by Anne Perry
“And he’s about to lose it again!” Beata interrupted sharply.
Miriam looked at her and the pain in her face was temporarily naked. Beata realized with a rush, as if suddenly drowned in the force of a wave, that Miriam had never recovered from Piers’s death and that Aaron had never been more than an ease of the loss, and now that, too, had been shattered. Everything gentle or good in him had been wiped out by the knowledge that it was he who had killed Astley, directly or indirectly. The fact that it had been out of desire for Miriam only added guilt to the grief.
“I’m sorry,” Beata said quietly. “But we have no time for pain now. We have to find a way of proving that Pettifer’s death was an accident, caused by his own panic. Monk doesn’t know who killed Piers, or anything else about San Francisco and the gold rush. If he ever did, it’s gone from his memory. I’ll tell Oliver all you know, including about the land deed on the American River, and the shirt. But first we must prove that Monk did not have any reason to hurt Pettifer.”
Miriam frowned. “How? We don’t know anything about the enmity between McNab and Monk.”
“I know that,” Beata said. It felt dark, terribly dark, and heavy inside her as if she could not breathe. “But we must try. I shall go and see Hester. I am only getting to know her now but I think she will accept anyone’s help. I would in her place. You will think of everything you can that McNab asked you about Monk.”
Miriam swallowed hard. “Yes…of course.”
HESTER MOVED THROUGH THE days leading up to the trial as in a nightmare. Everything she thought of to prove Monk’s innocence seemed to melt into nothing as soon as she grasped hold of it. In her mind McNab grew to almost demonic brilliance.
Rathbone came to Paradise Place one evening and she asked him what she could do, what proof there was.
“There must be something!” she said desperately. Monk had loathed McNab—nobody doubted that—but he had done nothing to him.
They were sitting in the parlor. It seemed dark and peculiarly empty. After his initial arrival to support her, Hester had forbidden Scuff to leave his studies to come home, at least until the trial began. His work and other people’s needs were a kind of respite.
Rathbone looked pale and there were lines of tenderness in his face.
“It wouldn’t help to prove that McNab was responsible, even if we could prove that William had never heard of Pettifer,” he said with as much gentleness as he could manage. He would never care as she did, but Monk was his closest friend, and they had fought many battles side by side. It had been Monk who had finally saved Rathbone when he was exhausted, deeply afraid and facing imprisonment, possibly for years.
“Well, what will help?” She heard her own voice slipping out of control. “If McNab were responsible, then why would William have wanted to harm Pettifer, let alone kill him? If he could have been persuaded to testify against McNab, the last thing William would want would be Pettifer dead!”
“Because our proving it doesn’t help,” Rathbone said miserably. “If we prove it now, that doesn’t show that Monk believed it back when Pettifer died. It isn’t really time that counts, it’s what he thought was true then.”
“We’ve got witnesses….” She tailed off without finishing the sentence. They were Monk’s men, friends, colleagues, other River Police. The prosecution would point that out instantly. Hester herself could have testified, but she knew, before Rathbone said anything at all, that she could never be put up for cross-examination. It would be only minutes before a decent prosecution would draw from her that Monk had no memory! With every new thought, the noose closed tighter.
There were others who would help, if they could think of anything to do. Scuff was knotted up so tightly with fear for Monk that he could not concentrate on the work he loved. Both he and Crow spent more and more time scouring the riverbanks for information that could damn McNab. At the clinic in Portpool Lane, Squeaky Robinson was calling in every favor and making every threat that might work, and a few that had no chance whatever. Even Worm, the nine-year-old orphan whom Scuff had found a home for there, was out at all hours, up and down the riverbank, asking and listening.
—
MONK SLEPT LITTLE THE night before the opening of the trial. Every noise seemed to intrude on his thoughts. Men coughed, moaned, cursed; one or two even wept. Like him, they were all alone, cold, and above all, afraid. There was probably little any of them could do to affect their fate now. It lay in the hands of others, sometimes others who did not care.
