by Anne Perry
Monk felt as if they were making a certainty of the verdict against him.
Detail by detail McNab described the knowledge gained by the Customs service and the Wapping Station of the River Police concerning the schooner that was coming upriver with the smuggled guns.
Wingfield did not interrupt him except here and there, reluctantly and to clarify an issue, a time, a state of the tide. It was a good tactic. It made McNab seem uninvolved personally, and it emphasized all the points that were most telling.
“And who knew this exact time and place of the gun smuggling, Mr. McNab?” Wingfield asked gravely.
“I heard just before we left, sir,” McNab answered. “Mr. Pettifer arranged it. I don’t know if he told anyone else. He said to me that he didn’t.”
“And what happened, Mr. McNab?”
“The river pirates boarded the schooner, from the downriver side of the smugglers, within seconds of the River Police coming up the side and boarding from the west, the darker side.”
“One would presume that was the natural side to board?” It was a question for the jury’s benefit.
“Yes, sir. No one would be looking for pirates that way, at that time.”
“Indeed. And what happened, Mr. McNab?”
Would Rathbone object that McNab had not been there, and could only know from other people’s reports? There was no point. It would make Rathbone look to be out of control, grabbing at anything he thought could distract the jury from the increasingly obvious truth.
“There was a very nasty gun battle going three ways, sir,” McNab answered. “The schooner crew were locked below deck and breaking their way out through the hatch. The River Police were on the decks, and the pirates were swarming up the east side of the hull and onto the deck. They could then take advantage of the fact the River Police had locked the crew below and spent most of their ammunition, shooting at them as they tried to break out. And effectively they were marooned there because their own boats had gone when the pirates attacked. They were outnumbered and outgunned.”
“A desperate situation,” Wingfield said gravely. “What happened? How is it that Mr. Monk, and indeed Mr. Hooper, are still alive?”
“They were badly wounded,” McNab said, nodding his head slowly. “And one of them, Mr. Orme, Mr. Monk’s longtime friend and mentor, the man who brought him into the force, was killed. Very bad business. He bled to death.” He spoke with reverence, as if it were a grief to him also. “Mr. Monk did everything he could to save him, but he could not stop the bleeding. Mr. Hooper was injured also. In fact he is not long back on full duty. Mr. Laker, another young man of Mr. Monk’s, was badly hurt, too.”
“And this was all brought about by Mr. Pettifer’s betrayal to the river pirates?” Wingfield said with amazement. “Why was he not hanged for such a heinous act?”
“No, sir, he was not responsible. But for a time, before we could investigate it thoroughly, it did look like it.”
“Then whose fault was it?”
McNab bent his head in apparent sadness.
“A series of mischances, sir. The river pirates have men all over the place. Someone was not careful enough. I’m afraid it happens.”
“So Mr. Monk, convinced, as you yourself were for a while, that it was Mr. Pettifer, had a very powerful reason to hate him?” Wingfield said in the silence that followed.
Monk sat in the dock with his fists clenched, his teeth clamped so hard his whole head ached. He had never thought it was Pettifer. He knew damned well that it was McNab himself. And he knew why!
“Yes, sir. I’m afraid he did,” McNab said. “He also believed that Mr. Pettifer both drowned and shot Blount. Which of course he didn’t! But Mr. Monk became obsessive about it. That is why I believe he was determined to catch Owen himself. He thought there was some huge plan to rob one of the warehouses along the river. Blount was a forger, and Owen an expert in explosives. He thought they were planning, with a couple of other men, to rob Mr. Clive’s warehouse.”
“And were they?”
McNab was perfectly straight-faced. “Not that we are aware of, sir. Anyway, Blount is dead and we have good evidence that Owen escaped to France, thanks to Mr. Gillander’s assistance.”
Wingfield pursed his lips. “You said that Mr. Monk became obsessive about Mr. Pettifer, and his part in the fiasco of the battle with the gun smugglers. Can you give us an example of what you mean, so the court understands? Obsessive is a powerful word. It conjures up visions of unnatural behavior.”
