not have had Beata suffer the distress of seeing him collapse in such a way, stripped of dignity and reason.
The doctor had come immediately. On seeing York still lying on the sitting-room floor, apparently in some sort of coma, the doctor had had him carried gently and carefully to his own room. When the doctor had heard more of the story, York had been taken to a private clinic.
Rathbone had stayed to be of whatever assistance he could. He felt foolish, perhaps intrusive, but he could not leave Beata alone to watch over what might very well be York’s last journey from his own home to a place where he could be cared for, and perhaps from which he might never emerge.
Dr. Melrose could offer no prognosis. He was at a loss, and he had more dignity than to lie about it. Beata seemed to be grateful for that. At her insistence, he also looked at the angry red weal on Rathbone’s shoulder and across his cheek. He glanced at the cane still lying on the floor but he did not ask Rathbone what had occurred. Perhaps York had lost his temper before and Melrose already knew it.
Rathbone was cold at the thought of what Beata might have endured, and forced the imaginings from his mind—not for his own sake, but for hers. If York had indeed struck her, she should be able to believe that Rathbone had no idea.
There was nothing to say beyond the formal words that filled the awkward silence. He had met her eyes once, and knew that she understood at least something of his feelings.
She answered with a tiny smile. It was not yet time for anything else.
It was after midnight when he left. He wished he could do something to help, but was certain that there was nothing yet, except to be discreet. He would speak to no one, not even Monk or Hester, about the blow York had struck him, or the convulsion of rage he had seen. But he could not remove from York’s memory, and also Beata’s, the knowledge of York’s misconduct in the trial of Beshara. That was an abuse of the law, even if they attributed it to York’s ill-health, and it must be faced.
Accordingly he was at Brancaster’s chambers before Brancaster was there himself, and was waiting for him as he arrived. The morning was warm with the still, faintly dusty tiredness of late summer, when the air longs for the cleanness of autumn, the edge of frost, crisp leaves underfoot and the sharp tang of woodsmoke on the wind. The gardens would be bright again with the purple of Michaelmas daisies and the gold of late-blooming chrysanthemums.
Brancaster looked at Rathbone’s face, started to speak, then sensed the gravity in him and waited.
Rathbone followed him inside and set his case of documents down on the floor. “We have sufficient for a reversal, I believe,” he said very quietly. “If we cannot be sure of a conviction then we may have to use it. If we lose, Sabri cannot be charged again.”
An expression of relief crossed Brancaster’s face, and yet none of the tension slipped away from the body. His shoulders were still tight as if he could hardly draw a full breath, and his eyes did not leave Rathbone’s face.
“York will fight hard,” he said grimly.
“He won’t fight at all,” Rathbone answered, and the words sounded odd to his own ears. “He has had a seizure and I’m not sure he will recover. Certainly he will not be in a position to defend himself.” Briefly he gave Brancaster the details of the errors he had found in the rulings. He gave only the facts, as if he were presenting a case to a jury. He said nothing of mercy, professional honor, the reputation of justice or the law. He trusted that Brancaster would know it all without the necessity of words. No discipline under the law could equal in darkness, confusion, and disgrace what York’s own raging mind had done to him already.
For several seconds Brancaster said nothing. His face reflected many emotions. Then anger and pity gave way to a kind of desperation.
“Even if we overturn the verdict against Beshara, we still have to prove Sabri guilty,” he pointed out. “How can I give the jury any confidence that we have the faintest idea what we are doing?” He clenched his fist as if he wished to strike at something, but there was nothing deserving of his anger, nothing to direct it against, so he was left standing there helplessly. “Why?” he demanded, suddenly.
“Why what? Why York?” Rathbone asked.
“Why any of them?” Brancaster replied, his voice rasping. “Why was Camborne so diligent in prosecuting a case he must have known was flawed? He’s a damn good lawyer. He can’t have missed the holes in it, even if Juniver did.” His eyes searched Rathbone’s, as if he should have the answer.
Rathbone had heard from Hester how passionate Camborne had been. At the time he had considered that the horror of the case fueled a natural outrage. Now he wondered, reading York’s decisions and how harsh they had been against Juniver, if there had been more to it than that. Was it possible Camborne had also had some personal interest in it, a gain or a loss?
