Revenge in a Cold River

by Anne Perry

  Hester had faced dangers and grief Beata could not imagine, physical privation and overwhelming loss in the Crimea, countless men she could not save, and she had survived it. But now she looked so terribly vulnerable, Beata ached for her. She had no faith in the justice of the law now. Perhaps she was right.

  Beata finished her tea and Hester poured more, then realized they needed milk. She stood to fetch it, then clearly forgot where she had put the jug. She was confused because she was angry, angry because she was frightened.

  She found the jug and picked it up. Her hand slipped and it fell to the floor and smashed. She used language she must have learned in the army, and blushed scarlet when she realized Beata must have been startled.

  Beata stood up, forcing herself to smile quite calmly. It was the depth of Hester’s distress that shook her, not the words.

  “I’ve heard that, and worse, in the goldfields,” she assured her. She bent to pick up the shards of the jug then fetched a cloth from the sink to mop up the milk. Hester stood helpless, for a moment like a lost child, the tears filling her eyes.

  Beata threw away the shards, washed out the cloth, and put it down. She went back to Hester and abandoned all propriety and the issues that might have stood between them, real or imaginary. She put her arms around Hester, very gently, and held her.

  “We will win,” she promised, to herself as much as to Hester. “We will not let this happen…whatever we have to do!”

  —

  IT WAS A WILD thing to have said, and she was acutely conscious of it when Rathbone called that evening. Of course it was a complete impropriety, but she had asked him to come, sending a note to his chambers. She must tell him all she knew and make certain he understood that she was prepared to testify, if it would help. And he must force Miriam to speak, if she did not do so willingly. She suggested that if the indiscretion worried him, for his own sake or for hers, that he come through the back entrance, like a messenger or a servant.

  He did so, and was in the withdrawing room a little after nine o’clock. Outside, the rain lashed the windows and wind rattled branches against the glass.

  Rathbone was so tired his skin was shadowed around his eyes and even his hair was untidy, falling forward where he had run his fingers through it over and over.

  “Miriam must be persuaded to testify that Aaron killed Piers,” Beata said quietly.

  “She can’t help, my dear. There is a man who swore an affidavit at the time to say that Aaron Clive was with him at the assay office in San Francisco, forty miles from where Astley was shot,” he pointed out.

  “Roger Belknap,” she agreed. “I know. Actually Belknap was charged with another crime, a robbery, and he was found not guilty because Aaron swore they were together at the assay office.”

  “Does it matter now? Belknap’s testimony stood.”

  “Because Aaron, whom everybody trusted, swore for him,” she said. “Of course he did! Because effectively, Belknap was swearing for Aaron.”

  He stared at her, blinking as if his eyes were too tired to see clearly. “Are you saying Aaron actually killed Piers himself? Why? He had any number of men who would have done it for a few dollars!”

  “And have been in their power forever after…unless he killed them, too,” she pointed out. “And Piers was very well liked. He ran a great deal of Aaron Clive’s business. He was a sort of ‘first lieutenant.’ ”

  “So Clive lost his closest friend when his cousin died, and his next closest when Astley was killed?” Rathbone asked.

  “And gained the most beautiful woman on the Barbary Coast as his wife,” Beata added.

  He drew in breath to reply, then changed his mind.

  She laughed for the first time since the trial began. “You were going to say that that was hardly a good bargain!” Her amusement was quite open. “Very wise you didn’t.”

  “I suppose she is beautiful,” he replied, a little too reluctantly. “It wouldn’t matter that much to me. I prefer the beauty from inside that shines through any kind of bone structure or coloring.” He looked at her more intently. “But you are certain of what you say? Please be absolutely honest. If I base my strategy on that, it will be disastrous if you are mistaken.”