McNab considered for a moment, as if he had been unprepared for this particular question. “Yes, sir,” he said at last. “He has gone over the evidence a number of times, at least four, and sent two of his own men, Mr. Hooper and Mr. Laker, to check on my personal movements leading up to the event.”
“Perhaps he is checking to see if he made any errors himself?” Wingfield suggested. “Or possibly that his own men did? He must carry a profound sense of guilt for Mr. Orme’s death, on top of his natural grief for a man who did so much for him.”
“He was looking for my men’s errors,” McNab said with contempt. “He knew it was Mr. Pettifer who was going after Owen because of the questions he asked my men about Blount. He got it into his head that there was some large conspiracy involving them, with two other people with high skills, and that Mr. Pettifer was the connection between them. It was frankly ridiculous!”
“Are you certain of this, Mr. McNab?”
McNab nodded. “Yes, sir. Mr. Aaron Clive knew about it because Mr. Monk thought it could have been a robbery planned against Mr. Clive’s warehouse, very near Skelmer’s Wharf. Mr. Gillander was part of it, too, at least in Mr. Monk’s mind.”
“I see. And who else has any proof of this…conspiracy?”
“No one, sir. I think it was all part of Mr. Monk’s revenge for Mr. Orme’s death. A shifting of the blame, if you like.”
“Thank you. And may I offer you my sympathies for the distress all this must have caused you?” Wingfield added.
“Thank you, sir,” McNab said humbly.
Monk was furious. He could feel the rage build up inside him, but he was helpless to do anything about it. He had to sit and listen in silence.
Rathbone rose to his feet and walked elegantly to the center of the open space in front of the witness stand as if it had been an arena. Every eye in the room was on him. It was the first time he had moved forward to join battle.
There was a sigh of anticipation around the gallery.
A juror coughed.
“Mr. McNab, you told the court that you have known Mr. Monk, on and off, for about sixteen years, is that right?”
“Yes, sir, I have.” McNab was totally unperturbed. This elegant lawyer with his smooth hair and calm, slightly smiling face did not bother him in the slightest.
“So you did not know him in his Californian days, which would be more like twenty years ago?”
“That’s right,” McNab agreed.
“You have never been to California? In fact you have never been off the shores of Britain, other than for a brief trip to France?” Rathbone continued.
McNab moved position very slightly. He did not like the question. It made him look unsophisticated, a man of narrow experience.
“When you first met Mr. Monk you said it was professionally rather than socially?” Rathbone went on.
“It was.”
“Your profession, or his?”
McNab swallowed. He looked steadily at Rathbone. “His,” he said at last. Rathbone would have checked anyway. McNab had not been in the Customs or the police at the time.
Rathbone nodded. “Just so,” he agreed. “A very tragic affair, I believe…”
Wingfield half-rose, then changed his mind and subsided again. Objecting would be futile, and he knew it. Better not to try than to be seen to try, and fail.
McNab’s face tightened, but he was not going to help.
Rathbone was far too wise to deliberately lose the sympathy
of the jury. “A crime in which your younger half brother, Robert Nairn, was involved, and for which he was hanged. You asked Mr. Monk to intercede for him, to plead for mercy. Mr. Monk did not do so. That is a very brief summary, but is it correct?”
McNab’s voice was tight as he agreed it was the truth. If he was trying to conceal his emotion, he did not succeed. It was palpable in the air, like a charge of electricity. His blunt, rather lumpy face was white and his shoulders bulged with the knotting of his muscles.
“And you have resented Mr. Monk ever since for that?” Rathbone sighed. “Misguided. Mr. Monk did not sentence Robert Nairn, nor had he the power to prevent the full execution of the law. But it is understandable. Your half brother paid for his crime with his life, and you with that grief, and that stain upon the rest of your life.”
McNab’s hand tightened on the rail till his knuckles shone white.
“It would be fair to say that you did not like Mr. Monk, would it not?” Rathbone was still calm, as if they were at a dinner table and the court were fellow guests around it.
