Blood on the Water (10 page)

Lydiate looked tired and distressed, but he was meticulous in his answers and the jury watched his face almost unblinkingly.

Hester felt the weight of it settle on her like a smothering blanket. Lydiate had followed the rules precisely. He did not exaggerate or assume anything. He erred on the side of caution. There was nothing for Juniver to attack. He tried, and was overruled. He stopped before he lost more of his remaining credibility.

On Tuesday afternoon the eyewitnesses began. Camborne played it for drama, leaving the few survivors until last. Hester understood that, but there was an essence of deliberate exploitation of their grief in it that she found ugly. Added to that, it was now unnecessary.

First were the dockside workers who had seen Beshara, or someone like him, watching pleasure boats, even traveling on the
Princess Mary
himself at an earlier date. Was it definitely him? Yes, they remembered him because he was not one of them. Occasionally he used words they did not understand.

A dockworker named Kent had seen him. Again—was he certain it was Beshara? Yes? Yes, absolutely.

Juniver objected and York ruled against him. The crowd in the gallery murmured their approval.

Juniver rose to question the man.

“You remember him, Mr. Kent?” he said politely.

“Yes, I do,” Kent said firmly.

“Why?” Juniver asked.

Kent looked puzzled. “You asked me.”

“I beg your pardon. I mean, why is he so memorable to you?” Juniver explained. “He looks very ordinary to me. Except that he’s not English, of course. But there are hundreds of men on the docks who are not English.”

Camborne moved restlessly in his seat, but he did not overtly interrupt.

Kent shook his head. “I know he’s not English.”

“He is one of several hundred men on the docks who are not English,” Juniver tried again. “Why is it that you are sure you remember seeing this man in particular, and not any of a score of others?”

“I never said that,” Kent answered with an edge of irritation. “I
seen lots of ’em. But I seen him.” He looked up at the dock and nodded. “Came ashore from the
Princess Mary
, he did.”

“How do you know—” Juniver began again.

Camborne rose to his feet. “My lord, Mr. Juniver has already asked that question, and been answered. He is badgering the witness.”

“Mr. Juniver,” York said curtly, “you are doing yourself no favor by harassing honest men reliving painful experiences. I do not wish to have to tell you this again.”

“My lord,” Juniver protested, “if I cannot question a witness’s recollection or point out inconsistencies in his account, I am left nothing but silence—and the accused is left unrepresented in this court.”

York clenched his fist on top of his bench and leaned a little across it.

“Mr. Juniver, do I take it that you do not accept my ruling in this matter? If that is the case, then you will be correct, and the accused will not be represented in this court, until we find a replacement for you! Is that your position, sir?”

Juniver could do nothing but retreat.

“No, my lord,” he said quietly.

Others all gave variations of the same evidence. They had seen Beshara near the
Princess Mary
shortly before she set out on her last, tragic voyage. A deckhand had seen him hanging around on the quayside. A waiter had served him with a drink on deck and then seen him leave the boat.

A young woman survivor, ashen-faced and clearly afraid, said she had seen him on the deck talking to someone shortly before they left Westminster Bridge. Yes, she nodded vehemently. She was certain.

As soon as Juniver questioned her she burst into tears. Ingram looked at him inquiringly, eyebrows raised. It was obviously against his interest to pursue her further, and he abandoned it. Whatever she said, he would have utterly lost the sympathy of the jury. It was a battle he could never have won, even had Camborne been less skillful and York less impatient.

When, by Wednesday, all the prosecution evidence was in, it
seemed as if the case had to be over. For Juniver to say anything was pointless, except to fulfill the requirement of the law. He had been stalled in all the attempts he had made during the prosecutor’s case. On the few occasions York had ruled for him the victories had been small: procedural rather than emotional.

Hester felt her heart sink as Juniver rose to his feet. She had a deep sympathy for him, and pity for Beshara. Camborne had still suggested no motive for the atrocity, except a general hatred of the British! He had given no reason for it: no personal injury or loss, no cause at all. Did he think it unnecessary? Or could it be that the cause might involve some kind of information that he had reason to conceal? Political? Financial? Personal to someone too important to offend? Was that what this was all about?

Was that in fact why the case had been taken from Monk and given to Lydiate? Was it even why York had been chosen to preside?

Juniver did everything a lawyer for the defense could do. He presented witnesses who stated that they had seen Beshara in places and at times that contradicted the previous evidence given.

Camborne rose to cross-examine.

“Mr. Collins, you say you were unloading your wagon just outside the Pig and Whistle when you saw the accused, and you are certain that it was lunchtime on the day of the tragedy?” he asked politely.

“Yes, sir,” Collins replied.

“You carry kegs of ale?”

“Yes, sir.”

“To supply the Pig and Whistle, among other taverns?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good ale?”

“Yes, sir, the best.” Collins straightened up a little.

Camborne smiled.

Juniver half rose, then caught York’s eye and changed his mind.

“Lunchtime,” Camborne observed. “An interesting way of recalling the hour. Did you have lunch there, Mr. Collins?”

Collins hesitated only a second. “Yes, sir.”

“What did you have?”

“Ploughman’s, sir. Cheese and pickle.”

“You’re quite sure?”

Juniver rose. “My lord, this is all completely irrelevant.”

“You are precipitate, Mr. Juniver,” York replied. “It may prove to be of importance. Proceed, Sir Oswald.”

“Thank you, my lord. Mr. Collins, why are you so sure that you had a ploughman’s sandwich on that day? Was there something remarkable about it?”

“No, sir. It’s what I always ’ave. They do a very good pickle at the Pig and Whistle,” Collins said with approval.

“Always? And always at the Pig and Whistle?” Camborne asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“And there was nothing different about this day?”

