Revenge in a Cold River

by Anne Perry

  “No,” Hyde said with asperity. “They brought him to me. Get your facts straight, man!”

  Wingfield flushed. He had left the details to a junior, certain that the evidence was what he wanted. The expression on his face now suggested dire trouble for someone later.

  “But you did receive the body of Pettifer, to determine the exact cause of his death, and anything else that might be relevant to it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then is there some reason why you are so reluctant to tell the court what you found?”

  “When you ask me.” Hyde stared straight back at him. “Ex-army doctor. You learn—never volunteer.”

  “What did you think you were here for? I’m asking you, Dr. Hyde.”

  Hyde smiled, but it was from amusement, not good humor. “The man’s lungs were full of water, and there were tiny dots of blood on the whites of his eyes, as one gets with suffocation of any kind. He drowned.”

  “Had he any other injuries that would account for why he drowned to death?”

  “You don’t drown except to death!” Hyde rolled his eyes. “And yes, he had a very slight bruise on his skull, and another on his neck.”

  “Very slight?” Wingfield’s sarcasm was back. “How hard does it have to be to command your attention, Dr. Hyde? It knocked the man senseless!”

  “Damned senseless to begin with to jump into the river when he can’t swim,” Hyde retorted. “Perhaps he wanted to take Mr. Monk’s attention in order to give Mr. Owen the chance to escape? Had you thought of that?”

  “It’s irrelevant,” Wingfield pointed out with an equally tight smile in reply. “I doubt he intended to give his own life for it!”

  “Which would indicate that he trusted Commander Monk to save him,” Hyde said. “He obviously didn’t think they were enemies.”

  “Then his drowned corpse, with the bruises on his skull, would indicate the depth of his mistake in that,” Wingfield said triumphantly. “Thank you, Dr. Hyde. That is all.”

  Rathbone rose to his feet.

  The court was silent. Every juror was staring at him, waiting.

  Monk felt his heart race.

  “Dr. Hyde, you said the bruises on Mr. Pettifer’s neck and skull were slight. Does that mean he was not struck very hard?”

  “No, sir, it means it was very shortly before his death. The bruises had not time to form.”

  “I see. Whereabouts on his neck was the bruise? Would you indicate on your own neck, so the jury can see?”

  Hyde put his hand to the left side of his neck, just a little forward of the ear.

  “Not his throat?” Rathbone asked.

  “No. Such a blow to his throat might have killed him. Here was where a man trying to rescue him might have intended to stop him long enough to save them both.”

  Wingfield stood up sharply.

  “Yes, yes,” the judge agreed. “Dr. Hyde, you know better than that. We must go through the correct…rigmarole!”

  Rathbone half hid a smile. “Dr. Hyde, what would be the result of the blow you describe, please?”

  “To render him dizzy, perhaps cause a momentary lapse of consciousness lasting a minute or so.”

  “Long enough to get him out of the water, for example?” Rathbone asked with exaggerated innocence.

  “Precisely,” Hyde agreed.

  “Thank you. Oh…Dr. Hyde, the defendant was concerned with another prisoner that the Customs service inadvertently lost, a man named Blount. Did you also examine his corpse?”

  “Yes,” Hyde agreed.

  “He also was drowned?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were there any other marks, bruises, et cetera on his body?”

  “Gunshot wound on his back,” Hyde replied totally without expression.

  “I presume Mr. Monk had nothing to do with that?” Rathbone went on.

  “Not so far as I know,” Hyde agreed.

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  Wingfield seemed to consider coming back to Hyde, and then decided against it. After the luncheon adjournment he called Fin Gillander to the stand.

  Gillander came in with a slight swagger, one perhaps so natural to him he was not even aware of it. He was a handsome man, approaching his prime, and there was a sigh and a rustle of people straightening up, nudging each other and a few whispers as he took the oath.