Was it better or worse to have those supporting you whose lives would also be darkened forever if you were found guilty? It hurt almost beyond bearing to think of Hester, or for that matter of Scuff. What of the men he would let down, if they believed him guilty? What of the River Police themselves, Hooper and all the others, stained by his failure?
The thought of McNab winning was enough to make him almost choke for breath. But neither rage nor pity was now any help. They were barriers in the way of thought. It was only intelligence and self-control that could save him. Or a miracle! Did he believe in miracles?
What did he believe in? It was a little late to decide now.
—
THE TRIAL BEGAN WITH the usual formalities. These they drew out over precise notes, which scraped on Monk’s raw nerve edges.
He stood in the dock of the Old Bailey high above the courtroom and looked sideways at the gallery. It was full. He should have expected that, and yet it was disconcerting. How many of those people hated the police and were here to see one of them brought down? How many had been helped by law or police at one time or another, and would rather see him vindicated?
He searched for Hester, and saw the side of her head, the light shining on the fair streak in her hair. Who would love her, if he were hanged? No one, not as he did! She would be the widow of a hanged man. Would she always believe he was innocent? Or would she, in time, give in to the pressure, the sheer weight of everyone else’s certainty?
They were beginning at last. Sorley Wingfield was prosecuting. He was a lean, very dark man with a cutting sense of humor. He had probably called in a few favors to get this case. His dislike for Rathbone was deep and long lasting, and he was bound to know that this one was personal to Rathbone. It was Rathbone’s first really big case, the first capital case, since his return to the bar after his disgrace.
Monk did not admire Wingfield for taking his revenge for other losses on such an easy win. Like shooting at a sitting target, a living one that could face fear and pain.
The judge was Mr. Justice Lyndon, a man he knew very little about, except that Rathbone had said his reputation was good. But then he would hardly have said otherwise, when the outlook was more than dark enough as it was.
The first witness to be called by Wingfield was Hooper. He climbed the steps up to the witness stand, looking pale-faced and profoundly uncomfortable. He was dressed in River Police uniform and stood a trifle awkwardly, as if the shoulders of the coat were too tight on him. Monk could not remember seeing him in it before. He usually wore an old seaman’s pea coat.
He swore to his name and occupation, facing Wingfield as if he were flotsam clogging up the waterway. He had a gift for conveying contempt with barely the movement of an eyelid.
“You work for the Thames River Police, out of the station at Wapping? Is that correct, Mr. Hooper?” Wingfield asked smoothly.
“Yes, sir.”
“And you have been recently promoted, to take the senior position assisting Commander Monk, the accused?”
“Yes, sir.” Hooper’s dislike of Wingfield was in his tone as well.
“The position until recently was held by a Mr. Orme?”
Hooper was wary. “Yes, sir.”
“Would that be the same Mr. Orme who was killed recently in a skirmish on the river involving a gun smuggler?” Wingfield asked with an air of innocence.
Rathbone rose to his feet. “My lord, there is no argument as to Mr. Hooper’s identity
, or that he has an honorable record of service in the River Police and was recently promoted upon the death of Mr. Orme, who had been due to retire. And just in case Mr. Wingfield is disposed to take up the court’s time with the subject, Mr. Hooper has an honorable record in the Merchant Navy. Nothing is known against his character here, or anywhere else, and he has been many times commended for his courage.”
One of the jurors smiled.
Wingfield looked irritated, but he was too confident of ultimate victory to take exception. Monk could see it even from where he sat.
Wingfield shrugged and walked a few steps farther forward.
“If my learned friend has finished…?” he said with slight sarcasm.
Rathbone sat down.
“Now, Mr. Hooper, you were, I believe, at Skelmer’s Wharf with the accused on the day Mr. Pettifer was drowned?”
“I was,” Hooper agreed.
“Why? What were you doing there?” Wingfield managed to look interested, as if he had no idea what the answer would be.
