by Anne Perry
Monk looked tired. There were blue shadows around his eyes. “No. Everything leads to a dead end.”
Rathbone asked the final question. “And is there anything to indicate whether it has even the most oblique connection to the canal on Suez?”
“Nothing but speculation.” Monk pushed himself upright again. “One man you didn’t mention, and that’s the judge in the first case. His rulings were … eccentric.”
“York,” Rathbone repeated the name to himself. He had known that. Had he deliberately forgotten it? “Do you think that is relevant to this trial now?”
Monk looked straight at him, unblinking. “It could be. I imagine he wasn’t put in it by chance. A different judge might have handled it in other ways.”
“How?” Rathbone tried to steady himself. York’s hatred of him should have nothing to do with this. The fact that he could not get York’s wife, Beata, out of his mind, his memories, his dreams, should have nothing to do with it either.
“Rulings, mainly,” Monk replied. “But also the issue remains that in his summing-up Juniver raised the question of motive again, and York came pretty close to telling the jury that the facts were sufficient. If they believed Beshara guilty, the precise nature of his motives did not matter. It killed the only real point Juniver had.”
“And Sabri’s motive?” Rathbone asked. “Aren’t we in the same position now?”
Monk acknowledged it ruefully. “All we can do is point out that he comes from the region of Suez.”
“What a vast, complex, and hideous case.” Rathbone looked at Monk. “Are you still involved, even though you have arrested Sabri? Can I call on you for some of the information Brancaster will need, if he is to win?”
“He has to win,” Monk answered. “The price of losing is one we can’t afford. It would be the biggest scandal in the justice system this century. We can’t measure what is at stake.”
“Then I need to know all I can about the people who were exercising the pressure, even Lydiate. And, of course, the people in the first trial. How did this all go so terribly wrong?”
AFTER RATHBONE HAD GONE, Monk and Hester sat up long into the night talking. No matter how heavy the problem or how tangled, there were ways in which these were Monk’s happiest times. There was a deep pleasure, a peace of the soul, in sharing even the most desperate battles with a woman he loved with whom he shared not just passion, but an abiding friendship.
They were in the parlor where the chairs were comfortable. The door was closed, so the murmur of their voices would not waken Scuff.
“Are you satisfied it was this man, Sabri, who ignited the dynamite and then jumped off the deck before the explosion?” Hester asked gravely. “He was taking a terrible risk, wasn’t he? Most of the people who get into the Thames don’t get out. Even if they don’t drown, the filth in the water poisons them.”
“He must have been paid a very great deal,” Monk reasoned.
She frowned. “Do you think that’s all it was: simple greed? He didn’t do it alone, did he?”
“No. But other than possibly Beshara, we have no idea who else could be involved.”
She gave a deep sigh and her face pinched with a sad understanding. “Then we don’t have much chance, do we?”
“Actually, what I really want,” Monk went on, “is to find the people behind this, who may not know anything about the actual explosion, but compromised our system of justice by lying, suborning lies, overlooking things, all the accumulated concealment that made it so easy for an innocent man to be condemned to death.”
He saw her draw in breath. “I know he wasn’t innocent altogether,” he said quickly. “But that isn’t the point. He would have been hanged just the same if he’d been charming and not involved at all. We got the wrong man! If it could happen to Beshara, then it could happen to anyone! You. Me.” He bit his lip. “Scuff …”
She was pale now, shaken. “All right. I see. Yes. It’s far bigger than just getting Sabri instead of Beshara. What do you need to do?” She did not say “we,” but he knew she meant it.
“Find out how all these mistakes happened,” he replied. “But more than that, find out who was behind it. Who, at best, allowed it to happen.”
“And at worst?” she asked.
“Who applied the pressure,” he replied. “Who took the case from us and gave it to Lydiate. Find out who is behind Ossett, pressuring him! And how, with what?” He told her what Lydiate had said about his appointment, and the implication that his sister would suffer were he to conduct himself without the required discretion.
