Blood on the Water

by Anne Perry

  The doctor had come immediately. On seeing York still lying on the sitting-room floor, apparently in some sort of coma, the doctor had had him carried gently and carefully to his own room. When the doctor had heard more of the story, York had been taken to a private clinic.

  Rathbone had stayed to be of whatever assistance he could. He felt foolish, perhaps intrusive, but he could not leave Beata alone to watch over what might very well be York’s last journey from his own home to a place where he could be cared for, and perhaps from which he might never emerge.

  Dr. Melrose could offer no prognosis. He was at a loss, and he had more dignity than to lie about it. Beata seemed to be grateful for that. At her insistence, he also looked at the angry red weal on Rathbone’s shoulder and across his cheek. He glanced at the cane still lying on the floor but he did not ask Rathbone what had occurred. Perhaps York had lost his temper before and Melrose already knew it.

  Rathbone was cold at the thought of what Beata might have endured, and forced the imaginings from his mind—not for his own sake, but for hers. If York had indeed struck her, she should be able to believe that Rathbone had no idea.

  There was nothing to say beyond the formal words that filled the awkward silence. He had met her eyes once, and knew that she understood at least something of his feelings.

  She answered with a tiny smile. It was not yet time for anything else.

  It was after midnight when he left. He wished he could do something to help, but was certain that there was nothing yet, except to be discreet. He would speak to no one, not even Monk or Hester, about the blow York had struck him, or the convulsion of rage he had seen. But he could not remove from York’s memory, and also Beata’s, the knowledge of York’s misconduct in the trial of Beshara. That was an abuse of the law, even if they attributed it to York’s ill-health, and it must be faced.

  Accordingly he was at Brancaster’s chambers before Brancaster was there himself, and was waiting for him as he arrived. The morning was warm with the still, faintly dusty tiredness of late summer, when the air longs for the cleanness of autumn, the edge of frost, crisp leaves underfoot and the sharp tang of woodsmoke on the wind. The gardens would be bright again with the purple of Michaelmas daisies and the gold of late-blooming chrysanthemums.

  Brancaster looked at Rathbone’s face, started to speak, then sensed the gravity in him and waited.

  Rathbone followed him inside and set his case of documents down on the floor. “We have sufficient for a reversal, I believe,” he said very quietly. “If we cannot be sure of a conviction then we may have to use it. If we lose, Sabri cannot be charged again.”

  An expression of relief crossed Brancaster’s face, and yet none of the tension slipped away from the body. His shoulders were still tight as if he could hardly draw a full breath, and his eyes did not leave Rathbone’s face.

  “York will fight hard,” he said grimly.

  “He won’t fight at all,” Rathbone answered, and the words sounded odd to his own ears. “He has had a seizure and I’m not sure he will recover. Certainly he will not be in a position to defend himself.” Briefly he gave Brancaster the details of the errors he had found in the rulings. He gave only the facts, as if he were presenting a case to a jury. He said nothing of mercy, professional honor, the reputation of justice or the law. He trusted that Brancaster would know it all without the necessity of words. No discipline under the law could equal in darkness, confusion, and disgrace what York’s own raging mind had done to him already.

  For several seconds Brancaster said nothing. His face reflected many emotions. Then anger and pity gave way to a kind of desperation.

  “Even if we overturn the verdict against Beshara, we still have to prove Sabri guilty,” he pointed out. “How can I give the jury any confidence that we have the faintest idea what we are doing?” He clenched his fist as if he wished to strike at something, but there was nothing deserving of his anger, nothing to direct it against, so he was left standing there helplessly. “Why?” he demanded, suddenly.

  “Why what? Why York?” Rathbone asked.

  “Why any of them?” Brancaster replied, his voice rasping. “Why was Camborne so diligent in prosecuting a case he must have known was flawed? He’s a damn good lawyer. He can’t have missed the holes in it, even if Juniver did.” His eyes searched Rathbone’s, as if he should have the answer.