There was a rustle of anticipation in the crowd.
“Hoping to apprehend an escaped prisoner,” Hooper replied.
“A particular one?” Wingfield said sarcastically. “Or just any that might happen to pass that way?”
One of the jurors laughed nervously. A look of very light irony crossed Mr. Justice Lyndon’s face as well.
“A second one to escape the customs officers within the last couple of weeks, sir,” Hooper said rather loudly. “This one we hoped would be still alive. We were only called in when the first one was already dead.”
There was a rustle of movement in the gallery, and this time a quite unmistakable twitch of amusement in Mr. Justice Lyndon’s face.
“Drowned also?” Wingfield inquired with his eyebrows high.
“Yes, sir,” Hooper replied. “And shot! In the back.”
“Seems excessive,” Mr. Justice Lyndon observed. “Does this have something to do with Pettifer’s death, Mr. Wingfield? Are you accusing Commander Monk of having drowned this man as well?”
“No, my lord. However, it was this man Blount’s death that appears to have drawn the River Police into the whole affair,” Wingfield replied.
The judge turned to Hooper. “Do I understand it, Mr. Hooper, that you and Monk hoped to find the second escaped prisoner while he was still alive, for some professional purpose?”
Hooper looked as if he were relieved that someone was at last getting the point.
“Yes, my lord. We had been given the case of Blount’s death because of the bullet in his back. We believed there might well be a connection between his escape and this second man’s escape from the same force, that is the Customs service.”
“Proceed, Mr. Wingfield,” the judge directed.
“Thank you, my lord.” He looked at Hooper. “Why Skelmer’s Wharf? Did you have some information that made you believe he would be there?”
“It was a good, secluded place with a landing,” Hooper replied. “Tide was right, just on the turn. We thought the escapee would make for France and we’d had a tip-off that a fast boat was moored upriver and was maybe part of his escape plan. Good guess, as it turned out.”
“Just a good guess?” Wingfield sneered very slightly. “Is that how you usually apprehend escaped prisoners, Mr. Hooper? On a ‘good guess’?”
“We don’t usually lose ’em, sir,” Hooper answered.
There was a ripple of laughter around the gallery, and one of the jurors took out a large handkerchief to hide his amusement.
“Whose idea was it to go to Skelmer’s Wharf? Yours, or the accused?”
“We received the tip-off and immediately went in pursuit together.”
“How loyal of you! You are very loyal to your commander, aren’t you, Mr. Hooper? Risked your life for him, more than once, if I read your records right?”
“Does the record also say how many times he risked his life for me? Or any of the other men?” Hooper demanded. “Don’t suppose your job has room for sticking your neck out for any of the men you work with. More likely have a knife in your hand!”
“Hear, hear!” someone shouted from the gallery, and there were a couple of catcalls and a whistle.
“Mr. Wingfield!” the judge said sharply. “Will you please at least attempt to control your witness?”
“May he be noted as hostile, my lord?” Wingfield said angrily.
“I’m sure we have already observed that he is hostile, Mr. Wingfield. You seem a little late in remarking it,” the judge replied.
Wingfield smiled bleakly. “You have made your loyalties and your predispositions in this case more than clear, Mr. Hooper. I warn you to be very careful indeed that you do not allow your emotions, or your obvious personal interests and ambitions, to cloud your veracity. That means your ability to recollect and speak only the truth…the exact truth, do you understand?”
Hooper’s face tightened in anger that must have been visible to the jury. Monk in the dock could see it quite clearly.
“I’ve no reason to tell you lies, even if I wasn’t under oath,” Hooper said quietly. “Speak plain, and I’ll speak plain back to you.”
Two of the jurors nodded in agreement.
“So you were waiting at Skelmer’s Wharf?” Wingfield prompted. “What happened, Mr. Hooper?”
