Revenge in a Cold River

by Anne Perry

  “It makes sense, Lady York, but that is very far from proof! What proof have you of any of this?”

  She felt as vulnerable as a black fly on the middle of a huge, white plate. When she spoke her voice was hoarse, almost whispering. “You will have to ask Dr. Crow’s witness for that. Or Miriam Clive herself.”

  “Thank you, Lady York. I shall do both.”

  At last Wingfield stood up. She had temporarily forgotten that of course he would have the opportunity to cross-question her as well. Rathbone could not protect her from that.

  She faced him as if he had been a spider, of the sort that eats flies. She found herself gulping for breath, and he had not even spoken.

  “I am sorry you are placed in this predicament, Lady York,” Wingfield said gently. “First of all, may I offer you my condolences on the death of your late husband. He was a very fine man. I knew him well, and he will be deeply missed.”

  Was that a smirk on his face? She felt the blood burn up her cheeks at the thought that Ingram might have boasted to such a man of the things he had caused her to do! Would she ever live that down? Was he mentioning Ingram now on purpose? A warning to her of what he knew?

  She stared at him with defiance, even hatred, as if he were Ingram. They even had the same color of eyes!

  He was waiting for her to thank him.

  “Thank you,” she said coldly.

  “I am sure you are deeply distressed,” he went on, his voice even gentler, and now holding a little pity.

  Good God! She knew what he was going to do! He was going to suggest to the court that her mind was unhinged by grief, and she was not to be taken seriously.

  Very deliberately she smiled back at him. She must not, she would not, let him win.

  “Fortunately for me I have had considerable time to become used to the idea, Mr. Wingfield. Ingram was ailing far more than most people knew for some time before he had his seizure. In fact, I have been prepared for widowhood for nearly two years. And I am well provided for, both financially and with good friends. I consider myself most fortunate. And poor Ingram is at last at peace. But while I thank you for your courtesy, I am sure the court is interested only in the truth of this case. What is it you wish to know?” She smiled back at him now with exactly the same gentle patronage he had exercised toward her. She hoped he recognized it.

  “I am puzzled by what you are referring to as ‘Dr. Crow’s witness,’ ” he said, but perhaps not with quite the overwhelming confidence he had had before. “What was it regarding?”

  She would have to make it up! “The death of Mr. Blount, which appears to have begun the idea of a conspiracy,” she replied.

  “And the reference to crows?” he pressed.

  She raised her eyebrows a little, as if his ignorance surprised her.

  “I believe it is the slang term for a doctor, among some people.”

  “People you know, Lady York?” he asked incredulously.

  “Affectionately, yes. Is that of relevance, Mr. Wingfield?”

  He considered pressing it again, and changed his mind.

  She prayed fervently that Crow’s witness would turn up very soon. She was struggling to think of anything more to say.

  There was a moment’s rather stiff silence. An usher crossed the floor to speak to Rathbone. Suddenly the tension in the room mounted, as if a tingle of excitement had rippled through the air. All the jurors were facing him as Rathbone smiled.

  “My lord, Dr. Crow’s witness has arrived. I would like to excuse Lady York and call Albert Tucker to the stand.”

  Lyndon bit his lip and leaned a little forward behind his magnificent carved bench.

  “This had better be relevant, Sir Oliver. I share Mr. Wingfield’s dislike of theatrics!” There was a touch of sarcasm to his tone. He disliked Wingfield’s own theatrics just as much. “If Mr. Wingfield has finished his questions you are excused, with our thanks, Lady York.”

  Wingfield agreed and with overwhelming relief she thanked him and, grasping the rail, came carefully down the stairs and across the floor to take her seat again.

  Albert Tucker came in conducted by another usher, and took the stand. He was a lean man wearing a blue pea coat. He had a weather-beaten face and narrow, blue eyes, as though he were permanently squinting against the light reflected off the water.

  He swore to his name and his occupation as a lighterman on the Thames.

  Rathbone came straight to the point. He knew the court’s patience was wearing thin.

  “Did you pull the body of a dead man out of the river, who was later identified as Blount?”

  “Yes, sir. Me and Willis, sir. We reported ’im straightaway.”