She said nothing, but her face reflected her disgust, and the pity he would have expected of her.
“I need to know who was behind that,” he went on. “It was Ossett who spoke to Lydiate, but where did the suggestion come from before that? What has Ossett to gain or lose? So far I see no connection. He has no money in shipping, or in the Middle East; I did check on that. He comes from an excellent family with a history of serving the country in many places, all the way back to Waterloo.”
“Could it be someone else pressuring him?” she asked. “Family? An old debt or obligation?”
“It could. But what about all the others? Why did they twist, misinform? There’s no one answer I can find that explains them all.”
“Perhaps there isn’t one,” she said, thinking slowly as she found the words. “Maybe they each had different reasons? Sometimes we make mistakes, and then are afraid to admit them, and just dig ourselves further in. Sometimes we fear other people’s opinions.”
“So, based on pride and error, we hang an innocent man,” Monk said grimly, appalled at his own words. “And now we have either to unravel the whole thing, or compound it and make it worse. I can give the ordinary witnesses to Orme and Hooper, but I have to look at people like Ossett myself.”
“And the lawyers,” Hester added. “They may have started out simply taking the briefs they were given, and doing what they thought best, with possibly a little ambition or self-interest thrown in. But what about now, when it’s questioned and all the little details are thrown in? What about the things they overlooked, or chose to ignore, the small instances of selfishness that add up to a major error, when they’re all piled on top of each other?”
“I know. I’ll start with Lydiate. I’ll go and see him tomorrow. If I can get him to help, it will be a place to start. But it’s the River Police’s case now, and he can wash his hands of it if he wants to.”
“No, he can’t,” she said quickly. “Not if he wants to keep the respect he needs in order to do his job. Unless he’s a complete coward, he’ll help. I’m far more afraid you’ll get little from the lawyers. But Oliver will help Brancaster. He’s longing for a good, tough fight.” There was laughter on her mouth and sadness in her eyes. “He’ll have a hard one here, all the struggle he wants …”
“I know,” Monk agreed. “I’ll do whatever I can. I’ve got some idea of how much it matters.”
She smiled at him, and stifled a yawn.
LYDIATE RECEIVED MONK THE following morning as if he had been expecting him; in fact he was more than prepared. He looked tired, rather like a man with an aching tooth who finally faces the dentist.
“Yes,” he agreed when Monk put the situation to him. “Of course. The truth, whatever it is, will have to come out in court. There’ll never be an end to it if it doesn’t. I don’t know how deep it goes.” That was an admission, and he said it with shame. But along with that pain Monk saw a rising anger in him. He had been manipulated, and he was beginning to realize just how deeply.
“It’s going to be difficult,” he said, facing Monk across his very handsome desk, which was much more ornate than Monk’s, but almost as untidy. “Many of the people concerned are very powerful and they are going to resent any of their actions being questioned.”
“Of course,” Monk nodded. “And the more dubious they are, the more crucial to the investigation, and the more they will resent it. I’m sorry
. I wish it wasn’t necessary, but it is. It goes to the core of justice for anyone.”
“I understand that!” There was a momentary sharpness to Lydiate’s voice. “To allow a guilty man to escape is to connive at his crimes, but to cause an innocent man to be hanged is an offence against humanity … for all I know, against God. It can’t be overlooked.”
“No one could have put it more succinctly,” Monk said with a degree of respect. “But they will come up with excuses. Public pressure. Public good. Diplomatic necessity. Things too important and secret to be revealed—where in reality it is fear, greed, loyalty, or sheer stupidity. One mistake to cover another.”
Lydiate looked at him levelly. “You might be well advised to allow some people to hide behind excuses. And don’t look at me like that. If you are to succeed, you need to learn a little diplomacy. Or, if you prefer, the art of being devious.”
