Blood on the Water

by Anne Perry

  When at last Juniver rose, he was facing hostility so strong it was palpable. It was unforgivable that anyone should try to excuse this or disregard the grief, and he had to know that.

  Hester swallowed nervously, wondering what on earth he could say. Did he feel as lost, as overwhelmed as she did? From his face she could not tell. Even the way he stood revealed nothing.

  “We thank you for your time and your honesty, Mr. Hodge,” Juniver began gravely. “The experience is beyond anything we know, but you have made it as real for us as anybody could.” He cleared his throat. “You have said there were others who struggled to save anyone they could reach at the time, and long into the night after that, to find the bodies and bring them ashore. Did that include the police, do you know?”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” Hodge agreed quickly. “River Police was there all night. Saw ’em meself. Mr. Monk—’e’s the boss o’ them—’e were there right from the start, an’ even went down in one o’ them suits inter the wreck the next day, God ’elp ’im!”

  Juniver’s thin face registered surprise. “Really? You’re sure of that?”

  Hodge could not keep a flicker of anger from his face. “ ’Course I am. Anyone wot works the river knows ’im.”

  “Can you think of any reason why he has not been called to give evidence here: an experienced river policeman who actually saw it all?” Juniver asked innocently.

  York leaned forward as if to interrupt, but Hodge spoke before he did.

  “No, sir, I can’t,” Hodge replied.

  “Perhaps my learned friend has some reason that has not occurred to us?” Juniver looked across at Camborne. It was a small point, and in the heat of the moment it might mean nothing, but it was a valid one. Should there be an appeal, it would be remembered.

  Hester looked at York and saw a flash of irritation cross his face, cutting the lines more deeply around his mouth.

  Camborne affected indifference and did not respond. Instead he called his next witness, a bargee named Baker. He gave a similar account of the horror and pity he had felt at pulling bodies out of the water.

  “Did you see the ship itself go down?” Camborne asked, his brows raised, his eyes wide.

  There was not a movement in the room.

  “ ’Appened in moments, sir,” Baker told Camborne. “One minute it was all lights and music an’ laughter I could ’ear from where I was, mebbe fifty yards away. I were close. Then that terrible roar, an’ flames shot out of ’er bow, lit up the night.” He blinked. “ ’Urt the eyes ter look at it. An’ before yer could come to yer senses and realize wot yer’d seen, she up-tailed an’ plunged inter the water, an’ everything went dark—black dark like the night swallowed ’er up.” There were gasps around the room, and the sound of one person weeping with inconsolable grief.

  “Thank you, Mr. Baker,” Camborne murmured quietly. “Your witness,” he offered Juniver.

  Juniver had enough sense not to invite further disaster upon himself; he politely declined to ask any questions.

  Baker left the stand. The court adjourned for luncheon.

  The afternoon began with one of the doctors who had treated some of the survivors, and later examined the bodies of at least thirty of the dead. He was a quietly spoken, solid man with gentle eyes and thick, white side-whiskers. Gravely, his voice tight and cracking with emotion, he described what he had seen. He showed no hysteria, no anger, just grief.

  Hester recognized Camborne’s skill. Anyone not moved by the account—the terrible state of the bodies, the range of victims from the youngest of the women to the white-haired men, all enjoying a summer evening on the river, when out of nowhere the party had been torn apart, drowned in the dark and filthy water, some washed to sea, never to be recovered—must be devoid of all human feeling; yet there was nothing for Juniver to inquire after, nothing to question or doubt.

  It was early in the afternoon, but the entire courtroom was already exhausted from the emotion of it. It was both merciful to adjourn, and a wise tactic on Camborne’s part. No one who had sat through the evidence would sleep unhaunted by nightmares, or leave unaware of the precious fragility of such happiness as they had. All would ache for the small comfort that would be offered by knowledge that justice had been meted against the man who had caused such grief.

  THE SECOND DAY BEGAN with the testimony of the man in charge of raising the wreck of the Princess Mary and hauling it ashore. His name was Worthington. He was in his forties, lean and strong, his hair thinning a little, his face weathered dark by the elements. He looked uncomfortable in his suit. Several times he half lifted his head, as if to ease the high-collared white shirt around his neck, then changed his mind.

  He told the story of hauling up the wreck with as little emotion as possible. He could have been speaking of raising any wreck: the practical difficulties, the skills and the equipment needed.