  Wingfield intended to make the most of it. He established Gillander’s occupation, his ownership of the Summer Wind, what manner of ship she was, and that Gillander had sailed in her all the way from the coast of California, coming around the wild and treacherous Cape Horn. Every man and woman in the court was listening with total attention, although possibly for different reasons. A jury of women might have believed him whatever he said. But of course there were no women on juries. They were not eligible.

  “And you were moored by the opposite shore from Skelmer’s Wharf?” Wingfield asked.

  “Yes,” Gillander agreed.

  “And you were on deck, in spite of the inclement weather?”

  “It wasn’t bad.”

  “Did you observe Mr. Monk and Mr. Hooper waiting on the wharf?”

  “I didn’t know their names at the time, but I saw two men waiting, and I heard later who they were.”

  “Just so. And you saw the other two, Mr. Pettifer and Mr. Owen, arrive?”

  “Yes. From opposite sides of the buildings. Couldn’t say who was chasing whom. They collided and started to fight. I saw Mr. Monk and Mr. Hooper intervene.”

  “You could see that, right from the other side of the river?” Wingfield was openly skeptical.

  Two of the jurors leaned forward.

  “Telescope,” Gillander exclaimed with a smile.

  Wingfield’s face lit with understanding. “Of course. What happened next?”

  “The smaller man and Mr. Hooper fell into the water, then the big man leaped into the water and started thrashing around,” Gillander answered. “Panicked, by the look of it. Damn stupid, but it happens quite often.”

  “But the smaller man could survive, and instead of rescuing the drowning man, he struck out across the river toward you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And when he reached you, you helped him out of the water into your boat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you do that, Mr. Gillander?”

  Gillander’s eyes widened. “What did you expect me to do? Leave him there to drown? I wouldn’t do that, whoever he’d been.”

  Wingfield shrugged. “But you didn’t take him prisoner and hold him for the police? Why not?”

  “He told me his name was Pettifer, and he was from Customs. He’d been after an escaped prisoner, very violent man. Tried to kill him. But it looked like the River Police had him by then, so he asked me if I’d put him off at the next steps down, and he’d get help.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “No reason not to. The other fellow was the one who fought against the River Police. I thought he was going to kill the man who pulled him out. Lashing out at him like he meant to.”

  Wingfield suppressed his irritation with difficulty. “He was drowning, Mr. Gillander. He panicked. The man you helped out and took down the river, and so obligingly let off at the next steps, was the escaped prisoner—whom no one has ever seen again!”

  Gillander struggled to conceal a smile, and almost succeeded. “Yes…I learned that afterward.”

  “Did you see anyone strike the man who drowned, Mr. Gillander?”

  “Saw a lot of arms flailing around. No idea who struck whom. Sorry.”

  Wingfield moved a step forward.

  “Did you subsequently become acquainted with Commander Monk?” he asked with an edge to his voice. “In fact, did you become friends with him, after the incident, and before you were called to testify here as to what you saw?”

  Gillander hesitated.

  Monk knew exactly the trap he was in. They had known each other on the Californian coast, t
wenty years ago. Was that what Wingfield was trying to force him into saying? His only way to be honest about it was to admit the earlier knowledge openly. Wingfield was clever. One would be a fool to forget that.

  “Mr. Gillander?” Wingfield prompted. “It does not seem a very difficult question. Did you become friends with Commander Monk, only after you pulled the escaped prisoner out of the water? Yes or no?”

  Gillander gave a slight shrug. “I renewed an acquaintance.”

  Wingfield’s eyes opened wide. He made the most of the dramatic moment.

  There was total silence in the room.

  “Did you say you ‘renewed’ it?” Wingfield asked, emphasizing every word.

  Now the gallery was so quiet that when one woman moved position slightly, the creak of whalebone could be heard even by the jury. One man gave a nervous cough.

  “Yes,” Gillander agreed. “I had known him some twenty years earlier.”

  “Indeed? And where was that?” Wingfield asked.

  “On the Barbary Coast,” Gillander answered. “California, not North Africa. Gold rush days.”

  “And yet William Monk is part of the Thames River Police. Their reach hardly extends so far!” Wingfield now had the smile.

  Gillander’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that a question?”

