Blood on the Water

by Anne Perry

  Outside in the sun he walked slowly, his mind still turning over what he had heard, and even more the intense depth of emotion that he had seen in Ossett.

  He claimed that appointing Lydiate and the regular police instead of the Thames River Police was a misjudgment, clumsy but understandable. Under normal circumstances, Monk would not have questioned that explanation. But after talking to Lydiate, Monk had felt that the man been put in charge because he was impressionable, and perhaps more easily manipulated. What was the truth?

  Why was Beshara’s motive, or anyone’s, so difficult to find? Why had Lydiate and his men not pushed harder to find it, clarify it, and prove it so the jury understood? Was it a motive that, if revealed, would be acutely embarrassing to the government? Or to some major supporter of the government? A financial giant? Heaven knew there were enough of them in the shipping world. Some of the finest and richest port cities in Britain had been built on the wealth of those who shipped slaves across the Atlantic.

  What else? The Opium Wars were as ugly as anything committed by any nation, but they were old history now.

  Did it have anything at all to do with Egypt and the canal through Suez, or was that a convenient diversion? That was where there might be a possible current diplomatic clash that would matter—with the French. Or was it Egypt, and the Turkish Empire to whom Egypt was subject?

  He crossed the street to the shady side of the pavement, still deep in thought.

  CHAPTER

  11

  MONK HAD ORME AND Hooper continue to pursue the witnesses along the river, and look for any who had not testified in court.

  Monk himself considered Habib Beshara and the mounting number of times his attempts to speak with the man personally had been denied for one reason or another. He was ill and too weak to talk, or there was restlessness in the prison and it was not convenient, not safe, or the governor, Fortridge-Smith, was occupied with other matters and unavailable. Each reason alone was understandable. Collectively they amounted to obstruction. He read through all the reports on Beshara twice, shuffling papers in his office in the Wapping Police Station, looking in the backs of drawers, among the records of other cases to see if pages had been mislaid. There seemed to be so much that was missing: details of Beshara’s life, friends, enemies, debts, and weaknesses, anything that could be followed through to learn more of him.

  It was all facts, no flavor of the man. There was no history to him, nothing at all about who he was before he appeared in the London docks, already speaking English and with a considerable art in making money across the line of the law.

  He had said his family was prominent in one of the small villages very close to the Suez Canal, which had profited them greatly, but he had said little as to in what way.

  Camborne had not raised the subject at all at the trial, and Juniver had not challenged him, nor given any account of his own, and Beshara had very wisely not insisted on taking the stand himself. But if the truth was damning, why had Camborne not disclosed it?

  The obvious answer to that was that it involved other people whom Camborne did not wish to call, either because of their own dubious reputations, or because they would implicate others of great influence, and possibly high office. And as it had transpired, none of it was necessary for a conviction.

  Regarding the present case, several people had testified to seeing Beshara in the neighborhood of the Princess Mary’s sinking. Unfortunately their descriptions did not agree. One said he wore a high-collared shirt and a jacket similar to those worn by waiters on the ship. Another made him appear much more like a river man. A third and fourth were too emotional to have more than impressions, but these grew firmer with each retelling.

  It all added up to no more than impressions, beliefs: nothing that should have carried a verdict in a court of law, but emotions were too high and York had overruled Juniver’s few objections.

  Then there was also the question as to who had attacked him in prison, and came so close to actually killing him that he was still kept segregated in the prison infirmary. Had Lydiate looked into that? No report had been made public, and there was nothing regarding it in the notes that had been given to Monk. Monk decided he must press that with Lydiate, to find out whether it was an oversight or a deliberate omission.

  WHEN MONK FACED LYDIATE in his tidy, comfortable office, which was at least three times the size of Monk’s own, it was an awkward interview. Monk disliked having to force the issue, so he did it directly and without misleading pleasantries.

