Blood on the Water

by Anne Perry

  “Was he having a bad spell when he died?” Monk asked.

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “So it wouldn’t have taken much to overpower him?”

  Elphick shrugged. “We gotter know ’ow ter do that anyway.”

  “Why wait until now to kill him?” Monk asked without warning.

  Elphick looked surprised. “Geez! I dunno! Nasty sod, but no worse than usual.”

  Monk persisted for another ten minutes and learned nothing he considered useful.

  Stockton was different. He described in some detail how he found Beshara dead, and said he had no idea how it had happened. There had been two other prisoners in the infirmary at the time. One had been asleep all night, and both claimed not to have seen or heard anything. Both of them had been released since then and disappeared back into the underworld from which they came. Might even have gone to sea, for all he knew.

  “Did you look into it at the time?” Monk asked, keeping his tone light, as if it were something quite casual.

  “Yeah, o’ course we did,” Stockton said indignantly. “Reckon ’e must ’ave choked, or something. ’E were a nasty swine anyway, and we all knew as ’e’d bin part o’ the sinking o’ that ship, whether ’e actually done it personal like or not. No one were sorry ’e’d gone.” He met Monk’s eyes without evasion.

  “So one of the prisoners in the infirmary killed him?” Monk asked.

  “If ’e were killed, then it must ’ave bin,” Stockton said reasonably. He stayed looking straight into Monk’s eyes a second too long.

  “And of course they’ve gone,” Monk said. “Disappeared.”

  “ ’S’right,” Stockton nodded. “Pity, mebbe. But there’s no ’elp for it now. Save yer the price of a rope.”

  “You were the one who found him? When you came back on duty?”

  “ ’S’right.”

  “Was he cold?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Were there marks of a fight on the body?”

  Stockton breathed out slowly. “No, ’e looked like ’e could ’a gone in ’is sleep.”

  “No struggle. So he wasn’t expecting it?”

  Stockton hesitated. “I were a bit shook up … finding ’im dead, like.”

  Monk measured his words. “Do you think one of the other prisoners might have been paid to kill him? It seems certain from what you say that it was someone he knew. Both the other prisoners, perhaps? Odd that one woke and the other didn’t, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe ’e’d ’ad a bit o’ medicine?” Stockton moved very slightly on his seat.

  “Very possible,” Monk agreed. “Or maybe both of them had?”

  Stockton’s shoulders tensed, as if under the table his fists had clenched.

  “Dunno,” he said.

  “Perhaps I had better check the infirmary records of sedatives,” Monk suggested. “And at the same time, get the Metropolitan Police to look at your spending habits around about that time. Did you come into a little extra money that week?”

  “I didn’t kill him!” Stockton said sharply. A whisper of panic in his voice: thin, but Monk heard it.

  “But you know who did.” That was a statement. “You have a big decision to make, Mr. Stockton. Which side are you on? The same as you have been up until now: the prison guards, the law? Or did you change sides to be with the prisoners, the men like Habib Beshara, who colluded in the murder of nearly two hundred people?”

  “I weren’t never on ’is side!” Stockton cried out, rising slightly from his chair, his face white with fury. “And I never killed ’im neither. But I in’t sayin’ I’m sorry the bastard is dead. Nor should you be, if you ’ad any ’uman blood in yer.”

  “Indeed?” Monk raised his eyebrows. “But if it wasn’t the other prisoners, it has to have been you. You’ve just said there was no one else here.” He pushed his chair back as if to stand up.

  “Wait!” Stockton said sharply.

  Monk relaxed. “What for?”

  “I let someone in ter visit ’im. I didn’t know ’e were goin’ ter do anything like that. ’E said ’e were a friend, come ter say goodbye.”

  Monk filled his expression with disbelief. “I’ve got you; I haven’t got this imaginary person of yours. The trial begins on Tuesday.”

  “So you’d ’ang me ter cover yerself, even though yer knew I didn’t do it?” Stockton could hardly grasp such dishonor. “That’s p’lice for yer! Lyin,’ murderin’ filth!”

