Blood on the Water

by Anne Perry

  “But your answer would have changed their understanding of what they were told,” Brancaster pointed out.

  Pryor rose to his feet, burning for the chance to attack.

  “My lord, Mr. Brancaster cannot know why the police did not ask Mr. Spiller, or what difference his answer might have made, if any at all. He is deliberately misleading the court.”

  “Ah, Mr. Pryor,” Antrobus said with no inflexion in his voice, “I am glad you are awake.” He turned to Brancaster. “You know better than that. You may give us facts, sir, and allow the jury to draw their own conclusion as to their importance or their meaning. Please do not oblige me to tell you that again.”

  “No, my lord,” Brancaster apologized. “I’m sorry.” Then he turned back to the witness stand. “Mr. Spiller, when the case was handed back to the Thames River Police, did anyone approach you then?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Hooper. I told him what I told you.”

  “Thank you.” Brancaster turned to Pryor.

  Pryor rose and immediately attacked Spiller, even as he was walking across the open area toward the witness stand.

  “You are known to the River Police?” he asked, his voice derisive.

  “ ’Course I am,” Spiller replied, but his body stiffened. “I work the river. It’s their job to know everyone on it.”

  “This is not a time for humor, Mr. Spiller,” Pryor snapped. “ ‘Known to the police’ is not a phrase meaning ‘acquainted with them socially.’ You have been a police informer on criminal matters, haven’t you?” He did not wait for Spiller to answer. “And one wonders how many criminal matters you did not inform them of!”

  “No, I haven’t!” Spiller said vehemently.

  “Indeed? So you know of criminal matters and did not inform the police?”

  Spiller was confused. “Yes …”

  “Yes or no?” Pryor demanded. “Make up your mind, sir!”

  Brancaster shot to his feet. “My lord! Every decent citizen reports criminal offences to the police. My learned friend is making it sound as if the witness is lying when the question is unclear. I myself no longer know what he means. There is a world of difference between a police informer and a citizen who reports a crime, and he is deliberately obscuring it.”

  Pryor turned back to Spiller. “Perhaps you can explain yourself so we can all understand?” he challenged him.

  “Only a fool works the river and don’t keep on the right side of the police,” Spiller replied, his face tight and angry.

  “My conclusion exactly,” Pryor said with a sneer. “And was helping them get their revenge on the Metropolitan Police for taking their case from them part of ‘keeping on the right side,’ Mr. Spiller?” He held up his hand as if to silence Brancaster, and even prevent Spiller replying. “I withdraw the question. I don’t wish to confuse you any further.” It was an insult, an implication that Spiller was lacking intelligence.

  Spiller flushed with humiliation, but he did not speak.

  The afternoon and the following day continued in the same vein. Brancaster called another ferryman who had been working the night of the explosion. He had not been questioned by Lydiate’s men either. He was a good witness, but Pryor attacked him also, and ended by leaving the man angry, which destroyed his value with at least some of the jurors.

  Rathbone could see it, and feel the advantage of Brancaster’s argument slipping away. Pryor had not disproved any facts, but he had managed to make it seem as if the new evidence was born of troublemaking, invented by men with their own grudges to exercise.

  “You live and work on the river, don’t you, Mr. Barker?” he said to the last witness Brancaster called.

  “Yes, sir,” Barker answered.

  “And to do that successfully, as you told us, you know the River Police and stay in their good books?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s natural.”

  “Of course it is. I’m sure the gentlemen of the jury will well understand the need to have the favor of the police, their help, from time to time, even their protection. Life on the water can be dangerous. As we know only too tragically, a man who falls into the Thames will be lucky to come out alive. It’s deep, its tides can be swift and erratic, its mud can hold a man fast. Its waters are enough to poison you, even if you can swim. And that does not take into account the thieves and pirates who infest the worse parts of it, the rotting slums, the wrecks, the marshes, places like Jacob’s Island. Of course you need the River Police as your friends. They are hard, skilled, and brave men, suited to their jobs. I imagine the weak don’t even survive! Thank you, Mr. Barker.”