  “I was told it was simply a prison fight,” Lydiate said grimly. “I accepted that. I thought it was possible someone had taken their own revenge, and frankly I didn’t blame them.” He bit his lip, but there was defiance in his eyes. “Or it may have been some prison quarrel. He is not a pleasant man.”

  “Did you speak to him?” Monk could not let it go so easily. It was one of the few threads he had to follow that might lead somewhere.

  “No. I asked to, but was refused,” Lydiate replied as if the answer were both expected and adequate.

  “You accepted that?” Monk could not keep the incredulity from his voice.

  “No,” Lydiate replied with a touch of coldness. “I took the matter higher; the best I could achieve was to see Fortridge-Smith, which was unsatisfactory, but it was better than nothing.”

  “What did Fortridge-Smith say?” Monk asked.

  “That Beshara was an unpleasant man, guilty of this particular crime and many others, and fully deserved to be hanged, which he gave me credit for proving,” Lydiate replied with a flush of embarrassment. “The government had seen fit to commute his sentence, for reasons he did not understand and had not been told, but if the man was killed in prison then it was no more than his due.” Clearly Lydiate did not admire Fortridge-Smith.

  Monk changed tack slightly. “I see from your notes that you and your men tried to get any information you could from Beshara when you arrested him, and he said nothing at all about any coconspirators?”

  “Yes. You can try talking to him if you want to,” Lydiate acknowledged. “But I think it’s a waste of time. Looking at it with hindsight, it is even possible that he may not actually know anything.”

  “I’ve been trying. I think I will try again.” Monk stood up. “Thank you.”

  MONK DULY ASKED FOR official permission to speak to Habib Beshara again, in order to question him about certain times and places he had been near the river on the night of the explosion, and what he might have seen or heard. He did not expect to learn anything useful, at least not intentionally from Beshara, but sometimes a creative lie revealed other truths.

  Beyond that, he was very interested indeed as to what Beshara would say about the attack on him. Was it a prison quarrel, as Fortridge-Smith had claimed, or was it revenge by someone who believed him responsible for the atrocity? Or—far more interestingly—was it to keep him silent about whatever he knew: either a warning, or a failed attempt to kill him?

  Permission was again refused. Monk asked for an explanation and was denied one. It made him more determined than ever.

  Hooper was less known to the authorities than Orme. Monk had Hooper find out the news and backgrounds of those currently in the same prison block as Beshara. When Hooper returned with a list of names Monk chose one that the Thames River Police could justifiably wish to question. It had to be regarding a crime currently under investigation.

  Giles Witherspoon had been found guilty of receiving stolen goods of considerable value. Orme had already tried to elicit information from him as to who had stolen them in the first place, and gained nothing. He had not really expected to. Giles was an opulent receiver, and a man did not succeed in that calling if he betrayed his clients, either buyers or sellers.

  Monk went to the prison armed with the permission he needed.

  Fortridge-Smith was a tall, lean man with sandy hair and a closely clipped mustache. His military bearing made him seem to be in uniform, even though he was not.
He stood very straight, almost to attention, when he spoke to Monk as he arrived at the prison and reported to the governor’s office.

  Fortridge-Smith read the letter of permission closely, then handed it back. “Seems to be in order,” he said with a slight nod.

  “Yes, sir,” Monk agreed, sensing the hostility immediately and making more effort than he wished to conceal his own.

  “You’ll get nothing from him,” Fortridge-Smith continued, looking Monk up and down to assess him. “You can’t threaten him with anything like the kind of punishment the thieves could!”

  “I know that,” Monk said quietly. “But sometimes people say more than they mean to.”

  Fortridge-Smith shrugged. “If you say so.” He looked at Monk with sudden suspicion. “Commander Monk, Thames River Police? Didn’t you apply to see Habib Beshara?”

  Monk tensed. “Yes. I was refused. Is he too ill?”

  “No!” Fortridge-Smith colored slightly. “I mean—we cannot comment on his health. The situation is very delicate.”