  “She knows it, Oliver. She told me so herself. What actually happened is a complete change in direction from McNab’s original plan. His first idea for revenge on Monk for Nairn’s death was quite different. It was based on a hoax robbery of Clive’s business, but in the meantime he drew Miriam in to find out what he could about Monk in San Francisco, hoping to discredit him. Then Pettifer drowned and McNab saw a chance to link that with Piers Astley’s murder, showing Monk to be an undoubted killer. He and Miriam exchanged information about Astley’s death and about Monk, who she thought might help her. She isn’t proud of it, but Astley’s death had consumed her, and her growing need to find the truth had driven out everything else. Gillander brought her the evidence only relatively recently,” Beata explained. “She had hoped Monk could help her discover the truth, but of course if he ever knew anything he’s forgotten it now, along with everything else.”

  “And McNab waited because he didn’t dare attack Monk until he knew he was vulnerable,” Rathbone said grimly. “It’s…” He could not find a word that suited his thought.

  “Going to be difficult,” she finished for him.

  “Please God, that’s all it is!” he said gravely.

  She had already made her decision. Now she must tell him, with whatever decisions followed from it.

  “I will testify, if you wish. But I am not sure what weight will be attached to it.”

  “I understand that you prefer not to—” he began.

  “No, Oliver, you don’t,” she interrupted him. “I am perfectly willing to testify, for Monk, and for Hester’s sake. But you know very little of my time in San Francisco. There are things I haven’t told you, because I am ashamed of them.” She breathed slowly and steadied herself. “Part of the reason I came home again to England was that my father died. I didn’t tell you how. For a while he did very well financially. Then he started to gamble. By the time he died he was in great difficulty. He…he cheated at cards, and was caught. He was shot in a bar brawl that was started because he was caught palming cards. It was a scandal at the time. I was a widow, so I didn’t have the same name, but everyone knew I was his daughter.”

  She thought she could get through it all in a flat, clear voice, and without crying, but the tears were thick in her throat now.

  “I’m sorry,” she added. “It’s not very pleasant. Perhaps I should have told you before, but I didn’t think I would ever have to.”

  “You don’t have to apologize,” he said quietly.

  “Yes, I do. Aaron Clive knows, and if my evidence is unpleasant to him, you can be certain he will raise it.”

  “Does that mean you would prefer not to testify?”

  She looked up at him. “No, it does not! I shall testify if I can say anything of use. I’m…I’m part of this!” It was a statement of belonging, made with anger because she desperately wanted it to be true.

  He slid his hand over hers, very gently. “I know you are. And I want you always to be. As soon as you tell me it is decent to do so, I shall ask you to marry me. And I shall continue to argue the case until you accept me.”

  She wanted to make some charming, graceful reply, even one that was mildly amusing. Instead of which, she could only be totally serious.

  “I think when Monk is safe, and free, we must wait a few months before we speak of it to anyone else, but we may be agreed between ourselves,” she said gravely, but with a smile so gentle and so filled with hope he could not have mistaken her emotions.

  “Then I had better renew my efforts,” he said softly. “We must win.”

  —

  THE TRIAL RESUMED LATER in the morning. The judge warned Rathbone that he would be required to make good in his extraordinary remarks of the day before. The court would take a very s
erious view of statements given purely for dramatic effect.

  “Yes, my lord,” Rathbone said with apparent humility. “Perhaps your lordship would allow me to re-call Mr. Aaron Clive directly?”

  Wingfield made no objection, although Beata, looking at him, saw him hesitate for a moment. She was certain he was searching for a reason to disturb Rathbone’s plan, his sense of timing, but he could not think of anything that would not be transparent. He knew well enough not to show any vulnerability, any doubt whatever in front of the jury. She had sat through many trials, particularly in the early days of her marriage to Ingram. She had watched him when he was a large presence in front of some of the lesser men who had since succeeded him. That may have been part of the reason he had so disliked Oliver—and he had! She recognized that now.

  Aaron Clive crossed the open space around the witness stand. He looked grave and sad as he was reminded of his oath. As always, his manners were perfect, his voice filled with charm.

  Rathbone walked out into the open space before the witness box as if totally confident. Perhaps Beata was the only one in the room who knew how very far that was from the truth.

  “Good morning, Mr. Clive,” he began. “You stated previously in your testimony for Mr. Wingfield that you had occasion to be acquainted with Mr. McNab, of the Customs service. Was this a personal acquaintance, or purely professional?”