  Rathbone looked at the jury’s faces. He saw the fear in them, the understanding of all that Pryor implied without ever crossing the line of propriety so Brancaster could interrupt him and break the spell.

  Rathbone stood up slowly as the court was adjourned. He found he was stiff, as though he had been sitting uncomfortably for a long time and he realized his body was aching from clenched muscles, and the inner effort to hold onto a victory that was sliding out of his grip.

  He glanced across at Pryor, and knew with bitter certainty that it was going to get worse.

  CHAPTER

  18

  HESTER WAS IN COURT the following day when Pryor began his defense of Gamal Sabri. The courtroom was respectfully silent. The jurors were wide awake and intensely interested. From her place in the gallery, Hester could see that many of them had now lost all certainty as to who was lying, mistaken, or driven by motives one could only guess at. Looking at them, studying their faces, she could see that this was not a situation that sat well with them. There were unanswered questions regarding the first trial. How could so many mistakes have been made, and then compounded? It was anxiety she saw, and rising fear. They glanced at one another and then away again hastily. They moved minutely as if unable to find a comfortable position.

  Hester had deliberately chosen a place from where she could see the accused man, though it was not a good view. She had to twist round and stare upward at the dock, which was at a considerable height above the main courtroom floor. She saw a dark, somber man with a narrow face. He was clean-shaven and smartly dressed. From her sideways view it seemed as if his eyes moved along the faces of the jurors, studying them, as she had been doing.

  Pryor stood up and also looked at the jury. He had been handsome in his youth, and now was slightly corpulent, but his white wig became him and he was immaculately dressed. His voice was excellent, an instrument to be played with skill.

  “Gentlemen,” he began gravely. “You are faced with some terrible decisions, and I am going to add to them. I am going to confirm to you just how muddled this whole case really is, how many mistakes have been made by men who may well have believed passionately that they were right—when in truth, they were not. So much you may already have gathered. I regret that not all errors were innocently made. There are rage, fear, self-preservation, and revenge, too.

  “No one here will suggest for an instant that the sinking of the Princess Mary was not a crime, in fact an atrocity the like of which we have not seen within our lifetime. Such horror can frighten people, warp judgment, and tear at the emotions until wisdom is lost. Men may think they are seeking justice, when in truth it is vengeance they want.

  “Is that understandable? Of course it is. It is only human to wish to see such brutal violence punished. Is it right? No, it is not. It is a blind reaction, born of pity and outrage: two very human passions that we all feel—indeed, we need them. It is part of our humanity that we should be racked with horror when such a nightmare occurs. What would you think of a man who felt no pity for the maimed and the drowning? You would judge him less than human!

  “What would you think of a society that was not outraged by such an act of barbarity? You would not want to own yourselves part of it.

  “Is it justice?”

  He gave a very slight shrug: a small gesture of his hands. “No. Justice requires understanding, and above all it requires tr
uth. Listen to the case I will present to you, and judge the truth. That is what you are sworn to do, and that is what people require of you. It is in your hands alone. You speak for all of us: the survivors, the bereaved, all men and women who hope for justice in the future.”

  Watching the jury, Hester saw the interest sharpen in their faces, the attitude of their bodies alter. They were leaning forward a little, keen, both frightened and proud to have such a burden placed upon them.

  She glanced up at Sabri and saw on his face what might have been a smile. Pryor had begun well. Who was paying him? He would be very expensive indeed. Unless, of course, he had some interest of his own in winning. Reputation? Old favor to repay, or new ones to earn? That might be worth someone’s investigation. Would Brancaster be able to find out? She must ask him. Or Oliver might know more.

  Pryor called his first witness. It was John Lydiate. He looked quiet and grave as he mounted the steps to the witness stand. There was apprehension in his face, and he gripped the rail so tightly the pale ridges of bone in his knuckles shone white. He swore to his name and occupation as commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. He promised to tell the truth, and the whole truth, and then faced Pryor as he would an execution squad.

