by Anne Perry
She did not tell Monk about her intention. She arrived home late, but he did not know that, being even later himself, and Scuff was too tactful to comment. They sat talking in the parlor. She tried to sound positive as he told her of the rest of his day in court. She wanted to be encouraging, but she knew meaningless comfort was worse than none at all. In the face of what he told her, and Pryor’s extraordinary confidence, her own ideas sounded foolish and she did not mention them.
Next day she began by visiting an old commanding officer she had nursed on the battlefield in the Crimea. He seemed frail now, aged before his time by pain. He was delighted to see her, pleased to recall the past, although it was filled with loss. Even the concept of that war far away on the Black Sea looked in hindsight to be purposeless. So many men had died or been maimed, health lost forever; the memories they shared were full of sadness.
She had no time to spare recalling the cold and the endless journeys with cartloads of wounded, the sound of gunfire in the distance, the makeshift field surgeries where she had worked to exhaustion. But she could not find the heart to tell him that she needed to go. Each time she drew in her breath to say it, the loneliness in his eyes stopped her from being blunt. Another memory came back to him, another face filled with courage, laughter, and pain. So many of them would be dead now it seemed like another life.
“Egypt?” he said at last, returning to the subject she had raised initially. “You should see young Kittering. Good man. On leave at the moment. Injury. Not critical, but enough to need several months to recover. He could tell you about the forces in Egypt. Served with them for a while. Lives just around the corner. See him now and then, if it’s a decent day and I’m sitting outside.” He smiled. “I’ll give you his address. Tell him I asked after him, will you?”
She met Kittering at lunchtime, after not finding him at home and having to make several enquiries. He was walking slowly back from the local inn, limping badly and stopping every now and then to catch his breath. He was nice-looking, with a trim mustache, and square shoulders—even if they were a little lopsided right now.
“Major Kittering?” she asked, meeting his eyes.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said with surprise. He was clearly embarrassed because he could not place her, and thought that he should.
“Mrs. Monk,” she introduced herself. “I’ve just been calling on Colonel Haydon, and he mentioned your name as someone who might be able to assist me.”
“Ah … yes. I mean to call on him myself, as soon as I’m a little more … mobile.” It was an excuse, and he did not like making it. “Fine man.”
She smiled. “He said as much of you.”
“You know him … well? You are family, perhaps?”
“No. Before I was married I nursed, in the Crimea,” she began, and saw the sudden light in his face. She judged him to be of an age when he might have been just beginning his career then. “I need your help, Major Kittering. May I walk with you?” she asked as a matter of courtesy. She had no intention whatever of accepting a refusal.
He was puzzled, but he began moving again, as if to oblige her. Actually she guessed he had no wish to stand any longer than was necessary.
“Of course. What can I do to assist you?” he asked.
He probably imagined it was something to do with nursing. She should tell him the truth quickly.
“My husband is Commander Monk of the Thames River Police,” she explained. Then she went on to tell him first about Beshara, and now Gamal Sabri, and why it mattered so much that the police find the truth. When she at last finished they were sitting in the sun in his small parlor. His sister, who cared for him, had made them tea, even though it was far too early in the afternoon for it to be customary. He had introduced Hester proudly as one of Miss Nightingale’s nurses. It was something Hester never boasted of, but it was true, and she could not afford to refuse any help she might receive.
“And you are sure this man, Gamal Sabri, is guilty?” he asked very quietly, as if he did not wish his sister, now in the kitchen, to overhear him.
“Yes.”
“May I ask you why you now have no doubt, when earlier everyone was equally sure it was Habib Beshara? I don’t wish to be offensive, but a great deal hangs in the balance.”
She looked at the fear and the grief in his face, now more powerful than the weariness of constant physical pain.
She told him the evidence as she was aware of it, and the fact that none of it rested on the accuracy of eyewitnesses, frightened, confused, and too willing to help, too eager to see justice, to separate wish from memory.