  “So it would seem,” Monk observed drily. “Fortunately for me, it is Giles Witherspoon I have come to see.”

  “Indeed,” Fortridge-Smith said stiffly. “I shall conduct you to the interview room.”

  Monk had no grounds to argue and followed the governor’s rigid back along the stone-floored passageway, their footsteps echoing. However, he wondered if he might create the opportunity to deviate from the prescribed path and make an attempt to see Beshara, even if he were not able to speak with him. How ill was he really? Monk had never seen him. In the newspaper sketches of the trial he had looked sallow, a little too fleshy, black hair graying at the sides. What did he look like now? How badly had he been beaten? Was that why Monk had been refused access to him—because his injuries were more serious than they were saying?

  If that were true, it was a serious dereliction of duty, of course. Or was it something they had deliberately allowed, for any number of reasons—at the worst, that they had been requested to do it?

  He increased his pace and caught up with Fortridge-Smith.

  “What happened to the man who beat Beshara?” he said abruptly.

  Fortridge-Smith stumbled and regained his step awkwardly. “That is an internal prison matter, Mr. Monk. Not the concern of the River Police.” He kept his face forward and increased his pace along the corridor.

  “In other words, you don’t know,” Monk concluded, continuing to match his stride.

  Fortridge-Smith spun around, glaring at him. “That is an irresponsible conclusion, sir! You will repeat that at your peril. Do you understand me?”

  “I think so,” Monk faced him with a very slight smile. “Beshara was questioned with some violence, and he refused to betray his associates, with the result that he was beaten very badly indeed, and still refused to speak.” He watched Fortridge-Smith’s eyes and the high color in his skin. “He will probably die here,” he went on. “A political martyr to the cause of whatever it is he believes in. Presumably that does not include Westerners cutting canals through his country and laying claim to the profits it earns. Or something like that.”

  Fortridge-Smith was shaking with fury, his cheeks mottled. “Who the devil put you up to this? The idea is monstrous! No one has tortured the wretched man. He was beaten by other prisoners, because he is a devious, oily wretch who is guilty of being involved in the mass murder of almost two hundred innocent men and women. He should have been hanged for it! It is only by dint of some trumped-up diplomatic necessity that he was not.” He stood in front of Monk, stiff as a ramrod, shoulders square, hands clenched so his knuckles shone. His jaw was so tight he kept repeatedly raising and lowering his chin as if his collar restricted his breath.

  “So either you do not know who beat him, or you do not care,” Monk concluded.

  “I do not care,” Fortridge-Smith said briskly, snapping out the words. “But if you repeat to any man outside this prison that the damn man was beaten in anything other than a prison brawl, you will pay a very heavy price for your foolishness. Not to mention your betrayal of your own, which sin is beyond pardon. Do you understand me? I make no threat. I shall do nothing whatever. It is simply a warning, not because I care about you, but because I care very much about the damage you can do.”

  Monk felt a chill as if the sky had suddenly darkened. This stiff, frightened man, with his bristling mustache, understood something he himself was only groping toward. He might seem absurd, but the danger he spoke of was perfectly real.

  “I want to know the truth, sir,” Monk replied, his voice holding something resembling respect. “I do not necessarily intend to repeat it, and certainly not publicly, but the bereaved deserve better than lies.”

  “Beshara may not have acted alone, but he had a part of it,” Fortridge-Smith insisted. “If he dies here, he deserves it.” He jerked his chin up again. “Now go and interview your wretched thief, or fence, or whatever he is!”

  “Opulent receiver, sir. Thank you.” Had Monk been a military man, he might have saluted, but then he would feel just as ridiculous as Fortridge-Smith.

  THE SKY WAS DARK when Monk left the prison and made his way to the ferry, even though it was July.

  The ferryman was gray-haired and lean-faced. His powerful arms were built up by years at the oar. They spoke to each other casually, agreeable tones that meant nothing except that they had both worked a long day and were pleased to see the end of it.