  “No, of course not,” Wingfield snapped. “Did you know him well at that time, Mr. Gillander?”

  “Moderately. As well as one knew anybody. We were rivals in the same business. Occasionally allies.”

  “And what business would that be? Not police, I presume?”

  “Hardly. There was no law there, except what was easy to keep. In the very early days, California was still not part of the United States.”

  “How interesting. So what business did you share, Mr. Gillander? Smuggling? Gunrunning? Gambling? Helping wanted men to escape? Guns for hire?”

  Rathbone started to rise to his feet to object, but Gillander answered too quickly. “Don’t know much about building and settling a new town, do you?”

  “Nothing at all,” Wingfield agreed. “I’m a Londoner. We were settled here before Julius Caesar landed in 55 BC. Please answer the question. What did you carry up and down the Californian coast, with the accused?”

  “Food, furniture, tools and equipment, timber, bolts of cloth, household goods, and of course rations and prospectors. It’s a long way from Bristol down the Atlantic, around the Horn, and up the Pacific coast all the way across the Equator again and into San Francisco Bay. You don’t do it in a few weeks. Once a year is enough for most people. You don’t want to go round the Horn in winter…which down there is June, July, and August.”

  “Thank you, I am aware that Cape Horn is in the Southern Hemisphere, Mr. Gillander. So you and the accused were facing hardship and danger at sea in a part of the world most of us here only dream of?”

  “Yes,” Gillander agreed reluctantly.

  “Is this going somewhere, my lord?” Rathbone asked a little wearily.

  “Get to the point, Mr. Wingfield, if there is one,” the judge prompted.

  “It will become apparent later on, my lord,” Wingfield said.

  Monk felt himself cold, as if somebody had opened a door to the icy weather outside. Wingfield was going to raise Piers Astley’s death later on. He would when the subject could be brought up naturally, somehow or other. And Rathbone would find no defense against it because Monk had none.

  “So you were already well acquainted with Mr. Monk when he questioned you about Owen, the escaped prisoner?” Wingfield said.

  “It took me a few minutes to recognize him,” Gillander answered. “It had been twenty years. But yes, I soon realized who he was.”

  “And who was he, Mr. Gillander?”

  “Commander of the River Police at Wapping,” he said. Gillander smiled again. Then before Wingfield could interrupt. “But it was the same man I knew as a damn good sailor in California.”

  Wingfield let out his breath slowly. “And you were friends, after a manner? You were both soldiers of fortune? Or perhaps sailors of fortune would be more appropriate?”

  “If you like.”

  “Allies at times?”

  “And rivals at others,” Gillander added.

  “Just so. Now, in the matter of getting Mr. Monk, and probably yourself, out of this predicament regarding the rescue of the escaped prisoner, and the violent death of the customs officer, Pettifer—are you rivals or allies in that, Mr. Gillander?”

  “Allies, Mr. Wingfield. We would both like to find the truth and prove it, on both counts,” Gillander said without hesitation.

  “Or at least to blame it all on someone else,” Wingfield retorted.

  “Wherever it fits!” Gillander snapped back at him. “I don’t know where that is yet, and neither do you!”

  Wingfield put his head a little to one side. “Yes, I do, Mr. Gillander. It fits with Mr. Monk, and very possibly also with you!” He turned to the judge. “Thank you, my lord. That is all I have for this witness at present, although I reserve the right to recall him if new evidence emerges.”

  The judge adjourned the court for the day. Those who were free to do so went out into the rapidly darkening afternoon, and the wind and ice.

  Monk was taken back to his cell to lie idle through the long evening, and then awake and chilled all night. He tried desperately to think of any way to prove his innocence. He had not killed Pettifer intentionally. That was the one thing he was sure of. Everything else was as impenetrable as the dark of the cell with its closed door, iron lock, and barely a glimmer of light from the one high window into the yard.

  —

  AARON CLIVE WAS CALLED in the morning. He was treated with the utmost respect. Even Mr. Justice Lyndon spoke to him with grave politeness.