“Two men appeared, one from each side of the row of buildings,” Hooper answered. “They saw each other and began to fight. No use asking me which one attacked first ’cos I don’t know. They went at each other, hammer an’ tongs. All the time they were moving closer to the water’s edge—”
“A moment, Mr. Hooper,” Wingfield interrupted. “Do I understand it that you and the accused did nothing to stop this battle? Nothing to intervene and apprehend your escaped prisoner? Who did you imagine the other man was?”
“Regular police, or customs man,” Hooper replied. “Both Commander Monk and I intervened, but then each man started fighting us. I took on the smaller man and we fell into the water. While I was occupied with that, the big man fell in and started thrashing around. He wasn’t much of a fighter, and we thought he was the prisoner.”
“Indeed?” Wingfield raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “So you had no idea as to the identity of the prisoner, or his description? A bit lax of you, wasn’t it? Might you not very easily have apprehended completely the wrong man?” He smiled. “Oh…that is what you are claiming you did—isn’t it? Completely the wrong man? Didn’t you, in fact, drown the customs officer and allow the prisoner to swim right across the river and escape to…God knows where? France, for all any of us can say?”
Hooper’s lips closed into a thin line and he swallowed his temper with difficulty.
“The smaller man fought like a polecat, and he swam away from me. Mr. Monk tried to help the big fellow with the beard, but he panicked, thrashing around like a madman. Nearly took Mr. Monk down with him. You have to stop someone like that, or they’ll drown the both of you. You can’t swim, and save a man that’s swinging his arms. But maybe you’ve never tried that. Doesn’t go with your horsehair wig an’ the fancy robes. You’d drown in minutes in all o’ that.”
Again there was a gust of laughter from the gallery, but it was nervous, and then the jury twisted in their seats uncomfortably.
Wingfield kept his temper this time. “I seldom wear this attire when I go swimming, Mr. Hooper. And I have never jumped into the Thames to save a customs officer, or to drown one. Tell me, after the smaller man had struck out to swim across the river, what did you do?”
“I helped Mr. Monk pull the big man out of the water and up onto the wharf. We tried to get the water out of his lungs and bring him round but he was too far gone.”
“A sufficiently hard blow to the side of the head will do that, don’t you agree?”
“If he hadn’t panicked an’ tried to drown Mr. Monk, he’d have been all right.”
“Maybe he was frightened because he couldn’t swim, and he knew Mr.
Monk wanted to drown him?” Wingfield suggested mildly.
“If he was as deep into letting the prisoner go, and trying to blame us for it, then he’d be more use to us alive,” Hooper pointed out.
“Your loyalty is to be commended,” Wingfield responded. “Unless, of course, it amounts to complicity? Could that be the case, Mr. Hooper?”
Rathbone stood up again. “My lord, since that is not the case, the question is hypothetical. Mr. Hooper has not been charged with anything, and the jury should not be misled into thinking he has. My learned friend is accusing him at once of loyalty…and of disloyalty.”
“Misplaced loyalty,” Wingfield corrected him a trifle condescendingly.
“Loyalty to the truth,” Rathbone replied.
“That remains to be seen,” Wingfield snapped, but he dismissed Hooper, passing him over to Rathbone.
Rathbone hesitated only slightly. Probably Monk, sitting high up in the dock, was the only one who knew him well enough to notice it.
“I reserve the right to call this witness at a later stage, my lord,” he said.
Monk felt the sweat break out on his skin. Was it relief, or only a matter of delaying the inevitable? Hooper would have to testify at some time, and be subjected to Wingfield’s cross-examination. Monk needed someone to rescue him. He understood exactly the panic Pettifer must have felt when he was drowning. He could not breathe. The water was sucking him down, closing over his head.
And yet Monk did not want to take Hooper down with him. He liked Hooper, and the guilt would be crippling.
Wingfield called Dr. Hyde, the police surgeon. He went through the usual formalities of establishing his qualifications, then played straight into the core of the case.
“Were you called to Skelmer’s Wharf to examine the body of the dead man, Pettifer?”