“Why do you feel that Sabri will not be convicted?” he asked.
“Pryor is very skilled. We don’t want to accept that we could have been wrong in convicting Beshara and sentencing him to death. If we could make that terrible mistake so easily, who may be next? It seems inescapable that it included not only bad police work, bad conduct of the law, but also deliberate corruption. If that is so, is anyone safe?”
“But Beshara was murdered in prison,” Kittering pointed out. “If he was innocent, and knew nothing, was that no more than a coincidence?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It seems he was an unpleasant man, quite apart from the sinking of the Princess Mary. But it was wrong, regardless of his nature. And I did not say he had nothing to do with the sinking. He may have helped, but he did not place the dynamite or light the fuse.”
Kittering appeared to be deep in thought, struggling with some awful conflict in his mind.
“And we can find no reason why Sabri should have done such a terrible thing,” she added. “Nearly two hundred completely innocent people were killed. Why would anyone do that?”
He was silent for so long she thought perhaps he was not going to answer. She was about to make her argument stronger when finally he spoke.
“Revenge,” he said huskily, his eyes full of pain. “For the destruction of Shaluf et Terrabeh. It was a small village that was wiped out in a raid by mercenaries, just about a year ago.” His face was pale. “A small band of mercenaries, four dozen or so, fell on it at night. It was just a village, a couple of hundred men, women, and children. But if they had sentries, they were picked off first, before they could raise an alarm.”
Hester did not interrupt him. There was nothing useful to say about such a horror as he went on to describe in halting sentences, short, simple words broken as he struggled for breath. She thought of the terror, the darkness, women desperate to protect their children, the old and the frightened stumbling over one another, the screaming, the smell of blood.
“They counted over two hundred bodies,” he said softly, his voice cracking a little. “Including babes in arms.”
“For the two hundred on the Princess Mary,” she answered. “Equally innocent. Did Sabri come from that village? Or was he paid to do it, do you think?” She tried to hold in the grief that all but suffocated her. “Why did no one say anything? What sort of revenge is it if the guilty don’t know?” She gave a tiny shrug. “My husband had an idea that perhaps it was to kill one person on the ship. The rest were just … part of the plan. Expendable. If you are right, then he was mistaken. Perhaps this isn’t as terrible, as frighteningly insane.” Then she asked the question she had to, no matter how much it hurt. “Were they British mercenaries?”
“Not specifically,” the major replied, his voice grating with the effort of controlling it. “A bit of all sorts. But the commander was British. That’s what counts.”
“Who?”
“A man named Wilbraham. I don’t know much more about him. Don’t look at me like that, Mrs. Monk. I really don’t.”
“How do you know any of it?”
“From a man who was there and tried to stop it.”
“Obviously he failed …”
“He was badly injured trying to prevent it, and was left for dead by the man in command.” His voice dropped a little lower, but his eyes never left hers. “He was rescued by t
he great courage of one of his own men, an Egyptian who saw it all.”
“But he didn’t testify to any of it?” She would rather not have said it, but it hung in the air between them like a tangible thing.
“I don’t know why,” Kittering admitted. “But I imagine it was to protect his family. If he had done, vengeance on them would have been swift, and complete. Would you?”
She thought of Monk, then of Scuff. “No.” She took the paper out of her pocket that had the six names on it and passed it over to him. “Is he one of these?”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “Who are they?”
“Among the dead,” she replied.
“Then your husband was right,” Kittering said quietly. “The Princess Mary was sunk to be sure of silencing one man.”
CHAPTER
20
AFTER THE COURT WAS adjourned, Rathbone spread out on his dining room table all the documents he had regarding the trial of Habib Beshara. It was the best way he could think of to help Brancaster. They were drawing near to the final stage of the battle, and it was far more evenly balanced than he wished. There was a difficult judgment call to make. If they allowed the jury to be complacent, to believe that all was well with the justice system, then they would lose. It was always harder to defy or overturn a verdict than it was to reach one in the first place.