  The shadows stretched across the water and there was a hard edge to the wind. The warmth had gone and the ripples on the incoming tide were deeper, one or two with white edges.

  There were other craft out, ferries from one bank to the other, strings of barges making the last trip on the incoming tide, a trifle late. No pleasure boats anymore, as it was too late in the day.

  There was no sound but the rhythmic creak of the oars in the rowlocks and the hiss and splash of the water. Monk found himself lulled by it, his attention wandering. Giles Witherspoon had given him more information than he expected. Perhaps that was what he ought to be pursuing, instead of trying to pick up the pieces of Lydiate’s investigation. Whoever was responsible, apart from Beshara, had probably long since left the Thames, even left England. Monk’s continuing investigation of the case was not going to bring justice or peace, only more fear, more doubt and blame, more anger.

  Out of nowhere another boat appeared and struck them hard. The weight of the bow and the impetus behind it drove the boat right through the ferry’s hull. Within seconds Monk was floundering in the water. It was ice-cold and filthy, soaking his clothes until they imprisoned him like ropes, stopping him from trying to swim. The waves were high and rough, closing over his face again and again.

  He fought, lashing out for a moment blindly, panicking. He shot upward, feeling that he was torn apart by the current dragging at his legs. Something was grasping him from below while he fought for the air. He gulped, the water washed over his head, the sound of the water deafening him. Where was the ferryman? Was he unconscious somewhere in these churning, suffocating waves?

  He tried to swim, to stay afloat, anything so he could breathe. One moment he gulped air, the next a length of wood struck him in the side so hard he almost lost consciousness with the pain. He could think of nothing else. The surface receded from him and he was dragged under the river, going down, blinded, deafened, his lungs bursting. Now he knew what it was like to drown, to be sucked into the belly of the tide and swallowed, knowing what was happening and helpless to stop it.

  He must compose himself. Up! He must go up toward the light, the air—life! He kicked out with all his strength, thrashing his arms and legs. It seemed like forever before he broke the surface again, gasping hard. The water sloshed over his face, waves too high, buffeting him, washing him one way then the other.

  He heard cries, a human voice, sharp and desperate. He could see a large shadow almost overhead, as if an enormous craft, six, seven feet high, were bearing down on him.
He had not the strength to claw his way out of its path—the waves and the current were too strong. He was going to be hit, knocked senseless, his head smashed. He had seconds! He could not move in the current. It was sweeping him into the ship’s path!

  Down. Down was the only way to get out of its reach. He took as huge a gulp of air as he could and let the drag take him under the water again, his mind screaming out to defy it, not to go down.

  What was happening? Did no one even know they had been hit, cut in half? Or had somebody meant to kill him? And the poor helpless ferryman. Where was he? The man didn’t deserve this!

  Lungs bursting, he fought his way to the surface again. He sucked in the air, starving for it, and swiveled around in the darkness to look for the ferryman. He shouted, “Hey! Where are you? Hey!”

  He heard a cry. He strained to hear it again, but there was only the water.

  Then it came, growing fainter.

  He struck out toward it. It was years since he had swum, but fury and the impulse for survival took him across the current toward the cry.

  He had almost struck the ferryman before he knew he had reached him. There was a brief flailing of arms in the air, a lot of splashing. A few times Monk went under again. The ferryman was dead weight, seemingly unconscious. Please God he was not dead!

  Monk held the man’s face above the waves, and shouted as loudly as he could, simply, “Help! Help!”

  It seemed like ages. He was growing weaker. His legs were so cold he could hardly feel them. The water came over him, suffocating, as if hungry to devour him. Each time it was longer before he came to the surface again.

  Then he lost the ferryman. The current swept the man out of his grasp; his hands were too numb to keep hold. He was sinking. Despair overwhelmed him. They would both die, like all those from the Princess Mary that he had failed to save—and for whom there would be no justice.

  Then something heaved him up by his arms, something very strong. Was he caught in a net? A rope? He was losing consciousness.