  Hester felt profoundly sorry for him. He was about to have his most public failure examined in detail in front of the court. The fact that he must have expected it would be no comfort at all.

  “Sir John,” Pryor began courteously, “like all of us in London, possibly in all of England, you were aware of the atrocity against the Princess Mary and her crew and passengers right from the morning after the event. But since it occurred on the river, the investigation fell first to the Thames River Police to handle. When were you called to take over command of the investigation?”

  “Later that day,” Lydiate replied, his voice rasping a little as though his mouth were dry.

  “By whom?” Pryor asked.

  “Lord Ossett.”

  “Who had command of it up to that point?”

  “Commander William Monk, of the Thames River Police.”

  “I see. And did he yield this to you willingly? Perhaps he realized that this was beyond his power or experience?” Pryor suggested.

  Lydiate hesitated. The question had been phrased so that it was impossible to answer without seeming to condemn Monk.

  “Sir John?” Pryor raised his eyebrows.

  “He did not ask my help.” Lydiate chose his words. “The command was taken from him and given to the Metropolitan Police because of the delicacy of the situation. It was felt that the relatives of the foreign dignitaries who were killed might not appreciate the skill or experience of the River Police, and believe that we were taking the matter less seriously than we should. There was a degree of diplomacy required.”

  “So his command was removed from him without consultation?” Pryor concluded.

  Brancaster shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but there was nothing to which he could object without making the matter worse.

  Hester looked at Rathbone sitting behind Brancaster, and saw him stiffen. She wished she could see his face.

  Lydiate stared at Pryor.

  “I have no idea,” Lydiate replied. “I was not consulted. If I had been, I would have asked for the River Police’s cooperation.”

  “Indeed?” Pryor looked taken aback. “Would you not automatically have expected that? In view of the tragedy and horror of the event, the loss of life, I had imagined their cooperation would come as a matter of course.”

  Lydiate had stepped neatly into the trap prepared for him. He flushed hotly. “Commander Monk had already been into the wreck while it was still submerged, and gave us his report,” he said tartly. “Your suggestion that he in any way failed to cooperate is misinformed, sir, and does you no credit.”

  There was a rustle in the gallery, and one or two jurors nodded.

  “Very loyal of you,” Pryor said with approval, as if he had foreseen the reply. “Did you consult Mr. Monk again after that?”

  “He gave me his notes,” Lydiate answered. “They were sufficiently clear that contacting him again was unnecessary.”

  Pryor smiled, but his lips were tight across his teeth. “Loyal again. Or, on the other hand, a very gracious way of saying that you assumed complete command yourself and consulted no one else.”

  Hester saw that Brancaster was scribbling notes to himself. She had expected Pryor to attack Monk, but she still seethed with anger at the way he did it.

  “It is not!” Lydiate said sharply. “I consulted many other people, experts in several fields. Your suggestion is not only unfair, sir, it is incompetent.”

  There was a rustle of movement in the gallery, an awakening air of curiosity. The tone had become outright combative.

  Hester saw the judge look from Pryor to Lydiate, and back again. Was that a flicker of humor in his face? She looked up momentarily at Sabri and saw a smile of satisfaction cross his lips and then vanish.

  Pryor swallowed his temper with some difficulty.

  “Did these ‘other people’ that you say you consulted include members of the Thames River Police?”

  “Of course. The Princess Mary was sunk in the river,” Lydiate responded.

  There was a ripple of nervous laughter around the room but it died almost immediately.

  Antrobus leaned forward. “Mr. Pryor, if you have a purpose in all this, perhaps you would be good enough to reach it? Entertaining as it is, I do not feel this is the right setting for verbal wit, or the scoring of irrelevant points. We are all perfectly aware that the case was taken from the River Police and given to the Metropolitan Police. Then, after the trial and conviction of Mr. Habib Beshara, Commander Monk found evidence that threw another light on the subject, and was given the case back again. I imagine Mr. Brancaster will raise no objection to us all accepting that to be true?”