  Clive smiled. “It was professional, but I did not draw a rigid line between the two.”

  “Do you mean, sir, that you permitted Mr. McNab to visit you at your home, not only at your place of business? Possibly to discuss certain larger or now more valuable shipments, for example?”

  “On occasions, yes.” Clive looked puzzled.

  “So if I tell you that a witness overheard Mr. McNab in a private conversation with your wife, in your home, you would not find that impossible to believe?”

  “Unlikely, but not impossible,” Clive conceded. “It was probably no more than courtesy, if I were temporarily unavailable. One does not leave people in solitude.” He spoke as if perhaps Rathbone did not grasp such a matter of courtesy.

  “Did Mr. McNab ever discuss Commander Monk with you, Mr. Clive?”

  Clive should have expected such a question, but he managed to look surprised. Or perhaps he was giving himself time to think of the best answer.

  Beata stared at him, as did everyone else in the court. But her thoughts were not on his charm, or his extraordinarily handsome face, or even the skill and courage with which he had built up an empire. She was thinking of the passion she had seen in Miriam’s face when she spoke of the death of Piers Astley. Oddly enough, Beata had never considered the possibility that he, not Clive, had been the man Miriam had truly loved. She thought back now, with a different perception, searching for different moments of emotions, mourning and grief. Miriam’s voice changed when she spoke of Piers Astley. Beata had thought it a kind of guilt for forgetting him and marrying Clive.

  But she had seen what she expected to, what Miriam had asked everyone to see. Perhaps her illness, her fragile bewilderment had been not only from the loss of the child, but from the loss of the man she would always love.

  Had Clive the faintest idea of the truth? Or even that Miriam knew what he had done?

  How much was her passion for revenge also guilt?

  Beata brought her mind back to the present. Clive was testifying. He looked sad, as was appropriate, but totally composed. Would Oliver really have the skill to break him, even to make any mark at all on the perfect surface of his manner? He would be a bad enemy to make. Did Oliver know that? Did he appreciate his extraordinary power? Was he brave, or merely ignorant? She had tried to explain to him.

  Clive was talking about the few times McNab had mentioned Monk, not actually to malign him, but certainly to warn of his unreliability.

  “Did that surprise you, sir?” Rathbone inquired blandly.

  Clive was prepared for that.

  “No. It appeared that Mr. Monk had not changed much from the adventurer he used to be when I knew him in San Francisco, twenty years ago,” Clive replied with a slight smile. “A man, like many others at that time, always with an eye to his own advantage.”

  “Oh, yes. You knew Mr. Monk then.” Rathbone smiled. “And I believe Mr. Gillander also?”

  “Slightly. He ran certain shipping errands for me,” Clive said. For a moment he sounded overwhelmingly condescending, and then the tone was gone again, like a shadow over water.

  “Did you tell Mr. McNab that Gillander had worked for you?” Rathbone asked.

  Clive seemed unconcerned. “Probably. It was of no importance.”

  “To you, perhaps not. But to Mr. McNab, with his hatred of Mr. Monk, surely it was of great value?” Rathbone asked.

  Clive let out his breath. He had made a slight error, very slight, but the fact that he had made it at all was indicative that he was being very careful. There were pitfalls for him that did not wait for an innocent man. Beata saw it, and she knew that Rathbone had.

  Wingfield looked impatient. Either he was a very good actor, or he had not seen the shadow. Beata thought it was the latter. There was hope! Frail as early April sunshine, but it was there.

  “I did not know of his…enmity for Commander Monk,” Clive answered slowly.

  “I imagine you would have no way of knowing, unless he told you,” Rathbone agreed. “And it is not the sort of thing that slips into polite conversation with a man you wish to impress. ‘By the way, my half brother was hanged for murder, and Monk could have asked for clemency, but he didn’t. I hate him for that and wish to engineer his destruction if I can! I intend to use you to that end.’ Not the sort of thing you say at the dinner table.”

  Wingfield was on his feet, his face darkened by outrage.