And yet if they used fear, either of the atrocity happening again because the guilty man had gone free, or of an innocent man being convicted and hanged in the future, they might panic the jury, and all its vision and balance would be lost.
That was the trouble: The whole case rested on emotion. Therefore none of the usual rules could be relied on.
Rathbone started reading the transcript of the trial of Habib Beshara, presided over by York. He smiled to himself. Here he was searching for emotional bias in York’s rulings, and he was so emotionally involved himself that he was overcompensating in every direction in order to try to be fair. He should not be the one doing this, but it was his skill, his experience, that was needed.
He understood the law and most of the idiosyncrasies, particularly those that opened either traps or opportunities for men who made their money and their fame in its practice.
Brancaster had to use this all-too-short weekend in order to think of a strategy to keep Pryor from simply closing the case and relying on the jury to return a decision that Sabri was not guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.
Rathbone had been reading for nearly two hours, unaware of the evening drawing in, when he found the first serious error. York had upheld Camborne’s objection when the grounds were insufficient. Over and over again Camborne had interrupted unnecessarily, played on the emotions of grief, even suggested that failure to convict Beshara was a blasphemy against the memory of the dead. Twice Juniver had argued vehemently and been overruled for questioning York’s decision. He had wisely refrained from trying a third time, but Rathbone could imagine his frustration. Had it been Rathbone in his place, he would have taken it as a warning that he had a deeply unfriendly judge, maybe even a prejudiced one.
Of course, it was always possible that the horror of the case had affected York. The authorities would have made certain that he had no immediate family bereaved by the atrocity, but many people would’ve had friends or neighbors or associates who had lost someone, or knew someone who had lost someone.
Rathbone requested a pot of tea, and read on. Camborne was good: In fact, he was excellent. Not only that, but of course the crowd had been with him, and he had taken advantage of it. The rulings had leaned more and more his way.
Would Rathbone have done that, in his place? If he were honest, he was obliged to admit that he probably would.
Dover brought the tea and Rathbone accepted it gratefully. He had not realized he was so thirsty.
He went back to the transcript and studied it further. Very few of York’s decisions were in favor of the defense. Had Juniver been so often wrong? Had he been so desperate that he’d been grasping at straws that would not bear the weight of his argument?
Or was Camborne simply the better lawyer? The fact that he was actually wrong could not have been known then.
Rathbone reached the end and went back to the beginning again. By that time it was midnight—the clock on the mantelshelf struck the hour. He ignored it. He made notes of every single one of York’s decisions, and slowly a pattern emerged. York had favored the prosecution, and then favored them again to avoid reversing the earlier decision, compounding the error.
Singly, each decision was just about acceptable. Only when viewed cumulatively, and apart from the emotion of the case, did they amount to prejudice.
He finally put the papers away and went to bed at just after two in the morning. He was determined to go to visit Alan Juniver the following morning, regardless of the fact that it was Saturday. They had no time to spare.
JUNIVER WAS STARTLED TO see him. He was sitting in his home glancing at the morning newspapers before preparing to go out for the day with his fiancée’s family.
“I’m sorry,” Rathbone said. “I wouldn’t call now if any other time would do. In fact I am concerned that I may already be too late.”
Juniver looked worried. “It will not be viewed well if I don’t turn up on time,” he said anxiously. “Mr. Barrymore is already of the opinion that I am not the best choice his daughter could make.”
Rathbone smiled ruefully. “I am not in a position to argue that particular case,” he admitted. “If she wishes you at her beck and call for social occasions she might do better with a banker, or a stockbroker in the City. Of course she might then be bored to death, but one has to pick and choose which virtues or advantages one counts most important.” The moment he had said it he could have bitten the words back, but it was too late. Apologizing might only make it worse.
“I suppose it is better he find out now.” Juniver pulled his mouth into a tight line. “I assume this is about the Beshara case? You must normally have something better to do on a fine summer Saturday.”