Collins stared at him. Suddenly he realized the trap he had fallen into. “I know I saw Beshara on the street there that very day!” he insisted.

Camborne’s eyebrows shot up. “You know him? You are acquainted?”

“No! But I saw him!”

Camborne smiled. “But how can you be certain it was the day of the explosion, if there was nothing else to set it apart? Thank you, Mr. Collins. That is all.”

Juniver stood up to try to save his witness, but he realized that he could only make it worse. Collins might repeat all he had said, but his confidence was gone. He would be replying in anger, to save his dignity. Juniver sat down again.

The others largely followed suit, and what was left was likely to be disregarded by the jury.

Juniver did not call Beshara to the stand. It was a wise decision. His manner was not particularly pleasing, his English only moderately good. All he could do was deny his guilt, and of course testifying would
open him up to being cross-examined by Camborne. Like many people accused of terrible crimes he accepted his lawyer’s advice to remain silent.

The jury barely needed to retire to bring back a verdict of guilty. The court sat late in order for York to place the black cap upon his head and pass sentence of death upon Habib Beshara for the murders of one hundred and seventy-nine men and women. He would be taken to jail, and in three weeks’ time would be hanged by the neck until he was dead.

CHAPTER
 

M
ONK ATE DINNER IN
the comfort of the kitchen, with Hester and Scuff. There was a checked cloth on the table, and the yellow china jug full of flowers on the dresser at the side was so big it hid half of the plates kept there. The back door was open to let in the warmth of the summer evening and the faint smell of earth and cut grass.

“Why’s it matter so much?” Scuff asked.

They had been speaking of the new canal at Suez.

“Because it will take about five thousand miles off the journey from Britain to the Far East,” Hester replied, eager to sharpen his interest in anything connected with schoolwork. She was certain that he had been skipping attendance recently, but nagging him would not help.

He still looked slightly puzzled.

She started to explain how hard Britain had fought for mastery of the seas over the previous hundred years. Her narrative was full of terrific naval battles, especially in the period of the Napoleonic Wars,
battles such as Copenhagen, the Nile, and finally Trafalgar, and at last she had his full attention.

They were interrupted by a knock on the front door. Monk looked up in surprise, fearing that it would be one of his men calling on him about some case too urgent to leave until the next day.

Scuff had finished his dinner. He had not yet lost the habit of eating as fast as he could in case his food were taken, as it had been sometimes in his years living in the docks. He stood up.

“I’ll get it …” he said willingly, going toward the door before Monk could check him.

He returned a moment later, closely followed by Runcorn.

“Sorry,” Runcorn said, more to Hester than to Monk. He stood awkwardly, his height seeming to crowd the room. His eyes went to Monk’s unfinished meal. “I thought you’d want to know, maybe hear all there is, rather than whatever the papers say, which’ll be plenty.”

Hester stood up, smiling. “Would you like tea, and maybe a piece of cake?”

Runcorn shook his head, and then changed his mind instantly. “If it’s not a trouble?”

“None at all,” Hester answered him, ignoring her own plate. “Why don’t you go and sit in the parlor? You’ll be more comfortable. Scuff, you can help me …” It was an order. He obeyed with only one backward glance, his brow puckered with worry.

Runcorn accepted the suggestion, and followed as Monk stood up and led the way. In the parlor they sat down opposite each other. Monk waited.

Runcorn shook his head. “You’ll hear tomorrow morning. It’ll be all over the place, and I’m reckoning it’ll be ugly. It seems this Egyptian fellow, Beshara, comes from a pretty important family back at home. To be precise, in the port of Suez, which I gather is small, scruffy, and very busy. But his family is in a way of business, and has quite a lot of money.”

Monk was skeptical. “Who says so? And if he comes from an important
family, why was he working in the London docks? Why did none of this important family come and speak for him during his trial?”

Runcorn looked tired. He pushed his fingers through his thick, grizzled hair. “He always claimed he wasn’t working at the dockside.” He looked very directly at Monk, a shadow in his eyes. “Actually, the Egyptian embassy said as much, but nobody believed them—or, more accurately, everyone thought they were mistaken.”

Monk felt the chill of unease touch him. Why had Runcorn come with this now? Was it anything more than what they must have expected, even if a little late? “Several people identified him,” he pointed out. “It didn’t rest on one.”

Runcorn looked down at the table. “I know …”

Memories flickered through Monk’s mind, other cases they had worked on together, long ago, people who had been certain of what they had seen—and wrong. Something else stirred in his mind, but eluded him before he could identify it. Something that night on the river.

“Have you doubts?” he asked gently. If Runcorn had, he would understand. In a couple of days Beshara could be hanged and it would be too late to correct errors then, however obvious in hindsight. Mistakes would be sealed in death, unalterable. Nightmares of error would creep into the dreams of every man, no matter how honest his investigation had been. Monk had woken with the same fear himself, cold sweat on his body at the finality of it. Did jurors feel it too? Or did the company of eleven other “good men and true” relieve the responsibility?

Runcorn was staring at him again. Whatever he said, the truth of it was in his eyes, but also a bitter humor, surely horribly misplaced.

“What is it?” Monk asked.

“They’re not going to hang him,” Runcorn replied. “At least not yet. He’s ill, so the doctors say. Can’t hang a sick man. Got to cure him first. Except I’m not sure there is a cure for that. Instead of hanging him quickly, they’ll let him die slowly.”

Now Monk understood what he had seen in Runcorn’s eyes.

Hester came in with the tea on a tray, and several slices of cake.

Both men thanked her for it, unintentionally speaking at the same time, as she reached the door. She smiled briefly, and went out, leaving them alone.