  Monk shook his head. “I’m not hanging you rather than him, you are! You give me him, and all you’ll get is a rap on the knuckles for taking a bribe … providing you give us enough evidence to convict him, of course.”

  Stockton looked at him with pure hate, made deeper by the fact there was nothing he could do about it.

  “Stand up, Mr. Stockton,” Monk ordered.

  Stockton did, awkwardly, as though his joints hurt him.

  Monk moved around slowly, aware of Stockton’s balance, the tension in his body, and his own vulnerable ribs, which were still aching from the ferry ramming. He locked the manacles around one wrist before attempting to do the other. For an instant Stockton went rigid, as if he would have fought, and Monk twisted his arm up toward the shoulder in what he knew could end in a dislocation. He could not afford to use less strength. If Stockton managed to overpower Monk, he would likely kill him. There was no other way out. He might have already killed once. The unseen visitor to Beshara could be an invention. There was no proof. Stockton himself must know that.

  What would the guard waiting outside do? Keeping Stockton in front of him, Monk rapped on the inside of the door.

  It opened, and he pushed Stockton out, keeping his own hands low and tight around Stockton’s left wrist, pressing hard enough on the pulse to stop it if he tightened his grip a quarter of an inch.

  “Take me to the governor’s office,” he ordered the other guard.

  The man stared at him, then at Stockton’s contorted face.

  Monk saw the indecision in him. Monk’s heart was hammering against his aching ribs. He was too weak to fight. One good elbow in the chest and he would be finished, possibly even dead with a punctured lung. He swallowed hard, and yanked Stockton’s arm higher. The man let out a squeal of pain.

  “Geez! Do it, for Gawd’s sake. Don’t let this son of a bitch …” The rest was lost in another howl.

  The guard obeyed, leading the way. It was a short distance, only twenty-five feet or so, but Monk realized with a ripple of horror that perhaps Fortridge-Smith would not side with the law, as he had assumed. He might turn his back and allow Monk to be disposed of. He could claim complete ignorance of it all. He could say that Monk had gone out another way, without calling in to pay his respects as he left. Who would argue?

  For the second time in a space of weeks, he was going to have to fight for his life! Why the hell hadn’t he brought Orme with him, or even Hooper, who was as close to healed as he was himself?

  With a burn of shame, he knew the answer. Because he had intended to get a confession from someone regarding Beshara’s death, and he preferred that neither Hooper nor Orme saw him do it. The anger inside him at the atrocity, first of murdering the passengers on the Princess Mary, then the corruption of justice in the trial, was tempting the man he used to be before the accident and before the amnesia that had forced him to begin again: a ruthless man, respected and feared, not liked. It was not who he wanted to be. Hester would not lie easily beside him. There would be no more laughter, no comfortable silences. Scuff would not trust him.

  And yet they expected him to solve Beshara’s death and see not only Sabri convicted, but those who had lied in court, taken money or praise to convict an innocent man.

  They were at Fortridge-Smith’s office, and he had no plan.

  Then suddenly it was there in his mind’s eye: the photograph on Fortridge-Smith’s desk, a family group. Probably it was his wife and sons, but it did not matter. He could recall the light on the glass.


  He told Stockton to knock on the door. The moment it was answered he pushed Stockton’s head inside, and then hit him on the side of the skull so hard he tripped and fell, rolling on his injured shoulder. He stayed motionless on the floor.

  Monk followed him in, slipping his own jacket off his left arm so his right sleeve hung over his hand. He seized the photograph off the desk and smashed it on the hard, wooden corner, shattering the glass. He picked up the longest, sharpest shard, using his coat sleeve to protect his palm, then he lunged behind the still gaping Fortridge-Smith.

  “Sorry,” he said as calmly as he could, his breath making the words jerky. “But I need to get out of here, and send someone back for Stockton. Either he murdered Habib Beshara, or he took money to let in the man who did. And I have no idea whether you were part of this or not. I can’t afford to take the chance.”

  “God Almighty, man! Are you insane?” Fortridge-Smith’s voice rose to falsetto with outrage. “I’ll have you arrested for this!”

  “We both have to get out of here alive first,” Monk replied, forcing the words between his teeth.