Monk shut his eyes for a moment, then opened them and smiled. “I appreciate your advice,” he said honestly, and wondered what on earth had happened to him that he was suddenly so tactful. Then he knew that it was not only an acknowledgment of the truth, but that he also liked Lydiate. He knew that in his place he, too, might have bent to pressure, if the price of it were the safety of those he loved. It was possible. He, too, had hostages to fortune.
CHAPTER
15
RATHBONE STOOD IN THE center of the sitting-room floor in his new apartment. It was elegant: exactly his own taste; no one else was catered for. Yet it felt unfamiliar and almost unused. There were all the books and artifacts he had collected in more than a quarter of a century of independent life, and yet it was not home. Would time make it so, eventually? Perhaps after he had entertained guests here, returned after a full day doing something that mattered. Or might he always feel rootless now? Was failure so relentless, so deep?
That was what was missing: purpose. Before going away with his father, he had been looking for something to do rather than trying to make the day long enough for all that mattered most, and still feeling he carried things over and had to hurry the next day.
Purpose. Perhaps it was the next best thing to happiness. Empty time was a dark hole in which monsters lived and too easily came to the surface.
But this apartment was a new start. He had no profession, which was inescapable. It was a fair price to pay for what he had done, but that did not take away the void inside him.
It was also free of any reminder of Margaret, and that was a relief. His marriage was the thing in which he had signally failed, but his freedom was good. Only now did he realize that in acknowledging the end of his marriage, he had also escaped from the need to lie to himself about its possibilities. It had been hard work to deceive himself, and in the end the battle was always lost. Admitting defeat hurt, even when he knew he was wrong.
He should be used to that now. No longer could or should he always win. His endeavors should be in the service of truth, with perhaps a degree of mitigation.
He smiled to himself, walked over to the window, and drew the curtains. He was happy to gaze at the trees in full leaf, and the clipped grass of the square. They were not quite the same as the garden of his previous home, but he had no time to stroll around it anyway, and no inclination whatever to work in it.
Even though he could not speak in court until his punishment was served and he had reapplied to be accepted again, he could attend court, as could anyone else, and he could certainly assist Rufus Brancaster in this vital prosecution.
Assist! Brancaster would once have been honored to be his pupil, to be permitted to occupy the second chair next to him! Oh, “how are the mighty fallen!” Humble pie had a bitter taste, but much necessary medicine did. You could swallow it with a good grace, or a poor one, but taking it was the only way back to where he wished to be.
He sat down at the walnut desk and wrote a brief, gracious letter to Rufus Brancaster asking him when it would be convenient for them to meet and discuss this most interesting case. If Brancaster wished, he was welcome to come to Rathbone’s apartment for dinner, and speak at leisure, neither unobserved nor commented on by others.
He sealed it, placed a stamp on it, and rang the bell for his manservant to take it to the postbox. He realized as he did so that there was a knot of anxiety inside him, almost an excitement. He cared that Brancaster had asked for his help. He was touched with fear that he would not justify the expectations. Did he still have the imagination, the confidence to win the seemingly impossible?
WHEN BRANCASTER ARRIVED FOR dinner, carrying a briefcase full of papers, he looked nervous. This case was one of the most important of the decade, if not of the half century. His own reputation was only a small part of what would be made, or ruined by the result.
Did Rathbone envy him? Yes. Yes, he did. To use the skills nature had given you was necessary, as a horse must run, or a bird must fly.
It was the measure of himself how he helped: to do the very best he could do, and none of it for personal reward, even in admiration. Far more was at stake than any man’s vanity.
“Come in,” he invited, standing back. Dover, his only manservant now, was in the kitchen. Serving a good meal was his pride as well as his duty.
Brancaster followed Rathbone into the sitting room and accepted a fine, very dry sherry, which Rathbone poured from the silver-mouthed decanter on the sideboard.
Brancaster smiled. “Should I ask you about your trip around Europe?” he said, his voice only barely showing the tension he felt. “Or shall we turn to business straightaway?”