  “To the River Police?”

  He shook his head. “No sir. ’E were drownded. Weren’t no reason not ter give ’im straight to the Customs, since ’e were escaped from them, like.”

  “How did you know that his name was Blount, or that he had escaped from the custody of the Customs service?” Rathbone asked curiously.

  “ ’Cos they bin asking after ’im. I seen ’im before, anyway. ’Anging around the waterfront, like, where ’e practiced ’is business.”

  “And when you pulled him out of the water, he was dead?”

  “Yeah. Drownded.”

  “Not shot?” Rathbone affected surprise.

  “No, sir, just drownded.”

  “Are you quite certain of that, Mr. Tucker? Because when Mr. McNab called in the River Police, specifically Mr. Monk, Mr. Blount was quite definitely shot in the back.”

  “Yes, sir. But Mr. Blount weren’t shot when Mr. Willis an’ me pulled ’im out o’ the water an’ gave ’im ter Mr. McNab.”

  Rathbone looked astonished.

  “How can you be sure? Did you examine him? Did he have a coat on? Might you not have missed a bullet hole, particularly if the water had washed away any blood, as it might?”

  “No, sir.” Tucker looked a little uncomfortable. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  Rathbone looked totally unperturbed. Did he really feel it, or was it a desperate mask? “How can you be?” he asked.

  “Can I turn around, me lord?” Tucker asked the judge. He, too, looked unhappy now.

  “If it serves some purpose,” Lyndon said.

  Tucker turned around slowly in a full circle until he was facing Rathbone again. In the gallery one could have heard a pin drop.

  Tucker swallowed. “This is the coat,” he said quietly. “It were a very good coat, an’ Blount didn’t need it ter get buried in! Willis and I tossed a coin for it! I won. It fits me better anyway. ’E’ll get the next one.”

  “It certainly has no holes in it,” Rathbone agreed. “It was…brave of you to wear it here, in the circumstances. Did it not worry you that his lordship might take a dim view of your stealing the coat off a dead man?”

  Tucker gulped hard and shivered. “Yeah…it did. Reason I din’t come forward before. But now I know as Mr. Monk’s in trouble, an’ it were Mr. McNab as had’ve shot Blount, even though ’e were as dead as a fish anyway. Dr. Crow told me as I must say wot I know.”

  “Did he offer you any reward for doing this?” Rathbone inquired.

  “No, sir.”

  “Or punishment if you did not?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Tucker. Will you please remain there so my learned friend Mr. Wingfield may question you also.”

  Tucker looked extremely unhappy, but he had no choice.

  Wingfield rose to his feet and walked over toward the stand. He looked up at Tucker as if regarding some piece of refuse that had been left by the tide.

  “Do you often steal from the dead, Mr. Tucker?” he asked.

  There was a gasp around the gallery.

  “You never bin poor an’ cold, or yer wouldn’t ask like that,” Tucker replied, his chin raised a little. “It were flotsam, washed up on the tide, like. ’E didn’t need it ter be buried in. ’E were perfectly decent as ’e
were. Didn’t take ’is shirt nor ’is trousers.”

  “His boots, perhaps?” Wingfield asked sarcastically.

  Tucker glared at him. “As if I’d take a man’s boots!” he said outraged.

  “So you say.” Wingfield managed by the inflection of his voice to patronize a man he physically had to look up at. “And you are willing to come here in his coat, and swear, in front of Mr. Justice Lyndon, that the coat you are wearing is the same one you took off the corpse of Mr. Blount, who was both drowned and shot first?”

  “ ’E could ’a drowned by accident,” Tucker pointed out. “An’ ’e weren’t shot until Mr. McNab got a hold of ’im. I reckon ’e did that so ’e ’ad a reason to call Mr. Monk in.”

  “And I reckon that Mr. Monk’s dubious friends up and down the riverbank are lying to gain credit with the River Police, which they will expect to be repaid in kind!” Wingfield snapped back at him.

  Tucker was insulted. He gripped the rail and leaned forward, his face pinched with anger. “If I wanted ter do that, Mister, I’d’ave said I saw McNab shoot the corpse. An’ yer got no right ter call me a liar when I’m tellin’ the sworn truth.”