“And why is Pryor so dedicated to preserving the first verdict?” he said to Brancaster. “What stake has he in it? It’s gone far beyond trying to defend the reputation of the law. Is he trying to gain higher office? To be a judge? He loves the battle too much merely to preside, for all its apparent power.”
“Apparent?” Brancaster asked wryly.
Rathbone shrugged, yielding the point. “Then what?”
Brancaster let out his breath slowly. “Hatred.”
Rathbone was startled and then seized with a coldness inside.
“Of whom?”
“Of you,” Brancaster replied. “There may be other incentives. I still have no idea what’s really behind this whole thing. As we keep saying, we can only conclude he was paid, but we have no idea why, or by whom.”
“We shouldn’t have to prove that to get a verdict,” Rathbone answered, but he wished he felt more certain of it. He did not argue that Pryor had no personal hatred of him. He simply had not realized it was so deep. The man’s vanity was more easily wounded than he thought, his visions of glory too bright.
“And Lydiate,” Brancaster continued. “He was forced into taking the investigation in the beginning, and perhaps also into conducting it a certain way. But he’s not a fool. He couldn’t have missed so much.”
Rathbone felt the weight of this case settle even more heavily on him, as if he were hemmed in on every side. He looked at Brancaster, seeing in him also the signs of weariness, fear, even surrender.
Brancaster smiled bleakly, as if Rathbone had spoken it aloud. “It could cost us dear,” he said softly.
“Cost you,” Rathbone pointed out. “I have no office, and I’m honestly not sure what chances I have of being allowed back in the future. I wish I could take the risks for you, but I’ve denied myself that.”
Brancaster gave a short bark of laughter. “I’ve always admired you. I even wanted to be like you. It rather looks as if I still do. I’m following this to the end. Give me the papers on York.” He put out his hand.
Rathbone passed the case to him, yielding it reluctantly, even though it was what he had come to do. He was giving control of it to someone else, along with what was left of York’s reputation, and the silence that might save at least something of it for Beata.
WHEN THE TRIAL RESUMED about two hours later, Brancaster rose to his feet. His body was tense. He looked utterly different from the man Rathbone had left in his chambers a little after eight.
“My lord,” Brancaster began before Pryor had a chance to call his first witness of the day.
Rathbone stiffened also, feeling his breath catch in his throat. Why was Brancaster speaking already? It was inappropriate to introduce the evidence on York in this way. He should have spoken to Antrobus first, privately. What was the matter with him?
Antrobus raised his eyebrows and held up his hand to silence Pryor, who was now also on his feet, his face set in anger.
“This had better be important, Mr. Brancaster,” Antrobus warned.
Rathbone even considered standing as well, then realized with a sick knot in his stomach that he had no more right or power here than any other person sitting in the gallery. This was the real bitter cost of his action in the Taft case, and he had brought it upon himself. Now all he could do was sit here in silence and watch Brancaster lose the biggest case of his life. He had given away his own weapons, and lost all the good he could have done.
“It is, my lord,” Brancaster said quietly. “And I apologize for doing this at such short notice, but I received vital news only this morning, or I would have presented it to you, and to the defense, at a more fortunate time.”
“My lord,” Pryor protested, “this is preposterous! The prosecution is desperate and is putting on an ill-considered and—”
“Mr. Pryor!” Antrobus said sharply. “Am I the only one here who is unaware of what Mr. Brancaster is going to say?”
Pryor was caught on the wrong foot. “No, my lord … I … I am speaking of his melodramatic …” He stopped. Antrobus’s stare would have turned a glass of water to ice.
Rathbone buried his face in his hands, and no one took the slightest notice of him.
“Mr. Brancaster?” Antrobus’s voice was polite and knife-edged.
Brancaster swallowed. “Yes, my lord. I have a new witness who has just come forward. Unfortunately illness prevented his being aware of the value of his information, but his testimony explains all those aspects of the tragic sinking of the Princess Mary that have confused the issue until now.”