  Brancaster rose to his feet.

  “Thank you, my lord. That is indeed so.”

  Pryor flushed red, but he had no grounds to object, other than that he had been made to look as if he were using the trial as a grandstand for his own skills, rather than a solemn search for justice.

  He returned to questioning John Lydiate, but Hester knew that he would neither forgive nor forget the incident. He was calling Monk to the stand after Lydiate, and she found herself knotted up in tension in anticipation of it.

  “Sir John,” Pryor began, walking a little farther out into the open space of the courtroom, as if it were an arena, and he a gladiator facing barbarians, “many of us attended the trial of Habib Beshara, and we are aware of the evidence against him. Much of it rested on eyewitness accounts. Did you consider it valid at the time?”

  There was only one possible answer. To deny it would condemn his own skills and even his honesty.

  “I did. I know since—”

  “Thank you,” Pryor cut him off, holding up his hand as if to stop traffic. “Did you believe the lawyers and the judge in the court that tried Beshara to be honest men, and skilled in the law?”

  “Of course—” Lydiate made as if to continue.

  “Of course,” Pryor interrupted him. “If not, you would have said so at the time. Did you yourself believe Beshara to be guilty?”

  “Yes.” Lydiate’s face was also flushed. “If not, then I would not have charged him.”

  Pryor bit his lip. “Regardless of the newspapers crying out for action, and the pressure from the government, particularly the ministers most closely involved?”

  “Of course!” Lydiate’s answer was stiff, even angry.

  “Of course,” Pryor repeated in a tone so clear as to be almost mimicking. “I can take you through your evidence point by point, if the court believes it necessary—”

  “No, thank you, my lord,” Brancaster interrupted.

  “Just so,” Pryor nodded, and then turned back to Lydiate. “It was eyewitness testimony, you said, and less reliable than you had previously believed?”

 
; “Yes.”

  “And what kind of evidence was it that Mr. Monk found, and upon which we are now prosecuting Gamal Sabri?” Pryor asked gently.

  Lydiate’s face flushed so red it was hot even to look at.

  Hester felt for him. He had been maneuvered into an impossible situation. Even had he seen it coming, he had no room to evade it.

  “Eyewitness,” he said, his voice grating. “But of many people …”

  Pryor’s eyebrows rose. “Was not Habib Beshara also seen by many people? Did I misunderstand?”

  Lydiate must see his way was blocked in all directions. If he claimed they were expert, unbiased, not personally involved, not bereaved, then he implied that the victims were somehow less worthy or less honest. If he mentioned the physical evidence of the seahorse on the stern of the boat that both rescued the jumper from the Princess Mary, and tried to plow down, and thus kill, Monk and the ferryman, he seemed to be making excuses, and perhaps sabotaging Brancaster’s return cross-examination. He stood silent and miserable.

  Up in the dock, Sabri leaned forward a fraction, just a tiny movement, but to Hester it betrayed eagerness, even satisfaction.

  “Did I misunderstand, sir?” Pryor repeated insistently.

  Lydiate lifted his chin and stared back. “If you think that Beshara was in the Princess Mary just before it blew up, and that Gamal Sabri is innocent in this atrocity, then yes, I believe you did,” Lydiate replied. “At least I hope you did. I would prefer not to believe that you are knowingly trying to free the man who murdered almost two hundred people.”

  There was an instant’s absolute silence, and then a rush of sound from the gallery as Pryor swung around to the judge.

  “My lord!”

  His voice was drowned.

  Antrobus spoke above the roar. “I will have order! If there is not order restored immediately I will clear the court. You will not attend the rest of this trial! Is that understood?”

  The gallery held its peace, angry, rumbling, but too fascinated to risk being banished.