  “Then put down that damn piece of glass, before you slip and kill me with it!” Fortridge-Smith shouted.

  “Don’t waste time,” Monk told him bitterly. “We might not have it to spare. The prisoners have no love for either of us. It won’t matter to me who they blame for my death. I don’t know if it does to you—for your death, I mean.”

  Fortridge-Smith gulped. “You’ll not get out of here alive!”

  “In that case, neither will you,” Monk pointed out, giving the shard of glass a little nudge, enough to go through Fortridge-Smith’s jacket and nick the flesh.

  “All right! But I’ll see you pay for this!” Fortridge-Smith walked carefully over to the door. He opened it and peered out.

  “Take the key from the lock,” Monk ordered. “And lock it from the outside. We’ll send someone to let Stockton out.”

  Fortridge-Smith did as he was told. Then slowly they walked along the corridor to the entrance, nodding as they passed the guards on duty. One footstep after another, they went through into the outside air.

  Fortridge-Smith hesitated.

  “You realize that if the prisoners break my office door down, they could kill Stockton to stop him telling you who killed Beshara?” he said. “Then what will this insane action have cost you?”

  “Probably my job,” Monk replied. “And yours.”

  Fortridge-Smith tried to swing round, and earned another hard prick in the flesh. He swore in language that Monk was surprised he knew. It was ugly, and yet it made the man more human.

  “Perhaps it would be wise to move a little more sharply,” Monk told him. “Until we get some reinforcements.” Now he, too, was shaking beyond control. The very streets around him, the open air, the regular police constable, who had accompanied him to the gate earlier and was now walking purposefully toward them, were all more sane and beautiful than gardens full of flowers.

  The constable stopped. He looked from one to the other of them. “Everything all right, gentlemen?” He blinked, hesitated. “Commander Monk?”

  “Yes.” Monk’s voice was scratchy. “There’s been an unpleasantness at the prison. Governor Fortridge-Smith is coming with me to report the matter, and see a doctor. He had a slight injury. Not serious, but best to get it seen to.”

  “Yes, sir! And are you all right, sir?” the constable said with concern.

  Monk touched his ribs tenderly where he was still bruised from the ferry attack. He smiled with absurd gratitude. “Yes, I’m perfectly fine, thank you.”

  IN THE SHORT TIME until the trial of Gamal Sabri began, Monk questioned Stockton over and over, and gained from him very little of value. He described the man who paid him to allow a visit to Beshara, but his account was so general it could have applied to thousands of people.

  “Between twenty-five an’ thirty, I reckon,” Stockton said. “But the light were bad. Could ’ave bin morning. Stubble on ’is chin. That makes yer look different. ’Bout my weight, I’d say.”

  Monk estimated Stockton to be a couple of inches short of six feet.

  Stockton added, “Kind o’ greasy ’air, cut short.”

  “Color?” Monk said without hope.

  “Brown. Medium brown. Blue eyes, I think.”

  “In fact an average Englishman,” Monk concluded. “I suppose he was English? He wasn’t Welsh, or Scots was he? Or perhaps Irish?”

  “Can’t say.” Stockton shook his head. “Looked like hell, but he spoke like a gentleman. ’Course that could ’ave bin put on. Mimic, like.”

  “But you took his money and let him in to see Beshara, and murder him. Oddly gullible, for a prison guard,” Monk said sarcastically.

  “That’s a fault,” Stockton said with mock contrition. “Not a crime. P’raps I should get a different employment?”

  “You’ll be employed breaking rocks for a good few years,” Monk said tartly. “Unless they think you killed Beshara yourself.”

  “Then I’ll get a medal!” Stockton said with a sneer.

  “Then I’ll see you hang!” Monk snapped. He stood up and went to the door. He turned before he opened it. “If this man who killed Beshara really exists, are you supposing he did it in revenge for the sinking of the Princess Mary?”

  “ ’Course,” Stockton replied. “Wot else?”

  “How about to make sure of his silence?” Monk suggested.

  The color bled out of Stockton’s face.

  “Watch your back,” Monk said softly, and went out of the door, closing it behind him.