“I hate him,” McNab agreed. He must have known that denying it would be hopeless. “Just like he hated Mr. Pettifer. Difference is, I didn’t kill Mr. Monk. Not that I wouldn’t be pleased if it had been the other way round, and Mr. Monk the one as drowned.”
“Thank you for your honesty, Mr. McNab,” Rathbone said politely. “It makes all this so much easier to understand. It must have been trying indeed to have a man of Mr. Monk’s skill and tenacity forever on your tail, after the gun battle and the death of Mr. Orme.”
McNab gave an exaggerated shrug. “I can live with it. He’s not as dangerous as he thinks he is.”
“But you did check to see if any of this big conspiracy theory of his was true?”
“Part of my job.”
Wingfield stood up. “My lord, we have already established all of this. My learned friend is wasting the court’s time.”
Rathbone looked at him with a flash of hope. “Then are you willing to agree that Mr. McNab himself, and with the assistance of Mr. Pettifer, very thoroughly investigated the entire possibility of a clever robbery planned against Mr. Aaron Clive and his warehouses and other premises along the riverbank?”
“Of course he investigated it,” Wingfield said. “And found nothing! Again, it is his job, and a courtesy to Mr. Clive that he was happy to afford.”
“Thank you.” Rathbone inclined his head in a tiny bow. “That would explain his frequent and private visits to Mr. Clive, and to Mrs. Clive, both at the warehouse and at their home.”
There was a hiss of indrawn breath around the room. Every man in the jury stiffened.
“Your point, Mr. Rathbone?” Mr. Justice Lyndon inquired with interest clear in his face.
Wingfield smiled. The jury was staring at Rathbone, and Wingfield and McNab relaxed visibly.
Monk felt a wave of fear run through him. Rathbone had no idea of a defense. He was fishing, and desperately.
Rathbone was still facing the judge. “My point, my lord, is that there is very much more to this case than has been apparent so far. It is something like an iceberg, with by far the largest part of it out of our view. I shall call witnesses who will tell us if Mr. McNab’s…shall we say extremely discreet…visits to Mrs. Clive at her home and their discussing events throw a very different light on the affair. I can, if necessary, call Mrs. Clive herself. The whole matter has roots far into the past, not only concerning the hanging of Mr. McNab’s unfortunate half brother.”
Now the court was electrified. In the witness stand McNab looked first one way, then the other, as if seeking escape. At least half the men and women in the gallery were staring at him.
Wingfield opened his mouth to protest, and then was uncertain as to what he meant to say.
Monk turned to the warden next to him. “I wish to speak to my lawyer. It is urgent.” What the hell was Rathbone playing at?
“I’ll see he’s told,” the warden replied. He was a fair man, and his attitude made it clear he had no particular affection for customs officers. He had said more than once that he liked his tobacco and resented the duty he paid on it.
“My lord!” Wingfield had decided on his action.
Lyndon looked at him.
“I would like to ask for an adjournment to speak to my witnesses, Mr. and Mrs. Clive, regarding this extraordinary claim from Sir Oliver. I believe he is wasting the court’s time, but I need to prepare to meet his…tactics, all the same.”
Rathbone made no objection, and the judge granted the request.
—
FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER MONK was alone in the room where accused people were permitted to speak privately with their lawyers.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded, fear almost choking his words. “If you question Clive, or Miriam, they’ll accuse me of having killed Piers Astley! And God help me, I don’t even know if I did. I can’t deny it.” He could hear the hysteria in his own voice, and it was slipping out of control. This was worse than when he had thought himself guilty of killing Joscelyn Gray. Gray had at least deserved it. He had perpetrated one of the most vile and destructive pieces of deception on the grieving families of the dead from the Crimean War. He had been beaten to death, but he had deserved to hang. Piers Astley had been, by all accounts, a particularly honorable man, not only respected but deeply liked by almost everyone who knew him.