  Rathbone had heard from Hester how passionate Camborne had been. At the time he had considered that the horror of the case fueled a natural outrage. Now he wondered, reading York’s decisions and how harsh they had been against Juniver, if there had been more to it than that. Was it possible Camborne had also had some personal interest in it, a gain or a loss?

  “And why is Pryor so dedicated to preserving the first verdict?” he said to Brancaster. “What stake has he in it? It’s gone far beyond trying to defend the reputation of the law. Is he trying to gain higher office? To be a judge? He loves the battle too much merely to preside, for all its apparent power.”

  “Apparent?” Brancaster asked wryly.

  Rathbone shrugged, yielding the point. “Then what?”

  Brancaster let out his breath slowly. “Hatred.”

  Rathbone was startled and then seized with a coldness inside.

  “Of whom?”

  “Of you,” Brancaster replied. “There may be other incentives. I still have no idea what’s really behind this whole thing. As we keep saying, we can only conclude he was paid, but we have no idea why, or by whom.”

  “We shouldn’t have to prove that to get a verdict,” Rathbone answered, but he wished he felt more certain of it. He did not argue that Pryor had no personal hatred of him. He simply had not realized it was so deep. The man’s vanity was more easily wounded than he thought, his visions of glory too bright.

  “And Lydiate,” Brancaster continued. “He was forced into taking the investigation in the beginning, and perhaps also into conducting it a certain way. But he’s not a fool. He couldn’t have missed so much.”

  Rathbone felt the weight of this case settle even more heavily on him, as if he were hemmed in on every side. He looked at Brancaster, seeing in him also the signs of weariness, fear, even surrender.

  Brancaster smiled bleakly, as if Rathbone had spoken it aloud. “It could cost us dear,” he said softly.

  “Cost you,” Rathbone pointed out. “I have no office, and I’m honestly not sure what chances I have of being allowed back in the future. I wish I could take the risks for you, but I’ve denied myself that.”

  Brancaster gave a short bark of laughter. “I’ve always admired you. I even wanted to be like you. It rather looks as if I still do. I’m following this to the end. Give me the papers on York.” He put out his hand.

  Rathbone passed the case to him, yielding it reluctantly, even though it was what he had come to do. He was giving control of it to someone else, along with what was left of York’s reputation, and the silence that might save at least something of it for Beata.

  WHEN THE TRIAL RESUMED about two hours later, Brancaster rose to his feet. His body was tense. He looked utterly different from the man Rathbone had left in his chambers a little after eight.

  “My lord,” Brancaster began before Pryor had a chance to call his first witness of the day.

  Rathbone stiffened also, feeling his breath catch in his throat. Why was Brancaster speaking already? It was inappropriate to introduce the evidence on York in this way. He should have spoken to Antrobus first, privately. What was the matter with him?

  Antrobus raised his eyebrows and held up his hand to silence Pryor, who was now also on his feet, his face set in anger.

  “This had better be important, Mr. Brancaster,” Antrobus warned.

  Rathbone even considered standing as well, then realized with a sick knot in his stomach that he had no more right or power here than any other person sitting in the gallery. This was the real bitter cost of his action in the Taft case, and he had brought it upon himself. Now all
he could do was sit here in silence and watch Brancaster lose the biggest case of his life. He had given away his own weapons, and lost all the good he could have done.

  “It is, my lord,” Brancaster said quietly. “And I apologize for doing this at such short notice, but I received vital news only this morning, or I would have presented it to you, and to the defense, at a more fortunate time.”

  “My lord,” Pryor protested, “this is preposterous! The prosecution is desperate and is putting on an ill-considered and—”

  “Mr. Pryor!” Antrobus said sharply. “Am I the only one here who is unaware of what Mr. Brancaster is going to say?”

  Pryor was caught on the wrong foot. “No, my lord … I … I am speaking of his melodramatic …” He stopped. Antrobus’s stare would have turned a glass of water to ice.

  Rathbone buried his face in his hands, and no one took the slightest notice of him.

