Blood on the Water

by Anne Perry

  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 tel
l 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. H
e 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.