Pryor threw his hands up in disgust. “For heaven’s sake! This exhibition of—of gamesmanship is absurd, and offensive! Two hundred people died in—”
“Four hundred people were murdered!” Brancaster shot back at him. “And British justice was held up to ridicule, like blind men chasing each other in the dark!”
“Two hundred!” Pryor snapped. “For God’s sake, man, sober up! You are behaving like something out of a seaside farce!”
Antrobus glared at him. “I know you are an ambitious man, Mr. Pryor, but you will not yet usurp my place in this court. I decide what is evidence and what is not.”
The scarlet blood washed up Pryor’s face, but he was wise enough not to argue this time.
Antrobus looked gravely at Brancaster. “Was that a highly unfortunate slip of the tongue, sir? Or are you aware of something that we are not?”
“I am aware, my lord, of something that the rest of the court is not,” Brancaster replied respectfully. “And I would like to call Major Richard Kittering to the stand to testify of it. I have his particulars here, which I will pass to your lordship, with your permission. And a copy for Mr. Pryor. If you would prefer to adjourn while …”
Antrobus held out his hand.
Brancaster picked up the papers on the table and gave them to the waiting usher.
Rathbone held his breath. What on earth was Brancaster playing at? Who was Kittering? And why now? He turned in his seat to look around the gallery. Was Monk here? He could not see him, but Hester caught his eye almost immediately. She was sitting in a seat next to the aisle, and she watched Brancaster as if he were the only man in the room.
There was utter silence while Antrobus read the papers, then looked up.
“You say this witness was unavailable earlier, at the time you were presenting the case against the accused?”
“Yes, my lord. He was injured in the Middle East, and invalided home. He has come, at some cost to himself, and with the assistance of an ex-army nurse who served in the Crimea with Miss Nightingale. It was she who sought him out and made him aware of the value of his knowledge. His testimony will explain the whole, terrible tragedy. I cannot believe that there is any honest person in this room who would not wish that, my lord.”
“We will adjourn for one hour, and give Mr. Pryor the opportunity to prepare such rebuttal as he can,” Antrobus declared.
“That will not be sufficient,” Pryor said immediately. “I have no idea who this Kittering is or what he may say. I object to his testimony altogether.” He swiveled round to face Brancaster, his lips drawn back in a snarl. “But I can take an educated guess as to who the nurse is who went searching for him, and now suddenly presents him to the court, without warning. That will be Mrs. Monk, wife of Commander Monk from whom the case was taken in the beginning. She is well known, very well known indeed, to Sir Oliver Rathbone!” He let the words hang in the air as if they were some withering, poisonous fumes.
Rathbone’s hands were clenched so tightly he was shaking. He felt the breath rasp in his chest. Pryor had to be right: It was beyond coincidence. Had Hester brought Kittering to Brancaster this morning, between the time Rathbone had left and the beginning of today’s hearing?
“Mr. Brancaster?” Antrobus’s temper was wearing thin. “Mr. Pryor has a degree of right on his side.”
Brancaster drew in his breath, held it a second, then let it out slowly.
“Yes, my lord. It was Mrs. Monk who brought me word of the information Major Kittering possessed. I have checked it as far as I am able, and I believe it to be accurate, and extremely relevant. And of course I checked that Major Kittering is exactly who he says he is, and of an office of high standing and exemplary record.”
Rathbone stared at him in disbelief. What on earth was he thinking he could achieve, at this late date?
“My lord, Major Kittering served in Egypt,” Brancaster continued. “In the area of the new canal from Suez to the Mediterranean. He has personal knowledge of an incident that may be the beginning of this story. I do not believe Mr. Pryor will find anything he wishes to rebut.” He stopped abruptly.
Pryor was on his feet again, his face twisted in fury. “My lord, this is a last-minute trick of Sir Oliver Rathbone and Commander Monk to try to take control of the case and set the law at mockery and disrepute! A court has already found another man guilty of this monstrous crime, and sentenced him to death for it. The conduct of the case was taken from Commander Monk and the River Police because of its magnitude, and out of vanity Monk is now seeking revenge, even at the cost of the honor of the law.”
Antrobus’s face darkened, but Pryor would not be stopped.