  “You wouldn’t know the sworn truth if it bit you!” Wingfield said almost under his breath, but the closer members of the jury must have heard him, as he returned to his seat.

  Rathbone hesitated, then rose to his feet and stepped forward.

  “Mr. Tucker, have you ever been convicted of lying, to anyone?”

  Beata closed her eyes and held her breath.

  “No, sir,” Tucker said firmly. “Willis ’as. That’s why Dr. Crow said as it should be me as comes ’ere, wearin’ the coat so you could see it yourself.”

  Rathbone let out a sigh. “Thank you, Mr. Tucker. As far as I am concerned, you are free to go.”

  Mr. Justice Lyndon smiled with bleak humor. “I would take that chance, Mr. Tucker, if I were you. Keep warm in your dead man’s coat. It’s a shame to waste a good garment.”

  Tucker thanked him and made his escape.

  “My lord, I have one more witness only,” Rathbone said, glancing at the tall windows and the fading sun beyond them. “I believe I can be brief.”

  “Then call your witness, Sir Oliver,” Lyndon replied.

  “I call Miriam Clive to the stand.”

  There were several moments of hesitation. People craned their necks round to watch. Then there was a gasp of indrawn breath as she appeared. Until now, for most of the court, she had been a creature of legend. Finally they saw her, and she met all their expectations. She had always been beautiful, but with her face pale with fear and her head high she was breathtaking. As if she were going to her own execution, she walked up the aisle between the rows, not once glancing to either side. She crossed the open space of the floor and mounted the steps. She swore to her identity, and that she would tell the truth, all of it, and nothing else. Then she faced Rathbone as she would have the headsman with the ax already in his hand. She was dressed in a burgundy so dark it was almost black, and her luxuriant hair was drawn away from her face to emphasize her high cheekbones and her marvelous eyes.

  Even Rathbone was impressed. Beata saw it in his very slight hesitation. She was barely aware that her own hands were so tightly clenched they hurt. What would Miriam say? She had been waiting for years for this chance to damn Aaron!

  Beata tried to remember what she had said, and what she had only thought to say. Did Oliver even believe her? Could he imagine, here in midwinter London, in the Old Bailey, what the heat of summer and gold had been like in the wild country of California twenty years ago? Gold fever was another world!

  “Mrs. Clive,” Rathbone began graciously, “I believe your first marriage was in California, before the gold rush of 1849?”

  Wingfield was on his feet immediately. “This is irrelevant, my lord. Sir Oliver is wasting time again!”

  “You opened the door to the past in San Francisco, at that time, Mr. Wingfield.” Lyndon turned to Miriam. “You may answer the question, Mrs. Clive.”

  “Yes, it was.” Her voice was almost expressionless. She was fighting to keep her emotions in control. Beata knew that, because she knew Miriam. Did she look vulnerable to the court, the jury, as if she barely kept from breaking? Or did they see her as rich and beautiful…spoiled by fate? How far that was from the truth. Her beauty had not been a blessing.

  “To Piers Astley, who was very tragically killed in 1850?” Rathbone continued.

  She cleared her throat. “Yes. He was shot to death in a saloon bar, about forty miles outside San Francisco.”

  “Was it a brawl of some kind? An accident?”

  “No. It was in one of the back rooms, and he was alone with the man who murdered him,” she replied. Now the emotion in her voice was raw and no one could have failed to hear it.

  Rathbone kept his voice calm and level. “If you were not there, Mrs. Clive, how do you know this?”

  Again the room was utterly silent.

  “Witnesses,” she said simply. “To the fact, not as to who fired the shot.”

  “I see. Do you know who it was?”

  “I didn’t at the time. I do now.”

  There was a gasp around the room like wind in piles of fallen leaves.

  Wingfield half-rose in his seat, caught the judge’s eye, and changed his mind. He sank back without interrupting.

  “Was it William Monk?” Rathbone asked.

  “No. I never thought it was. But I did at one time believe that he might have been able to help me prove the truth.”

  The judge leaned a little forward over his high, carved bench but he did not speak. None of the jurors appeared even to blink.