“My trip around Europe was marvelous,” Rathbone replied smoothly. He understood what Brancaster was feeling. In fact, since his own trial, and his experience of prison, he was aware of a great many things he had failed to grasp before. It was almost as if a film had been lifted from his eyes. Everything was both uglier and more precious. Life itself was shorter. Every hour should be cherished.
The sun through the window shone on their sherry glasses, and it was as if they had been carved out of topaz.
He smiled. “But having dispensed with that, we can turn to the most pressing areas of business.”
Brancaster relaxed. “I’ve received a lot of background on people from both Lydiate and Monk. There seem to be a score of little inconsistencies, but they are errors anyone might make. Nothing even remotely indicates deliberate complicity in a crime of this magnitude.”
“Are you satisfied beyond any reasonable doubt that Gamal Sabri is the man who detonated the dynamite on the Princess Mary, and then leaped overboard to escape the explosion?” Rathbone asked.
Brancaster did not hesitate. “Absolutely. And I rest on provable facts, not eyewitness accounts. And that boat is unquestionably the one that rammed the ferry. They pulled the ferry up and examined it. Apart from the accounts of both Monk and the ferryman, the structural damage is there for anyone to see. We have experts who can swear to the pattern of damage. For that matter, we could bring the thing itself into court. But that won’t—”
“I know,” Rathbone agreed. “Emotions are too high for sense to override them. Trying to force belief won’t work. You need to lead them gently until they are ready to accept the truth. In fact, until they want to. It will be a long and very careful task, and there’ll be many people who will try to sabotage it. One of the dangers is that you could draw it out so long that the jury loses the thread, and—worse than that—loses the rage and grief. There comes a point of exhaustion beyond which all one wants is to end the matter, and escape.”
He wondered how far he dared tell Brancaster the far deeper issue that troubled him. Was it wiser to address the conviction of Sabri first, and leave the corruption until that was established in law? Or did they necessarily proceed together, locked in step toward one conclusion?
Was it his responsibility to make that decision? Or was he succumbing to arrogance?
Brancaster sighed. “The rage is against us for having got it wrong in the first place,” he said gravely
. “We offered them an answer—a murderer to hang—then we took it away by saying he was ill and we wanted to cure him first, when what we probably meant was that we needed him alive to get more information from him. Now we’re saying he’s the wrong man and they need to start all over again with somebody else. You can’t blame them for directing their fury at the one source that is certain: us! Whoever else is at fault as well, we have no escape. The grief is stirred up all over again.”
“Do you want to pass it to someone else?” Rathbone asked, afraid that, if he were honest, Brancaster might admit that he did. He was young, in his late thirties. He had an excellent practice and was respected by the legal community in general. He had enough imagination to succeed where others might have failed. This was a risk he did not need to take. Rathbone’s own experience should be enough to warn him off crusading!
Perhaps some of the disappointment Rathbone felt was shadowed in his eyes.
Brancaster shifted slightly and raised his chin. “No, thank you. I don’t know of anyone else who could do it better. Do you?” He smiled suddenly, showing strong teeth. “Because I’ll have you to help me—won’t I?”
Rathbone felt the color burn up his face momentarily. The praise should not have meant so much. He was too vulnerable. “Indeed …” he said drily. “And Monk.”
Brancaster was instantly sober again. “They’ve given me a lot of evidence, this time largely bolstered by facts, and—where it’s observation—we’ve got several people who all saw the same thing. But it was unarguable that Beshara is a very nasty piece of work, and likely that he knows Sabri and could have had knowledge of what Sabri was doing. Unfortunately, we have no specific motive for Sabri.”
“I know,” Rathbone agreed. “But before we get that far, we have to explain why Lydiate’s men slipped up so totally. Why the men in charge behind him gave the orders they did. Why did the legal system convict and damn nearly hang the wrong man? Nobody wants to believe that could happen. It’s a very frightening thought. It’s like taking a step and realizing the ground in front of you has disappeared and you’re hanging over a chasm. Beshara could be everyman. In a way, he is!”