  Monk knew why he was called, even though he could add nothing to the sum of knowledge. Clive impressed the jury. They would believe every word he said, and Rathbone would be a fool to try to trick him or interrogate him in any way. He had warned Monk of that, speaking quietly, levelly, and as if he had some plan, although he did not say what it was.

  Monk had seen Rathbone comfort accused men before, trying to give them more hope than there was, but out of compassion, and because a man without hope looks to the jury like a man who knows his own guilt. Would not an innocent man believe in the ultimate justice of his cause, and have faith in it?

  Not if he had as much experience of the law as Monk had! Hester was not here today. He had searched for her along every row that he could see and then forced himself to believe she was following some hopeful trail, some clues that would condemn McNab. Any other thought was unbearable. He must not look as if he had lost belief. He must not look guilty!

  Clive was handsome, calm, and almost heroic, not reckless like Gillander. He had the kind of charm that both men and women warm to. He spoke with authority, as if he had never in his life wanted or needed to lie.

  He recounted accurately exactly what his men had reported to him of the events on Skelmer’s Wharf. Even Monk, listening to every word, could see no evasion or addition of unnecessary detail. The account was limited to facts, largely already known, but it gave them the imprimatur of truth.

  Rathbone asked him nothing, but reserved the right to recall him, if it should prove necessary. It sounded like an empty, formulaic thing to say, and that knowledge was plain in the faces of the jury.

  Then the main prosecution witness was called: McNab. He strode across the open space from the entrance to the witness stand, and climbed up the winding steps to face Wingfield. He swore to his name, official status, and his occupation.

  Wingfield was now getting well into his stride. He stood easily, almost gracefully, his dark face calm, oozing confidence.

  “Mr. McNab, so far we have heard a great deal about the actual circumstances of Mr. Pettifer’s death, but no real reason why the accused so passionately wished for the destruction of a man with whom he had no personal relationship. Why when
chance offered itself, even in front of witnesses, could he not control his passion to kill?”

  McNab stood silently on the stand and smiled. He reminded Monk of a hungry man at last sitting at the table with knife and fork in hand, and his favorite meal in front of him.

  Rathbone sat rigidly, the light catching the silver in his fair hair, his shoulders locked. Did he have any weapons at all with which to fight back?

  Wingfield cleared his throat. “Mr. McNab, how long have you known William Monk?”

  “On and off, for about sixteen years,” McNab answered. He looked comfortable, his hair brushed back hard off his blunt face. He was dressed neatly, but his suit was very plain, that of an ordinary man who worked hard.

  “Professionally or personally?” Wingfield asked.

  “Professionally.”

  “And do you know, to your own knowledge, whether Monk was also acquainted with Mr. Pettifer, the dead man?”

  “Not as far as I am aware, sir,” McNab said politely. “Mr. Pettifer quite recently told me that he knew Mr. Monk only by repute, as a hard and clever man who was exceptionally good at his job, but prone to take it all a little personally.”

  Rathbone stood up. “My lord, that is hearsay.”

  “Indeed it is,” Mr. Justice Lyndon agreed. “You know better than to ask your question in that way, Mr. Wingfield. Find some other way to establish the relationship, or lack of it, between the accused and the victim.”

  “I apologize, my lord. Of course you are right.”

  In that instant Monk knew that Wingfield had done this on purpose. He now had all the latitude he wished to bring in the supposed acquaintance a great deal more obliquely. It was Rathbone’s first slip.

  “I believe that in the course of your professional duties, you would work with Thames River Police?” Wingfield continued. “As, for example, on the apprehension of dangerous smugglers, such as gunrunners, perhaps?”

  “Yes, sir,” McNab said, nodding slightly.

  “Did Mr. Pettifer ever work with Mr. Monk on such a case, to your certain knowledge?”

  “Yes, sir, he did.” McNab’s face was almost shining with his anticipation.

  “Will you tell the court about it, please?” Wingfield directed him.

  Rathbone sat still. There was nothing for him to object to. If he tried, he would only draw even more attention to it.