And, unlike the time of Gray’s death, when Monk had little in his own life he cared for enough to mourn its loss, now he had everything on earth to live for. Above all he had Hester, a woman he loved with every part of himself. He had a home, a family, friends, a job that was worth doing, and people who trusted him. He wanted to live, with a fierce and consuming hunger, a passion! He wanted to be all that they believed of him.
Rathbone was pale, but he seemed more composed than he had any right to be. This was his professional face. Monk wanted to hit him.
“I am beginning to see a shape to this,” Rathbone said quietly. “Even the motive makes no sense—”
“I know that!” Monk snapped at him. “McNab couldn’t have known Pettifer would drown….”
“Be quiet and listen!” Rathbone ordered. “We haven’t time to waste. Of course he couldn’t. It was an opportunity he seized…brilliantly. Which means he must have had some other plan before that.”
Suddenly Monk saw a thread of light, as thin as spider silk. “And changed when he saw a better chance!” he said.
“Exactly,” Rathbone agreed. “I need to find that other plan, and trace it back, then show its foundations, how McNab built on it, and when and how he changed. I think Miriam Clive knows about it.”
“To do with Piers Astley? She won’t tell—”
“I don’t intend to give her a choice,” Rathbone said, cutting him off. “I believe that first plan was to make a fool of you, send you after this great robbery plot, which never existed. Done well enough, it would have made you look like a laughingstock. But then when Pettifer died, obligingly at your hand, McNab abandoned that and took up the idea of your revenging yourself on Pettifer for Orme’s death. It’s very neat. I may have to unravel the whole issue of Astley’s death and Miriam Clive’s plans to have you solve it in order to expose him.”
“And get me hanged for Astley’s death?” Monk said bitterly.
“You didn’t kill Astley,” Rathbone assured him. “Miriam knows who did. She hoped you would help her prove it. Now she knows you can’t remember, so it has to be done another way.”
“If I take the stand I’ll have to admit I can’t remember!” Monk took a deep breath. “Still…I suppose losing my job is better than losing my life…”
“Monk, just be quiet and do as you’re told!” Rathbone stood up. “Just…just believe in me. And in the rest of us…”
“Hester…?”
“We’re all working: Hester, Scuff, Crow, Squeaky Robinson…even Worm.”
Rathbone reached the door just as the guard
unlocked it from the other side. He turned and looked at Monk for a moment, then went out.
“C’mon,” the guard ordered, glaring at Monk where he stood. “They don’t want you no more for now.”
BEATA HAD INQUIRED AT the clinic in Portpool Lane when they expected Hester, and she had gone there deliberately at that time, first to help with the work she was able to do, such as checking on supplies and funds, and generally assisting Claudine Burroughs, but more urgently to her, to see Hester herself.
Beata could barely imagine the despair she must be feeling, but perhaps there was practical help she could offer. Providing a carriage that Hester could use whenever she wished would be swifter and pleasanter, especially in this weather, than her having to take an omnibus.
More important than that, she could tell Hester of the memories she had of San Francisco, of Monk, and the truth Miriam had finally told her about Aaron Clive. Surely that could not be unconnected with Piers Astley’s death? Hester’s imagination and understandings might show her something Beata had not thought of.
They spoke quietly in the huge kitchen in the clinic. Breakfast was over and it was not yet time for lunch. They sat at the main worktable and had a cup of tea.
Hester listened intently, repeating what Beata told her to be sure she had grasped it properly.
“Yes,” Beata agreed, looking at Hester and seeing fear in her eyes. “Miriam knows what happened, and that Monk had nothing to do with it.”
“And her revenge on Clive?” Hester almost whispered the words, as if the emotion of it overwhelmed her. She was imagining Miriam’s pain as if it had been her own. The pain of losing Monk to the hangman was as deep within her so she could barely fail to understand.
“It will have to wait,” Beata said without hesitation. She could not tell Hester how she had hated Ingram, how easily she could share the feeling of helpless loathing. The shame of that still burned her for what she had permitted York to do to her. “I hope she gets it,” she went on. “But not at the cost of Monk’s life, no matter how dearly she deserves it.”