  CHAPTER

  17

  RATHBONE SAT BEHIND BRANCASTER at the Old Bailey, as the Central Criminal Court in London was known. Last time he had been here, he himself had been in the dock. Brancaster had defended him, with courage, eloquence, and, now and then, flares of brilliance.

  In the past Rathbone had appeared here as a barrister, sometimes prosecuting and at others defending. Now he was merely an observer, an assistant to Brancaster without the right to address the court at all. It was a strange feeling, as if he were not quite real to those who were part of the proceedings.

  The jury had been chosen and sworn in. The court had begun proceedings with Lord Justice Antrobus presiding. He was a lean man, ascetic, with a quick mind and a dry sense of humor. He was perceived as a man who relied on his intellect more than his heart. Rathbone, though, had seen the rarely shown side of him that was capable of compassion, and deep anger at those times when the law was unable to punish cruelty. He had warned Brancaster of Antrobus’s nature, but he wondered now if he had done so with sufficient vehemence.

  Brancaster was on his feet addressing the judge and jury. He must be acutely aware of the crowded gallery, the journalists, and the vast mass of men and women beyond the building, who would know only what the newspaper headlines told them.

  Rathbone watched with his body clenched, his hands rigid in his lap. Would Brancaster judge well how to press his case? Would he horrify people too much, or just enough? Or might he allow them to become complacent that justice had already been done, and they should not question it now?

  “The crime of sinking the Princess Mary, and drowning nearly two hundred human beings, is a terrible one,” Brancaster was saying. He spoke quietly, but his voice carried in the silent room. Everyone was looking at him.

  “We have lived with this knowledge for several months now,” he continued. “We had been led to believe that the man responsible for it was in prison, ill, and possibly dying, in some degree of pain.”

  He waited for the effect of his remark and looked at the faces of the jurors. “Twelve good men, like yourselves, had been presented with evidence and reached that conclusion.” He took a long breath. “I am now here to tell you that they were given only part of the evidence: Some evidence was misguided, some incomplete, some was false, possibly deliberately so. I will ask you to reach a different conclusion.”
/>   At the defense table, Pryor dropped a piece of paper and bent to retrieve it. His movement broke the spell.

  Brancaster smiled. “Gentlemen, it seems I have startled my learned friend for the defense to the point where he let his work fall onto the floor.” He looked at Pryor. “I hope you did not get ink on your clothes?”

  Everyone, even those in the gallery, turned to look at Pryor again. There was a slight titter of amusement.

  Pryor flushed. “Not at all,” he said sharply.

  Brancaster resumed his remarks to the jury.

  “I shall ask you to reach a different conclusion,” he repeated. “Not necessarily that Habib Beshara was a nice man, or innocent of all wrongdoing, but that he was not guilty of the crime with which he was charged. Indeed, that he could not have been. Whether he was implicated at all in this tragedy is another matter, and not one for us to decide today.”

  He became suddenly very grave. “There is also another very serious question that you will inevitably face, and that is, what happened that we were so disastrously wrong in our earlier judgment? How many people lied? Was it simply a series of errors? Or was there corruption?”

  Pryor was fuming. He was close to the point where his outrage would erupt into words, inappropriate as that would be.

  Brancaster went on, “This is not a legal question for you to address, but these thoughts will come into your mind. It is impossible to avoid them. Is our legal system so totally flawed that this could happen? Do you fear that you yourself, or someone you love, could be falsely accused and convicted of a crime, and no one but you will know their innocence until it is too late?”

  “My lord!” Pryor could bear it no longer.

  “Mr. Brancaster,” Antrobus said quietly, “I think you are a trifle ahead of yourself. Mr. Pryor may well be going to suggest such things, but you do him an injustice to assume so in advance.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Brancaster agreed. It was not difficult to concede; he had already made his point. He resumed his address to the jury.

  “We shall show you how this crime was committed using evidence you can see: physical objects rather than people’s recollections from what must have been one of the worst nights of their lives. We will not ask terrified and bereaved people to remember what they saw or heard. We know that they must have been suffering appallingly.”