  “Mr. Brancaster?” Antrobus’s voice was polite and knife-edged.

  Brancaster swallowed. “Yes, my lord. I have a new witness who has just come forward. Unfortunately illness prevented his being aware of the value of his information, but his testimony explains all those aspects of the tragic sinking of the Princess Mary that have confused the issue until now.”

  Pryor threw his hands up in disgust. “For heaven’s sake! This exhibition of—of gamesmanship is absurd, and offensive! Two hundred people died in—”

  “Four hundred people were murdered!” Brancaster shot back at him. “And British justice was held up to ridicule, like blind men chasing each other in the dark!”

  “Two hundred!” Pryor snapped. “For God’s sake, man, sober up! You are behaving like something out of a seaside farce!”

  Antrobus glared at him. “I know you are an ambitious man, Mr. Pryor, but you will not yet usurp my place in this court. I decide what is evidence and what is not.”

  The scarlet blood washed up Pryor’s face, but he was wise enough not to argue this time.

  Antrobus looked gravely at Brancaster. “Was that a highly unfortunate slip of the tongue, sir? Or are you aware of something that we are not?”

  “I am aware, my lord, of something that the rest of the court is not,” Brancaster replied respectfully. “And I would like to call Major Richard Kittering to the stand to testify of it. I have his particulars here, which I will pass to your lordship, with your permission. And a copy for Mr. Pryor. If you would prefer to adjourn while …”

  Antrobus held out his hand.

  Brancaster picked up the papers on the table and gave them to the waiting usher.

  Rathbone held his breath. What on earth was Brancaster playing at? Who was Kittering? And why now? He turned in his seat to look around the gallery. Was Monk here? He could not see him, but Hester caught his eye almost immediately. She was sitting in a seat next to the aisle, and she watched Brancaster as if he were the only man in the room.

  There was utter silence while Antrobus read the papers, then looked up.

  “You say this witness was unavailable earlier, at the time you were presenting the case against the accused?”

  “Yes, my lord. He was injured in the Middle East, and invalided home. He has come, at some cost to himself, and with the assistance of an ex-army nurse who served in the Crimea with Miss Nightingale. It was she who sought him out and made him aware of the value of his knowledge. His testimony will explain the whole, terrible tragedy. I cannot believe that there is any honest person in this room who would not wish that, my lord.”

  “We will adjourn for one hour, and give Mr. Pryor the opportunity to prepare such rebuttal as he can,” Antrobus declared.

  “That will not be sufficient,” Pryor said immediately. “I have no idea who this Kittering is or what he may say. I object to his testimony altogether.” He swiveled round to face Brancaster, his lips drawn back in a snarl. “But I can take an educated guess as to who the nurse is who went searching for him, and now suddenly presents him to the court, without warning. That will be Mrs. Monk, wife of Commander Monk from whom the case was taken in the beginning. She is well known, very well known indeed, to Sir Oliver Rathbone!” He let the words hang in the air as if they were some withering, poisonous fumes.

  Rathbone’s hands were clenched so tightly he was shaking. He felt the breath rasp in his chest. Pryor had to be right: It was beyond coincidence. Had Hester brought Kittering to Brancaster this morning, between the time Rathbone had left and the beginning of today’s hearing?

  “Mr. Brancaster?” Antrobus’s temper was wearing thin. “Mr. Pryor has a degree of right on his side.”

  Brancaster drew in his breath, held it a second, then let it out slowly.

  “Yes, my lord. It was Mrs. Monk who brought me word of the information Major Kittering possessed. I have checked it as far as I am able, and I believe it to be accurate, and extremely relevant. And of course I checked that Major Kittering is exactly who he says he is, and of an office of high standing and exemplary record.”

  Rathbone stared at him in disbelief. What on earth was he thinking he could achieve, at this late date?

  “My lord, Major Kittering served in Egypt,” Brancaster continued. “In the area of the new canal from Suez to the Mediterranean. He has personal knowledge of an incident that may be the beginning of this story. I do not believe Mr. Pryor will find anything he wishes to rebut.” He stopped abruptly.