  “Yes, yes,” Lyndon said with a wave of his hand. “Sir Oliver, I am inclined to grant you certain leeway, considering the desperate state of your case, but you stray too far. This observation of yours sounds close to irrelevant.”

  “My lord, it is most relevant,” Rathbone said humbly. “I believe Mr. Clive, unaware of Mr. McNab’s emotional investment in Mr. Monk’s downfall, may inadvertently have given him information that prompted Mr. McNab’s further action.”

  “Then you must demonstrate that, Sir Oliver,” Lyndon warned.

  “Yes, my lord. I shall.” He turned again to Clive. “Sir, might you have mentioned your suspicions that Commander Monk, or someone very like him, could have been involved in the murder of Piers Astley, your right-hand man in the early days of the gold rush in California?”

  Clive stood absolutely motionless. He stared down at Rathbone.

  Wingfield fidgeted as if waiting to object but unable to think of any cause. He would look ineffectual if he were overruled.

  “Mr. Clive?” Rathbone repeated.

  “I doubt it,” Clive responded. “But it is possible. Mr. Monk was there. And unfortunately Mr. Astley’s killer was never found.”

  “So I understand,” Rathbone agreed. “That must be very hard for you, and especially so for Mrs. Clive.”

  “Is that a question?” Wingfield demanded from his seat.

  “I will put that another way,” Rathbone said smoothly, and without turning to acknowledge Wingfield. “Did you ever give up hope of one day finding out who killed Mr. Astley, even if you could not prosecute him, because perhaps he is in a different country?”

  “I did not keep up the pursuit,” Clive answered. “I imagined that whoever it was would be in California, but quite definitely not in London. It is a painful subject I prefer, for my wife’s sake, not to follow when there is little realistic hope of solving it. And, as you point out, even with proof, you would have no jurisdiction over it.”

  “Exactly,” Rathbone agreed. “But it would be indicative of a man’s character, wouldn’t it?”

  “Of course.” Clive attempted to look puzzled again, and he must have been aware of what Rathbone was leading to.

&n
bsp; “Therefore something Mr. McNab would be happy to have said of Mr. Monk?” Rathbone continued.

  “You will have to ask Mr. McNab that.”

  “I shall. But you have no idea who killed Piers Astley, Mr. Clive?”

  “None at all.” Clive shook his head. “I was at the assay office forty miles away from the saloon where he was shot.”

  “Yes, with a Mr. Belknap, I believe.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You were able to swear to his presence at the assay office when he was accused of a totally unrelated crime some distance away. Which meant, of course, that he was able to swear to your presence also.”

  Again Wingfield stirred, and then decided to keep silent.

  Beata was watching so intently that it was several moments before she noticed the small boy beside her, in ill-fitting clothes scrubbed clean too many times. He pulled at her elbow again.

  “Missus,” he said urgently. “Yer gotta listen, Missus.” His blue eyes were wide and frightened, and he was missing a front tooth. He looked perhaps six or seven years old.

  “Worm?” she said tentatively. She had seen him a couple of times at the clinic in Portpool Lane, and Oliver had told her how bravely he had conducted himself in the rescue of Hester from the farm at which she had been held captive only a short while ago.

  “Yes.” His face relaxed at her recognition of who he was. “Dr. Crow said as yer gotta ask Mr. Sir Oliver to keep it going as long as he can, ’cos we’re finding proof as Mr. wot got drownded din’t set up the fight on the ship. It were McNab ’isself, an’ all, wi’ Mad Lammond, but we got someone as’ll swear to it.”

  She hesitated. How could she explain to the child that the truth didn’t matter, it was what Monk had believed that would hang him?

  “Please, Missus! Yer gotta tell ’im. Dr. Crow says!”

  “I will,” she promised. “Will Dr. Crow come with the proof?”

  “Yeah. ’E says it in’t no good Miss Hester doin’ it, ’cos they won’t listen to ’er.”

  The man in the next seat was glaring at them.

  “I’ll tell him,” she promised, and with a quick flashing smile the urchin was gone.