“I can call many witnesses, my lord, who will testify to Commander Monk’s past reputation for arrogance and disregard for his superiors. He was dismissed from the Metropolitan Police and is now seeking revenge on them. He has no compunction in trying to destroy the reputation of Sir John Lydiate because he is a man who does not forget a grudge, and is bitterly jealous of a dignity and office he cannot attain himself.”
“That is a door you would be very ill-advised to open, Mr. Pryor,” Antrobus said curtly. “It is wide enough to allow all through it, yourself included. The privilege of seeking for the defense does not allow you to slander officers of the law. Do I have to remind you that your evidence must be not only provable, but also relevant? Do you wish to call Mrs. Monk regarding her acquaintance with Major Kittering?”
“I have no knowledge of it,” Pryor said bitterly. “It could be anything at all!” He spread his hands wide in a hopeless gesture. “She was an army nurse, I am told. For God’s sake, that could mean anything! She is no doubt acquainted with scores of soldiers—even hundreds!”
Rathbone nearly shot to his feet, but Brancaster did so first.
“My lord, if Mr. Pryor wishes me to call Mrs. Monk then I will do so. But he would do well to take heed of your lordship’s warning. Slander is a very wide door indeed—but not wide enough to wreck the reputation and honor, indeed the nation’s gratitude, to the women who served with Miss Nightingale in the Crimea, sharing the desperate hardships of our men there and caring for the sick and the wounded …” Pryor made a choking sound in his throat, but swallowed back the protest as he gagged on it. The jurors were staring at him, eyes wide, and there was a sharp rustle in the gallery as people stiffened to attention.
“Very well. Call your witness now, Mr. Brancaster,” Antrobus ordered. “But if you abuse your privilege I shall rule against you.”
“Yes, my lord. Thank you.” Brancaster relaxed visibly, relief flooding up his face.
Pryor returned to his seat with an ill grace, biding his time.
There was a buzz of excitement as Brancaster called Major Richard Kittering. The doors opened and Kittering, lean, gaunt, walking slowly and with the aid of crutches, made his way to the witness stand.
Antrobus leaned forward. “Major Kittering, would you prefer to give your evidence from the floor, sir? There is no need for you to climb up to the witness stand. The steps are somewhat awkward. If you care to sit, a chair can be brought.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Kittering replied. “I shall stand as long as I am able.”
Antrobus nodded. “Mr. Brancaster, perhaps you will keep your examination as brief as you may, and still serve your purpose.”
“My lord.”
Kittering was sworn in and Brancaster came into the body of the floor, speaking respectfully as to a man who had earned the right to it. He established Kittering’s military record and the regiment in which he had served, that he had been wounded in Egypt and had returned to England earlier in the year.
“Are you acquainted with the accused, Gamal Sabri?” Brancaster asked.
“No, sir, not personally.”
“His family?” Brancaster enquired.
Kittering’s face was stiff, as if he were controlling his inner pain only with difficulty. “No, sir, only by repute.”
“Repute?”
There was not a sound in the courtroom except for a woman coughing and instantly stifling it.
“Yes, sir. My friend Captain John Stanley knew Sabri’s family …” Kittering’s voice faltered and he struggled to maintain his composure. His emotion was palpable in the room.
“You use the past tense, Major Kittering,” Brancaster said gently. “He does not know them anymore?”
Kittering lifted his chin and swallowed hard. “I regret to say that all Mr. Sabri’s family perished in the massacre at Shaluf et Terrabeh.”
“All of them?” Brancaster said incredulously.
“Yes, sir. There were two hundred people who died that night. Every man, woman, and child in the village.” His voice broke and his face was ashen.
Brancaster’s question was little more than a whisper, but the room was motionless; every word was audible.
“You used the word ‘massacre.’ Do I take it that they were murdered … two hundred of them?”
Kittering, standing ramrod stiff, swayed a little.
“Yes, sir. By marauding mercenaries who mistook where they were.”
Brancaster moved forward a step, as if he were afraid Kittering might fall.
“Were you there, Major?”
“No, sir, I was not. I heard of it from Captain Stanley.”