  “But you discovered that in fact he knew nothing,” Rathbone asked.

  Beata held her breath. Be careful! Be careful!

  “Yes…”

  Rathbone went on before Miriam could add anything.

  “Did Mr. McNab approach you about the matter, or did you approach him?” Rathbone asked.

  Miriam winced very slightly. “No. When I heard from my husband that there was a degree of ill feeling between Mr. McNab and Mr. Monk, I approached Mr. McNab, very discreetly.”

  “To what end, Mrs. Clive?”

  “To the end of persuading Mr. Monk to tell me what he knew about Piers’s death. If he had been willing to speak, he would have done so at the time. I thought if Mr. McNab knew something against Mr. Monk I could maybe use it as leverage to persuade him to help me prove who had killed Piers.”

  “Let me understand clearly: You were prepared to use Mr. Monk to expose whoever killed your first husband? You already knew who it was, but you needed proof? Is that correct?”

  “Yes.” She was breathing very deeply, trying to steady herself.

  “Did you explain any of this to Mr. McNab?” Rathbone continued.

  “As much as necessary. He did not need a great deal. Until Mr. Pettifer’s death, he was very keen indeed to convince Mr. Monk that there was a major conspiracy to rob my husband’s warehouses.”

  “Until Mr. Pettifer’s death?” Rathbone repeated with increased interest. “And after that?”

  “After a while he let the matter drop,” she replied. “I think that, unintentionally, Mr. Monk provided him with a far better means of revenge. He gave it to him as if it were a gift.”

  “So Mr. McNab no longer needed your assistance?”

  “That is correct. And I no longer needed his,” she added. “Mr. Monk had no idea who killed Piers.”

  “But you know?”

  “Yes. I have known ever since I was brought the bloody shirt he was wearing when he died. I knew it was his because I stitched it myself. Most women can tell their own stitching, especially on a large piece of work. They know how they turn a collar, or set a sleeve.”

  Every eye in the room was on her.

  “That was proof?” Rathbone said with surprise.

  “No. The proof was in where it was found, and in whose possession.�
� She stopped. It was obviously extremely difficult for her to keep any composure at all. Her body was shivering as if she were standing in an icy wind.

  Beata had to imagine what it must have been like holding her husband’s shirt, soaked in his blood. Even that thought made her head swim, and she felt sick.

  “And that proved…?” Rathbone’s voice was hoarse.

  “That, and a deed for land on the American River where there had been much gold found,” she added.

  “I see.”

  “Proof of death,” she said, choking on her own words. The tears were now sliding down her cheeks. “And proof of payment for the act.”

  “And someone’s guilt?” he asked.

  The room was so still Beata could hear her own breathing.

  “Yes. It was found in the belongings of a dead man. His name was Belknap. The man my husband, Aaron Clive, was with at the time of the murder of Piers, forty miles away.”

  “Are you saying that Mr. Belknap killed Piers Astley, and Aaron Clive lied to protect him?” Rathbone said incredulously.

  “No…you fool!” she cried out in desperation. “He lied to protect Aaron! Belknap was committing a robbery miles away, as he was justly accused at the time! Aaron lied, saying he was with Belknap, supposedly to protect him. But it was actually so Belknap could protect Aaron! I only learned of it when Fin Gillander brought me the news that Belknap was dead, and he had the shirt Piers was wearing when he was shot, which he had found and kept as evidence, plus the deed for the land that Aaron gave him, for his silence.”

  “Yes,” Rathbone said very quietly. “I see. He kept it to safeguard his own life?”

  “Yes!”

  Rathbone turned to Wingfield. “I think that settles an old crime and a present tragedy. You can do nothing about the murder of Piers Astley, except clear all others of blame. What you do about Mr. McNab is your own affair. The Board of Customs will no doubt wish to question him regarding the sabotaging of the Thames River Police operation against the gunrunners, and the resulting death of Mr. Orme. But I trust you will now withdraw your charge against Commander Monk in the unfortunate drowning of Mr. Pettifer, who seems to have been an unsavory character, willingly misled by his superior, and drowned in spite of Monk’s efforts to save him.”