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It was early in the afternoon, but the entire courtroom was already exhausted from the emotion of it. It was both merciful to adjourn, and a wise tactic on Camborne’s part. No one who had sat through the evidence would sleep unhaunted by nightmares, or leave unaware of the precious fragility of such happiness as they had. All would ache for the small comfort that would be offered by knowledge that justice had been meted against the man who had caused such grief.
THE SECOND DAY BEGAN with the testimony of the man in charge of raising the wreck of the Princess Mary and hauling it ashore. His name was Worthington. He was in his forties, lean and strong, his hair thinning a little, his face weathered dark by the elements. He looked uncomfortable in his suit. Several times he half lifted his head, as if to ease the high-collared white shirt around his neck, then changed his mind.
He told the story of hauling up the wreck with as little emotion as possible. He could have been speaking of raising any wreck: the practical difficulties, the skills and the equipment needed.
Hester sat in almost the same seat as she had the previous day, and listened as Camborne led the witness through the process of raising a shattered and sunken ship. The tension in the room eased a little as he allowed the people present to concentrate on the technical details. When this part was over he would ask about the bodies. She had watched him long enough to know that he would time it perfectly: asking enough to horrify the jurors, to draw every ounce of pity from them, but not so much that the listeners were exhausted and their emotions numbed. He would leave scope for the imagination to work.
She looked across at the faces of the jurors: twelve ordinary men. Except, of course, that they were not ordinary. They must by law all own property, which ruled out far more people than it included. They must be worthy citizens, themselves above reproach. That ruled out a few more. All women were excluded automatically. Was this truly a jury of peers? Hardly. Did it matter? Probably not at all in this case. For once there was no social division over the crime, no sympathy at all for the accused, no difference in the rage or the pain between rich and poor, man or woman, churchgoer or atheist.
They might register their feelings in slightly varying ways, but the result would be the same. Hester might be one of very few in the courtroom who realized that Camborne had not connected any of the events with the silent man who sat in the dock.
For the rest of the morning Worthington gave expert evidence on exactly what had caused the Princess Mary to sink so disastrously quickly that only a few of those on deck at the time had managed to escape.
In the afternoon he told in specific detail how the explosion was caused by a heavy charge of dynamite, where it had been placed and how it ignited.
As to who had done it, that was entirely another matter, and Camborne said that would be explained when the trial resumed the following Monday.
York adjourned them for the weekend.
HESTER DID NOT DISCUSS the trial with Monk over the Saturday and Sunday, and he did not ask her. She had told both him and Scuff that she had attended, but had heard nothing they hadn’t already deduced. They were not satisfied, but they did not press her, and she guided the conversation to other subjects: family things, and what Scuff was learning at school—a subject he avoided answering with some skill. She made a mental note to inquire further later on.
The conversation shifted to what they would like to do when they had a weekend free and could travel. Brighton was not far. Or Hastings? Scuff wished to see Leeds Castle, which, despite its name, was in Kent, not in Yorkshire. Perhaps they could go to Canterbury Cathedral and the high altar before which Archbishop Thomas à Becket had been murdered by the king’s men, seven hundred years ago. They discussed that at some length, and in detail, and the Princess Mary was temporarily forgotten.
ON MONDAY MORNING THE whole tragedy returned with renewed force as Hester took her seat in the courtroom again. She had written once to Oliver Rathbone, sending the letter to Rome to await his arrival. She had done so largely because she wished to record her impressions while they were still fresh in her mind rather than remember them in the light of whatever should
happen subsequently.
Listening to the conversations around her as the public waited for the proceedings to begin, she heard no arguments as to guilt or innocence, only anger that the whole series of events had occurred. In one or two instances there was a degree of irritation that Juniver should defend Beshara at all.
Hester had a considerable sympathy for Juniver. She did not imagine he was speaking for Beshara for any reason except that without a legal defense, there could be no conviction, and therefore no sentence. She had to exercise more control than usual over her tongue to keep from pointing this out to the people behind her. But experience had taught her that such arguments failed. You cannot tell people to take into account what they do not wish to know.
She sat silently, feeling extraordinarily alone. Was she the only person here who was even considering the possibility that Beshara was not guilty at all? There was no doubt as to the crime or its horror, but the prosecution had not yet produced any connection with the man supposedly guilty of the act!
The first witness to be called was Sir John Lydiate, the man who had replaced Monk at the head of the investigation.
To begin with Hester had been angry with him, until sense prevailed and she realized that he also had no choice in the matter. Now, looking at him in the witness stand, isolated from the rest of the court by the high box at the top of its own winding steps, and the fact that it was several yards from anyone else, stared at by all, she felt sorry for him.
Camborne was respectful of Lydiate’s rank and spoke with great courtesy, but he was very much in control of the entire exchange. He stretched it from the opening of the court on Monday morning, right through until the adjournment for luncheon on Tuesday. It was masterful. Every fact of the explosion was raised, every detail was dealt with regarding the entire investigation and every piece of evidence Lydiate’s men had found, every witness they questioned and every conclusion drawn.
Lydiate looked tired and distressed, but he was meticulous in his answers and the jury watched his face almost unblinkingly.
Hester felt the weight of it settle on her like a smothering blanket. Lydiate had followed the rules precisely. He did not exaggerate or assume anything. He erred on the side of caution. There was nothing for Juniver to attack. He tried, and was overruled. He stopped before he lost more of his remaining credibility.
On Tuesday afternoon the eyewitnesses began. Camborne played it for drama, leaving the few survivors until last. Hester understood that, but there was an essence of deliberate exploitation of their grief in it that she found ugly. Added to that, it was now unnecessary.
First were the dockside workers who had seen Beshara, or someone like him, watching pleasure boats, even traveling on the Princess Mary himself at an earlier date. Was it definitely him? Yes, they remembered him because he was not one of them. Occasionally he used words they did not understand.
A dockworker named Kent had seen him. Again—was he certain it was Beshara? Yes? Yes, absolutely.
Juniver objected and York ruled against him. The crowd in the gallery murmured their approval.
Juniver rose to question the man.
“You remember him, Mr. Kent?” he said politely.
“Yes, I do,” Kent said firmly.
“Why?” Juniver asked.