“He was there?”
“Yes, sir. He tried to prevent it, but the officer in command wouldn’t listen. Mercenaries, all nationalities …” His voice tailed off. His skin was ashen. “But the man in charge was British …”
“Captain Stanley told you this?”
“Yes, sir. The man in charge was arrogant, brave, a good soldier spoiled by a filthy temper.”
Kittering looked so fragile Brancaster began a sentence and changed his mind, afraid to draw the questioning out any further than he had to. “Stanley was there, and saw it all?”
“Yes, sir, almost all. In trying to stop the massacre, he was knocked senseless. That may have saved his life.”
“Then why are you here testifying, and not Stanley?” Brancaster asked, moving another step forward.
“He was injured and had only just returned to England, sir. He went down on the Princess Mary.”
There were sighs around the room. A woman sobbed.
On the bench Antrobus leaned forward and ordered the usher to fetch a chair for Kittering. Brancaster helped him onto it, propping the crutches beside him where he could reach them.
“Thank you, Major Kittering,” Brancaster said gravely. “We mourn the loss of Captain Stanley, and all the other nearly two hundred men and women who drowned in the Thames that night. We also mourn those innocent people who lost their lives in Egypt, due to the arrogance and ill-temper of a British renegade officer who would not be counseled.” He turned to Pryor. “Your witness, sir.”
Pryor stood up. Perhaps he was at last aware that the entire room was against him. They were numb with horror at the tragedy, and the mindless evil of it all. They looked at Kittering, his pain and his shame for his brother officers written indelibly in his face. They waited for Pryor to attack him.
Pryor was too wise and, Rathbone thought, also too self-serving, to make such an error.
“I will not keep you long, Major Kittering. I regret having to trouble you at all.”
Kittering nodded.
“When and where did Captain Stanley tell you about this appalling event?”
“When he came to see me, on returning home,” Kittering answered. “It was at the beginning of May. Two days before the sailing of the Princess Mary.”
“And you believed his account, word for word?” Pryor did not invest his voice with doubt; he knew better than that.
“Yes. I knew Stanley, and I know of the officer in command, a man called Wilbraham, by repute. I knew the massacre had occurred because I knew men who saw the place two or three days after. Many bodies were unburned and the stench of blood was still in the air.”
“Perhaps you are fortunate you were not able to be on the Princess Mary?” Pryor left only a suggestion of disbelief in the air.
“Why?” Kittering said, twisting his mouth in a grimace of misery. “I wasn’t actually there, after all.”
“Indeed you were not,” Pryor agreed. “It seems you have a very partial knowledge of a horrific incident, and a great deal of loyalty to a dead friend who may well have been to blame for it.”
Kittering was so white that Brancaster rose to his feet, not to object but to help him physically if he should faint in the chair and fall sideways onto the floor. Even Rathbone was poised to rush forward if that should happen.
Everyone else in the room was motionless.
Pryor broke the spell.
“It seems from your story, Major Kittering, that you believe Gamal Sabri took a fearful vengeance on the man who destroyed his village, and some two hundred of his fellow countrymen. An appalling act, but one I dare say many of us here would at least understand. If someone hacked to death every man, woman, and child in the village where I grew up, I cannot swear that I would forgive, or trust in a powerless law to avenge such an act. What I do not understand is why you appear to defend Stanley. If your story is true, perhaps you will explain that to us?” He stood with a helpless, confused expression, waiting for Kittering to answer.
Kittering took several long, deep breaths. Clearly he was exhausted and in some considerable physical pain.
Brancaster remained standing.
Antrobus looked at Kittering with some concern, but he did not intervene.
Rathbone felt as if each second dragged by, but there was nothing he could do to help.
“You have misunderstood, sir,” Kittering said at last. “Perhaps that is your job. It appears to be. Stanley did not commit the massacre at Shaluf et Terrabeh. He tried to stop it and was nearly killed for his efforts.” He stopped, struggling to keep his composure.