  Pryor was on his feet again, his face twisted in fury. “My lord, this is a last-minute trick of Sir Oliver Rathbone and Commander Monk to try to take control of the case and set the law at mockery and disrepute! A court has already found another man guilty of this monstrous crime, and sentenced him to death for it. The conduct of the case was taken from Commander Monk and the River Police because of its magnitude, and out of vanity Monk is now seeking revenge, even at the cost of the honor of the law.”

  Antrobus’s face darkened, but Pryor would not be stopped.

  “I can call many witnesses, my lord, who will testify to Commander Monk’s past reputation for arrogance and disregard for his superiors. He was dismissed from the Metropolitan Police and is now seeking revenge on them. He has no compunction in trying to destroy the reputation of Sir John Lydiate because he is a man who does not forget a grudge, and is bitterly jealous of a dignity and office he cannot attain himself.”

  “That is a door you would be very ill-advised to open, Mr. Pryor,” Antrobus said curtly. “It is wide enough to allow all through it, yourself included. The privilege of seeking for the defense does not allow you to slander officers of the law. Do I have to remind you that your evidence must be not only provable, but also relevant? Do you wish to call Mrs. Monk regarding her acquaintance with Major Kittering?”

  “I have no knowledge of it,” Pryor said bitterly. “It could be anything at all!” He spread his hands wide in a hopeless gesture. “She was an army nurse, I am told. For God’s sake, that could mean anything! She is no doubt acquainted with scores of soldiers—even hundreds!”

  Rathbone nearly shot to his feet, but Brancaster did so first.

  “My lord, if Mr. Pryor wishes me to call Mrs. Monk then I will do so. But he would do well to take heed of your lordship’s warning. Slander is a very wide door indeed—but not wide enough to wreck the reputation and honor, indeed the nation’s gratitude, to the women who served with Miss Nightingale in the Crimea, sharing the desperate hardships of our men there and caring for the sick and the wounded …” Pryor made a choking sound in his throat, but swallowed back the protest as he gagged on it. The jurors were staring at him, eyes wide, and there was a sharp rustle in the gallery as people stiffened to attention.

  “Very well. Call your witness now, Mr. Brancaster,” Antrobus ordered. “But if you abuse your privilege I shall rule against you.”

  “Yes, my lord. Thank you.” Brancaster relaxed visibly, relief flooding up his face.

  Pryor returned to his seat with an ill grace, biding his time.

  There was a buzz of excitement as Branca
ster called Major Richard Kittering. The doors opened and Kittering, lean, gaunt, walking slowly and with the aid of crutches, made his way to the witness stand.

  Antrobus leaned forward. “Major Kittering, would you prefer to give your evidence from the floor, sir? There is no need for you to climb up to the witness stand. The steps are somewhat awkward. If you care to sit, a chair can be brought.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Kittering replied. “I shall stand as long as I am able.”

  Antrobus nodded. “Mr. Brancaster, perhaps you will keep your examination as brief as you may, and still serve your purpose.”

  “My lord.”

  Kittering was sworn in and Brancaster came into the body of the floor, speaking respectfully as to a man who had earned the right to it. He established Kittering’s military record and the regiment in which he had served, that he had been wounded in Egypt and had returned to England earlier in the year.

  “Are you acquainted with the accused, Gamal Sabri?” Brancaster asked.

  “No, sir, not personally.”

  “His family?” Brancaster enquired.

  Kittering’s face was stiff, as if he were controlling his inner pain only with difficulty. “No, sir, only by repute.”

  “Repute?”

  There was not a sound in the courtroom except for a woman coughing and instantly stifling it.

  “Yes, sir. My friend Captain John Stanley knew Sabri’s family …” Kittering’s voice faltered and he struggled to maintain his composure. His emotion was palpable in the room.

  “You use the past tense, Major Kittering,” Brancaster said gently. “He does not know them anymore?”