“I’m sorry,” Rathbone said again. “We resume the trial on Monday, and I don’t know how to stretch it out much further. If I were in Pryor’s place, I’d close as soon as possible, while emotions are high and there’s still reasonable doubt. We’ve no motive yet. It’s a mess …”
“What do you want from me? I didn’t get Beshara off.”
Only in that moment did Rathbone perceive how deeply that still wounded Juniver. It was not his own failure that hurt—no lawyer always won—it was the fact that he now knew his client had been innocent, and was already dead, however long he might or might not have lived otherwise. It was not advisable to use that guilt against Juniver, but done well, it would be effective, and Rathbone dared not lose.
He put his leather attaché case on the floor. “I have the trial transcripts here. I spent a good deal of the night going over them several times. I would like very much to go over them again with you, because there are instances that trouble me. I would like your recollection, in case I am reading errors into them that, had I been present, I would realize were not as they seem.”
Juniver frowned. “I was overruled a lot, but I was pretty desperate, and I knew it. I thought the man was guilty.”
“I think everyone did,” Rathbone conceded.
“You didn’t?”
“I was out of the country. I didn’t have an opinion at all. I’m sorry about your day, but a great deal hangs in the balance. It’s the devil of a lot more than simply proving Sabri guilty.”
“I know. Excuse me while I send a message that I cannot come.”
“Of course. Juniver … I’m sorry!”
Juniver smiled. “I’d do the same … I hope.”
A few minutes later he was back again. They went through the entire transcript, Rathbone making notes where York’s judgments could have gone either way. Some of them were above question, some he had ruled for Juniver anyway, but precious few.
With increasin
g anxiety, Rathbone asked Juniver about each ruling that was against him. He had him look at the transcript and see if it was absolutely accurate, and if he could to recall anything more about the circumstances.
Juniver’s memory was excellent. Very often he could recite what his objection had been and, word for word, what York had ruled. He also remembered the objections Camborne had made, and almost all of them had been upheld.
“There’s a pattern,” Rathbone said finally, rubbing his hands over his eyes. “Taken one by one they all seem reasonable, except the last two. But put together, and including your memory of small remarks not noted, expressions and silences, it amounts to bias, at the very least.”
“It’s only my memory,” Juniver pointed out unhappily. “And when I look at it now, honestly, I didn’t fight as hard as I could have, or would have if I hadn’t believed Beshara was guilty. I’m not proud of that.”
“None of us is proud of our losses,” Rathbone said gently. “Whatever the reason.”
Juniver’s face was pale. “The reason was that I didn’t fight with everything I could think of. I believed he deserved it. He was a nasty man and I disliked him from the beginning. I couldn’t get the vision of those people in the water out of my mind, even though I didn’t see it myself …”
“I imagine the jurors couldn’t either,” Rathbone agreed. “And Beshara may have been involved, on the periphery. The law is the question, and what pressures were brought to bear.” He smiled, but his eyes did not waver from Juniver’s, and it was the younger man who lowered his gaze first.
Juniver breathed in and out slowly. “Are you speaking of York?” he asked.
“Do you know if I’m right?” Rathbone countered. “Or suspect it?”
“Suspect,” Juniver said immediately. Then, quite clearly, he regretted having not been more evasive. “At least … I wondered. It may have been no more than an emotional revulsion to the crime. It would be natural to be outraged. In fact, how could you not be?”
“We are all offended by crime,” Rathbone answered. “Some more than others, of course. Violence is frightening; extreme violence is extremely frightening. We appoint judges because we believe they have the strength and the wisdom to separate their personal fears or weaknesses from the facts of the case. Lawyers who prosecute or defend are allowed to be as passionate as they wish. Judges are not … as I know, to my cost.” He saw Juniver’s face and immediately wondered if he had been wise to make the remark. Perhaps he had temporarily forgotten Rathbone’s fall from grace. It could have been profoundly inopportune to remind him.