Pryor seized the chance to interrupt. “That makes no sense, sir. If Stanley was not guilty, why on earth would Gamal Sabri sink an entire ship of people just to be sure of killing him? It is absurd! You cannot expect this court to believe that. Perhaps your own injury has … affected your memory.” He said it in a conciliatory tone, but it did not disguise his contempt. “May I put it to you, Major Kittering, that it was Stanley who led the atrocity against the village, and you yourself who were severely injured in trying to prevent it?”
There was a stirring in the gallery; whether out of pity, disgust, or fear, it was hard to tell.
“They were mercenaries,” Kittering said with weary patience, as if speaking to someone slow of wits. “There will be no military record of them. But I am a regular soldier. It would be perfectly simple to check that I was nowhere near Shaluf et Terrabeh at this time, if you were interested in the truth. And I did not say that Sabri sank the Princess Mary to kill anyone in revenge, although I dare say he was willing enough. God knows what we have done to his people. Of course it makes no sense to kill Stanley. I don’t suppose he knew Stanley was on board …”
Pryor rolled his eyes.
Kittering kept his patience with an effort. “He was paid to sink the ship,” he said quietly, his voice fading as his strength drained away. “Stanley was the one man who could have testified against Wilbraham, and would have if he could be brought to trial.”
The court was silent. No one moved in the jury box, or in the body of the gallery. Even Antrobus was momentarily lost for words.
Pryor turned one way, then the other, but for once he could think of nothing wise or clever to say.
Brancaster looked around, then moved forward and offered his arm to Kittering.
“Thank you, sir. May I take you back to a more comfortable place, and perhaps fetch you a glass of water?”
Kittering rose with difficulty and accepted Brancaster’s arm.
Antrobus nodded slowly. He looked at Pryor, then at Brancaster’s back as he walked all the way to the doors with Kittering. He glanced at Rathbone and smiled very slightly before adjourning the court. They would check the military records Brancaster had given them, perhaps even check with the Egyptian embassy that the massacre at Shaluf et Terrabeh had been as reported, but no one doubted it.
Outside Monk joined Hester.
“God, what an awful crime,” he said with emotion all but choking him. He put his arm around her, drawing her closer to him. “I must tell Ossett that it’s over, at least the legal part. Whether Pryor loses anything, except the case, time will tell. York’s finished. The decision on Beshara will obviously be reversed, so Camborne will lose, maybe more than just that decision. I hope Lydiate won’t lose his job, but he might.” He did not add that possibly he deserved to. He was not sufficiently sure he could not have been manipulated, were his family’s lives at stake.
“Come with me,” he added. “You can tell Ossett about Kittering better than I can. And it was you who found him. He’ll be relieved that we’ve found the truth at last.”
She nodded silently, linking her arm in his as they went down the steps toward the busy street.
OSSETT RECEIVED THEM ALMOST immediately, putting all other business aside. They were shown into his gracious and comfortable office with its striking portrait above the mantelpiece.
“It is over, sir,” Monk said without preamble. Ossett looked drained of color, as if he had neither eaten nor slept well in days, possibly weeks, and Monk felt a surge of pity for him. Perhaps he was guilty of having pressured Lydiate into a fatal haste where Beshara was concerned, but if so he had done all he could since then to support Monk in his pursuit of the truth, and then the trial of Gamal Sabri.
“There is no question that Sabri is guilty,” Monk said with certainty. “Kittering’s evidence makes sense of it all.”
Ossett was very pale, but there was a tension within him as if he were unable to remain seated.
“How did you find him, Mrs. Monk?” he asked.
Was it politeness to make her feel included, or did he really wish to know? Monk himself was uncertain. But now that it was all but over, he felt the man deserved any information he asked for. He was the one who would have to deal with the political consequences, and advise on the legal ones, should there be any.
Briefly, Hester told him of her service in the Crimea, and that she still knew several men with military careers. As she did so, she glanced up at the portrait, and smiled.
“I see,” Ossett said hoarsely. “And what does this Major Kittering have to say about the sinking of the Princess Mary?”
Quietly and in the simplest of words, Monk told him of the atrocity in the village of Shaluf et Terrabeh, and how the raid had been a hideous error by an arrogant mercenary commander. One man had stood out against him, and all but lost his life for his temerity.
