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Kent looked puzzled. “You asked me.”
“I beg your pardon. I mean, why is he so memorable to you?” Juniver explained. “He looks very ordinary to me. Except that he’s not English, of course. But there are hundreds of men on the docks who are not English.”
Camborne moved restlessly in his seat, but he did not overtly interrupt.
Kent shook his head. “I know he’s not English.”
“He is one of several hundred men on the docks who are not English,” Juniver tried again. “Why is it that you are sure you remember seeing this man in particular, and not any of a score of others?”
“I never said that,” Kent answered with an edge of irritation. “I seen lots of ’em. But I seen him.” He looked up at the dock and nodded. “Came ashore from the Princess Mary, he did.”
“How do you know—” Juniver began again.
Camborne rose to his feet. “My lord, Mr. Juniver has already asked that question, and been answered. He is badgering the witness.”
“Mr. Juniver,” York said curtly, “you are doing yourself no favor by harassing honest men reliving painful experiences. I do not wish to have to tell you this again.”
“My lord,” Juniver protested, “if I cannot question a witness’s recollection or point out inconsistencies in his account, I am left nothing but silence—and the accused is left unrepresented in this court.”
York clenched his fist on top of his bench and leaned a little across it.
“Mr. Juniver, do I take it that you do not accept my ruling in this matter? If that is the case, then you will be correct, and the accused will not be represented in this court, until we find a replacement for you! Is that your position, sir?”
Juniver could do nothing but retreat.
“No, my lord,” he said quietly.
Others all gave variations of the same evidence. They had seen Beshara near the Princess Mary shortly before she set out on her last, tragic voyage. A deckhand had seen him hanging around on the quayside. A waiter had served him with a drink on deck and then seen him leave the boat.
A young woman survivor, ashen-faced and clearly afraid, said she had seen him on the deck talking to someone shortly before they left Westminster Bridge. Yes, she nodded vehemently. She was certain.
As soon as Juniver questioned her she burst into tears. Ingram looked at him inquiringly, eyebrows raised. It was obviously against his interest to pursue her further, and he abandoned it. Whatever she said, he would have utterly lost the sympathy of the jury. It was a battle he could never have won, even had Camborne been less skillful and York less impatient.
When, by Wednesday, all the prosecution evidence was in, it seemed as if the case had to be over. For Juniver to say anything was pointless, except to fulfill the requirement of the law. He had been stalled in all the attempts he had made during the prosecutor’s case. On the few occasions York had ruled for him the victories had been small: procedural rather than emotional.
Hester felt her heart sink as Juniver rose to his feet. She had a deep sympathy for him, and pity for Beshara. Camborne had still suggested no motive for the atrocity, except a general hatred of the British! He had given no reason for it: no personal injury or loss, no cause at all. Did he think it unnecessary? Or could it be that the cause might involve some kind of information that he had reason to conceal? Political? Financial? Personal to someone too important to offend? Was that what this was all about?
Was that in fact why the case had been taken from Monk and given to Lydiate? Was it even why York had been chosen to preside?
Juniver did everything a lawyer for the defense could do. He presented witnesses who stated that they had seen Beshara in places and at times that contradicted the previous evidence given.
Camborne rose to cross-examine.
“Mr. Collins, you say you were unloading your wagon just outside the Pig and Whistle when you saw the accused, and you are certain that it was lunchtime on the day of the tragedy?” he asked politely.
“Yes, sir,” Collins replied.
“You carry kegs of ale?”
“Yes, sir.”
“To supply the Pig and Whistle, among other taverns?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good ale?”
“Yes, sir, the best.” Collins straightened up a little.