  Hester sat in almost the same seat as she had the previous day, and listened as Camborne led the witness through the process of raising a shattered and sunken ship. The tension in the room eased a little as he allowed the people present to concentrate on the technical details. When this part was over he would ask about the bodies. She had watched him long enough to know that he would time it perfectly: asking enough to horrify the jurors, to draw every ounce of pity from them, but not so much that the listeners were exhausted and their emotions numbed. He would leave scope for the imagination to work.

  She looked across at the faces of the jurors: twelve ordinary men. Except, of course, that they were not ordinary. They must by law all own property, which ruled out far more people than it included. They must be worthy citizens, themselves above reproach. That ruled out a few more. All women were excluded automatically. Was this truly a jury of peers? Hardly. Did it matter? Probably not at all in this case. For once there was no social division over the crime, no sympathy at all for the accused, no difference in the rage or the pain between rich and poor, man or woman, churchgoer or atheist.

  They might register their feelings in slightly varying ways, but the result would be the same. Hester might be one of very few in the courtroom who realized that Camborne had not connected any of the events with the silent man who sat in the dock.

  For the rest of the morning Worthington gave expert evidence on exactly what had caused the Princess Mary to sink so disastrously quickly that only a few of those on deck at the time had managed to escape.

  In the afternoon he told in specific detail how the explosion was caused by a heavy charge of dynamite, where it had been placed and how it ignited.

  As to who had done it, that was entirely another matter, and Camborne said that would be explained when the trial resumed the following Monday.

  York adjourned them for the weekend.

  HESTER DID NOT DISCUSS the trial with Monk over the Saturday and Sunday, and he did not ask her. She had told both him and Scuff that she had attended, but had heard nothing they hadn’t already deduced. They were not satisfied, but they did not press her, and she guided the conversation to other subjects: family things, and what Scuff was learning at school—a subject he avoided answering with some skill. She made a mental note to inquire further later on.

  The conversation shifted to what they would like to do when they had a weekend free and could travel. Brighton was not far. Or Hastings? Scuff wished to see Leeds Castle, which, despite its name, was in Kent, not in Yorkshire. Perhaps they could go to Canterbury Cathedral and the high altar before which Archbishop Thomas à Becket had been murdered by the king’s men, seven hundred years ago. They discussed that at some length, and in detail, and the Princess Mary was temporarily forgotten.

  ON MONDAY MORNING THE whole tragedy returned with renewed force as Hester took her seat in the courtroom again. She had written once to Oliver Rathbone, sending the letter to Rome to await his arrival. She had done so largely because she wished to record her impressions while they were still fresh in her mind rather than remember them in the light of whatever should
happen subsequently.

  Listening to the conversations around her as the public waited for the proceedings to begin, she heard no arguments as to guilt or innocence, only anger that the whole series of events had occurred. In one or two instances there was a degree of irritation that Juniver should defend Beshara at all.

  Hester had a considerable sympathy for Juniver. She did not imagine he was speaking for Beshara for any reason except that without a legal defense, there could be no conviction, and therefore no sentence. She had to exercise more control than usual over her tongue to keep from pointing this out to the people behind her. But experience had taught her that such arguments failed. You cannot tell people to take into account what they do not wish to know.

  She sat silently, feeling extraordinarily alone. Was she the only person here who was even considering the possibility that Beshara was not guilty at all? There was no doubt as to the crime or its horror, but the prosecution had not yet produced any connection with the man supposedly guilty of the act!

  The first witness to be called was Sir John Lydiate, the man who had replaced Monk at the head of the investigation.

  To begin with Hester had been angry with him, until sense prevailed and she realized that he also had no choice in the matter. Now, looking at him in the witness stand, isolated from the rest of the court by the high box at the top of its own winding steps, and the fact that it was several yards from anyone else, stared at by all, she felt sorry for him.

  Camborne was respectful of Lydiate’s rank and spoke with great courtesy, but he was very much in control of the entire exchange. He stretched it from the opening of the court on Monday morning, right through until the adjournment for luncheon on Tuesday. It was masterful. Every fact of the explosion was raised, every detail was dealt with regarding the entire investigation and every piece of evidence Lydiate’s men had found, every witness they questioned and every conclusion drawn.

  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.