Ossett looked as if he himself had been struck. He was shaking, and as pale as the white paper on the desk in front of him.
“Are you … certain of this?” he said falteringly. “Does this man, Kittering, know beyond doubt?”
“I believe he does,” Monk answered. “His friend, Stanley, was there and all but lost his life trying to prevent it.”
“Stanley?” Ossett repeated the name as if it had some terrible meaning for him. “Captain John Stanley?”
Monk was puzzled. “Yes, sir. Do you know of him?”
“Could he not be guilty of leading this … abomination?”
“Kittering says not,” Monk answered, recalling Kittering’s vehement denial. “He said it was a man named Wilbraham, apparently known for his violent temper.”
Without warning Monk felt the pressure of Hester’s fingers digging into his arm with sudden extraordinary strength, as if she meant to hurt him.
He gasped, confused by the violence of it. She was smiling, but at Ossett, not at him.
“That is what Kittering said, sir,” she said to Ossett, ignoring Monk. “But he appeared to have a deep regard for Stanley. They had been personal friends for years, brothers-in-arms, as it were.”
“But …” Monk began. Then he felt her fingers dig into him again, as if she would puncture his flesh with her nails.
She was still smiling at Ossett, her eyes brilliant, her breath a little ragged.
“What is important is that Sabri is unquestionably guilty of sinking the Princess Mary, and therefore of the deaths of all on board her. Mr. Pryor seems to have had some personal stake in fighting so hard to defend him. From what was said, it was not pressure from anyone in high office, rather more a personal rivalry with Sir Oliver Rathbone that got out of hand. I dare say it will damage his reputation somewhat, but it is not an injury to the law.”
Ossett was staring at her, fighting to find words.
Hester’s smile faded a little.
“Mr. Justice York has been taken seriously ill, so his rather eccentric rulings can be easily understood. Sir John Lydiate may have lost something of the confidence of his superiors, but no doubt they will act as they see fit. Altogether, it is a better ending than one might have received.” She turned to Monk. “I’m sure you will be sending a written report in due course. That is all we need to tell his lordship in the meantime.” Again her fingers dug into his arm.
“Thank you,” Ossett said. His voice cracked as he rose to his feet, leaning a little forward on the desk as if to steady himself. “I am most grateful that you took the time to let me know so quickly of the result. Now, I—I have certain other people I would like to inform. Thank you again, thank you, Mrs. Monk.”
As soon as they were outside on the street Monk stopped and caught hold of Hester’s shoulder, swinging her around to face him.
“What the devil was that about?”
“The portrait,” she said almost under her breath. “Above the fireplace.”
“Yes. It’s him as a young man. What about it?”
“No, William. It’s not!”
“Yes it is. He hasn’t even changed all that much! Anyway, what does it matter?”
“It’s not him,” she insisted. “It’s current, not more than a couple of years old.”
“Hester, he’s in his mid-fifties!”
“The campaign medals, William. They’re from three years ago.”
“They can’t be! Are you sure?” He began to have an awful glimpse of what she meant.
“Yes. I still have military friends. They’re Egyptian, like the group in the background of the painting. And his eyes are not really the same color.”
“Artist’s mistake …” But he knew he was wrong. “You are sure about the campaign medals?”
“Yes. It has to be his son …” She took a deep, shaky breath. “What is his family name?”
“Family name?” He started to walk along the pavement, to be away from Ossett’s doorstep. “I don’t know …”
“He has a monogram on his cigar box on the table. RW. Are you certain he doesn’t look like a man who has looked into hell because Robert Wilbraham, who led the massacre at Shaluf et Terrabeh, and then paid Sabri to sink the Princess Mary and get rid of the only witness, is his son?”
Monk closed his eyes, as if refusing to look at the busy London street could somehow wipe away the knowledge, finally, of the truth.
It all made sense. The pieces fitted together.
Now the touch of her hand on his arm was gentle.
“We believe of people what we need to,” she said. “As long as we possibly can.”
“You believed I didn’t kill Joscelyn Grey,” he said, remembering back to when they had first met, soon after she had returned from the Crimea and the horror of that appalling war. “You didn’t even know me!”
“And I would believe you now,” she said firmly. “Perhaps I know you better than he knows his son. Sometimes sin is the hardest to accept when it is in someone we have known always, for whose birth and life we are responsible. Everyone is somebody’s child.”
“I know.” He put his hand over hers. “I know.”
She did not answer him. She was staring over his shoulder at something beyond, something on the pavement behind him.
“What is it?”
“No!” she said urgently. “Don’t turn yet. It’s Lord Ossett. He’s left his office and he’s going toward the main road. Do you suppose he knows where Wilbraham is?”
Monk did not bother to answer. There was no time to call anyone else. They were miles from Wapping and any of his own men. He could hardly stop a constable, even if he could see one, and order them to follow a government minister of Ossett’s standing. He would be more likely to find himself arrested.
He turned and started to walk along the footpath after Ossett, Hester at his side. He felt miserable, and yet compelled. Ossett was almost certainly going to try to save his son. Monk was going to arrest a man responsible for four hundred innocent deaths, men, women, and children who died by mischance, because they served his purpose.
A long hansom ride, two stops and an hour later, Monk finally knew where Ossett was going.
“Wilbraham must be at the wharf where the damaged Seahorse is kept,” he said. He and Hester were standing on the dockside, twenty yards behind Ossett and half sheltered by a stack of timber. The low sun was dazzling. A laborer with a loaded barrow traveled past them, sending up a cloud of dust.
“I’m going after him,” Monk said quietly. “I have to.”
“I know,” she agreed.
He nodded. “Go back to the main street. We passed a omnibus stop. There are plenty of people around. I have to go down to the mud flats and if Wilbraham is there I must stop him. Once he’s on the water he could escape on any seagoing freighter. He could be in France by tonight.”
She did not move. “You can’t go alone. There are two of them; Ossett will fight you.”
“I know that,” he admitted. “He can’t bear what his son is, but neither can he give him up. I don’t know what I would do, if it were someone I loved.” He stopped because the thought was too dark to give shape to. “Go back to the street, please, so I know you are safe.”
She hesitated, the decision to leave him, to walk away, too big to take.
“Hester … please …”
White-faced, tears on her cheeks, she turned to obey.
Monk watched her for barely a moment before he was aware of someone behind him. He swung around and thought for an instant that somehow Ossett had doubled back, and then he realized it was a younger man. He had the same features, the same fair hair falling forward a little, but there was an ugliness in his face, about his lips, that was different.
For one second, two, three, they stared at each other. Monk knew that there was no purpose whatever in trying to plead with this man. He had led a massacre, and then paid to have someone drown two hundred innocent people in order to be certain of killing the one witness against him.
Wilbraham lunged forward, knocking Monk aside, but he did not stop and strike at him with the knife in his hand. Instead he ran onward toward Hester, knife blade gleaming for an instant in the sun.
A gunshot rang out.
Wilbraham froze.
Monk turned to see Ossett standing with a pistol raised in his hands, pointing toward Monk’s chest. He had his back to the sun and the burnished river mud of slack tide. Wilbraham was balanced on the edge of the shingle, yards from Hester.
There was no sound but the faint ripple of the water.
Wilbraham took a step toward Hester, the knife blade raised again.
“Take him,” he said to his father. “I’ll take her.”
Very steadily, Ossett raised the barrel of the pistol as if it were of immense weight, and moved his aim from Monk to Wilbraham.
Wilbraham stood smiling. He barely had time to register surprise when the bullet hit him between the eyes. He crumpled into the slick, shining mud, which almost immediately, as if it had been waiting for him, began to suck him down.
Monk lurched forward and struck the gun from Ossett’s hands. Then he hesitated, filled with a scorching pity, not knowing what to do. How could he attack a man in such agony?
Hester was running toward him, tears of relief streaming down her face.
Ossett shook his head. “You don’t need to shackle me. I have a debt to pay. I shall not evade it. I have lied to myself far too long. It is the end.” He began to walk blindly up the shingle toward the edge of the road.
Monk stood on the shore in the waning light and held Hester so close, at any other time he might have feared hurting her. Now, at this moment, nothing could be close enough.